'Well, I can't say I disapprove,' Bartoli told him, his eyes cutting back to Kate. 'There comes a point when the risk is greater than the reward. I suppose if you have earned enough to be comfortable it's time to get out.'
'We appreciate the offer,' Ethan told him, not daring to look at Kate, who he feared would be interested. He had lost his taste for stealing after their last job and had even told Kate they either stopped or he was leaving. To his surprise, she took him at his word. His fear at this point was she had accepted his ultimatum with the idea that she could change his mind eventually.
Kate turned to Ethan. She hated to say it, but one of them probably needed to make sure everything was all right inside. Did he mind?
Ethan turned to Bartoli. 'We could all three go in, if you want. Have a look at the collection Roland put together. . .'
Bartoli said he was going to have to take off soon. Besides, he was familiar with most of Roland's collection. He had only wanted to stop by and wish them well. He added that if the two of them ever wanted to visit him, all they had to do was give him a call. He would make time for them no matter what.
The two men shook hands and then Ethan headed back for the house.
*
Without taking his eyes from Ethan as he walked away from them, Giancarlo told Kate, 'I like him.'
'I like him, too.'
Bartoli turned and looked at her with his steady gaze. He did not say it, but he seemed to wonder if that was all she felt. 'I'm glad he has convinced you to give up the life, Kate.'
'There was a time when I needed it. It was the only thing that really made me feel alive. Even now, I can't say I don't miss it.'
'When one is good at something, it
is
hard to stop.' He let this settle, before asking, 'I assume you have told Ethan what happened on the Eiger?'
Kate turned toward the lake and crossed her arms. She had known this was coming, but she was still uncomfortable with the subject. 'I told him after we were married. I was tired of keeping secrets from him.'
Giancarlo was quiet, as if considering the implications. 'You promised me you would tell no one.'
'And you promised me you would find out who sent those men to kill Robert.'
'I told you I would try.'
'No,' Kate answered. 'You told me you would never stop looking for Robert's killer.'
'I was upset. Robert was my friend, too.'
'Robert was not my
friend
, Padrino. He was my husband.'
Giancarlo gave a thoughtful look in the direction of the house. 'Are you willing to lose another for this passion of yours?'
'That sounds like a threat.'
'You know better than that. I just meant that it was a mistake to tell Ethan.'
'I don't think it was.'
'I expect he is determined to help you find Robert's killer.'
'Is there something wrong with that?'
Bartoli fixed his gaze on the churning water. 'You risked your life to find out the truth, Katerina. I told you that eleven years ago, and you said you didn't care. You said there was nothing you would not risk. I am simply wondering if that is still the case.'
'Nothing has changed.'
'Perhaps it ought to. Life goes on, you know. What you feel now is a raw nerve. If you will only quit irritating it, the pain will grow dull.'
'Someone paid those men to climb the Eiger and find Robert.'
'You have made some very dangerous people
uneasy,
Katerina.'
'Have I really?'
'This is not something that should please you. These are the kind of people who come out of the shadows and you are dead before you understand how close they are!'
'You seem to know a great deal, Padrino. Does that mean you can give me a name - the person responsible?'
'If you push to know the truth, Katerina, I simply cannot protect you anymore, . . or Ethan.'
'Who is going to hurt me, Padrino? You can tell me that, can't you?'
The old man shook his head. 'Robert was involved in a great deal more than you know.'
'So you have been keeping things from me?'
Bartoli shook his head sadly. 'You are not hearing me.'
'You are telling me you know who killed Robert.'
'I said nothing of the kind.'
'Tell me this. Are
you
protecting someone?'
'I have always tried to protect you, Katerina, but I am afraid you are making it impossible.'
'How long have you known about these
dangerous people,
Padrino?'
The old man met Kate's gaze. He seemed to be wrestling with how much he wanted to tell her. Finally he said, 'A great many years, I'm afraid.'
'So you were lying to me when you said you had not given up?'
'I was protecting you, but it seems now that you have found someone who thinks he can find Robert's killer. . .'
'I am going to find out the truth, Padrino, and these very dangerous people had better understand one thing. I swore an oath to God that nothing was going to stop me, and I meant what I said.'
'Then pray God helps you, Katerina, because I cannot.'
The moment Giancarlo Bartoli returned to the limousine, Carlisle greeted him in Italian. 'Is she involved?'
A few years shy of fifty, David Carlisle was tall and handsome with a silver mane of hair and sun-darkened skin. Bartoli settled himself opposite Carlisle and stared at the house that had once belonged to Roland Wheeler. He was not a happy man. 'It is exactly as you thought,' he said at last.
Their car pulled away from the kerb and entered heavy traffic at the top of the hill. 'I suppose you told her to let go of her feelings?' Carlisle asked. There was an edge of sarcasm to this that Bartoli did not care for, and he fixed his eyes on the younger man.
'I do not mean to tell you your business, David, but Kate cannot find you without Thomas Malloy's resources. Eliminate Malloy, and you are safe again.'
'I listened to you once about what I should do with her, Giancarlo, and you see where it has got me.'
Bartoli gave his friend a curious look. 'So you are determined to kill all three of them?'
'I don't really think I've been given any other choice.'
Bartoli offered him a sardonic smile. 'You might give the matter some thought before you try something that you could end up regretting. As I recall, the last time you decided to murder her, Kate tossed your assassins off a mountain.'
Carlisle laughed pleasantly as if he had heard a fine joke. He turned to watch the streets of Zürich as they slipped past. 'This time she won't see it coming.'
'I told her that. She doesn't seem to care, David, and from
the look in her eyes, I am thinking you are the one who might not see it coming.'
'She thinks she is close to finding out what happened. That's Malloy's doing. He imagines Jack Farrell can be made to talk.'
'Are you so sure he can't?'
'Quite positive. But tell me something I don't know, Giancarlo. You met Kate's new husband. Do you think she is in love with him?'
Bartoli turned the palms of his hands up and lifted his shoulders. 'A woman arrives at a certain age, David, and suddenly she understands love quite differently. If she is honest with herself, she knows there is only one man she ever truly loved. It is why her husband is so eager to help her with this. He wants to take the place of his predecessor. He wants all of her love. Of course, he knows he can never have it, but he persuades himself that if he helps her that somehow he will be closer than before.'
'Lord Kenyon, I think, was a very fortunate man.'
Giancarlo Bartoli reflected on this observation. 'More than he knew, I expect.'
'A shame he had to die so young.'
'I have always thought so.'
Kate found Marcus Steiner as he was leaving the party. She spoke to him in High German, using the formal
Sie
of strangers as she shook his hand instead of kissing his cheek as an intimate. To her thinking, Marcus Steiner was the quintessential Swiss, charming, reserved, diplomatic, and true to his word - especially in his criminal enterprises. 'Did you enjoy yourself, Captain?'
'Very much, thank you, Mrs Brand.'
'By the way, I'm curious. Are you still. . . ?'
A look of recognition, a pleasant shrug of the shoulders. 'Nothing has changed since you have been out of the country,' he said.
'Is my credit any good?' she asked sweetly. 'Or will you need cash in advance for my order?' 'If anything it has improved after today.'
'I'm sorry I haven't given you much notice, but I am going to need something very soon, I think. I've put a wish list in your coat.' Marcus Steiner looked at his coat in surprise. 'Over your heart,' she told him, taking the lapel and laughing as if it were a fine joke.
'Did you want anything exotic?'
'Nothing too extraordinary.'
'Will you want everything in the garage at your old flat, the way we used to arrange it?'
'It's being watched, I'm afraid.' Marcus gave her a curious look. Not by the police, he knew, but then she didn't really concern herself with the police. She was too well liked to worry about secret investigations - especially after today. 'Ethan and I have a new place - close to the Gross Munster. I put my address at the bottom of the list. Just leave it all in the main room if we aren't there. I'll put enough money in an envelope to cover the debt and trust you to assign the rest to any future needs.'
'That works for me. Will I need a key to get in?'
Kate smiled. 'A man of your talent?'
Thursday March 6, 2008.
Thomas Malloy stepped off the subway at the 86th Street exit and joined a late afternoon crowd heading south on Fifth Avenue. He wore black loafers, dark, pleated wool slacks, a grey sweater, sunglasses and a black windbreaker. A few out-of-towners gave him a second look. They were trying to decide if he was someone important. They usually decided he wasn't but not always. Malloy caught his reflection in the glass of a building, indulging in a bit of vanity.
His hair was over his collar, going to grey at a leisurely rate. The style was a bit artsy: actor, architect, freelance writer. He was tall and slender, reasonably handsome by his own estimates. It was not the best face for someone who preferred to be unnoticed as he went about his business, but it was a versatile one. Change the clothes, move the hair round a bit, add or reduce a few mannerisms, change the voice, and he could be different types - French, German, Swiss, English, and of course three or four brands of American. He usually travelled abroad on a Swiss passport with one of four identities, but he had four American names, two German, and even a French passport - just in case.
Through most of his life Malloy had worked as an intelligence officer without official cover. That meant he was vulnerable to arrest and prosecution in most countries, immediate execution in others. It was the kind of life that had taught him to cultivate the friendship of criminals - people with the skills and resources to get past the usual barriers governments imposed. They were sometimes freelance thieves or assassins, sometimes traitors to their countries, sometimes patriots with an agenda. Many just wanted to get rich or do the right thing or they liked him and did him a favour because he was, above all else, a persuasive individual.
With a couple of brutally violent exceptions, Malloy's professional life had been a quiet one. The worst had come when he was a fresh-faced operative in training. He still wore the scars of that one - a nest of wounds on his chest. At the height of his career he had penetrated deep into the Swiss banking conglomerates as well as a number of the major European crime syndicates - all through contacts he had developed. In the process he had managed to stay invisible and far beyond the reach of the violent people he tracked. In the late 1990s an old nemesis within the agency named Charlie Winger reached the semi-divine position of Director of Operations and celebrated his promotion by calling Malloy home from Europe and chaining him to an analyst's desk at Langley. The move was supposed to lead to further administrative assignments, but that was just Charlie's spin on it. In fact it was payback for unspecified wrongs at the Farm - when they were both still boys.
Malloy had stuck it out as an analyst long enough to finish his twenty years and secure a pension at half-salary. After that he walked. The September 11 attacks happened a few months afterwards and he ended up pitching in as a contract analyst in the aftermath. But at least he was able to carry it out from his home in New York. During the past year or so Malloy had reactivated a few of his old networks and had started travelling on his various passports again. He was a decade out of the field and sometimes felt that he had lost his edge in an unforgiving game. Worse still, his contacts had all grown old and got nervous. They didn't care for the giddy risks they took in their youth. So he had started with the next generation and did what he could to get back in form.