“Look at this fucking mess,” Kwiatkowski grumbled, unwrapping the blood-caked towel from his mangled forearm. Blinking sporadically, his bloodshot eyes were still tearing from the chemical burns. Leaning over the bathroom sink, he turned on the squeaky chrome spigots.
Watching his ashen-faced partner peel away the final layer, Orlando cringed as the towel’s crusty twill pulled away some of the crescent-shaped scab. The raw, deep wound split like smiling lips, the skin surrounding it a gruesome shade of purple. Blood zigzagged down Kwiatkowski’s forearm muscles into the basin, turning the shallow water pink. “That priest really got you good.”
As Kwiatkowski stuffed the bloodstained towel into the garbage can, his inflamed red eyes knifed into Orlando. “He just got lucky. That’s all.” An attempt at wiggling the bluish-purple digits produced good results for the pinky and ring finger, limited motion in the middle finger, and nothing in the other two. “Damn nerves are severed. Shit.”
All told, it had been six hours since they’d slipped out of the Vatican dormitory and loaded the geneticist into the rented van. They’d easily rolled out the Petrine Gate as the Swiss Guard focused its attention on the fire alarm that had gone off in the dormitory. The priest had unwittingly made their escape easier. At Fiumicino, the woman had been transferred to the rabbi’s private jet. As Cohen had promised, diplomatic privileges allowed them to bypass all security. The man seemed to have more pull than the pope. The bumpy flight from Rome to Tel Aviv took less than two and a half hours. Once they’d landed, a transfer to a second van completed the last leg of the delivery to the Rockefeller Museum.
Now it was time to collect final payment.
Repulsion giving way to curiosity, Orlando stared at the wound more clinically. “Did he break the bone?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could have been worse.”
“Are you fucking kidding? This isn’t exactly like cutting myself shaving.” He bent over and held the grotesque arm under the running water. Chunks of the scab and oozing gore slid off into the drain. “As soon as we get the money you can drop me over at Hadassah. I’m going to need surgery.” “No problem,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. Big problem, actually. It was Kwiatkowski’s shooting hand. Clearly the best surgeon in Israel would have a difficult time restoring the reflex in his trigger finger. Which rendered the man useless. “You did good. There’ll be plenty of time to rest up after this job.”
Kwiatkowski sighed. “The rabbi’s wife has the cash?” He glared at Orlando in the mirror.
“That’s right.”
“Euros, not shekels?”
“Right.” With a lightning-fast draw, Orlando pulled out his gun and fired once into Kwiatkowski’s left ear.
The giant rocked sideways and struck the wall where the round had cracked through the tiles. Blood and brain matter smeared as he crumpled to the floor.
Holstering his gun, Orlando made his way outside.
64
******
Orlando moved quickly down the corridor toward the light coming out of the conference room, the gun swinging like a pendulum in his right hand. “Mrs. Cohen?” he called out.
As he drew nearer the conference room, shadows moved across the light. Then the matronly Hasidic woman in her ankle-length dress seemed to glide out of the room, hands folded.
“Yes, in here, please,” she said in a lukewarm manner.
The assassin’s muscles eased up as he passed by her and cautiously entered the room with the gun drawn.
“Where is your partner?” she asked, coming in behind him.
“He went ahead to the hospital.”
“His arm?”
“An awful thing,” the contractor confirmed. “I’ll be handling matters on his behalf,” he firmly replied, his deadpan face clearly communicating that he shouldn’t be questioned any further.
A haunted expression came over his face when he saw the rabbi’s son across the room, standing next to the silver safe case. When he’d first arrived, the emaciated, ghost-white kid had been curled up in a wheelchair. Less than an hour after he came out of the room where the geneticist had been detained, he’d started rambling excitedly about his legs, how he could feel strange sensations. Then the kid had clumsily pulled himself up from the chair. It hadn’t been pretty, but the kid managed to stand, using the wall and the chair for support. But he was definitely up and about, crying like a baby, his cheeks flushed with rosy color. The circumstances seemed highly suspicious, so Orlando had immediately fetched the rabbi. The rabbi’s genuine astonishment had not been what he’d expected.
The boy’s condemnatory stare sent a freakish coldness over Orlando. He paced over to the case and ran his fingers over its small keypad.
“Don’t worry. Your blood money is all there,” Mrs. Cohen said.
The woman certainly wasn’t looking to win any popularity contests. “The code?” He tucked the gun into his underarm holster since he’d need both hands to open the case.
She gave him the sequence.
Orlando keyed in the numbers and the locks snapped open inside the case. Grinning, he unhinged the cover. The smile immediately faded when he looked down at the neat stacks of bills. “Shekels?” he grunted.
“It’s perfectly good money,” the wife confirmed.
“I specifically requested Euros, not this Jew money. Now where am I supposed to go to trade this at this hour?”
“So open a bank account in the morning,” she coldly replied.
“You think you’re funny?” he hissed. Pulling his gun, he swept it up at the son’s pale face. “I can be funny too.”
