Cries of the Lost (22 page)

“I got just the right girl. Wild lady. Do it for thrills, though a little money go a long way,” he said.

“Send the bill. And say hello to the crew for me. Something in Bosnian.”

“Absolutely, Mr. G. They all remember the fun times.”

“And don’t kill the mark. Please,” I said.

“For you, we don’t kill nobody. Unless they get insulting about Muslims. You understand.”

“I do. Then all bets are off.”

“Nice to hear from you,” said Little Boy. “We do some business, eh?”

“We do,” I said, and got off the line, feeling that our crouched and anxious covert world had just doubled in size.

T
HE
FIRST
car showed up five days after that. I’d been alerted by a little ping on my smartphone. I woke up the computer and ran the freshly recorded footage. The camera had clicked on just as the Fiat mini-SUV made the curve into the driveway. I watched until it was out of sight and the camera clicked off again.

I stuffed a handful of prosciutto and taleggio into a wad of bread from the platter Natsumi had just put out for lunch, kissed her, told her the chase was on and ran to the garage. I put the laptop on the passenger seat and drove like an Italian to the target house. Meaning I wasted little time getting there.

When I was a few hundred feet from the driveway, I pulled off to the side of the road and waited. I budgeted an hour, the limit of my patience, recognizing the Fiat could leave at any moment, or theoretically, be there for weeks or months.

The hour was almost up when the smartphone pinged at me again. I looked down at the computer and saw the Fiat coming down the drive. I started my Ford Galaxy, a trade for the Opel, and waited to see which way the Fiat was headed. Turned out to be away from me, so I pulled straight out and fell in a comfortable distance behind.

Comfortable until we entered the little village of Menaggio, when the danger of losing the Fiat or being noticed increased considerably. I reminded myself this was likely not my only opportunity, to breathe evenly and keep my foot lightly to the gas pedal.

As we were moving down the
corso,
the village’s main street, a van wedged in between me and the Fiat. It was large enough to obscure the other car completely from sight. We stopped at a red light, and I guessed the Fiat was still there, but didn’t know for sure until it suddenly made a right-hand turn. I followed, now feeling utterly exposed.

Then the Fiat stopped and I saw its backup lights flash on. It was backing into a parking spot along the street. I was able to get fairly close, waiting as any courteous driver would for the Fiat to nudge its way into the tight spot. When I continued on, I risked a look at the driver, a woman with long dark hair partially contained by a full silk scarf, wearing sunglasses and deep red lipstick.

I took another risk at the stop sign several yards down the street, stopping longer than normal to watch her step out of the vehicle, holding a purse in one hand and smoothing down her skirt with the other. A skirt showing lots of long leg, made even more fetching by a pair of black high-heel shoes.

She walked around the front of the Fiat and onto the sidewalk, moving away from me. I turned the corner and squeezed into a parking spot. I snatched a stack of papers and magazines up off the rear seat, then walked as quickly as I dared back toward the woman’s car.

She was nowhere in sight, but neither were other pedestrians, which suited my purposes. When I was alongside the Fiat, I let the stacks of paper slip out of my grasp, and then with a fumbling motion scattered them all over the sidewalk, off the curb and under the car. With no one nearby offering to help, I squatted alone and started gathering up the papers, which involved at one point reaching under the Fiat’s chassis, to which I slapped a magnetic tracking device.

With the papers collected under my arm, I moved down the sidewalk, casually glancing at the storefronts, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young woman, though without success.

I went back to my car and pulled up the tracking app on my phone, confirming it was up and running properly. I put the phone back in my pocket and drove away, spending the rest of the afternoon circling around, staying within a few miles of the Fiat’s location. It wasn’t until a little after 4:00 that the phone chirped at me, and I saw the green dot moving north away from Menaggio.

I intercepted her soon after as she drove back up into the hills, moving at an angle away from the target house. This time I was able to stay well out of sight while I was in pursuit.

The green dot finally came to a permanent halt just within the boundaries of Intignano, another little village.

I took up the rest of the distance and drove by a small villa not unlike our rental, in front of which was parked the Fiat mini-SUV. I noted it was the only vehicle in the parking area.

Then I went home to another email from Eloise Harmon.

Dear Mr. Reinhart:

It is regrettable we have yet to hear from you. Over the intervening days we have acquired security-camera footage that clearly shows your features and your companion’s, known to be Natsumi Fitzgerald. We also note you have attempted to erase records attached to your name and Social Security number, which was stolen from the actual David Reinhart, who died several years ago. The banks in Chile that received the disbursements from Grand Cayman are cooperating.

It is only a matter of time before you are located. Our sincere recommendation is for you to immediately contact one of our embassies’ legal attachés.

Eloise Harmon

“I guess I’m famous,” said Natsumi, reading over my shoulder.

“At least among a few people at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“They’re seriously after us.”

“They are. But still light on leads. Tracing David Reinhart is easy. The connection with Chile is easy—they’d get that from the First Australia Bank. If they had more, they’d share it. The idea is to panic us into making contact.”

“Not a chance.”

“Also interesting, they want us to contact the legal attachés—basically the FBI’s overseas representatives stationed in our embassies—without specifying the country. Shows they believe we’re offshore, they just don’t know where.”

“They can connect me to you if they ask the right people the right questions,” she said.

“They can only connect you to a few of my false identities.”

“That’s a slippery slope. I can sum up your biggest liability: ‘Seen with Asian woman.’ ”

Changing the subject, I told her I’d recruited Little Boy to gather intelligence on the Basque security expert in New York City who’d sent the terse letter to Colonel Angel. That seemed to please her greatly.

“We need a murderous sociopath on the team,” she said. “One with a sense of humor.”

“The only kind for me.”

C
HAPTER
13

T
he next day, the green dot returned to its spot on the
corso.
I left Natsumi at the villa and drove back into the village, parking in a different spot, and moving down the sidewalk on foot. The shops were the usual trattorias,
pasticcerie, gelaterie,
café bars, grocers, shoe repair, and tourist traps with racks of postcards dragged out onto the sidewalk.

I did the usual haphazard tourist meander, wandering in and out of the shops, saying
buon giorno
a few dozen times, stopping for coffee and gelato. Out on the street, I took a few photographs with the big Nikon hanging conspicuously from my neck. One gentleman offered in sign language to take my picture, which I gratefully agreed to. I wished I had the Italian chops to say, “Know the leggy brunette who drives that Fiat?” But I didn’t.

It was getting close to lunchtime, which in Italy is after one o’clock. I picked a trattoria with a good view of the Fiat and ordered.
“Solamente un primo, per favore. Con vino rosso, locale. Grazie.”
I ended up with a dish of risotto mantecato and an icy Lambrusco.

Soon after, I was rewarded by the sight of the tall woman, as well turned out as the day before, emerging from a door sandwiched between two shops. I looked up and saw the sign, Laudomia Zambelli, Avvocato.

She was a lawyer. Or worked for one.

She took off in the Fiat, and I followed her on my smartphone. The green dot barely cleared the village when it came to a stop. I watched to see if it would stick, giving me time to finish my meal and down a double espresso. Then I followed by car, passing the Fiat where it was parked in front of a big
ristorante
with tables pouring out from wide openings onto a canopy-covered patio.

Laudomia, if that was her name, was sitting at one of the outdoor tables with a man about her age, just as finely dressed and attractive, terms I was beginning to think were a given when describing almost any Italian.

I sat where I had a good view of her, setting my camera on the table with the lens pointing in her direction. Once I had her in the viewfinder, I pressed a wireless shutter release that I had in my pocket, firing off a series of photos while looking around at everything but Attorney Zambelli.

I ordered the
primo
, passing on the
secondo
. The dignified server was slightly offended by this, allayed I hoped when I said, in English, that I was on a diet.

It didn’t appear the woman and her companion had any such inhibitions, as the courses seemed to come in a continuous flow. I nursed my meal as long as I thought seemly. This also involved drinking a beer, which combined with the wine, surpassed my alcohol tolerance. I left the restaurant and carefully drove to a spot where I could monitor the tracking device.

A good hour later, Laudomia drove back to her office and I had some decisions to make. Since nothing ideal presented itself, I decided to go back home and talk it over with Natsumi.

And regain full sobriety.

“M
Y
M
ATA
Hari routine probably won’t work on this one,” said Natsumi, as we sat on the balcony watching dusk fall.

“Probably not. Nor would the male equivalent. Though it’s likely she speaks English, being a lawyer.”

“What kind of legal trouble could you get into without actually getting into trouble?” she asked.

“None that I can think of.”

“Lawyers are also born wary and skeptical.”

“And thus familiar with background checks. I’d have to use one of the comprehensive identities,” I said. “And now with the FBI involved, I can’t be sure if they aren’t compromised.”

“Remember the last person we encountered connected to a safe house promised to send you to hell.”

“Noted.”

I went back online and found a website for Laudomia Zambelli, Avvocato. I determined, after many trips to the Italian/English dictionary, that she was eager to be your advocate for a very wide range of legal circumstances, though her specialty was real-estate disputes. In fact, whether you were interested in acquiring, selling or managing a property, you could find no more capable or diligent counsel than Avvocato Zambelli. As a closer, she also claimed a good command of English, testifying to the large numbers of people from the U.S. and UK who’d been buying up homes in the region.