Guarneri.
“I’ve never been with such dangerous men in my life,” Janet muttered, “and never felt so safe at the same time.”
“Just go with the flow,” Alex said, “and don’t get too used to it. Hopefully, if I accomplish what I want to accomplish in Egypt, you’ll be safe when I return.”
Anthony, the driver, sprang from the car when he saw the young women approaching. He opened the door and ushered them and their escorts into his vehicle. They sat comfortably in the back as Anthony then navigated the traffic to Alex’s apartment building where both women got out.
In bidding each other good night, Federov stepped from the back of the limo and stood on the street with the two women. Guarneri remained in the car. Federov embraced Janet as a new friend. Alex clasped his hand and embraced him in a quick hug also, then turned to go.
But Federov held her arm. Impetuously, he pulled Alex back to him and fully surrounded her with his massive arms. He pulled her into a strong embrace. He planted his lips to hers and gave her a long powerful kiss, one she initially tried to resist. Then, for reasons even she couldn’t explain, she felt a tremor inside her, a feeling she knew she shouldn’t have felt, and her resistance melted. She went along with it. She completely let him have his way until, several seconds later, he drew back from the kiss and released her, astonished, into the cold night.
“See you soon again,” he said.
It took her a second to gather herself. “Soon again. Good night, Yuri,” she said. “And thank you.”
Janet and Alex walked to the doorstep of the brownstone. The limousine stood guard, not moving, till the women were inside.
“I think that big Russian hood likes you,” Janet said on the stairs.
“Much too much,” Alex agreed.
“Is that cool or is it gross?” Janet asked.
“Both.”
Alex stayed over in New York at the apartment on 21st Street. Later the next morning, she slipped off to a small Episcopal church, one she had always liked, near Gramercy Park, to meditate and say a small prayer. She always found churches particularly restful. When she returned to the apartment she noticed that there was a Lexus parked next to the curb in front of the steps to her brownstone.
Alex knew the driver was watching her. He was a rugged-looking guy with a very New York face, about thirty years old.
Just an interested male, she wondered, or something more ominous? This carried an echo of the block surveillance that her apartment building had endured in Washington.
Her hand drifted to her weapon as the Lexus window rolled down. But the man gave her an engaging smile and held up his hands to show that they were empty. He meant no harm. Cautiously, she approached the car.
“Are you Alex?” he asked.
“It depends who wants to know,” she said.
He had a Brooklyn accent so thick she could carve it with a knife.
“I’m Calo,” he said. “I work for Mr. Guarneri.”
“Ah, then I’m Alex.” They shook hands. “Keeping watch?”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “That’s what I was told to do. Nice day, huh?”
“Beautiful,” she said.
“Don’t worry none about your girlfriend. I’m equipped. See?”
He parted the front of his windbreaker and revealed a nine millimeter automatic holstered under his arm. The gun had a massive silver frame. A cannon.
“Just don’t get in trouble with the New York cops,” Alex said.
He laughed. “Hey, forget about it,” he said. With his other hand, he reached to an inside pocket. He produced and flipped open a NYPD badge. “I
“Beautiful again,” she said. “Stay safe.”
“Yeah. You too.”
She took the train back to Washington, arriving in the early evening.
The next morning, she was back in Langley and connected again with Thomas Meachum, the ID expert. From a file in his office, Meachum pulled an assortment of freshly minted new documents, all with the most recent photographs of Alex. On top was a forged Canadian passport in the name of Josephine Marie LeSage. It had been backdated to reflect an issue in 2008. Various travel stamps had been impressed into it from England and Ireland, in addition to Canada.
Alex looked at it and began the process of memorizing her new name and date of birth, as well as her cover story. For the purposes of Cairo, she was a Canadian university professor, a single woman, on sabbatical and spending a holiday visiting the antiquities of Cairo and the Nile.
“I assume this will jibe with Canadian records?” she asked. “In case there’s a problem?”
“Canada’s a friendly country, so yes,” he said. “Usually.”
“Thanks for the ringing endorsement,” she said.
She carefully examined the passport. She smirked at the new pictures, taken the day before. Not bad. She was now fifteen months older and had been born in Ottawa, eh? Her newest alternative universe took shape.
She sorted through the rest of the envelope. There was an Ontario driver’s license and two credit cards along with an ATM card from the Bank of Toronto, all in the name of the fictitious Josephine.
“I think I’ll go by ‘Jo’ for short,” she said.
“Whatever, Jo,” said Meachum.
He gave her a selection of pens. She signed everything, alternating pens. Using his skilled hands, Meachum then put some scuff and age on all the documents.
“Which passport do I leave the United States on?” Alex asked.
“Your American one,” he said. “I cross-checked your travel plans. In fact, your instructions are a little complicated. You’re to fly to Toronto first on your US passport. We have a secure mail envelope. After you’ve gone through Canadian immigration, you’ll rendezvous with someone from our consulate in the Toronto airport. He’ll approach you and introduce himself as Ken, and he’ll say that he works in Detroit. We have an envelope ready. Give him your US passport in the envelope.” Meachum showed her the envelope, a padded manila one about four by six. “It will be returned to us via a diplomatic courier. Thereafter, you’re Josephine, a nice girl from the Canuck Midwest.”
“Go, Leafs,” she said.
“That’s the spirit. We worked things with the Alitalia reservation, also, so you can check in for the trans-Atlantic flight as the Canadian woman.”
“Got it,” she said.
The afternoon she spent packing and purchased a few guide books on Egypt, as well as a phrase book. She stopped by her doctor’s office. The wound to her arm was checked. It seemed to be healing properly. It was fitted with a new bandage. There was no lasting damage but some scar tissue would remain. That evening, she played basketball and had dinner with Ben at the hotel pub across the street.
Then next morning she was at Dulles International and caught her midmorning flight to Toronto.
She rendezvoused easily with her contact, Ken, at the Toronto International Airport. She gave up her United States passport to him, then killed a couple of hours in one of the airport bars, reading, drinking too many glasses of wine, and waiting for her departure.
The ten-hour Alitalia flight took her across the Atlantic, down across Western Europe, and into Rome, where she arrived the next morning. She had booked a small suite at the Hassler Roma, another upscale lodging on the American taxpayer’s dollar. The hotel was situated just above the Spanish Steps in the heart of the Eternal City. After clearing customs and immigration, Alex took a taxi there, arriving shortly before noon.
Fortunately, the hotel allowed her an early check-in. She was able to grab a shower and then lay back for what she hoped would be a short nap.
TWENTY-NINE
She blinked awake several hours later and looked at the clock by her bedside. It was almost 6:00. For several seconds she couldn’t figure out which 6:00 it was. Or where she was.
Then gradually she realized. It was evening. The disorientation of trans-Atlantic travel had caught up with her. She came to her feet. There was a coffeemaker in the kitchen area of her suite, and she put it to use.
She sat by a window and sipped coffee. The view of Rome from the Hotel Hassler had taken on the light blues and misty yellows of evening. From her window Alex watched the city grow darker and more vibrant as the evening approached.
She went to the hotel dining room at seven, early by Italian standards, but her dining companion that evening, Gian Antonio Rizzo, had made concessions to Alex’s circadian rhythm.
Carlo, the ramrod erect and proper maitre d’, met her at the entrance to the dining room. She gave Rizzo’s name. Carlo managed a low bow and showed her to a reserved table set for three.
She sat. Then, moments later, Gian Antonio Rizzo appeared, arms wide in a gesture of reception. A smile swept across his face. He was dapper in a light brown suit that almost perfectly concealed the ever-present pistol that he wore on his hip.
“Well, well, well,” he said, greeting her in English.
She stood and let him embrace her. He kissed her on each cheek, he released her, and they sat.
