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“I may never see you again,” Andres said.
“That much could well be true.”
“I have a room here, and, yes, before you say it, it is a suite on the top floor. A spectacular view of the sea, you can relax after your long journey. We can order dinner. Consider if this is to be our last time together…”
The priest let out a long breath, closed his eyes, then felt as if his very soul was suddenly branded by an image of his brother’s wife. What he knew from his brief visit with her was more than enough to bear. So clear in all its painful truth, it was as if he could reach out and touch her. Isadora sitting by herself that night, as always, in the cramped quarters of the small modest home she once shared with his brother. Eating alone, as always, if she had any food at all, grateful if she did. Praying before she went to sleep. He wondered if she ever slept at all.
“I have some business to conduct,” Andres said. “But I’ll make it brief, if I don’t excuse myself altogether. If you could wait for me upstairs?”
“I don’t know…”
“What is one night?”
Father Gadiz made the decision based on hope. “Very well.”
7
Trust wasn’t a word found anywhere in his playbook. But part of the deal now, it demanded unconditional trust, total submission.
As in his surrender to fate.
From Jarrod Harmon’s standpoint, this was the real dicey stretch where it could all go south. Just in case, he had a trump card or two in the event some treacherous traitor reared his hooded head.
Let in on cue by the call from his cell phone with its secure line of the highest state-of-the-art caliber, Harmon allowed himself to be manhandled a few steps down the foyer. The faceless, black-clad two-man escort presumably made a show for any watching eyes—if anyone could even see from their positions around the ornately carved post and flanking statues blocking out part of the room—as they shoved him against the wall. First, they liberated his duffel bag, then relieved him of the Browning, one of them growling for him to spread his arms and legs.
“Take it easy,” he hissed. “You do know who I am, right?”
“We do.”
At least the assault rifles weren’t aimed his way as they patted him down. A good omen for success all the way down the line, he thought. Then he heard one of the terrorists shouting for someone to shut up, or a woman would be raped then shot before his eyes. A gruff, heavily accented voice began cursing in broken English, issuing threats there was no hope in hell of bringing to fruition. Had to be the Serb boss trying to save face. Then the familiar crack of flesh-on-flesh from a resounding slap to somebody’s face brought on hard silence, except for muffled whimpering by a female captive or two.
“I’ll keep the one in my jacket pocket,” Harmon told the two men, keeping his voice low as he referred to the Walther PPK, watching the dark orbs inside the slits, burning back at him with hatred. “And leave the hands uncuffed, just like I know the man told you to do.”
“You are very confident of your position,” one of the masked men said.
Harmon didn’t like the sound of that, but he showed them a smile. “It pays to know the right people.”
“For your sake you had better hope so.”
“Let’s do this, so you can get busy spreading your sunshine,” he replied.
SLIMDER VERSUS SLIMDER HE called it, but only to himself and in a rare lucid moment when there was blessed silence in his head. No mistake, it was a schizophrenic dance through those talking minefields—phantom or otherwise—and on the best days. On the worst days he knew it was sheer terror and relentless stalking madness.
By far, he was having one of his worst days.
He heard the ghosts of the not-so-distant past howl, trapped inside his skull. Outraged and vengeful, as usual, but they were really dug in now, the specters shrieking so loud, it seemed, he was shaken to where he felt he’d burst out of his skin. Why wouldn’t they just go away? He wanted to scream out loud, but was somehow aware he wasn’t alone in the suite. All he wanted…
Leave me alone! he thought.
Can’t do it, good buddy, one of the voices said. We know what you wanted. Hey, no need for the big-shot vice prez of Tampa Bay Bank and Trust to explain. It’s a done deal, remember? Those real-estate investments hatched when the whiskey was going down, nice and smooth. All that free money funneled and cleaned through the Cayman Islands, both eyes toward the grand future, knowing the good life you envied in others would soon become more than fantasy. So, what’s with the whimpering? What were you going to do? Sit behind a desk the rest of your life and count other people’s money?
He wanted the thoughts to stop.
No, the voice went on, shut up and listen to reason for once in your sorry life. Pretty slick, by the way—I’ll give you credit for that golden tongue—all those promises to the elderly, the Sunshine State still the Eastern Seaboard’s promised land of milk and honey, the biggest real-estate boom to date on the horizon. How, if they jumped on board a sure thing, they could kick back and just smile at the setting sun of their lives, in lavish comfort they only dreamed about during their working years. Hurricanes? Saints forbid. All covered by this new platinum insurance purchased through the investment, not even a category five could wipe you out if you sign the dotted line with us.
Oh, God, what had he done?
Stop whining! So you cleaned them out. So a lot of the old buzzards were scraping by on Social Security. They’ll be rotting in the ground soon enough anyway, but you have your whole life ahead of you. Relax, you’ve been lifted out of the ashes. And forget that cold shrew of a wife while you’re at it, they’ll never find her. Nice job, another salute, catching her asleep like that. No noise, a little struggle, though, when she woke up and realized what was happening. Using your hands like that, a gun would have been less personal, but think of the mess to clean up. Women, huh. They just don’t understand, even when you kill them. All you wanted was a taste, figured you were owed, and you were right. So you squandered money on hookers and drugs, but at least you got some, still do, but more now than ever with all that cash, and for a guy who looks like…
Stop the madness! he thought, fighting to clear his head.
Madness? the voice queried. Stop the sniveling! Be a man. You made the choice, deal with it. This is what you want, this is what you get…
“Did you say something over there?” a female voice suddenly intruded.
The girls. They were looking at him oddly.
Get a grip, he told himself. They were too beautiful for him to screw this up, to send them screaming out the door as if they thought he was some psycho, gibbering to himself. Somehow he found himself at the wet bar, building another double whiskey. He cursed the violent trembling in his hand, then one whispering Slimder assured him it was just the shakes from too much booze. One down the hatch would get him right. What the hell was this next urging? he wondered, as he gulped the drink. Twitching, he gazed into the darkening expanse of the Mediterranean, the voice sounding as if it called to him from the sea.
I can’t stop you. Do what you must if that’s what you really want.
Do what? Jump over the rail? Give all this up? It was twelve stories down. It would all be over before he knew it, mashed to gooey nothing like the parasite…
Breathe slow, concentrate. Drink some more whiskey, the voice commanded.
And it faded. Thank God for the warm elixir flooding through him, drowning the voice. Hell, he thought, embracing the slow return of silent reality, any number of things could have caused all this maddening anxiety and agitation. He drained the glass, then reached for the half-empty bottle. All the pills he consumed just to heave himself in and out of bed these days. All the coke snorted. All the Viagra swallowed when he needed help in the pinch. All the booze required just to keep him standing some days.
No wonder he was going crazy.
Then he heard the two recently divorced thirty-something women giggling from the couch. How sweet life was, he thought, back to beautiful blissful reality, watching as they loaded more rock into the glass stem. Taut, tan bodies, a lot of flesh showing, what with the halters and miniskirts. All these years, a pudgy little slob like him, and he could only dream. But now…
He’d met them in one of the hotel’s many bars and just a few hours earlier. They were staying at the hotel indefinitely, looking for action now that they’d shed the hubbies and kids. Starting over like he was, from Topeka or Iowa or some such godawful place he’d never have to see. Buying them drinks, plying them, then flashing cash—he never left his suite without at least twenty grand walking-around money. A stroll through the shops, big spender that he was buying the girls a couple of mink coats ordered through one of his many bogus credit cards. His personal coke supply sealed the deal, now he just needed to push the envelope some.
“James, why don’t you come over here and join us? It’s your stuff, hon.”
“Yeah, you look like you could use one.”
James, not Jim, or the always loathsome Jimmy. Hon to boot. His stuff. His Presidential Suite, the Eden Suite they called it. Lush tropical vegetation, flower garden around a small pond in the living room, live exotic fish optional if he wanted to dump one of the tanks. He was the new Adam, all right, only blessed with two Eves. Paradise adorned with gleaming white marble and gold trim, he had to keep the lights turned low or the blinding brightness would all but obscure such a heavenly view.
“James, did you order room service?”
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