Forever (35 page)

This being a long-distance call, The Ghost
used a stolen AT&T credit card.

In New York, a mechanised female voice
answered: 'St. Luke's- Roosevelt Hospital.' The Ghost asked, 'This
patient information?' 'No, but I'll connect you.'

Click; one ring, two. Then another distant,
mechanised female voice: 'Patient information.'

The Ghost, sounding cool, said, 'I'm calling
about a patient, name of Aaron Kleinfelder. Need to know his
condition?'

'There is no change in the patient's
condition.'

The Ghost said, 'Okay, thanks,' and hung up,
thinking, C'mon man, get with it! Either come to or die! Don't need
no Hymie in limbo. Ain't good for business, see . . .

Rome, Italy • Salzburg, Austria • Milan, Italy

In Rome, the jet had barely crept to its
final halt when Stephanie sprang to her feet from her strategic
first-row seat. Even as the exit door was still being opened, she
slid past the cabin attendant and strode hurriedly off onto the
jetway, unclasping the flap of her shoulder bag as she walked. Her
Holly Fischer passport in hand, she reached the nearest immigration
booth and smiled.

The inspector took her passport and frowned
as he compared the unflattering mug-shot with the challenging
reality of the young woman poised breathlessly before him. Still
frowning, he thrummed through the unstamped pages. Then, with a
total lack of expression, he put her opened passport down on the
counter in front of him and punched some keys on his computer
terminal.

'Signorina?' he said.

His voice made her start.

'Your passport?' he said. He was holding it
up.

'What about it?' she asked.

He handed it over. 'It is all in order.
Welcome to Italy. Your luggage will arrive over there.' He pointed.
'It should not be long incoming.'

Then came customs.

'Do you have anything to declare?'

The customs inspector was young and slender,
an Adonis with darkly handsome features and a head of curly thick
black hair. From the way he undressed her with his eyes, Stephanie
gathered that he obviously considered himself a ladies' man.
Luckily, there was now quite a queue behind her, and he swiftly
chalked a cipher on each of her suitcases, hastily waved her
through, and busied himself with the next person in line.

Now that the agony of slipping across the
border was over, Stephanie felt relieved. Enlisting the aid of a
porter, she led the way in search of a bank of twenty-four-hour,
coin-operated luggage lockers. When she came across some, she
tipped the porter, and deposited the appropriate coins into the
slot. She heaved two of the suitcases inside, locked the door, and
pocketed the key.

Left with the bulkiest but lightest of the
three Vuitton cases, she picked it up and followed the signs to the
nearest ladies' room. Along the way, she stopped and checked the
departure monitors. The next flight to Milan, she noted, would take
off in just under an hour. If she hurried, and was lucky enough to
get a seat, she would be able to make it in time.

Footsteps quickening, she headed into the
washroom and locked herself into a booth. She remained there for
twenty minutes, but if anyone had been following her, she would
have appeared to have vanished into thin air.

For the Stephanie Merlin who had entered the
washroom was a head-turning, perfectly made-up blonde with blue
eyes, pink lips, and a sassy strut.

But the Stephanie who strode back out was a
reasonably attractive, harried businesswoman with curly red hair
and green eyes - the result of a wig and coloured contact lenses -
who wore a minimum of makeup and conveyed an air of brisk,
authoritarian efficiency.

Stephanie had assumed the identity of
Virginia Wesson. To complete the disguise, she now wore round
gold-rimmed glasses and dark-red lipstick, and she'd changed from
the rust-coloured jacquard dress into a severely tailored grey silk
business suit with a high-necked, simply cut white blouse and grey,
moderately heeled pumps.

Collecting her two suitcases from the
luggage locker, she briskly clicked her way to the nearest ticket
counter, purchased a round- trip ticket, and checked her three
suitcases. Then she hurried to the gate, where her flight was
already boarding.

Fifteen minutes later, the sleek Airbus A320
swept off the runway and climbed steeply into the sky. Jetting her
north. North to Milan, and a date with an unsuspecting pianist
named Boris Guberoff.

His name was Manfred Lobl, and he was a
stately man: Loden-suited, silver-haired, courtly. And so buffed he
practically shone. He had his manicured hands clasped in front of
him and was shaking his head regretfully at the man standing
opposite him.

'It is a most unusual request, sir,' he was
saying. 'Please, you must understand. Discretion is our watchword.
Our clientele expects it - indeed, demands it! As managing director
of the Goldener Hirsch, I am duty-bound to continue the tradition
of maintaining our exacting standards.'

The man with the black briefcase was
silent.

'Of course, if Fraulein Fischer had
specified that we were free to divulge her itinerary . . .' Herr
Lobl parted his hands helplessly and sighed. 'Unfortunately, she
did not. Therefore, I must assume she wishes to safeguard her
privacy. Much as I would like to help you, my hands are regrettably
tied.' He paused and then enquired, 'You did say you are Fraulein
Fischer's attorney?'

'No,' the man said with a thin smile, 'I'm
one of her attorney's assistants.' He fidgeted with his striped tie
and looked morosely down at the pointed silk end. 'I just don't
know what to do.' He looked back up and held Herr Lobl's gaze. 'As
I said, it's imperative I get Ms Fischer's signature on these
documents. The deadline is midnight tomorrow. If it's missed . .
.'He lowered his voice. 'I really shouldn't be telling you this, Mr
. . .?'

'Lobl.'

'Mr Lobl. If the papers are not signed on
time, not only will I be to blame, but Ms Fischer stands to lose
millions. Millions! he repeated miserably.

'Millions!
Ach, du lieber Gott!
That
does put us into rather a quandary. Yes, indeed!'

'Tell me about it. And I'll be out of a
job!'

Herr Lobl stood there, twined fingers in
front of him, his face thoughtful. 'Mm. Well, we are not
unreasonable people. In this one special instance, we can perhaps
bend the rules a little, eh?' He smiled slightly. 'However, I
cannot promise you any results. Everything depends upon the
information we have at our disposal.'

'I'd really appreciate anything you can do,
Mr Lobl. Anything. You may well save me my job - and our most
important client a fortune!'

'We always try to be of help,' the managing
director soothed, and gestured. 'Please. If you will take a seat, I
will go and find out what I can.'

The man sat down in one of the upholstered
chairs, put the briefcase on his lap, and watched Herr Lobl's
dignified stride across the lobby. Then he waited, scanning the
constantly shifting mosaic of quiet activity, the continuous
comings and goings of well-heeled tourists and businessmen.

Presently he saw Herr Lobl approach, and
jumping to his feet moved across the lobby to meet him halfway.
'Did you manage to find out anything?' he blurted anxiously.

Herr Lobl said calmly: 'Only that Fraulein
Fischer was scheduled to fly to Rome this morning. The concierge
booked the flight and arranged for her ground transportation at
this end.'

'Damn!' the man whispered. Then he said,
'Sorry.' He sounded as if he meant it. 'It's just that I know I'm
going to get sacked!' His expression was bleak.

'Perhaps all is not lost,' said Herr
Lobl.

'How's that?'

'I asked the head switchboard operator to
pull Fraulein Fischer's telephone bills, and I have a record of her
calls. Here they are.'

He handed over a sheet of computer printout
on which two lines, one near the top and one near the bottom, had
been boldly circled in black ink.'

'As you can see, Fraulein Fischer telephoned
New York once. The number she called is printed next to the time of
the call, its duration, and the cost. At the bottom, you will see
that she placed another, shorter call, this one to Milan, Italy.
The number she called is also there.'

'I can't thank you enough.' The man looked
around. 'Could you tell me where the telephones are located?'

'This way, please.' Herr Lobl gestured and
led him to the telephone booths, is there anything else I might
assist you with?' he asked.

The man shook his head. 'No. I really do
appreciate your help. I know you went beyond the call of duty.'

The managing director gave a slight bow. it
has been a pleasure,' he said, and then straightened adjusted his
jacket and strode off, his experienced hotelier's eyes ceaselessly
roving the lobby and missing nothing going on anywhere in it.

At the telephone booth, the man waited until
Herr Lobl was out of earshot. Then he called the number in
Milan.

There were soft distant rings and then the
rapid-fire voice of a female operator: 'Grand Hotel et de Milan.
Buon giorno
.'

Ah! So she had called a hotel! For
reservations, naturally - what else?

'Ms Fischer's room, please,' he said.

'One moment,
per favore
.'

Cradling the receiver between his right ear
and shoulder, the man turned around and whistled softly to himself
as he waited.

After a moment, the operator came back on
the line. 'I am sorry,
signore
,' she said. 'I have checked
with the front desk. There is no one registered by that name.'

So
. . . he thought. . .
she has
switched identities yet again
. No matter. He knew where she was
staying. That was enough.

And he hung up, smiling with
satisfaction.

The centrally located Grand Hotel et de
Milan is on the Via Manzoni and has an agreeable, down-at-heel kind
of charm. Stephanie had chosen it expressly because she had been to
Milan several times, but had never stayed there before; she would
be in no danger of being recognised by any of the staff.

After freshening up in her old-fashioned
double room, she changed into a loose-fitting, doe-coloured silk
pantsuit, snapped grey sun lenses over her glasses, and went
shopping. There were a couple of things she needed to buy.

Leaving the hotel, she crossed the street
and turned left, walking past La Scala, indisputably the single
most famous opera house on earth, and momentarily stopped in front
of it, looking over at the incomparable visual feast which was the
Duomo, the great white wedding cake of a cathedral with its forest
of one hundred and thirty-five spires. Then she continued on, past
the glass-roofed Galleria, possibly the oldest, and most definitely
the most beautiful, shopping mall in the entire world, and wandered
the spider's web of streets and alleys which compose the historical
city centre. It was not long before she found what she was looking
for.

On the Via Madonnina, at a shop called
Cashmere Cotton and Silk, she bought an outrageously expensive silk
scarf which glowed with all the exquisite colours of Byzantium.

And at the nearby Centro Botanico on the Via
dell'Orso, a fragrant toiletry shop with grand frescoed ceilings,
she purchased a bottle of organic lavender perfume.

After she returned to the hotel, she used
her cuticle scissors to cut the label off the scarf. Then she
sprinkled it with a few droplets of lavender and used it like
wrapping paper - carefully folding up in it the framed photograph
of Lili Schneider and Madame Balasz which she'd 'borrowed' in
Budapest.

Done, she set the package down on a little
table by the door thinking,
There. The trap is now
baited.

Milan, Italy

The next morning, Stephanie appraised the
building from the sidewalk across the street.

It was nearly a century old, with a fafade
of red sun-bathed brick, three-and-a-half storeys, Italianate,
palazzo-like, substantial. The front windows were narrow double
arches with fanciful Gothic tops. As with many buildings of its
kind, she suspected its street front would be deceptive, and she
was right. Two long wings stretched far back around a central
courtyard garden, making it much larger than it first appeared.

Stately and well preserved, it was a living
shrine, testament to Milan's most famous, gifted, and best-loved
son: the opera composer Giuseppe Verdi.

His name was on the front of the building,
engraved on an enormous plaque under the roofline:

Casa di Riposo

per

Musicisti

Fondazione Verdi

And indeed, Verdi was very much alive here.
He seemed to be everywhere.

Out front, on an island of green grass: a
Giuseppe Verdi bronze on a pedestal. Right inside the large,
darkish cool lobby: another bronze Verdi, this one seated, as
Stephanie came in through the glass-paned front doors. And he was
on the walls: numerous framed portraits of the composer, with his
luxuriant moustache and carefully trimmed beard, staring watchfully
out from stretched canvas.

His ghost seemed to haunt this place, not
only in spirit, but in body: he was entombed on these premises in a
beautiful crypt with blue sky and gold stars on the vaulted ceiling
and murals of neoclassical figures to keep him company.

A female staff member with an engagingly
ugly face and a kind of short, pared-down nun's veil intercepted
Stephanie.

'I am here to visit Signore Guberoff,'
Stephanie told her in English.