“We had to wait for the water to go down before we could open the door. I was sick with worry. I thought we were going to be too late. And then… We looked inside and there was nobody there. You’d done a Houdini and disappeared. I assume you swam down the old well?”
Alex nodded.
“I’m amazed it was big enough. Anyway, I was furious with Nile. He wasn’t thinking. The very fact that you were called Rider should have been enough. And for him to run into you a second time at Consanto! What were you doing there, by the way?”
“I was looking for you.”
She paused, thinking. “You must have seen the brochure in my desk. And did you overhear me talking to Harold Liebermann?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s one thing I absolutely have to know. How did you get into the complex?”
“I jumped off the terrace at Ravello.”
“With a parachute?”
“Of course.”
Mrs Rothman threw back her head and laughed loudly. At that moment, she looked more like a film star than anyone Alex had ever met. Not just beautiful, but supremely confident. “That’s wonderful,” she declared.
“That’s really quite wonderful.”
“It was a borrowed parachute,” Alex added. “It belonged to the brother of a friend of mine. I’ve lost all his equipment. And they’ll be wondering where I am.”
Mrs Rothman was sympathetic. “You’d better call them and let them know you survived. And tomorrow I’ll write your friend’s brother a cheque. If’s the least I can do after everything that’s happened.” The waiter arrived with Alex’s orange juice and the first course: two plates of ravioli. The little white parcels were wonderfully fresh, filled with wild mushrooms and served with a salad of rocket and Parmesan. Alex tasted one. He had to admit that the food was as delicious as Mrs Rothman had promised.
“What’s wrong with Nile?” he asked.
“He can be exceptionally stupid. Act first, ask questions later. He never stops to think.”
“I meant his skin.”
“Oh that! He suffers from vitiligo. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s a skin disorder. His skin is lacking pigment cells or something like that. Poor Nile! He was born black but he’ll be white by the time he dies. But let’s not talk about him. There are so many other things we need to discuss.”
“You knew my father.”
“I knew him very well, Alex. He was an extremely good friend of mine. And I have to say, you’re his spitting image. I can’t tell you how strange it is to be sitting here with you. Here I am, fifteen years older. But you…” She looked deep into his eyes. Alex saw that she was examining him but at the same time he felt as if she were sucking something out of him. “It’s almost as if he’s come back,” she said.
“I want to know about him.”
“What can I tell you that you don’t know already?”
“I don’t know anything, except what Yassen Gregorovich told me.” Alex paused. This was the moment he had been dreading. This was the reason he was here. “Was he an assassin?” he asked.
But Mrs Rothman didn’t answer. Her gaze had drifted away. “You met Yassen Gregorovich,” she said. “Was it he who led you to me?”
“I was there when he died.”
“I was sorry about Yassen. I heard he’d been killed.”
“I want to know about my father,” Alex insisted. “He worked for an organization called Scorpia. He was a killer. Is that right?”
“Your father was my friend.”
“You’re not answering my question,” he said, trying not to get angry. Mrs Rothman seemed friendly enough but he already knew that she was very rich and very ruthless. He suspected that he would regret it if he got on the wrong side of her.
Mrs Rothman herself was perfectly calm. “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said. “Not yet. Not until I’ve had a chance to talk about you.”
“What do you want to know about me?”
“I know a great deal about you already, Alex. You have an amazing reputation. That’s the reason why we’re sitting here tonight. I have an offer to make, something that may startle you. But I want you to understand, right from the start, that you’re completely free. You can walk away any time. I don’t want to hurt you. Quite the opposite. All I’m asking is that you consider what I have to say and then tell me what you think.”
“And then you’ll tell me about my dad?”
“Everything you want to know.”
“All right.”
Mrs Rothman had finished her champagne. She gestured with one hand and immediately a waiter appeared to refill her glass. “I love champagne,” she said. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“That’s probably wise.” Suddenly she was serious. “From what I understand, you’ve worked for MI6 four times,” she began. “There was that business with the Stormbreaker computers. Then the school they sent you to in the French Alps. Then you were in Cuba. And finally you crossed paths with Damian Cray. What I want to know is, why did you do it? What did you get out of it?”
