He moved on, rounding the garden on his way back to the loggia. When he was nearly there he looked toward the French doors, anticipating that the amber glow from the few lamps in the room would be even richer in color now with the greater darkness. Instead he saw a jarring, pale light, flickering against the panes of the French doors.
He stopped. The television? Was Mara home? She hadn’t touched the television since they had arrived.
His heart began to lope, and all of his old reflexes roused themselves as he studied the pale light from the darkness where he stood. Then he walked on. He stepped up on the loggia and entered the villa through the French doors.
No one was there. He called out. Nothing. The house, his sixth sense told him, was empty.
Between the fireplace and the French doors was a small black statue, an admirable study of a Maillol nude. It sat on what must have been a narrow pedestal covered with a faded scarlet Renaissance damask with fleur-de-lis pattern in gold thread and a gold cord trim.
Next to it was a dark, heavy antique table upon which sat a black television and a VCR. On a shelf below were half a dozen cassettes, all of them labeled with Mara’s handwriting: “Master drawings, the Uffizi”; “Drawing collection, Villa Borghese”; “Modern drawing exhibit, American Academy”; “Balthus exhibit, Academia Valentino.” Strand had looked at the labels before, but he had never watched the tapes.
The VCR was on, static dancing on the fluorescing screen. A cassette was half out of the slot.
Strand walked over to it and took it out. No label, no identification. He put it back into the slot and pushed it in. The slot door closed. The gears whirred. He stood, watching, as it began to play. The Balthus exhibit. Mara’s voice narrating. The images were sharp and in color, and Mara was doing a good job, taking the exhibit slowly, coming in close on the paintings and drawings, narrating, reading the attributions on the labels below or to the side of each piece.
After fifteen or twenty seconds, Mara’s narration was abruptly interrupted and a grainy black-and-white tape began to play. A timing counter showed up in the lower left corner of the screen. A gummy, hot feeling washed over him as he immediately recognized the characteristics of a surveillance tape. He stood, riveted, in front of the screen. There was no audio track, and the only sound in the room was the slight hiss of the tape whirring slowly on the spinner heads inside the player.
The camera seemed to be mounted on the dashboard of a car. It was night, and the headlights of the car picked up traffic traveling in the same direction on what appeared to be an expressway. Headlights from approaching traffic across a median flared in bright streams as they approached and disappeared. The car moved in and out of the general stream of traffic with no discernible purpose. After a few moments it became clear that only one car had been in front of them consistently through all the lane switching and the passing and being passed.
Strand tried in vain to identify the locale: highway markers and exit signs had been manipulated and deliberately blurred. The cars were American; that was all he could tell. The camera car stayed so far back behind its target that Strand couldn’t tell anything about the driver or even how many people were in the car, and when the driver braked or switched lanes the tail and signal lights caused a halo effect that obscured its identifying marks even more.
What the hell was this?
The traffic grew thinner, then sparse. The car being taped took an exit onto an access road, then turned onto what appeared to be a country road. The nighttime conditions and the relatively narrow field of vision afforded by the headlights did not allow Strand to gain any significant information from the terrain. Once or twice he thought he saw sand dunes.
The two cars then turned off onto a smaller road, which, though it was still paved, was most likely on private land. Suddenly the speed of the cars accelerated dramatically. The camera car quickly closed on the car in front of it, and in a sickening instant Strand recognized his old Land Rover. Before he had time to make his mind work around that realization, a spotlight came on in the camera car, lighting the back of the driver’s head in the lead car just as she looked around.
It was Romy.
Strand’s legs buckled, and he dropped to one knee. His eyes stayed locked on the video screen. He had no awareness of whether he was sitting or kneeling: he was cognizant only of the mind-numbing fact that he was watching Romy’s last moments.
Romy’s car careened wildly in the turns of the narrow paved lane, the chase car’s headlights losing her just as she was sliding or skidding on the edges of the road. Marshland brush and sand dunes jumped in and out of the headlights, and then suddenly the chase car’s lights were squarely on the Land Rover. Once, twice, three times the chase car accelerated and rammed into the rear of the Land Rover, the camera shuddering violently with the impact. In the illumination of the handheld spotlight, Strand could actually see Romy’s head snap from the impact of each fierce jolt, and he could see her arms wildly fighting the steering wheel.
Abruptly the bridge railing was in front of her. The Land Rover began to fishtail out of control and careened off the road, plunging into the tidal stream. Water shot up high above the headlights of the chase car, glittering like an explosion in the bright lights; the chase car itself barely managed to stay on the pavement and clear the railing as it skidded to a stop in the middle of the bridge.
The camera was snatched from the dash, and nothing was clear for a few moments. Then the spotlight snapped on again and the camera was looking down into the tidal stream, the Land Rover’s rear end just scarcely visible out of the water, the brake lights burning steadily, then flickering out.
The camera stayed a long time on the rear end of the Rover. A long time.
When the tape finally played out and the machine clicked off, Strand fell over on his side. His face was wet. He felt partially paralyzed, as if a brain aneurysm had rendered him immobile. He coughed up bile, fought back nausea.
Romy’s pale, horror-stricken face was fixed in his mind.
God. God. How could he have been so wrong about it all?
“Ghosts,” Darras said, looking at Strand across the table. “I never thought I would see ‘Lawrence Vane’ again.” He spoke with the same indifference with which he expressed all emotions, from shock to boredom.
They were sitting in a trattoria on Via Famagosta in a working-class neighborhood north of the Vatican. Alain Darras was being predictably unpredictable. He did not eat in the same part of the city where he slept. He did not sleep in the same part of the city where he worked. Sleeping, eating, and working were the three habits of life. Habits were patterns. Patterns were reliable. Reliability enabled “others” to anticipate you. A bad thing.
Strand himself was still trying to staunch his adrenaline hemorrhage. He was forcibly making himself appear calm, but the stunning impact of discovering the video could not be diminished by will or wish.
“It took me an hour to find you,” Strand said.
“Good.” Darras’s life was so outré that there was no intended irony in his response. He was drinking the cheapest wine in the trattoria, a light grape-juicy red that came in a bottle with a local label. He was eating olives, the slick, denuded pits lying beside the bottle like legless beige beetles. The doors of the trattoria were open to the street, where people from the neighborhood were coming out to linger in the cool Roman evening, young men lounging around the parked cars, children playing sidewalk games, old women watching life from the kitchen chairs they had brought outside where life was happening.
“You haven’t been in Rome,” Darras said.
Strand shook his head.
Darras slid a small glass toward Strand with the back of one hand in which he was holding a half-eaten olive, and with the other hand he poured some of the rosy wine into the glass.
Strand nodded thanks.
Alain Darras was in his late fifties. He was French, which was all that Strand knew about his past. Though his straight black hair was thinning, he still kept it combed back from his forehead with a high part. He was a little more jowly now, but the mustache on his long upper lip was still neatly trimmed, though grayer, and his handsome, sad eyes were still handsome, though sadder.
“This is something of an emergency,” Darras said. He had an olive in his mouth, and he was worrying the meat off of the pit. He always asked questions as though they were statements. They were more like assessments that he threw out for confirmation.
“I have a few names,” Strand said.
“And you are in a very big hurry.”
“I’m no longer in the business,” Strand said.
Darras took the clean pit out of his mouth and placed it on the table with the others.
“Photographs.”
“No.”
“Photographs are a big thing these days,” Darras said. “Digital capabilities. My business has changed more in the last four years than it changed in the entire twenty years before. With the computers it is getting pretty damn close to magic. Half the people working for me now are children. I want more children. They come out of the universities with brains like alchemists. They know chips and digital. They don’t know shit about life, but they know ‘virtual.’ They think virtual
is
life. Damn, sometimes they can almost convince me that it’s real, too.” He shrugged. “We’re raising a generation of completely fucked-up kids, you know.” He dropped his eyes to his wineglass. “I like them.” He picked up another olive.
“I need this tomorrow,” Strand said. He knew he was being curt, but he didn’t have the strength to finesse it.
“That is enormously expensive.”
“If I thought it was physically possible, I would ask for it tonight.”
Darras nodded slowly. “I see.”
A few more people wandered into the trattoria. Romans ate late. A little girl about five or six years old came from the kitchen in the back and dawdled past their table, chewing on a crusty piece of bread, carrying half a hard loaf under her chubby arm. When she got out the front door, she broke off pieces for two little friends who were waiting for her on the sidewalk.
“Odd, isn’t it, that it’s like the Mafia,” Darras said, “intelligence work. You never really get to leave it. It follows you to the last place you lie down.” He regarded Strand with melancholy reserve. “I see it all the time.”
Strand took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table. With a flick of his fingers he spun it around so Darras could read the names written there. Darras dropped his eyes to the paper.
“Oh.”
“I want to know how to get in touch with these four men. I need to get to them personally, without some ambitious lieutenant trying to get between us. I have to speak to these men themselves… no one else.”
“I see. So you actually have been out of touch after all. And the lady?”
“Everything.” Strand jabbed the end of a forefinger on the table. “Everything.”
Darras bit into the olive. “The names below. She uses these, too.”
“Yes, she might.”
Darras sighed as he picked up the list and put it in his inside coat pocket. He regarded Strand as he ate the olive. Strand wanted to leave. He wanted to get the hell out of there and just be alone until he met Mara at Toula’s. He needed to get his mind organized so he could make his body behave the way his mind knew it should. But Darras wanted to talk, and Darras was doing him a favor, even if it was a favor that Strand would have to pay for.
“You were always honest with me, Harry.” Darras almost smiled. “If that word doesn’t completely lose its meaning in this context. I’ll have my kids go the extra mile for you.” He minced the olive with his front teeth. “Why did you tell me you weren’t in the business anymore?”
“So you’d know.”
“Do I need to know?”
“I feel better that you know.”
Darras was very still. He took the smooth pit out of his mouth and without even looking down added it to the pile of beetles.
“See. That’s what I mean,” he said. He drank his wine. When he put his glass on the table he shoved it around in a tight, idle circle, moving only his fingers, watching the wet snail smear of the glass on the tabletop. Then he looked up at Strand.
“When the Wall came down, when communism died its ignominious death, I thought I would starve for lack of work,” he said. “In fact, just the opposite has happened. All of those intelligence services collapsed and disbanded and closed shop and shut down networks. The Eastern bloc, Soviets, you people. Suddenly Europe was drowning in unemployed secret service hacks and spies. Now they are all working again, much busier than ever, except this time they’re working for criminals. I’m making a fortune, Harry. From criminals. Drug smugglers, counterfeiters, embezzlers, money launderers, car thieves, gunrunners, smugglers of illegal aliens. Assassins. They all need information. Reliable information.”
He drank some more wine.
“I bought a ton of Stasi and KGB records—there are millions of tons of them, but I was specific about what I wanted—and my kids scanned them into the computers. I made so much money off the Russian Mafia in the early years after communism collapsed that I could afford to buy records from all the Eastern-bloc secret services. I bought Asian files. I bought South American files. Middle East. I have to admit, I was surprised that I could buy so much. Nobody has any loyalty anymore. The American dollar is more coveted than peace of mind. Anyway, for the last four years I have had nearly fifty people working day and night on computers I keep on two full floors of an office building here.”
He sighed hugely.
“Only God has more names in His files than I do.”
Strand was adept at the ruse of seeming to listen while letting his mind go elsewhere. It was not an easy thing to learn. Vacuity has a way of registering on a person’s face the moment the mind begins to wander. But Strand had learned to do it well. It was a valuable deception, like hiding fear and panic.