door of Danny’s apartment building. Even then, it wasn’t until the doorbell rang that Danny realized the limo was there for him.
A stocky man in his forties, the driver was right out of
GQ
, resplendent in a dark suit, wing tips, and a black fedora. Wresting the duffle bag from Danny’s hand, he trotted back to the car and held open the door to the backseat. “For you,” he said, nodding at a leather attaché case on the backseat. Trying to look casual, and not quite managing it, Danny struggled to suppress the grin that held his mouth in a kind of rictus. “Thanks!” he said, sliding into the backseat as if it were home plate.
Thunnnk.
The car was virtually soundproof. Just behind them, the driver of a sanitation truck leaned on his horn, impatient to go by. Danny sensed that the horn was a loud one, but even so, he could barely hear it. And the limo driver couldn’t have cared less. Taking his time, the driver stowed Danny’s duffle in the trunk, walked around to the side of the car, got in, and fastened his seat belt. Then he adjusted his hat, carefully checked the results in the rearview mirror, and smiled. “Now vee go,” he said in an accent that Danny couldn’t quite place.
Central Europe, maybe.
As the limo moved forward, Danny eyed the accoutrements around him. There was a small television, half a dozen magazines, and a split of champagne nestled in a silver bucket of crushed ice. A blood-red rose stood at attention in a cut-glass vase, coloring the air with its fragrance. Reaching over his shoulder, Danny switched on the reading light, which cut through the gloom imposed by the limousine’s tinted windows.
It was all very impressive, slightly embarrassing—and fun. But what made him blink was the sheaf of magazines he found in front of him.
Art in America. Daruma. Bomb. Asian Art.
Clearly they’d been chosen with Danny—and only Danny—in mind.
As flattering as that was, he felt a twinge of apprehension as he opened the attaché case on the seat beside him. Inside he found a portable cell phone, its instruction manual, and a short note.
This will help us stay in touch,
the note read.
American cells don’t work in Europe, and hotel phones aren’t secure. Suggest you use this, as needed. B.
Danny glanced at the manual, which explained (in six languages) that the phone was a digital unit with embedded encryption based upon the GSM standard common in Europe.
In addition to the cell phone, the attaché case contained a leather portfolio. In this Danny found his tickets and itinerary, with a confirmation number for a suite—
a suite!
—at the Hotel d’Inghilterra. Clipped to the itinerary was a business card for “Paulina Pastorini, Translations,” and an envelope containing the phony ID that Belzer had promised. This consisted of a small stack of expensive-looking business cards and a laminated ID. Both the cards and the ID were embossed with a small gold shield. To his surprise, Danny saw that the ID bore his picture (
Where did they get that?
he wondered), and the name
Frank Muller (Det.)
.
There was even a badge—a glob of metal with wings and a number: 665. Seeing it made him acutely nervous. What if he was stopped going through the metal detector at the airport? How would he explain the fact that he was carrying phony ID—and police ID at that?
Be cool,
he told himself. No one was going to look at the badge or the ID. And even if they did, it wasn’t illegal to have it. He’d just put it in his duffle bag and check it.
It took about forty minutes to get to Dulles. Danny took out the tickets to check the airline and the departure time—and saw with a shock that he was flying first-class. Instead of making him happy, this only increased his anxiety. The limo, the suite at the hotel, first-class tickets.
What am I getting into?
he wondered.
The agent at the counter bathed him in a radiant smile as she processed his ticket and attached a PRIORITY/FIRST CLASS tag to his
A stocky man in his forties, the driver was right out of
GQ
, resplendent in a dark suit, wing tips, and a black fedora. Wresting the duffle bag from Danny’s hand, he trotted back to the car and held open the door to the backseat. “For you,” he said, nodding at a leather attaché case on the backseat. Trying to look casual, and not quite managing it, Danny struggled to suppress the grin that held his mouth in a kind of rictus. “Thanks!” he said, sliding into the backseat as if it were home plate.
Thunnnk.
The car was virtually soundproof. Just behind them, the driver of a sanitation truck leaned on his horn, impatient to go by. Danny sensed that the horn was a loud one, but even so, he could barely hear it. And the limo driver couldn’t have cared less. Taking his time, the driver stowed Danny’s duffle in the trunk, walked around to the side of the car, got in, and fastened his seat belt. Then he adjusted his hat, carefully checked the results in the rearview mirror, and smiled. “Now vee go,” he said in an accent that Danny couldn’t quite place.
Central Europe, maybe.
As the limo moved forward, Danny eyed the accoutrements around him. There was a small television, half a dozen magazines, and a split of champagne nestled in a silver bucket of crushed ice. A blood-red rose stood at attention in a cut-glass vase, coloring the air with its fragrance. Reaching over his shoulder, Danny switched on the reading light, which cut through the gloom imposed by the limousine’s tinted windows.
It was all very impressive, slightly embarrassing—and fun. But what made him blink was the sheaf of magazines he found in front of him.
Art in America. Daruma. Bomb. Asian Art.
Clearly they’d been chosen with Danny—and only Danny—in mind.
As flattering as that was, he felt a twinge of apprehension as he opened the attaché case on the seat beside him. Inside he found a portable cell phone, its instruction manual, and a short note.
This will help us stay in touch,
the note read.
American cells don’t work in Europe, and hotel phones aren’t secure. Suggest you use this, as needed. B.
Danny glanced at the manual, which explained (in six languages) that the phone was a digital unit with embedded encryption based upon the GSM standard common in Europe.
In addition to the cell phone, the attaché case contained a leather portfolio. In this Danny found his tickets and itinerary, with a confirmation number for a suite—
a suite!
—at the Hotel d’Inghilterra. Clipped to the itinerary was a business card for “Paulina Pastorini, Translations,” and an envelope containing the phony ID that Belzer had promised. This consisted of a small stack of expensive-looking business cards and a laminated ID. Both the cards and the ID were embossed with a small gold shield. To his surprise, Danny saw that the ID bore his picture (
Where did they get that?
he wondered), and the name
Frank Muller (Det.)
.
There was even a badge—a glob of metal with wings and a number: 665. Seeing it made him acutely nervous. What if he was stopped going through the metal detector at the airport? How would he explain the fact that he was carrying phony ID—and police ID at that?
Be cool,
he told himself. No one was going to look at the badge or the ID. And even if they did, it wasn’t illegal to have it. He’d just put it in his duffle bag and check it.
It took about forty minutes to get to Dulles. Danny took out the tickets to check the airline and the departure time—and saw with a shock that he was flying first-class. Instead of making him happy, this only increased his anxiety. The limo, the suite at the hotel, first-class tickets.
What am I getting into?
he wondered.
The agent at the counter bathed him in a radiant smile as she processed his ticket and attached a PRIORITY/FIRST CLASS tag to his
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