now Nacho fiddled with one of them.
“Got the image intensifier on this one, Jefe,” he said as Faust bent to the eyepieces.
“When was the last delivery?” Faust asked as he looked.
“This afternoon. Maybe five o’clock.”
“You know what it was?”
Nacho looked at Kaminski and switched to Spanish. She tried to follow it, but it came too fast and the accents were strange, and anyway it sounded scientific to her, chemical terms maybe. She walked slowly to the binoculars while Faust and Nacho spoke. The men saw her but seemed not to care. She peered into the eyepiece.
Outside, the world was tinted green, as was a brick building, low and long, that seemed very close. It had a lot of windows, all shuttered, and she thought it looked abandoned. There was a loading dock in the center of the image, and the only thing that moved was a plastic bag, blowing in the warm night breeze.
Nacho pulled the drapes and the outside images went black. He looked at Kaminski and nodded his head at a chair in the corner. She sat, still straining to catch the conversation. It was less technical now, Faust asking something about someone-does he know… Does he know what? Horario. Was that like orario, meaning schedule, timetable? And who was this he?
It seemed as if Nacho was uncertain too. He shrugged at Faust and moved to a large closet’s double doors. He put his hands on the knobs. “Maybe you have better luck than me, Jefe,” he said in English, and swung the doors wide.
Kaminski screamed.
The man on the closet floor stared at her, though he was bound with wire and gagged with duct tape, and bleeding from a gash on his shaved head, which, she noticed, was tattooed with the likeness of the jack of spades. Nacho pressed a forefinger to his lips and made a shushing noise at her.
She had no idea how long it was before her head cleared, but when it did she saw Faust kneeling by the tattooed man. His hand rested gently on the man’s shoulder, and he spoke softly in his ear. The duct tape was off the tattooed man’s mouth and Kaminski could see that the man’s lips were split, and that he was crying. And speaking too, in urgent, terrified English.
“No, no-not weeks! It’s days, a matter of days. Maybe less!”
Faust spread the duct tape over the man’s mouth again and patted him, almost affectionately, on the back. Then he stepped away and shut the closet door. Nacho looked at Faust and smiled.
“Still got the touch, Jefe,” he said.
Faust smiled minutely. “You call if there’s any more activity,” he said. To Kaminski, he added, “We return to the hotel.”
She stood and followed numbly. As they were about to step into the corridor, she touched Faust’s arm and spoke in a whisper. “What will happen to him-the man in the closet?”
“Nacho will see to him,” Faust said. “Now come, we have dinner plans to make.”
It was nearly black in the hospital room when Jack Perez came awake, the.357 in his hand. The only light came from the orange glow of the call buttons on the wall, the green digits on the blood pressure monitor, and the pinkish scatter of streetlight through the shaded window. It was nearly silent, too-only the sounds of his wife’s steady breathing, the quiet whir of air in the vents, and the electric ping of some sort of warning bell reached his ears. About right for two a.m.
But something had woken Perez from his brittle sleep. His father-in-law going out? Someone in the corridor?
Perez wiped a hand across his eyes, rose from the lounge chair and crossed the room without a sound. He leaned against the doorframe with one hand on the knob and the.357 down along his leg. He took a deep breath and opened the door a crack.
Middleton was down the hall, his back to Perez, and he was talking quietly to a man and a woman. The man was lanky and pale, and his jaw was darkened by a three-day beard. His eyes were shadowed and darting. The woman was tall, tanned, and broad-shouldered, and her dark hair was cut short. Perez hadn’t made a sound, but somehow Middleton knew he was there.
“Come meet some old friends, Jack,” he said, without turning around. Perez pocketed the Python and closed the door to his wife’s room behind him.
“This is Jean-Marc Lespasse and Leonora Tesla, former colleagues of mine. Nora, JM, this is my son-in-law, Jack Perez.”
Lespasse nodded at Perez, and Tesla put out a warm hand. “Harry has told us all that’s happened, Mr. Perez. I’m so sorry for what you and your wife have been through. Will she be all right?”
“She’s lost a lot of blood, but the docs say she’ll recover. All right is another story. I don’t know that either one of us will be all right again after this.”
As Tesla nodded sympathetically, Middleton said, “Nora and JM have been through the wringer themselves the past couple of days. A man nearly killed Nora in Namibia, and JM narrowly avoided abduction in Chapel Hill.”
“Jesus, Harry, is all this about-?”
“We think so,” Middleton said. “The man who attacked Nora was looking for me.”
“I didn’t hang around to find out what those clowns in the parking lot were after,” Lespasse added in a raspy whisper, “but I heard them speaking Serbian, and they were carrying those cheap shit Zastavas.”
“And this is all about… what? That fucking manuscript?” Perez asked.
Tesla and Lespasse shifted nervously. Middleton said nothing.
“For Christ’s sakes, Harry… ” Perez said, shaking his head. He looked at Tesla. “How did you two manage to find us?”
“We both saw the news reports of Harry’s difficulty at Dulles and knew that he was… in flight. We both guessed that he might turn up at the lake house.”
“I ran into Nora there,” Lespasse said.
“… and nearly blew my head off.”
“We saw the blood and thought the worst,” Lespasse added. “We started checking hospitals, closest ones first, and there you were.”
Perez turned back to his father-in-law. “Not too difficult. And the guys who are after you, whoever they are, seem fuckin’ relentless. How much longer before they turn up here too?”
Any answer Middleton might have given was interrupted by the night duty nurse. “You and your father-in-law will have to quiet down, Mr. Perez, and your friends will have to come back during regular visiting hours.”
Middleton seized the opportunity. “Yes, ma’am, and we’re very sorry. I’ll just see these folks out so Jack can sit with Charley.”
He took Tesla’s arm and led her and Jean-Marc toward the elevator, leaving Jack Perez grinding his teeth in the darkened hallway.
Outside, the air was warm and close. The hospital parking lot was nearly empty. Jean-Marc Lespasse lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew a column of smoke into the night sky.
Harry Middleton recalled the last time he’d seen Lespasse and Val Brocco. A blisteringly hot day at chaotic Kenyatta Airport. He remembered too his farewell to Nora Tesla. It had been somewhat after his final meeting with the two men and the location was much nicer-an Algerian-influenced inn on the Cote D’Azure-but the moment was no less difficult.
Events intervened…
She glanced at him once and then her eyes fled. Words seemed easier.
“Your family has no idea?” Leonora Tesla asked Middleton.
“No. I never told them-never thought I’d have to. I thought I could protect them from… all this.”
She clutched his hand, an instinctive gesture, and released it fast. “This isn’t your fault, Harry, but your son- in-law is right. It wasn’t difficult for us to find you, and it won’t be difficult for anyone else who’s looking. It’s not safe.”
“It’s safe enough for a little while-long enough for me to think things through. The Soberski woman asked about Faust. She thought I was into something with him.”
“So you said, Harry, and I told you, Eleana Soberski was a sociopath and a congenital liar,” Tesla said. “You
