early this morning, with her husband." "That's right. . . . Bring me another whiskey, please, and something to eat."
"Yes, sir."
The servant left silently. Frank liked Jose. He was quiet, efficient, and spoke very little. He took better care of Frank than his flighty wife ever had.
Emma was too rich. That had been her main defect, although for him, it was an advantage. Her lack of beauty had also weighed on him, though, he had to admit. She was short and had a tendency to gain weight. And there was no glow to her dull dark skin—too dark; olive was a euphemism. She was nothing like Alicia.
Alicia was black. Totally black, and scandalously beautiful. They had been together for fifteen years. He'd met her in the bar of a hotel in Rio while he was waiting for one of his business partners. She had just turned twenty, still almost a girl, with long legs and a neck that never ended. She'd gone straight to the point, offering herself in the most matter-of-fact way. And they'd been inseparable—emotionally—since then.
He had looked good for a seventy-year-old, but he was still just an old man, which was why he paid her magnificently, maintained her in a lavish loft in Ipanema, showered her with jewelry. When he died, Alicia would be able to spend the fortune he was leaving her. She was his, she belonged to him, and she knew what would happen to her if she was unfaithful to him, ever.
He'd call Alicia—she could meet him at the Rio airport.
The fact was, he didn't like to leave his immense estate on the edge of the jungle for too long or too often. He felt safe here, with his men patrolling the five-mile perimeter of his property day and night and the sophisticated system of sensors, security cameras, and alarms that made break-ins impossible. But thinking about Alicia had given him a jolt of energy, and at his age, he had to seize the day. He'd divert to Rio on the way to New York.
8
gian maria rushed into the foyer of the hotel
Excelsior, where Clara Tannenberg and Ahmed Husseini were impatiently waiting for their town car. Neither of them paid attention to the agitated young man as their black Lincoln pulled up, and they were well away when he hurried out of the hotel and shouted in the direction of the vanishing car. Gian Maria hurried back inside to the front desk. "They've gone. Could you tell me, were they going to the airport? Were they leaving Rome?"
The desk clerk looked at the man mistrustfully. Despite the fact that Gian Maria looked perfectly respectable—thin, pleasant demeanor, very short brown hair, well-modulated voice, though dressed a bit casually—there was an intensity about him.
"I can't give out that information, sir, I'm sorry." "It's very important that I speak to them."
"Please understand, sir: We don't know where our guests go when they leave the hotel."
"But if they called for a car they must have said where they were going. Please, it's very important."
"I don't know what to say, sir. Let me check with—"
"If you could please just tell me if they were going to the airport..."
Something in the man's voice and look led the veteran desk clerk to break the profession's rules.
"All right, yes, they were going to the airport. This morning they changed their departure date for Amman. Their plane is leaving in about an hour. They came down late, the lady was delayed. ..."
Gian Maria ran outside again, quickly flagged down a taxi, and jumped in.
"The airport, quick!"
The taxi driver, an old Roman, looked in the rearview mirror and proceeded to drive very deliberately to Fiumicino, despite the desperation he must have seen reflected in the face of his fare. But as a priest, Gian Maria couldn't bring himself to chastise the man.
Once at the airport, he scanned a monitor to find the flight departing for Amman. Then he moved as quickly as he could through the crowds toward the gate.
Too late. All the passengers had gone through customs already, and the carabiniere refused to allow him to
"Yes, sir."
The servant left silently. Frank liked Jose. He was quiet, efficient, and spoke very little. He took better care of Frank than his flighty wife ever had.
Emma was too rich. That had been her main defect, although for him, it was an advantage. Her lack of beauty had also weighed on him, though, he had to admit. She was short and had a tendency to gain weight. And there was no glow to her dull dark skin—too dark; olive was a euphemism. She was nothing like Alicia.
Alicia was black. Totally black, and scandalously beautiful. They had been together for fifteen years. He'd met her in the bar of a hotel in Rio while he was waiting for one of his business partners. She had just turned twenty, still almost a girl, with long legs and a neck that never ended. She'd gone straight to the point, offering herself in the most matter-of-fact way. And they'd been inseparable—emotionally—since then.
He had looked good for a seventy-year-old, but he was still just an old man, which was why he paid her magnificently, maintained her in a lavish loft in Ipanema, showered her with jewelry. When he died, Alicia would be able to spend the fortune he was leaving her. She was his, she belonged to him, and she knew what would happen to her if she was unfaithful to him, ever.
He'd call Alicia—she could meet him at the Rio airport.
The fact was, he didn't like to leave his immense estate on the edge of the jungle for too long or too often. He felt safe here, with his men patrolling the five-mile perimeter of his property day and night and the sophisticated system of sensors, security cameras, and alarms that made break-ins impossible. But thinking about Alicia had given him a jolt of energy, and at his age, he had to seize the day. He'd divert to Rio on the way to New York.
8
gian maria rushed into the foyer of the hotel
Excelsior, where Clara Tannenberg and Ahmed Husseini were impatiently waiting for their town car. Neither of them paid attention to the agitated young man as their black Lincoln pulled up, and they were well away when he hurried out of the hotel and shouted in the direction of the vanishing car. Gian Maria hurried back inside to the front desk. "They've gone. Could you tell me, were they going to the airport? Were they leaving Rome?"
The desk clerk looked at the man mistrustfully. Despite the fact that Gian Maria looked perfectly respectable—thin, pleasant demeanor, very short brown hair, well-modulated voice, though dressed a bit casually—there was an intensity about him.
"I can't give out that information, sir, I'm sorry." "It's very important that I speak to them."
"Please understand, sir: We don't know where our guests go when they leave the hotel."
"But if they called for a car they must have said where they were going. Please, it's very important."
"I don't know what to say, sir. Let me check with—"
"If you could please just tell me if they were going to the airport..."
Something in the man's voice and look led the veteran desk clerk to break the profession's rules.
"All right, yes, they were going to the airport. This morning they changed their departure date for Amman. Their plane is leaving in about an hour. They came down late, the lady was delayed. ..."
Gian Maria ran outside again, quickly flagged down a taxi, and jumped in.
"The airport, quick!"
The taxi driver, an old Roman, looked in the rearview mirror and proceeded to drive very deliberately to Fiumicino, despite the desperation he must have seen reflected in the face of his fare. But as a priest, Gian Maria couldn't bring himself to chastise the man.
Once at the airport, he scanned a monitor to find the flight departing for Amman. Then he moved as quickly as he could through the crowds toward the gate.
Too late. All the passengers had gone through customs already, and the carabiniere refused to allow him to
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