Dying to Tell (9 page)

seventeen

“You cannot be so
selfish, Oliver.” A gray-haired man in his sixties stood in my den doorway wagging his finger at me. “She's a beautiful woman. She's still young. She has life to
live
.”

Doc. Just who I was looking for, but now the last person I wanted to see.

“Doc, she's still my wife.”

“Till death do you part.” Doc was still in his 1950s surgical scrubs and had his stethoscope draped around his neck. His dark blue eyes singed me. “And you've reached ‘do you part,' remember?”

Yes, I remembered. Every damn day I remembered. “She's still my wife.”

“Yes, she is. And she has been loyal and at your side ever since your murder. But she has to have some time for herself, Oliver. Surely you understand that. And if you don't, stop being a whiner and get over it. Be thankful with what you have and forget the rest.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Hercule trotted in and sat beside Doc for a head scratch. He moaned
and threw a paw at him when he didn't begin immediately.

“Hey, Doc. Why didn't you tell me about Ollie?”

“I'm sure I did. You weren't listening, as usual.”

“No, you didn't.”

“You must have forgotten.” He knelt down as Hercule rolled on his back for a belly rub. “What about Ollie?”

“
What about him?
” I dropped into my desk chair and spun around like I was thirteen again. “I meet my grandfather—my
long-dead
grandfather who was a World War II OSS operative—and you say ‘what about him?' ”

He ignored me—another shocker. He was busy fussing over Hercule and whispering soothing, pleasant things to him.

“Why is Ollie back, Doc?” I stopped spinning. “You showed up after I was murdered, to help me. Then there was Vincent and Sassy last year. So, I guess Ollie is back for a reason, right?”

“Back? No, not back. He's been in and out for years. You just …”

“
Just noticed
him. Right. Like I
just noticed
you after I was killed. Okay, why have I
just noticed
him?”

“Didn't he tell you?”

“No.”

“Then it's not my place.” Doc sat in a
high-backed
chair facing me. His face was a mixture of omnipotent
great-grandfather
and steadfast Army drill sergeant. “In time, you'll figure it out. Well, at least you should. There's no telling with you.”

Sweet peanut butter sandwiches—always word games. “Figure what out? Is there some kind of spook code of conduct I don't know about? Come on. I'll lighten up on Angel if you give me a clue.”

“You'll allow her to enjoy life now and then without you tagging along? You'll regret it one day if you don't, Oliver.”

Well … alone? “Sure. I'll give it a try. I'll do the best I can.”

He eyed me with suspicion. “I'll hold you to that, Oliver. You have to learn to be less selfish. In the end, that could mean life and death.”

“Why is everything with you a matter of life and death?”

He looked to the ceiling. “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

“No.” What a stupid question. “I don't have a reflection. I'm dead.”

“Exactly.” He took a long, deep breath—more exasperation than anything. “Ollie is here to help you, Oliver. He was a successful OSS man in his day. And better, afterward.” Doc's blue eyes sparkled a bit as a proud father's do. “He went on to do brave and amazing things until his end.”

Yeah, his end. An untimely end, apparently. That seems to be in our Tucker DNA. “Tell me about that part.”

“No. That is for him to do.” His eyes teared. “I'm not sure he even knows. Strange as it is, I don't know either.”

Doc doesn't know? This was the first time in two years he ever admitted not knowing everything, and I wanted to ring that bell. But the sadness in his face held me back. Instead, I asked, “Could it have been about that book—Vincent's book about the Russians?”

“I always believed that. But Ollie ruffled a lot of feathers during his OSS days. Even more after the war. Men like him often did.”

“What do you mean,
men like him
?”

Pride trounced secrecy. “Your grandfather was a war hero. And after that, he was one of the first CIA men. He has a star at Langley. I've seen it myself.”

Holy John Le Carré. Ollie had a star?

The CIA has its own Memorial Wall in their Langley Headquarters lobby here in Virginia. They memorialize every fallen CIA operative with a star—every operative killed in the line of duty. The names are a closely guarded secret, so the stars are their only way of memorializing them. A star was all the organization could share. A star was an honor—the
final
honor.

“He was a spook?” No pun intended. “A CIA agent?”

Doc wiped away a tear. “Yes, the CIA was built from the OSS after the war. Your grandfather was one of the first and one of the best. He laid the groundwork for many to follow—some of them very close to our family.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“It doesn't matter. Another time. What does matter is that Ollie is here to help you and you can learn a lot from him. Perhaps you can help each other.”

I leaned back and contemplated the old surgeon sitting across my desk. He knew more than he said—he always did—and the trick was to figure out what he knew and ask the right questions. But I was seeing a side of Doc I'd never seen before. His voice was soft and broken when he spoke about Ollie. I guess losing a son is like that. Normally, Doc was starchy and condescending,
sharp-tongued
and demanding—in a fun, loving kind of way. I'd never seen him emotional like this. Never. Not even when I died, his own
great-grandson
. But then, he had been dead for decades. Maybe that was it. Maybe not.

“How can I help him?” I asked. “How can—”

“Wrong question.”

Of course it was. “Okay, how can he help me?”

“Ah, better.” Doc stood and wandered to my bookshelf. Many of the books were his handed down through the family over time—I
learned that just recently. I never knew my parents and was raised in foster care. When I turned eighteen and inherited the deed to this house—something I never knew I had—cases of books and antiques dating all the way back to Doc's time were here, waiting. It would be over twenty years later before I knew who Doc was, that my house was his house, and that he never left. It took dying for me to meet any of my family for the first time.

“And a good answer would be …?” I asked.

He gestured to two
leather-bound
books on the top shelf. “You're missing my good photo album, Oliver. In it are some photographs of Ollie and Frannie. You should find that album. There are answers inside.”

Frannie was Ollie's wife and my grandmother. She was a beautiful woman and a strong, tough opponent. She died—was murdered—by the Russian mob.

What does it say about me that I'm related to gangsters and spies?

Doc went on. “Find that missing photo album and you'll learn a lot about Ollie
and
your father. Perhaps more than you want to know.”

“Great, another book hunt. The last book got a lot of people killed—like Vincent and Frannie. It got you killed, too, Doc. Are you sure I should find it?”

“This one might save lives, Oliver.”

I stood and went to the bookshelf beside him. “These were in the attic for years after my parents died. I got them when I turned eighteen and inherited this place. Maybe the album you're talking about is somewhere in the attic still.”

“Your parents didn't just die, Oliver.” Doc turned and leveled those deep blues on me. “They were assassinated.”

“Assassinated?”

“It's time you understood our family's secrets. Starting with me—it's my fault our family has always taken on the hard challenges and paid the price. Me, Ollie, and your father—others along the way. And now, you.”

What was he saying? “Are you trying to say we've been part of some grand conspiracy? Like the Lincoln assassination or Kennedy's? We don't have alien DNA, do we? Holy crap, Doc, you're not saying …”

“Be serious, Oliver. Focus.” He returned to the chair in front of my desk. “I'm saying we've all met our end through violence. Violence we embraced all our lives. We were all volunteers. We've all been fated the same.”

Christ, no more word games, please. “And my parents were assassinated? And there's some deep, dark family—”

“Yes, Oliver. I'm sorry. In time, you'll have to deal with that, too.” He stared out the bay window behind my desk. “But for now, find my album and learn about Ollie. Then let him help you. It could be your only hope.”

“My only hope?” I walked around the chair and faced him. “Come on, Doc. For once, just say it, will you? Just tell me what the hell you're talking about. Straight out.”

“Yes, all right. This is too important to chance you understanding.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Tuck, selfishness will be the difference between life and death.”

Oh, yeah, that was much more straightforward.

eighteen

Sometimes, talking to Doc
was enlightening. Although his bedside manner was like brain surgery without anesthetic; every time he tried to enlighten me, my head ached. So I decided to return to the bank and find Ollie.

It was cold and still sleeting a bit by the time I reached Old Town, and I noticed a familiar black Mercedes sedan parked along Piccadilly Street near the entrance to the walking mall. The driver's window was halfway down and a few puffs of smoke rose from inside. The driver was intently looking down Loudoun Street and every time someone walked toward a small café two shops from the intersection, he perked up.

I glanced toward that café. “Thanks, pal. I'll be sure to tell Poor Nic you're enjoying one of his good cigars. No worries, what's he gonna do, kill you?”

Nicholas Bartalotta, alias Poor Nic, was a
well-known
—notorious, really—resident of these here parts. His former address was somewhere along the New York City skyline, where he wielded the instruments of thuggery as one of New York's most successful organized crime bosses. I say
successful
not because he amassed wealth and power—though he did. No, it's because in his
sixty-something
years he's never seen the inside of a cell for more than an hour, if that. A few years ago, Poor Nic—the media's idea of a clever mob name—returned to Winchester, where he'd spent his youthful summers on a local farm outside the city. Interestingly enough, that farm was a killing field for the same bastard who killed me decades later. Poor Nic had a rival growing up—a rival for the affections of a young girl. He just didn't know it. Poor Nic won the contest and that started a secret killing spree that lasted forty years. That secret cost me my life and the lives of several others along the way.

Poor Nic and me, we go way back. We're pals. Though he doesn't know that either.

The café smelled of fresh bread and rumbled with the bustle of a big lunch crowd. There were a dozen tables all filled with local businessmen and shoppers hiding from the cold. In the rear of the café, Bobby—Poor Nic's trained gorilla bodyguard—guarded the entrance to a small dining room off to the side of the café. Bobby ate lunch and monitored anything that moved in the café.

“You're looking fit, Bobby,” I said and glanced down at the two sandwiches, soup, chips, double dessert, and heaping basket of fresh bread. “Go easy on the veggies though, pal, they're bad for your figure.”

Bobby looked up and around the room. A scowl stopped a fistful of pastrami on rye from reaching his mouth as he sat scanning the room. He grunted and the pastrami proceeded unhindered.

Inside the private dining room were four more tables. Only one of them—the large round table in the far corner—was occupied by two beautiful women and one old, thin,
pasty-faced
, retired gangster.

I went over and slipped into an empty chair at the table facing Poor Nic. He was a
battle-scarred
, tough old man in his sixties with shallow cheeks and dark, brooding eyes. He was short and thin—by birth, not from the years of anxious existence he'd lived. What thinning hair he had was silver and immaculately combed back from his wrinkled forehead. He looked like anyone's aging grandfather with a
light-hearted
voice and eyes that could sparkle with kindness—or cut steel on demand. Poor Nic was a leathery chameleon of a man who charmed many,
out-foxed
most, and disappeared a few.

He was a swell guy, really.

“Hiya, Nic,” I said. “Mind if I join you? Please, introduce me.”

The
dark
-c
omplected
woman sitting opposite Poor Nic was beautiful and eloquent. She was looked
five-seven
or -eight and slender. Her face was pretty with large eyes that showed intelligence and savvy. Her skin was flawless—tanned, but not too—with flowing black hair. Her jaw and cheeks were pronounced, giving her an educated, sophisticated appearance. She was, perhaps, of Arab or Persian descent but as she spoke to Nic, her voice resonated with Western education. She wore black jeans and a
loose-fitting
black turtleneck. A heavy silver necklace adorned her neck and around her wrists hung gold and silver bangles.

The woman to Nic's right was stunning, too. She was
forty-ish
and hid her age beneath sandy blond hair feathered around a pretty, strong face. She had an athletic frame with noticeable body parts seeking male attention under an expensive cashmere sweater. She wore what looked like designer jeans, expensive leather boots, and a silk blouse that was a delight to admire. Her eyes sparkled like my own Angel's—I was, of course, analyzing the landscape for investigative purposes only. One must know his surroundings well.

“Boy, Nic,” I said, “mobsters get all the babes, don't they?”

For a moment, Poor Nic looked up and toward the entrance. Then he said, “Ah, Miss Raina, please go on. You were about to explain your interest in Ms. Hawkins's collection.”

Raina, the
dark-skinned
woman, said, “Of course. Several artifacts have reached me from, shall we say, questionable sources these past months. I have been sent to find the source of these pieces and retrieve those belonging for our Egyptian people.”

“I think you will find that Lee …” Poor Nic couldn't finish his sentence.

Lee Hawkins held up a hand and thrust a finger toward Raina. “The pieces my grandfather and I purchased are replicas, I assure you. All were bought and paid for as trappings for our club from an Egyptian dealer.”

“Your club?” Raina smiled. “Ah, yes, the Kit Kat West? Interesting that you should name it that, no?”

“My grandfather was there, seventy years ago during the war,” Lee snapped. “Why?”

“I know of this.” Raina's eyes rested on Lee. “Was he not involved in Operation Salaam?”

Operation Salaam?
Interesting.

A blank look shadowed Lee's face. “Operation what? I don't …”

“No matter.” Raina waved in the air. “Your grandfather met William Mendelson in Cairo, no?”

The name William Mendelson split the air like lightning.

“Raina,” Poor Nic said, “tell me of your business with William.”

“Business? No, I am afraid you misunderstand.” Raina leaned back from the table and folded her arms. “I have no
business
with him.”

I said, “She's lying, Nic.”

Raina went on. “It is true I've been in touch with him—to examine his artifacts, and of course, to recover them if necessary.”

“Recover them?” Lee tapped a steel finger on the table. “Just who the hell are you, lady? Where did you come from and why are you here? I'm not showing you—”

“My dear,” Poor Nic said, placing a leathery hand on Lee's hand as he focused on Raina. “There is more here than you realize, Raina. I suggest you explain yourself or I will be forced to contact the police.”

“The police?” Raina threw her head back and laughed. It seemed unnatural for her and she quickly recovered. “Mr. Bartalotta, don't think that I am a fool. I know who you are and I know of your involvement with Albert Hawkins and William Mendelson. I also know that they were in my country during the war. I know a great deal about them all.”

Lee leaned forward. “If you know so much—”

“I am here to find that which was stolen from us over the years. You Westerners. You come to my land in the name of science and history and leave as thieves. You take and take and leave us with dust. No more. Egypt is not everyone's, what is the word … shopping mall. It has taken me two generations to find what is rightfully ours. Now you threaten me with the police? I think not.”

Poor Nic leaned back in his chair and contemplated Raina. His face lightened and he smiled a smile I'd only ever seen on a dentist before he shoved a needle into my gums.

“Indeed.” He patted Lee's hand and let his charm take over. “Raina, I agree with you. It has been a crime what has happened in Egypt—more so during the war, I am sure. I assure you, I will help you in any way I can. But, you must help us, too.”

Raina didn't flinch. She sat watching Poor Nic with a thin, forced smile.

“Very good.” Nic's voice was friendly and soft. “Please tell us about your dealings with William.”

Raina scoffed. “That is between William and me. He—”

“William is dead.” Poor Nic let no pleasantness mask his words.

I noticed he said “dead” and not “murdered.” After years of playing chess with the police, a few detective skills rubbed off on him.

“Dead?” Raina raised her chin. “How?”

“He was murdered,” Lee blurted out, slapping the tabletop. “What do you know about it?”

I was about to comment when Raina, the beautiful Egyptian goddess, did something totally unexpected—she stood and walked away from the table. At the entrance, she turned around.

“Of course he was murdered,” she said in calm, dry tone. “The thieves of my ancestors deserve no less.”

Lee jumped up. “Don't give us that ancient curse bullshit.”

“No, not at all Lee Hawkins,” Raina said. “The enemies of
thieves are often their friends. And those friends are frequently other
thieves themselves.”