The Kill Order (22 page)

“For stealing your passport and credit card?”

“No. Yes. I am, but—we’ll talk about it later.”

She pressed the button on her Bluetooth, to call Giustino.

“I have her,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“In Campo San Polo, near . . .” She looked out, trying to describe the area. “Near the bulge of that funny old church. Not too far from where Marc and I were hiding.”

“Ah. Behind the apse of San Polo. I am very nearby. I have men with me, in uniform, so don’t be alarmed.”

Several men, all uniformed, crossed the square, and Lisette was glad he had warned her. She wouldn’t have dared to show herself, not knowing who could or could not be trusted.

Giustino looked around. “Where is Marc?”

“Leading them on a wild-goose chase. We were trapped. He dove into the canal.”

He nodded, then ordered two of his men to search in the direction Lisette indicated, then sent two others up into the
palazzo
where the body was located.

It wasn’t until his men had been dispatched that Giustino seemed to notice Piper, who was shivering. He removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. “This way. We will take you someplace safe for the night.”

“How will Marc find us?” Lisette asked.

“He already knows to meet at the safe house.”

And Piper asked, “Is that where we’re going?”

“Yes. The sooner we get you off the streets, the better. I worry that we are being watched, even now.”

37

O
nce Giustino determined that they were not being followed, he dismissed all but one of his men, then hurried Lisette and Piper through a dark narrow street, their footsteps echoing across the paving stones, making it sound like an army was marching with them. The street seemed to wind on for the longest time—in what direction, she couldn’t tell, except that it was well out of the area frequented by tourists. No shop windows lighted their way, but every now and then a crook-backed bridge would suddenly loom up before them. After several minutes, they walked under another
sotoportego
, where they were confronted with the vast turbulence of the Giudecca Canal.

“It’s not far now,” Giustino said, then ushered them down a dark street that led away from the busy waterway into what seemed to Lisette to be a rather depressed working-class area of the city.

Eventually, they arrived at their destination, a rather peculiar brick corner building, which faced onto the
rio
and the deserted
campo
of a large church with an imposing square campanile that somehow seemed out of proportion with the rest of the church.

“Up one floor,” Giustino said. Lisette’s heels clicked on the tiled stairs, which led her to what, in a better class of Venetian house, would have been the
piano nobile
. There was little that could be called noble about this unprepossessing house. She and Piper walked into what passed for a sitting room, with windows overlooking both the
rio
and the
campo
of the ugly brick church.

Marc arrived shortly thereafter, his hair and clothes dripping, and smelling of canal water. “A man who sacrifices himself deserves a hug, don’t you agree?”

Lisette eyed the growing puddle around him as he stood in the tiled entryway. “Undoubtedly. But not from me. Giustino? He’s
your
friend.”

“I’ll be glad to give him a hug.
After
he showers.”

She smiled at Marc, then looked around. “And in which room will Piper and I be sleeping?”

“This way,” Giustino said.

He led them to a room upstairs, and Lisette was pleased to see that it had an en suite bathroom. The furnishings seemed decent enough. There was a dark wood dresser with a marble top. Its mirror reflected the two single beds with high, dark wood headboards. And, as in the convent, a crucifix had been set on the wall to protect any sleepers. Lisette took the bed closer to the door, trying to ignore the lumps in the hard mattress as she sprawled across it. Piper bounced once on the bed, then got up, announcing she was going to take a shower. It seemed to last forever. Had they not been on the upper floor overlooking the
rio
, Lisette might have suspected her of turning on the water, then slipping out through the bathroom window. She emerged eventually, trailing a swath of steam, a towel wrapped around her hair, wearing a nightgown that Giustino had supplied, and carrying her clothes in a wrinkled bundle. “Sorry it took me so long. I just needed . . . I don’t know. To chill, I guess.”

“Are you okay?”

Piper nodded. “Just glad to be out of there. The things you don’t think about when you steal someone’s passport and fly off to another country.”

She tossed the clothes onto a chair, and a phone bounced out and onto the floor. “Vittorio’s phone. I took it after that man, Paolo, killed him. That’s what I used to text Giustino.” She picked it up and placed it on the end table. “I suppose right now it’ll be evidence?”

“Possibly,” Lisette said, removing the battery. “They’ll be able to use it to find out who was in touch with him, maybe even who was behind your kidnapping. We’ll give it to Marc in the morning.”

“I hope they catch them,” she replied.

Lisette, deciding not to take any chances even though Piper was supposedly reformed, locked her bag in the bathroom while she showered and changed. When she emerged, Piper was in bed, eyes closed, lying on her side, her hands tucked beneath the pillow. Lisette left the bathroom light on, and only partially closed the door, allowing a sliver of light through, then tiptoed to her bed.

Piper’s eyes opened, and she looked right at Lisette.

“What’s wrong?” Lisette asked.

“Did you hear something?”

“No. We’ll be safe here. Don’t worry.”

After a few seconds, Piper said, “Are you sure they’re not going to arrest me?”

“For what?”

“For stealing your passport and credit card. That’s identity theft.”

“If nothing else, I hope you have learned some valuable lessons.”

“I have,” she said, her voice quiet. “. . . Thanks.”

Lisette tossed and turned all night, her dreams chaotic, confusing, as she raced through the streets of Venice, never sure if she was actually awake or dreaming. At one point her gaze caught on the phone that Piper had stolen from her captor. It glowed with an incoming call. She wasn’t even aware it was on, and reached over, picked it up, and saw the caller ID showed “
privato
” on the screen. And then she was racing through a pitch black
sotoportego
, chased by someone as one thought swirled through her head.

Who would be calling a dead man’s phone?

But when she got up to find Marc, to ask him, he was sinking to the bottom of the canal.

She awoke with a start, her heart pounding. Still dark out; she glanced over, couldn’t even see the phone on the bedside table. Had someone called it? Or had she dreamed it?

Too tired to think, she reached out, felt it beneath her fingertips, and picked it up. She fumbled with it, but managed to pull the battery, then returned it to the table, trying to decide if she was even still dreaming—because surely she’d already removed the battery—all while knowing there was something about that phone she needed to tell Marc, something important . . .

38

Washington, D.C.

P
arker Kane looked around the crowded hotel ballroom, until he found Trenton Stiles, a top Network man who ran Wingman and Wingman. He weaved his way through the formally dressed guests to get to him. “We have a serious problem.” Parker Kane took Trenton Stiles by the arm and led him well away from the others gathered at the party.

“What sort of problem can’t wait until morning?” Stiles asked.

“Let me put it this way. If this gets out, the president might as well just hang up his hat. There won’t be a second term.”

Stiles pasted a false smile on his face, for anyone who might be looking. “Why not?” he asked through his teeth, nodding at a passing couple on their way into the banquet room.

“Because the matter
you
wanted to erase, the political contribution that can be tied into Wingman—well, let’s just say that if ATLAS recovers the key before we do, we’re screwed.” Which was the smallest of Parker Kane’s problems if they didn’t find the key. He could give a rat’s ass about the political contribution. There were much bigger issues he needed to deal with.

“I thought you had this matter handled.”

“I did when I thought we’d have the program up and running. Unfortunately there have been a few setbacks along the way.”

“The Network pays you well to make sure we do
not
have setbacks. So what seems to be the problem?”

“ATLAS is still operational.”

“The building was shut down. How can they be operational?”

“Someone broke in. The files we’d hoped to find weren’t there.”

A waiter walked up, offered both men champagne flutes. They each took one, nodded their thanks, then moved even farther away. “Do you realize how hard it is to get the proper people elected to office these days? Especially with the Internet. You’re with the goddamned CIA. About to be deputy national security adviser. Are you telling me you can’t handle this job?”

Kane’s grip on his glass tightened. “Of course not. But—”

“You said you would have this Satan’s key—”

“Devil’s Key—”

“Whatever. What you need to remember, Mr. Kane, is that your appointment is not yet confirmed. I’d hate to see something come up in a background check that might prevent it. My suggestion to you? Fix this or there won’t be an appointment. Am I clear?”

“Of course.”

“I hope to hear a more positive report from you soon.” He handed his untouched glass to Kane. “Enjoy the party,” he said, then walked off, leaving Kane standing there alone, feeling like an idiot with two champagne glasses in his hand.

He found a waiter, deposited both on the tray, then left, doing his best to look calm, unconcerned, when he was seething inside.

Trenton Stiles and his ilk were all about getting the right men in office, men they could control, while people like Kane worked behind the scenes, making it all so easy for them.

He hadn’t spent the last twenty years clawing his way to the top to be dismissed that easily, and he wasn’t about to let it happen now, he thought, waiting out front for his car. When it arrived, he told the driver to take him back to his office. Time to see what the night crew had accomplished.

When he got there, the lights were on in the command center. “Update,” he said, loosening his tie.

“The girl is back with ATLAS,” Alan Madison said.

“Where?”

“Venice still. A radio transmission was intercepted. She apparently brought the police to where she was being held captive.”

Alive . . . Thank God, he thought. “Any word on where they have her?”

“No, sir. But we also intercepted a digital transmission from Vittorio’s phone.”

“Vittorio?”

“The man who took her from the convent.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“He is. Or so Paolo reported. Of course, that does not explain why there would be a text message from his phone
after
he was killed.”

“Going to where?”

“California, sir.”

He walked over, looked at the computer screen. “The hell . . . Whose number is that?”

“In California? We’re not sure. Right now we’re trying to pinpoint its location in Venice.”

“Good. In the meantime I want to know who in California this other phone belongs to. Find out.”

A half hour later, he had his answer.

“It’s Kendall Lawrence. Brother. Foster care. Sixteen, still in the system.”

“How did we miss this?”

“They haven’t lived together in over ten years.”

“That would be normal for foster care?”

“Undoubtedly.”

He nodded, then paced the room, thinking. “The Mexico team? Are they back?”

“I expect so.”

Which meant he did not, unfortunately, have anyone on the West Coast. At least not who he trusted with such a sensitive issue. “Get them on the phone. I want them in California by morning. I want this kid picked up the moment we locate him.”

Madison hesitated.

“Don’t just sit there! Get moving!”

“Yes, sir.”