suicide and maybe worse. Win would have been right to insist she put it on us.
'So now what?'
'They wish to talk to me,' Win said.
'Do they know where you are?'
'Not yet, no. My solicitor informed them I would voluntarily come in within the hour. We are checked in here under an assumed name, but if they try hard enough they will find us here.'
She looked at her watch. 'I better head back.'
I thought about the Sunglasses Man who'd set off my Spidey senses. 'Is there any chance one of your people is following me?'
'I would doubt it.'
'You're under heavy suspicion,' I said. 'How do you know they didn't follow you here?'
She looked at Win. 'Is he a dope or just a sexist?'
Win considered that. 'A sexist.'
'I'm an agent for Interpol. I took precautions.'
But not enough precautions so as not to get caught in the first place. I kept that thought to myself. It wasn't fair. She couldn't have known how putting that picture in the system would blow up.
We all rose. She shook my hand and kissed Win's cheek. Win and I settled back into our seats after she left.
'What are you going to tell Interpol?' I asked.
'Is there any reason to lie?'
'Not that I can see.'
'So I tell them the truth-for the most part. My dear friend-that would be you-was attacked by this man in Paris. I wanted to know who he was. We cover for Lucy by saying I lied to her and said the man was involved in child trafficking.'
'Which for all we know is a possibility.'
'True.'
'Do you mind if I tell Terese about this?'
'As long as you leave Lucy's name out of it.'
I nodded. 'We need to get an ID on this guy.'
I walked Win down to the Claridge's rather spectacular lobby. No violin quartet played concertos in the foyer, but they should have. The decor was modern British Upper Crust, which is to say a hybrid of Old English and art deco, done in a style both relaxed enough for jean-clad tourists and yet haughty enough to imagine that certain chairs and maybe the molding on the ceiling were snubbing their collective nose at you. I liked it. After Win left, I started for the elevator when something made me pull up.
Black Chuck Taylor high-tops.
I moved toward the elevators, stopped, and patted my pockets. I turned back with a confused expression on my face, as though I had just realized that I had misplaced something. Myron Bolitar, Method Actor. I used the opportunity to glance surreptitiously at the man with the black Chuck Taylor high-tops.
No sunglasses. Blue windbreaker now. A baseball cap that hadn't been there at the cemetery. But I knew. It was my guy. And he was good. People have a tendency to remember very little. Guy with sunglasses and close- cropped hair. Throw a cap on, a windbreaker over your T-shirt-no one will notice you unless they're looking hard.
I had almost missed it, but now I knew for sure: I was being followed. My boy from the graveyard was back.
There were several ways to play this, but I was not in the mood to be coy. I walked down a narrow corridor toward the rooms they used for meetings and conferences. It was a Sunday so they were empty. I folded my arms, leaned against the coatroom, and waited for my man to make an appearance.
When he did-five minutes later-I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him into the coatroom. 'Why are you following me?'
He looked at me confused.
'Is it my strong chin? My hypnotic blue eyes? My shapely ass? By the way, do these pants make me look fat? Tell me the truth.'
The man stared for another second, maybe two, and then he did what I had done earlier: He just attacked.
He led with a palm strike toward my face. I blocked it. He spun and threw an elbow. Fast. Faster than I'd anticipated. The blow landed on the left side of my chin. I turned my head to lesson the impact, but I could still feel my teeth rattle. He kept the attack going, throwing another blow, then a side kick, then a fist to the body. The body shot landed the hardest, on the bottom of the rib cage. It would hurt. If you ever watch boxing on TV, even casually, you will hear every announcer say the same things: Body shots accumulate. The opponent will feel them in the late rounds. That's true and it's not. Body shots also hurt right now. They make you cringe and lower your defenses.
I was in trouble.
Part of my brain started berating myself-stupid to do this without a weapon or Win as backup. Most of my brain, however, had kicked into survival mode. Even the most seemingly innocent fight-at a bar, a sporting event, whatever-will make your adrenaline go haywire because your body knows what maybe your mind doesn't want to accept: This is about survival. You could very well die.
I fell to the ground and rolled away. The coatroom was small. This guy knew what he was doing. He stayed on me, trying to rain down foot stomps, chasing me. He landed a kick to my head; stars exploded like something out of a cartoon. I debated yelling for help, anything to get him to stop.
I rolled a second or so more, noticed his timing. I left my gut open, hoping he would go for it with a kick. He did. As he started to cock his knee, I reverse-rolled toward him, bent at the waist, got my hands ready. The kick landed in ye olde bread basket, but I was ready for it. I clamped his foot against my body with both hands and rolled hard. He had two choices. Fall quickly to the ground or have his ankle bone snap like a dried twig.
He knew to throw blows as he fell, but for the most part they were ineffective.
We were both on the ground. I was hurt and dazed, but I had two major advantages now. One, I still had his foot, though I could feel that grip loosening. Two, now that we were on the ground, well, size became important- and I mean that in a clean way. I was holding his leg with both hands. He tried to punch his way through. I moved closer to him, ducking my head into his chest. When an opponent is throwing punches, most people think that they should give the guy some distance. But it's just the opposite. You put your face into his chest and smother his power. That was what I did here.
He tried to box my ears, but that required both hands, leaving him vulnerable. I lifted my head hard and fast and caught him under the chin. He reeled back. I fell on top of him.
Now the fight was about leverage and technique and size. I had him beat right now in two of the three- leverage and size. I was still dizzy from the initial attack but the head butt had helped. I still had his leg. I gave it a vicious twist. He rolled with it and that was when he made the big mistake.
He turned his back to me, exposing it.
I let go and jumped on him, my legs snaking around his waist, my right arm around his neck. He knew what was coming. Panic made him start bucking. He dropped his chin to block my elbow. I whacked him in the back of the head with a palm strike. That weakened him just enough. I quickly gripped his forehead and tugged back. He tried to fight it, but I raised his chin just enough. My elbow sneaked underneath the opening and reached his throat. The choke hold was set.
I had him now. It was just a question of time.
And then I heard a noise, a voice actually, shouting in a foreign language. I debated letting go to see who it was, but I held on. That was my mistake. A second man had entered the room. He hit me in the back of the neck, probably with a knife hand, what you'd call a classic karate chop. A numbness swept through me as if my entire body had just become my funny bone banged the wrong way. My grip loosened.
I heard the man shout again, in the same foreign language. It confused me. The first man slipped out of my grip, gasping for breath. He rolled away. There were two of them now. I looked at the second man. He pointed a gun at me.
