Younger (26 page)

At the closest English-language bookstore, she picked up more books—a Charles Cumming and a Sue Grafton, it seeming like the right time for mysteries. Once she went into a restaurant on her own for dinner, but she was too jumpy, practically hurling herself under the table when a waiter dropped a plate. She was more comfortable dining in her room: cold pizza, sliced prosciutto and cheese, fruit. She’d never complain about not having enough time to read again, she vowed—eat, read, sleep was all she knew now.

She thought a lot, too—and not about BarPharm for a change. This time it was her own life, and the shock of how little she’d examined it in the past years, that held her attention. How had she never realized how ashamed she’d remained of her working-class roots, how touched by the contagion of her parents’ sense of inferiority? It was as if she’d been living under a spell prior to April and had now awakened to realize that, other than Allie and Richard, she didn’t miss much about that old life. Yes, she’d found satisfaction in her work, but that came from the pleasure of writing and thinking creatively rather than any thrill of peddling consumer goods. And she’d thought she was empowering women! Why had it never occurred to her that so many skincare and makeup lines owed much of their success to exploiting women’s vulnerabilities and self-doubts? She supposed it was because she had never even looked at her own vulnerabilities and doubts. She was Anna the strong, the independent, the loner. She’d excelled at hiding the needy and lonely Anna from even herself.

When Monday arrived, she dressed carefully to meet David, not wanting to stand out but hoping to look good. In her new gray merino sweater and flannel pants from Paris, with ballerina flats on her feet and her hair tucked into her black wig but without the harsh makeup, she looked like just another well-dressed woman of a certain age. A new pair of oversized sunglasses completed both the look and the disguise. It was warm enough to forego a coat, but she wore her black cardigan solely because it made her feel more secure, a pretend invisibility cape. She wrote a note for David on hotel stationery, then sealed it in an envelope and put it in her purse.

She ate a salad and drank fizzy water at a bar on a side street. Through its windows, she saw no one likely to have been shadowing her. Her main concern now was if anyone had been trailing David.

When she finished her lunch, she crossed Piazza di Spagna, passed the foot of the Spanish Steps, and took the elevator tucked inside the entrance to the Metropolitana up to Piazza Trinità dei Monti at the top of the most famous staircase in the world. Surely no other possessed its sensuous beauty, the wide stairs splitting into curved wings as it climbed. Standing above it provided the perfect vantage point for watching the piazza below, with its famous sunken boat fountain in the middle.

When she saw David climbing out of a taxi that had pulled up by the cabstand beyond the fountain, she made a beeline toward someone she’d been keeping an eye on, a lone, scruffy young backpacker sprawled on the stairs.
“Scusi. Parla inglese?”

Not only did he speak English, but he was a Texan who smiled cheerfully, called her “ma’am,” and asked if she needed directions. “No directions, thanks. But if you’ll take this note to the man standing and paying the taxi down below, I’ll pay you ten euro now and ten when you’ve done it. How does that sound?”

“No problem, ma’am.” He glanced down at David, then back at Anna and grinned. “If it’s for love, that is.”

“It’s for love,” she assured him, blushing. “You could even say it’s life or death.”

“You got it.”

Keeping an eye on the square below as he clambered to his feet, she said, “First, let me tell you where to go afterward. You know how to get back up here to Via Sistina, without using the stairs?”

“Yeah, you just go around by the American Express office and—”

“Good. As soon as you’ve handed the note to the man I point out, I want you to hurry off, okay? Run to the left and then go to the other end of Via Sistina. I’ll be waiting with the other ten for you. Got it?”

“You betcha, lady.”

She pointed out David, then handed him the envelope and ten-euro bill. “As soon as I see you give him the envelope, I’ll head down the street, okay?”

“No problem. I trust you, ma’am.” He shoved the money into a pocket of his jeans and held on to the envelope. “See you in five.”

She hurried back up, then moved to the far left to watch as the boy walked up to David, gave him the envelope, then rushed off. She turned on her heel and headed down Via Sistina.

The boy actually beat her there
. Ah, the stamina of youth,
she thought as she paid him. She flagged a taxi passing by. “Thanks for your help, dude.” She smiled.

He opened the car door for her, like a good Texas boy. “My pleasure, ma’am. And good luck with that love thing. Oh, and the life or death thing, too, you hear me?”

From your lips to God’s ear,
she thought, then she smiled and waved until he was out of sight.

Chapter 21

Her note for David gave directions for walking the few blocks to Piazza del Popolo and told him to make sure his cell phone was turned on. Anna was standing in the doorway of one of the piazza’s twin churches when she saw him approaching, duffel bag over his shoulder. She turned her back and sent a text to the number he’d put in the Drafts folder.
Bar Rosati. Straight ahead. Take a seat on the terrace.
She saw him take out his phone, look at it, then put it back and peer around in search of Rosati, passing within fifty feet of her as he headed for it.

She stood guard to make sure he wasn’t being followed, then crossed to the café, the terrace of which was sheltered from the square by potted bushes that provided privacy. As she entered, she spotted David at the back, pretending to study a menu. She slid into the seat across from him and pulled off her sunglasses. “Welcome to Rome.”

He just stared at first. Then he raised his eyebrows. “Brunette?”

“Wig.”

“I think this is the part where I say I think you have some explaining to do.”

“I think you’re right.”

They ordered Campari and sodas. “I remember drinking these with you before,” David said. “While smoking Marlboros. You quit?”

“Smoking? God, yes, years ago. I’d noticed in London that you had.”

“Yeah, before Nick was born. It seems so eighties now, doesn’t it?”

“In LA, no one smokes. But I guess you know that.”

“I go now and then for work. Is that where you’ve been?”

“Sorry. I forgot you don’t know. Yes, I got into advertising and PR, then moved to LA years ago. I was a consultant. Beauty, mostly.”

“Was?”

She shrugged. “Well, now I’m—well, I guess now I’m on the lam.”

They both laughed nervously, releasing some of the tension.

“Here.” She handed him the hotel’s card and a small envelope. “I didn’t book a room, so they wouldn’t know I knew you, but it’s pretty quiet so I’m sure they’ll have one. Take this flash drive, too. It’s my diary covering the insane ‘experiment,’ files of Barton’s, and my reporting of the events as best I know them. You brought a laptop? Good. When you get to the hotel, open the drive and browse my report without copying it onto your computer. Then stick the drive in the envelope, put your name on it, and ask them to lock it in the safe behind the desk. Just in case.”

“The word
eager
strikes me as overly enthusiastic, but I’m certainly anxious to hear your story. When I was at the company nosing around, I found the atmosphere disconcerting. More disturbed than grieving. There was an aura of deep uneasiness, I’d say. It seems the man I worked with, Clive Madden, might be returning, by the way. Becca admitted no one’s unhappy about that part. She considers Clive the real business and marketing expert. Based on my own experience, I’d say Barton micromanaged, much of it after the fact. He’d often okay something, then call the next day to say it all had to be redone. I suspected he was consulting with someone with strong if senseless opinions whom I now suppose was his wife.”

“I’m sure it was. I think Marina was very much the power behind Pierre. Not a woman to take lightly.” She checked her watch. “My room number’s on the card I gave you. Just walk back the way you came but keep going through Piazza di Spagna and turn into Via della Vite. Knock on my door about seven-thirty. And, please, don’t reach for your wallet. The least I can do is buy you a drink.”

“For old times’ sake?”

“And for coming all the way to Rome on a moment’s notice to save my imposter ass. I just hope I haven’t gotten you into something you should have stayed well out of.”

“Anna, I’m here because it’s you.” David’s clear blue eyes held her own. “Once I knew it was really you, I couldn’t say no. You don’t owe me anything. Except that explanation.”

She nodded. “You go ahead, then, and I’ll see you later. I’m going to pick up some wine and water, and I’d like to order in pizzas for dinner. I want to stay put tonight so nothing might prevent me from turning myself in tomorrow.”

“Turning yourself in? Here? Now?”

“Not the Italians, no, but I can’t keep running. And I’m tired. It’s time to ask for help—from my government or yours.”

He shook his head and exhaled sharply. “I fly from England and you tell me you’re turning yourself in the next morning? That’s not quite what I was expecting.” He stopped, shaking his head again. “Well, I’ll say more when I know more. Thanks for the drink, kid.” He got up, lifting his duffel bag. “By the way, you look terrific.”

She watched him until he was out of sight, then paid for the drinks. On the way back to the hotel, she bought a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino, bottled water, and clementines. The hotel could order pizza.

She hoped David wouldn’t be uncomfortable dining in her room. Then she wondered if
she
would be. Just an hour or so ago, she’d told that kid on the Spanish Steps this was for love. It had been simplest to say that, but what was it that she felt? First things first, she decided, which meant the life or death part. She could think about the future after any possible murderers had been put out of commission.

Better them than her.

“Let me get this straight. The wife’s Russian and warm as Siberia, the chauffeur’s Russian and chummy as Putin, and the enigmatic MI6 chap is friendly but a total phony. Meanwhile, Pierre and Marina had fake UK passports calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Kelm, which just happens to be said nonexistent MI6 agent’s assumed name? You need a bloody scorecard to keep track of these clowns.”

David leaned forward from the desk chair to slide another slice of pizza out of one of the boxes on the bed, where Anna sat cross-legged eating a clementine. “And who do you think has been murdered?”

“Olga for one. I haven’t a clue who she really was, though I think we can confidently assume she was the actress previously appearing in my role. And Pierre—well, my money’s on murder. My friend Jan? Awfully coincidental that she recognizes me and makes a scene, then gets run down.
And
that Barton’s car had a smashed fender. Don’t forget the mysterious Mr. and Mrs. Rusakov. It may have been chalked up as a murder-suicide, but I’ll bet they were whacked.”

“Whacked?” He looked momentarily horrified. “Must you Americans talk as if you all just walked out of a Martin Scorsese film?”

“Uh-uh. Just me. So, we’ll say Olga, the Rusakovs, and Pierre. Probably four people”—she paused—“bumped off. Then Jan: that’s one possible. Plus two potentials: that’s us.”

He grimaced. “So what do we potentials do?”

“The reason I’m leery of going back to London to go to the police is that, even if I made it there alive, I might be suspect number one. If Kelm’s the bad guy he’s shaping up to be, we have no idea what the police actually think. So I think the diplomatic route is best. Since you had me call your home phone, some thug will soon be on your trail, too, so I think you need to take that route with me. Tomorrow. The fact that I was tracked to Holland and Germany shows that no place is safe. The question is: Who gets us?”

“Us? I’m not sure how I feel about turning myself in like a criminal. Let me think a minute.”

“Bad word choice on my part. You won’t really be turning yourself in the way I will be. You’ll just be making sure you’ll be safe in London. And whomever we see might just tell us to get lost. But I do think you’re at risk and we should both go and see what they say. It’s not like they’re going to hold you responsible for anything. They’ll probably arrange police protection for you in the UK and you can fly home safer.”

He turned his head to stare out the window. Finally, turning back, he said, “I see your point. The sooner this is resolved, the sooner I can rest easy about my son. That’s reason enough for me. By who gets us, you mean the US or the UK embassy, right? I’d say UK, since Barton was a British citizen. And since Kelm is, or is supposed to be, MI6, they wouldn’t like us going to the Americans first.”

“Good point. And I was thinking the same thing because of Pierre.” She stood up from the bed, closing the pizza boxes and setting them on the dresser. “Why don’t we meet at eight-thirty and walk down to the square for a taxi? I’d prefer to get to the embassy as early as possible.”

“Good. Good. Yes. And I’ll leave that flash drive in the hotel safe for the time being, shall I?” He got up, then reached down and finished his glass of wine. “This was a nice red, by the way.”

He stood but didn’t move, and she realized that both she and, perhaps more awkwardly, the beds were between him and the door, so she moved in the direction of the latter. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming here. I might not actually be in less danger, but I feel safer.”

“As you can guess, I, on the other hand, feel a bit less safe than I did, oh, say, yesterday.” His smile was rueful. “I think we’ll both feel better tomorrow.”

“Well . . .” She stood frozen like a teen on her first date.

He walked over, and she tensed, wondering if he’d reach for her. But he just patted her shoulder in an avuncular way. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the lobby at half past eight.” As the door closed behind him, she reached to double-lock it, hoping she’d done the right thing.

“Might I ask why you’ve come to us rather than the Americans, Ms. Wallingham?” The assistant consul peered across his desk, looking put out by the intrusion of these two troublemakers.

“It was Mr. Wainwright’s suggestion.”

His eyes pivoted to David, who diplomatically explained, “My opinion was that since I’m a British citizen and now at risk, and since Mr. Barton was a British citizen, and since some man who said his name was Martin Kelm seems to have been passing himself off as an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service, you would want to be in charge.”

“And the passports.” Anna withdrew them from her bag and handed them to the man, whose name, according to the sign on his desk, was Rupert Hyde-Bingham.
Rupert Hyde-and-Mighty,
she thought. “Sorry, I forgot to mention these. The photos are of Pierre and Marina Barton, so they’re clearly forgeries.”

“Hmmm.” Hyde-Bingham studied them, then placed them on the little pile he was accumulating: David’s passport, Anna’s, and the faked Tanya one. “And you got these where?”