“It sounds Italian.”
“It should,” I said. “It’s in Venice.”
“Venice? Italy? We’re going to Venice for dinner?”
“That would be crazy,” I said. “So I had the concierge book us a hotel for a couple of nights.”
“But…but…” She was dumbfounded, and I hated to admit it, but I was having fun dumbfounding her. “But we just got here.”
“Hey, I’m feeling adventurous. We’ve already made love in one romantic city. Let’s do it again in another.”
“Just like that?” she said.
“Why not?” I said. “Didn’t we leave New York just like that? Come on, our flight leaves at ten fifteen.”
I got up, took my bag out of the closet, and started packing.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. “You are not only drop-dead amazing to look at, fantastic in bed, and wildly spontaneous, but you are also ridiculously romantic. Who cares if you’re going to be a poor struggling artist all your life?”
“Who cares?” I said. “I care.” I threw the pillow back at her.
She hugged the pillow to her chest. “I love you,” she said.
“You talking to me or the pillow?”
“Our plane leaves at ten fifteen?” she said.
“Yup.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s only seven oh five, and I’m a real fast packer.”
She lifted the pink nightshirt up over her head, tossed it on the floor, and slipped under the covers.
“I love you,” she repeated. “And I’m not talking to the pillow.”
Chapter 49
Marta Krall caught the 7 p.m. Delta flight out of JFK. She had only one small suitcase, and despite the fact that there was plenty of room in first class to bring it on board, she checked it.
She touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport at 8:45 the next morning and went to the baggage carousel, where she was reunited with her bag.
She cleared customs, then found the nearest ladies’ room. She locked the stall door, sat on the toilet, and opened her bag. Her hair dryer was in the black drawstring case, exactly as she had packed it.
It wasn’t a working dryer. It was built for her by a mold maker in Holland. She used a paper clip to push a recessed button on the grip. The dryer popped open. Inside were the pieces of her Glock, each one held in place by a steel clasp.
It took only three minutes to assemble the gun.
Forty minutes later, she was in the lobby of the Hotel Bac Saint-Germain.
The front desk clerk was young, slender, and extremely beleaguered.
“No, madame. No one else has complained about the water pressure,” she told the guest on the other end of the phone. Her voice was calm, but her body language said otherwise. “Of course. I’ll send the engineer back to your room immediately. Yes. I know. Room three one four. Merci.”
She hung up and smiled at Marta. “Bonjour, madame. May I help you?”
“I’d like a room,” Marta said. “Preferably on the same floor as my friends Matthew Bannon and Katherine Sanborne.”
The clerk’s long bloodred fingernails clicked lightly on her keyboard. “I’m afraid you just missed them,” she said.
“Out sightseeing, I’m sure,” Marta said. “Do you happen to know when they’ll be back?”
“They’re not expected back. They checked out this morning.”
Marta stood at the front desk, cool and composed on the outside, boiling over on the inside.
“How strange,” she said calmly. “I guess I can FedEx the paperwork I was going to discuss with them. Did they leave the address of their next stop?”
“No, but I saw Monsieur Bannon talking with the concierge a couple of hours ago. He might be able to help you.”
The front desk phone rang, and after checking the caller ID, the clerk turned back to Marta. “Now, what size room are you looking for? They all have excellent water pressure.”
“You’re busy,” Marta said. “Why don’t you deal with room three fourteen, and I’ll see if the concierge knows where to find my friends.”
Marta walked across the lobby as the front desk clerk reluctantly picked up the phone.
The concierge was tall and trim and had thick, dark hair that was slicked back. He wore a well-tailored gray uniform with black piping and two crossed gold keys—the clefs d’or—on each lapel. He was currently engaged with a Japanese couple, and the language barrier made the slow communication process painful to watch.
After several minutes, he paused to nod to Marta. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.
She didn’t know if he was just being polite or trying to let the couple know that there were other people who needed his attention, too. But he looked up several times and smiled at Marta.
Another five minutes passed before the concierge handed the couple a map, a packet of brochures, and a printout of their itinerary for the day. They thanked him profusely with head bows and several euros.
“Mademoiselle, I am Laurent,” he said, offering up his name quickly. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I be of service?”
She leaned forward and rested her hands on his desk so he could get a good look at her breasts. He didn’t seem all that interested. Ah, the French. She loved them.
“I was supposed to meet my friends here, but there seems to have been some miscommunication,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “According to the front desk, they checked out this morning. I’m wondering if you know where they went.”
“These mix-ups happen all the time,” he said with a smile that showed a mouthful of perfectly straight, professionally whitened teeth. “What are their names?”
“Matthew Bannon and Katherine Sanborne.”
His lips tightened and the smile disappeared. He sat broom-up-his-ass straight in his chair. One second he looked like he was ready to invite himself up to her room, and the next he was transformed into the quintessentially cold, uncaring, unhelpful Parisian.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” Laurent said, “but I have no forwarding address for your friends.”
It was clear he was lying through his cosmetically enhanced, pearly white teeth.
The question was why.
Chapter 50
“Laurent,” Marta said sweetly. “Of course you know where they went. This may help jog your memory.” She slid fifty euros across his desk.
He ignored the money. “Whether I know or do not know is not relevant. The privacy of our guests is of utmost concern, and I’m not at liberty to say anything. Hotel policy.”
The cash bribe didn’t work. Marta leaned across his desk, her breasts almost out of their nest. “You can tell me,” she purred. “And you can surely imagine how grateful I would be.”
The concierge leaned in toward her and wagged a finger in her direction. “Mademoiselle, I absolutely cannot divulge any—”
Marta grabbed his finger and held it tight.
“I guess you’re not the breast man I thought you were,” she said. “How do you feel about fingers?”
His eyes widened, but he tried to maintain his composure. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, pressing hard on the top of his knuckle joint with her thumb and squeezing the rest of the digit with viselike strength, “how much do you care about your fingers?”
“This is ridiculous,” Laurent said. “Surely, you can’t be threaten—”
She snapped his finger in two, and the crack of Laurent’s bone was followed by a piercing scream.
Marta covered it up immediately with a shriek of her own and began laughing hysterically. The harried desk clerk was still on the phone with the dissatisfied guest and barely turned to see what the noise was about.
Marta let go of the concierge’s broken finger and grabbed on to his pinkie. “You’ve got nine left,” she said. “So let me ask you again. How much do you care about your fingers?”
Tears were streaming down the c
oncierge’s face. Excruciating pain and paralyzing fear trumped hotel policy.
“I made reservations for Monsieur Bannon this morning,” he whimpered. “A flight to Venice and dinner at the Antico Martini at eight tonight.”
“What hotel?”
“The Danieli.”
“One more question,” Marta said. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? You don’t strike me as a man who would be a slave to hotel policy.”
“Monsieur Bannon gave me a hundred euros to be discreet about where he was going.”
Or where he was taking Chukov’s diamonds, Marta thought.
She released Laurent’s pinkie. His hands flew to his chest and he tucked them safely under his armpits.
He stood there cowering as Marta picked up the fifty euros she had put on his desk. She slipped the money into her purse, then slowly turned and left the hotel.
What a merry little chase this was turning out to be. Marta Krall absolutely loved it.
Chapter 51
It was 4:30 a.m. in New York City when Chukov’s phone rang. The voice on the other end was female and the accent German. Marta Krall didn’t have to identify herself.
“He’s in my sights,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a taxi on my way to Charles de Gaulle airport.”
“To the airport?” Chukov said. “Aren’t you on your way from the airport into the city?”
“I did that while you were sleeping. I went to his hotel. He checked out this morning.”
“Checked out—where did he go?”
“Venice. He booked a room at the Hotel Danieli.”
“The Danieli?” Chukov screamed. “Do you know how much that costs?”
Marta laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t care. He’s spending your money.”
Chukov was apoplectic. “That’s a five-star hotel! I want five bullets in his head—one for every star.” He grabbed the inhaler from his night table and sucked on it.
Marta closed her eyes and savored the sound of the fat Russian gasping for air.
“Five bullets won’t be easy,” she said. “One shot with my forty-five-caliber Glock and his head will explode like a mush melon.”
“Then put the other four bullets in his worthless dick,” Chukov wheezed. “But first get the diamonds.”
“If he still has them,” she said. “He was in Paris for twenty-four hours. He could have sold them.”
“No,” Chukov said. “What idiot would sell diamonds in Paris? And never in Venice. He’s not stupid. He’ll go to Antwerp or Amsterdam or even Tel Aviv.”
“No, he won’t,” Marta said. “Venice will be Matthew Bannon’s final stop. I promise you that.”
Chapter 52
Chukov turned up the hot water in the shower full blast. He stood on the bathroom floor for ten minutes inhaling the steam, sipping his morning vodka, and trying to figure out his next move.
He dressed, ignoring the Bowflex and the rest of the exercise equipment he regularly bought from late-night infomercials, some of the pieces still in their boxes.
Then he called the Ghost. “Do you still have your thumb up your ass in Paris?” he asked.
“No,” the Ghost said. “My ass is currently in Venice, sitting in a very comfortable chair in a premium deluxe room at the Hotel Danieli.”
Chukov was stunned. “You’re at the Danieli already? How did you find out Bannon was in Venice?”
“It’s what I do,” the Ghost said. “The better question is, How the hell did you know? It’s five in the morning in New York. Who called you?”
Chukov took another swig of his vodka. Time to put his plan in motion. “Marta Krall. Do you know her?”
“Only by reputation,” the Ghost said. “She’s slow, she’s stupid, but she’s beautiful, so she has no trouble convincing lonely men like you to pay her fat fees and first-class travel. And then, more often than not, she botches the job.”
Chukov laughed. The Ghost was just like the rest of them. He didn’t like competition. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Or maybe you can buy Fraulein Krall a celebratory drink after she’s found the diamonds and killed Bannon. She’s the one who’s been doing all the heavy lifting.”
“Are you firing me?” the Ghost said.
“Why would I fire you?” Chukov said. “Two assassins are always better than one. But just a reminder—only one of you gets paid.”
Chapter 53
The Ghost hung up on Chukov.
He looked around the room. It was exquisite—highly polished antique furniture, lush draperies made from the finest Venetian fabrics, a luxurious handcrafted marble bathroom, all counterpointed with state-of-the-art electronics, including a forty-two-inch flat-screen LCD television, high-speed Internet, and a relaxing Jacuzzi.
The Danieli was expensive but well worth it. Especially with Chukov footing the bill. And now, the Ghost thought, it turns out he’s hired a backup.
Krall. Despite what he had said to Chukov, the Ghost knew Marta Krall was anything but slow and stupid. Contract killing was more than her profession, it was her passion. She was the queen of the slow death.
She had once put eighteen bullets into an undercover DEA agent over the course of three days. The man died from shock and blood loss four times, but Krall revived him each time with a makeshift crash cart to keep the party going. The Jamaican drug lord whose operation had been infiltrated by the narc happily paid a premium for the additional pain and suffering.
The Ghost stood up and looked out the window at the lagoon directly below. The view was spectacular. Venice was incomparable—a thriving cultural center surrounded by water. He only wished he had the time to stay and enjoy it.
He stretched out on the brocade silk spread that covered the king-size bed and stared up at the crystal chandelier.
He closed his eyes and tried to think like Marta Krall would think. Where was she? What was her next move? How could he stay one step ahead of her?
The door to the room burst open with a bang. Before he could move, a woman bounded into the room, leaped onto the bed, and pinned him down.
And then she kissed him. Hard.
“Jesus, Katherine,” he said. “You scared the living shit out of me.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again.
“I tried your cell, but it went straight to voice mail,” Katherine said. “Who were you on the phone with?”
“The Antico Martini,” he said. “I was just confirming our dinner reservation. I want to make sure it’s extra special.”
“I don’t care where we eat,” she said, “as long as it’s just the two of us. You’re a real catch, Matthew Bannon. I wouldn’t be surprised if another woman came after you.”
“What woman would possibly want to come after me?” Matthew asked, smiling at the irony.
“Sweetie, you look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?” she said.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Just a little tired. It’s a lot of hard work being a tourist.”
“Okay,” Katherine said. “But you had me worried. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Book Three
The Diamonds
Chapter 54
I swore that everything I was going to tell you would be true. It has been. I actually did serve in the Marines. I am an art student at Parsons in New York City. And I’m definitely in love with my professor Katherine Sanborne. But I did leave a few things out. Such as—
I’m a hired killer.
It’s not exactly something I signed up for on Career Day at my high school. My father was a Marine, and I more or less decided to follow in his footsteps—at least for four years. The night I got out, my dad took me for a beer.
I knew he wasn’t too happy about my going to New York to become an artist, and I figured he was going to try to talk me out of it.
“So, what did you learn in the corps?” he asked.
“Nothing that you hadn’t already taught me,” I told him and smile
d. “Is that what you’re fishing for?”
“Don’t be a wiseass,” my father said. “I’m trying to be serious here. The Marines taught you a lot. I just asked what you learned.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but he was definitely very serious.
“I guess I learned how to push myself to my limit,” I said. “Even farther than you pushed me. I learned the meaning of a lot of words that were just concepts when I was a kid—loyalty, bravery, friendship, selflessness.”
He nodded. “What else?”
“I learned how to survive,” I said. “And that means I had to learn how to kill. I did it for my country, but I doubt it’s a skill I can put on my résumé when I’m looking for something to help me pay for school in New York.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
We were sitting at a corner table in a little bar tucked away in the back room of the North Fork Diner in Hotchkiss, Colorado. My father took a long tug on his beer and set the bottle down.
“I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you this, Matt.”
I could feel my chest tighten. Tell me what? I didn’t like the look on his face.
“For as long as you can remember, you’ve seen me travel around the world from one corporate headquarters to another as a security consultant. Well, that’s not exactly true,” he said. “I do fly all over the world, but I’m not a consultant. I kill people, Matthew. Bad people. But I kill them all the same.”
I was in shock. Complete. There was a buzzing sound suddenly in both my ears. My chest felt hot on the inside.
“You murder people?” I said. “For money?”
“I eliminate scum—the dregs of our world. Most of them are killers themselves. Some just order the murders of others. It doesn’t make it any more righteous that I target only folks who deserve to die. But you know what? I sleep okay at night. I don’t have a problem with it. Do you, Matthew?”
I did, actually. “And you think, what? That that’s what I should be doing? Killing bad people?”