Blood Wine (25 page)

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I got to know Tony.”

“One-armed Tony? What do you mean, got to know him?”

“I got to know him. Tony Di Michele. He's not a bad guy.”

“Yes he is.”

“Well, not in the sense I mean. He's intelligent, ambitious —”

“And a drug-dealing gangster.”

“He doesn't sell.”

“Yes, he does. He sells to the sellers. That doesn't make him less responsible for the misery and degradation.”

“Morgan, don't lecture. Carlo heard about me from Tony. Carlo called and we had a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Yes.”

“The blond, the gunman, and the godfather. Go on.”

“It was Ivan Muritori who introduced me to Tony. When Ivan tried to unload the wine through me, Tony got upset. So did Carlo.”

“Why?”

“Okay, Morgan. Follow this. I used Ivan to get to Tony to get to Carlo.
Capiche
?”

“This was not a chain of coincidence.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why was my connection with the Sebastiani family not a coincidence? Or why am I telling you this?”

“Both.”

“I'm bringing you in because it's not safe for you on the outside.”

“On the outside of your own very hazardous world?”

“Exactly. Trust me. Morgan, I knew about the wine scam long before Ivan exposed it to Beverley Auctions and, theretofore, the world.”

“Thereafter. You don't mean
theretofore
. I've never heard a living person utter the word, except maybe a lawyer.”

“Miranda was right.”

“About what?”

“You really are pedantic. Mind you, she meant it in the nicest possible way.”

“So, what was Ivan's crime that he died for?”

“Not for knowing me. And not for blowing the scam. He knew other things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, he crunched numbers and came up with discrepancies.”

“When?”

“When I told him the wine was bogus, he started snooping into weights and measures and the importation of Lebanese wine into Canada. He got into the Bonnydoon Winery accounts. Not the secret ones. The public records. Trust Ivan, he found minute discrepancies that could only be accounted for if something else had been shipped in the casks along with the wine, before they were dumped into the blending tanks.”

“And for this he was killed.”

“Morgan, the mob was pissed off but the mob did not kill him.”

“What was in the barrels?”

“The casks, they were from Lebanon.”

“Yes?”

“Drugs. A lot of drugs on a regular basis from Afghanistan, via the white powder road through Iran, Iraq, Syria.”

“The dangerous complexities expand exponentially. So who do you work for? If you knew all that, why wouldn't the Sebastianis, the Ciccones, and every other gangster, biker, and street corner pusher want to kill you?”

“Carlo Sebastiani was attempting to save my life.”

“You believe that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Not yet.”

“What? You're going to keep me in the dark? Is this some kind of a game?”

“You might say so. Trust me, Morgan. Sebastiani had the best of intentions — in regard to my well-being and Miranda's.”

“Let's take another direction. Why did you go north?”

“To Canada? To Rochester. Carlo arranged for a contact but I was intercepted and taken to Buffalo. From there it was pretty much like I told you. Except I wasn't blindfolded. No one saw the need — I was a dead woman from the moment they nabbed me. They stuffed me into the back of the plane, but I got to see Niagara Falls from the air, and a memorable view of Niagara-on-the-Lake. It looked like an architect's model.”

“So, you've seen our Mr. Savage face to face. That's why they want you dead.”

“That's part of it, yes.”

“But I've seen him too, and they haven't killed me.”

“They needed you, Morgan, to get to me. On London Bridge, they had us together. They missed a grand opportunity.”

“They're still after me and you let me go back to the Vanity Fair? Thanks.”

“I didn't think they'd do it. They were counting on you leading them to me a second time. They needed you alive.”

“You were speculating with my bloody life.”

“But you survived. We're here now, together.”

“Exactly. I wonder if they respect the sanctuary of the Church.”

“I would be certain they do not.”

“Then let's get the hell out of here,” said Morgan, suddenly seeing every shadow moving inside Westminster Abbey as a possible assassin.

Boarding the train from King's Cross Station for Cambridge, Morgan and Elke found an empty compartment. They sat opposite each other as the train lurched into motion. Morgan covertly gazed at her bare legs, which were considerably revealed by the way she sat, and he surreptitiously glanced at the maddening way she wore the strap of her large handbag over her far shoulder, even though she was sitting, so it crossed between her breasts, accentuating their individuality.
Damn
, he thought,
do women know when they're doing that? What?
he asked himself.
Doing what? That. Making their breasts stand out
.

As the train rolled out into the countryside north of London, he became aware that he was slouching so his slacks bound up against him.
Damn
, he thought, as he adjusted himself,
do women notice things like this?
Her eyes were half closed, but he swore she was watching when he raised himself upright and tried without drawing attention to make himself comfortable.

The door slid open and a man carrying a trench coat stepped in, nodded to them both when they looked up, and sat down beside Morgan. He had the unhealthy skin of someone who avoided the sun and a full mustache. Middle Eastern, perhaps. Not Arab, perhaps Persian, and class-conscious, preferring unhealthy pallor to the working-class ravages of desert sunlight. The man stared at Elke's legs, at one point bending his head to the side to afford himself a better view.

When he caught Morgan observing him, he smiled as if they were conspirators. Morgan resented his presumption and scowled.

The man sat back, appearing to doze. All three of them seemed lulled almost to sleep by the clackety rocking of the train. Morgan started suddenly, shaking his head to wake up. He glanced at Elke. Her eyes were on his. When she caught his gaze, she lowered her eyes to one side. Morgan glanced casually in the direction she indicated and saw that the man was holding a semi-automatic in his lap, covered by his coat. Only the snout was visible, but the bend of his arm made it clear he had his finger on the trigger.

When he saw they both knew he was holding a gun, the man spoke. “Do not move, please, Mr. Morgan, Miss Sturmberg —”

“I prefer Ms.”

“Miss Sturmberg, you will kindly shut up.”

“No,” said Elke. “What do you think, Morgan?”

She seemed entirely nonplussed. Morgan was impressed.

“He doesn't have a silencer,” said Morgan. “So he's not intending to shoot until we pull into Cambridge.”

“My judgement exactly,” said Elke. “You are very stupid,” she said, addressing their prospective assailant.

“Shut up,” said the man, at a loss about how to deal with two such people who seemed indifferent to their imminent demise.

“Perhaps,” suggested Morgan, “we should simply disarm him.”

“No,” said Elke. “He is a very committed young man. He will have to be killed. That's all right, though, Morgan. He wants to die.”

“He does?”

“I do?” said the man. “You misunderstand, of course. It is better to live.”

Morgan marvelled at the absurdity of the situation. Elke seemed to be enjoying herself. Perspiration on the man's face gathered in droplets. With his free hand he rubbed his eyes. Suddenly the door slid open and two girls in school uniforms they had pretty much outgrown trounced in and plopped down opposite Morgan and the man with the gun. Morgan glanced at Elke. She looked concerned.

“So where are you three going?” said one of the girls. They both giggled as if a great joke had been made.

“Piss off,” said the other girl to her friend. “They don't know each other. This guy clutching his lap, he's a loner. Those other two, they're estranged lovers.”

“Estranged?” Her friend giggled. “How did they get estranged?”

“They're just not right for each other.”

“Why don't you shut up,” said the man. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Get the fuck out of here, get the fuck out of here.” They both mimicked him. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Go on —”

“Or what? What you got under your coat?”

His hand with the gun twitched.

“He's wanking, he's getting off on the blond and her lover's enjoying it.”

“You watch what you got in your crotch,” said the other girl. “It's gonna explode. Come on, Crissy, let's go.”

They left as suddenly as they had arrived. The door slid closed. Morgan, Elke, and even the man with the gun seemed to relax a little.

“You sure you want sixty-six of those?” Elke taunted.

“What, what?”

“Or is it seventy-seven or ninety-nine. Morgan, hold on to your hat.”

“What?” said the man. “What hat?”

“It's an idiomatic expression, my friend. It means you're a dead man.” She smiled. She uncrossed her legs and extended one out, admiring the expensive sandal.

“Do you know what that is?” she said to the man.

“It is a shoe. Sit back, sit up against the seat.”

“Or what? You will shoot me? It is a very expensive shoe. Cole Haan. Have you ever heard of Cole Haans? Oh dear, we seem to be slowing. I think we're coming into Cambridge.”

Her forward leg shot out like a piston and jammed him straight in the groin as she pivoted forward on the other leg, lunged, propelling herself across the carriage, and knocked him off balance as he tried to rise. Morgan swung his arm across the man's face as the gun clattered to the floor, and the man's head snapped against the seat.

Elke scooped up the gun and retrieved the sandal that had got tangled in the man's coat. She sat back, holding the gun on the man, and reached down, putting her miscreant sandal back on, extending both legs to admire her sandals as a pair — which she had refurbished with care after their stint in the Thames.

“So, my friend,” she said. “You lose.”

He said nothing.

Morgan regarded Elke in a new light. She wasn't a wine expert who had been seconded by an agency or syndicate. She was a pro.

Elke rose and pulled down the blinds. She did not seem concerned with keeping the gun on the man. He knew he was defeated and sat impassively, waiting.

The train lurched to a stop. Morgan glanced at Elke, nodded, and opened the door to the carriage, looking along the platform for police as he stepped out.

Suddenly there was a single explosive crack behind him, as if someone had slammed a carriage door, and then Elke was beside him, taking his arm, and they walked rapidly past the ticket-taker and out onto the street.

“Where's your wanker friend?” shouted one of the schoolgirls from the window of a car pulling out of the parking lot.

Elke winked.

“Hey, you want a ride? Hey, hey,” she shouted back into the car, “these are my friends, they need a lift.”

Morgan looked away. He knew Elke had executed the man in the carriage. He did not know what his own response was. She was walking briskly with a jaunty gait, the weight of her bag drawing the strap down taut between her breasts. He was horrified, angered, and strangely impressed by her emotional detachment, her clinical efficiency.

“Yes,” said Elke, turning to the car. She clambered into the back seat, drawing Morgan in after her. The driver, the girl's father, seemed not at all pleased to be alone in the front.

“Where's your friend?” the girl repeated.

“Where's yours?” asked Elke.

“Her father met her, we're both in trouble. We took the day off.”

“The day off?”

“From the Perse School for Girls and Young Women. We went down to London for a one-day sabbatical but Daddy had my uncle meet us at King's Cross, and the old queen sent us back on the next train.”

“Crissy! He is not an old queen,” said her father from the front. “My name is Pumphrey. Where may we drop you?”

“Hello, Pumphrey,” said Elke.

“Mr. Pumphrey,” said the driver. “I am not the bloody chauffeur. I own this car.”

“Anywhere along King's Parade would be lovely,” said Elke.

Morgan observed Elke like he had discovered a new species of bug and did not have the specialized knowledge to know what it was. He was amused. He was appalled. She was beautiful and as lethal as a black widow spider.

They were dropped off by the market and cut through to the Parade. Morgan was charmed by the splendour of King's College set back from the street and the row of storybook shops facing it. During his two years in England, he had seldom been outside London, except to go to the Continent. Looking around at the resplendent tranquillity, he realized London was another country.

They walked along to a shop opposite the Fitzwilliam Museum and ordered tea and biscuits.

“You don't think they'll be looking for us?” he said.

“No, why would they? No one saw us together but those two girls. It will be a while before the news gets out. They won't say anything, anyway. Those two would love to be part of a life-and-death conspiracy. I'm betting they'll keep it their guilty secret.”

“Are you MI5?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“CSIS?”

“Who is CSIS? Oh, Canadian intelligence. No. And not the CIA.”