pin-striped . . . why hadn’t I spotted him as a fake? “No one is merely who they seem to be,” he’d said. “Isn’t power intoxicating?” Heath was dying to tell me it was a sham. That son of a bitch had sat next to me, told me where to breakthe Circles. He’d massaged my temples, for chrissake. Then he’d sent me to my doom, standing next to his former lover. Damn! And Greer . . . I mean Beckett . . . he’d sucked me in with a cough and a phone call, had me dancing like a marionette.
When I opened my eyes, Beckett was sitting in his seat staring at me. “When I lay in that bed playing a dying American pilot, I admit I felt a pang of regret, and I feel it again now. By nature I’m not a panderer of men. Of course, you have no reason to believe me at this point.”
It was my turn to not answer.
“I’m sorry for what happened to your throat,” he said.
I ignored the statement. “What did Dracco tell you?”
“He’s got an assortment of vehicles at his private hangar. One hell of an accommodating mercenary.”
“We’ll rent a car from him. That shouldn’t cost more than two, three grand.”
“Four. I’ll cover it, of course.”
“From Greer’s satchel, right? When I got it, it had two million in it. How much when you got it?”
Beckett crossed his legs, folded his hands. “Three.”
We touched down at Linate Airport, taxied over to Dracco’s hangar, and slowed to a stop. I deplaned first, while Beckett settled up with Dracco. Inside the hangar were a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter, a black Mercedes sedan, and a brand-new red Harley with the key in it. I looked back at the jet and saw Beckett stepping off.
I saw his jaw drop in the Harley’s rearview mirror.
I pictured Krell from the description Lois had given me by phone the last time I’d flown into Milan: bald, not bad-looking. What was clanking through his crazy head? He had the Dagger; he had Ginny; Soon Ta Kee was on his tail; and he was cruising through the Alps in a silver Pullman?
In Krell’s eyes, everyone had to be dispensable. No way they’d hand Ginny the Dagger in Zurich and say they were sorry. I remembered the story Beckett told me about Greer. Tecci on the back platform, the high bridge, the rolling wheels, the double-cross. And then, with the force of an asteroid, a thought struck: Tecci was going to toss Ginny off the back of the Pullman at the St. Roddard Pass.
I checked my watch. It was going to be tight. They’d be pulling into the station in fifteen minutes. Followed by a ten-minute stop. That gave me twenty-five minutes. I could just make it.
I roared by the flow of traffic on the winding road, dipping into the breakdown lane, kicking up gravel and bottle caps. I was ahead of everybody, in the clear, until I tore around a corner and ran smack into the Swiss border at Chiasso.
I’d forgotten about the goddamn border! Instantly, I regretted havingthe Jackhammer. Too late. I slowed to a stop and sat up straight, arching my shoulders back to make space for the shotgun.
It was a small station: four uniformed guards, probably bored, certainly not waiting for me. I smiled at the young one who approached me and asked for my papers, hoping he’d have some sympathy for a hunchback. I wondered if I should say hello. Opting for silence, I handed him my passport.
The guard flipped it open, matching the picture with the face.
“American on a Harley,” he said with an Italian accent. “I ride a Honda. Are you renting or owning?” He eyed the bike with admiration.
I told him a friend of mine had loaned it to me.
“Really?”he said, surprised.“It looks new. Must be a very good friend.”
“Wonderful guy. Very generous,” I assured him.
“Hmm, what is in the back of your jacket?”
Time ticked irrevocably by, steel wheels rolling for Lugano.
“It’s a back support,” I said. “I have a very, very bad back.”
The guard scratched his chin with my passport. I checked his countenance from behind my shades. Curiosity or concern?
“What is this bump?” he asked, frowning. He called to a middle-aged guard who was checking a Saab. “Luigi!”
The man waved the car through to Swiss freedom. I felt envy, fear, anger. The guard walked quickly toward us, his hand moving to his holstered gun.
Ticking clock, pounding heart, sweating hands.
Luigi pointed his chin grimly at my back.
I squeezed the clutch, dropped it into gear, spun the throttle, and peeled out, lifting the front wheel a foot off the ground. Over the thunder of the Harley’s huge engine, I could barely hear the shouts.
The bike hung in the air for a full five seconds before I let it fall. I snatched a look in the vibrating mirror. The two guards were jumping into a car.
A moment later I heard the
