Kill Me If You Can (13 page)

“Laurent,” Marta said
sweetly. “Of course you know where they went. This may help jog your memory.” She slid fifty euros across his desk.

He ignored the money. “Whether I know or do not know is not relevant. The privacy of our guests is of utmost concern, and I’m not at liberty to say anything. Hotel policy.”

The cash bribe didn’t work. Marta leaned across his desk, her breasts almost out of their nest. “You can tell me,” she purred. “And you can surely imagine how grateful I would be.”

The concierge leaned in toward her and wagged a finger in her direction. “Mademoiselle, I absolutely cannot divulge any—”

Marta grabbed his finger and held it tight.

“I guess you’re not the breast man I thought you were,” she said. “How do you feel about fingers?”

His eyes widened, but he tried to maintain his composure. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, pressing hard on the top of his knuckle joint with her thumb and squeezing the rest of the digit with viselike strength, “how much do you care about your fingers?”

“This is ridiculous,” Laurent said. “Surely, you can’t be threaten—”

She snapped his finger in two, and the crack of Laurent’s bone was followed by a piercing scream.

Marta covered it up immediately with a shriek of her own and began laughing hysterically. The harried desk clerk was still on the phone with the dissatisfied guest and barely turned to see what the noise was about.

Marta let go of the concierge’s broken finger and grabbed on to his pinkie. “You’ve got nine left,” she said. “So let me ask you again. How much do you care about your fingers?”

Tears were streaming down the concierge’s face. Excruciating pain and paralyzing fear trumped hotel policy.

“I made reservations for Monsieur Bannon this morning,” he whimpered. “A flight to Venice and dinner at the Antico Martini at eight tonight.”

“What hotel?”

“The Danieli.”

“One more question,” Marta said. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? You don’t strike me as a man who would be a slave to hotel policy.”

“Monsieur Bannon gave me a hundred euros to be discreet about where he was going.”

Or where he was taking Chukov’s diamonds,
Marta thought.

She released Laurent’s pinkie. His hands flew to his chest and he tucked them safely under his armpits.

He stood there cowering as Marta picked up the fifty euros she had put on his desk. She slipped the money into her purse, then slowly turned and left the hotel.

What a merry little chase this was turning out to be. Marta Krall absolutely loved it.

It was 4:30 a.m.
in New York City when Chukov’s phone rang. The voice on the other end was female and the accent German. Marta Krall didn’t have to identify herself.

“He’s in my sights,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a taxi on my way to Charles de Gaulle airport.”

“
To
the airport?” Chukov said. “Aren’t you on your way
from
the airport into the city?”

“I did that while you were sleeping. I went to his hotel. He checked out this morning.”

“Checked out—where did he go?”

“Venice. He booked a room at the Hotel Danieli.”

“The Danieli?” Chukov screamed. “Do you know how much that costs?”

Marta laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t care. He’s spending your money.”

Chukov was apoplectic. “That’s a five-star hotel! I want five bullets in his head—one for every star.” He grabbed the inhaler from his night table and sucked on it.

Marta closed her eyes and savored the sound of the fat Russian gasping for air.

“Five bullets won’t be easy,” she said. “One shot with my forty-five-caliber Glock and his head will explode like a mush melon.”

“Then put the other four bullets in his worthless dick,” Chukov wheezed. “But first get the diamonds.”

“If he still has them,” she said. “He was in Paris for twenty-four hours. He could have sold them.”

“No,” Chukov said. “What idiot would sell diamonds in Paris? And never in Venice. He’s not stupid. He’ll go to Antwerp or Amsterdam or even Tel Aviv.”

“No, he won’t,” Marta said. “Venice will be Matthew Bannon’s final stop. I promise you that.”

Chukov turned up
the hot water in the shower full blast. He stood on the bathroom floor for ten minutes inhaling the steam, sipping his morning vodka, and trying to figure out his next move.

He dressed, ignoring the Bowflex and the rest of the exercise equipment he regularly bought from late-night infomercials, some of the pieces still in their boxes.

Then he called the Ghost. “Do you still have your thumb up your ass in Paris?” he asked.

“No,” the Ghost said. “My ass is currently in Venice, sitting in a very comfortable chair in a premium deluxe room at the Hotel Danieli.”

Chukov was stunned. “You’re at the Danieli already? How did you find out Bannon was in Venice?”

“It’s what I do,” the Ghost said. “The better question is, How the hell did you know? It’s five in the morning in New York. Who called you?”

Chukov took another swig of his vodka. Time to put his plan in motion. “Marta Krall. Do you know her?”

“Only by reputation,” the Ghost said. “She’s slow, she’s stupid, but she’s beautiful, so she has no trouble convincing lonely men like you to pay her fat fees and first-class travel. And then, more often than not, she botches the job.”

Chukov laughed. The Ghost was just like the rest of them. He didn’t like competition. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Or maybe you can buy Fraulein Krall a celebratory drink after she’s found the diamonds and killed Bannon. She’s the one who’s been doing all the heavy lifting.”

“Are you firing me?” the Ghost said.

“Why would I fire you?” Chukov said. “Two assassins are always better than one. But just a reminder—only one of you gets paid.”

The Ghost hung
up on Chukov.

He looked around the room. It was exquisite—highly polished antique furniture, lush draperies made from the finest Venetian fabrics, a luxurious handcrafted marble bathroom, all counterpointed with state-of-the-art electronics, including a forty-two-inch flat-screen LCD television, high-speed Internet, and a relaxing Jacuzzi.

The Danieli was expensive but well worth it. Especially with Chukov footing the bill.
And now,
the Ghost thought,
it turns out he’s hired a backup.

Krall
. Despite what he had said to Chukov, the Ghost knew Marta Krall was anything but slow and stupid. Contract killing was more than her profession, it was her passion. She was the queen of the slow death.

She had once put eighteen bullets into an undercover DEA agent over the course of three days. The man died from shock and blood loss four times, but Krall revived him each time with a makeshift crash cart to keep the party going. The Jamaican drug lord whose operation had been infiltrated by the narc happily paid a premium for the additional pain and suffering.

The Ghost stood up and looked out the window at the lagoon directly below. The view was spectacular. Venice was incomparable—a thriving cultural center surrounded by water. He only wished he had the time to stay and enjoy it.

He stretched out on the brocade silk spread that covered the king-size bed and stared up at the crystal chandelier.

He closed his eyes and tried to think like Marta Krall would think. Where was she? What was her next move? How could he stay one step ahead of her?

The door to the room burst open with a bang. Before he could move, a woman bounded into the room, leaped onto the bed, and pinned him down.

And then she kissed him. Hard.

“Jesus, Katherine,” he said. “You scared the living shit out of me.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again.

“I tried your cell, but it went straight to voice mail,” Katherine said. “Who were you on the phone with?”

“The Antico Martini,” he said. “I was just confirming our dinner reservation. I want to make sure it’s extra special.”

“I don’t care where we eat,” she said, “as long as it’s just the two of us. You’re a real catch, Matthew Bannon. I wouldn’t be surprised if another woman came after you.”

“What woman would possibly want to come after me?” Matthew asked, smiling at the irony.

“Sweetie, you look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Just a little tired. It’s a lot of hard work being a tourist.”

“Okay,” Katherine said. “But you had me worried. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I swore that
everything I was going to tell you would be true. It has been. I actually did serve in the Marines. I am an art student at Parsons in New York City. And I’m definitely in love with my professor Katherine Sanborne. But I did leave a few things out. Such as—

I’m a hired killer.

It’s not exactly something I signed up for on Career Day at my high school. My father was a Marine, and I more or less decided to follow in his footsteps—at least for four years. The night I got out, my dad took me for a beer.

I knew he wasn’t too happy about my going to New York to become an artist, and I figured he was going to try to talk me out of it.

“So, what did you learn in the corps?” he asked.

“Nothing that you hadn’t already taught me,” I told him and smiled. “Is that what you’re fishing for?”

“Don’t be a wiseass,” my father said. “I’m trying to be serious here. The Marines taught you a lot. I just asked what you
learned.
”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but he was definitely very serious.

“I guess I learned how to push myself to my limit,” I said. “Even farther than you pushed me. I learned the meaning of a lot of words that were just concepts when I was a kid—
loyalty, bravery, friendship, selflessness
.”

He nodded. “What else?”

“I learned how to survive,” I said. “And that means I had to learn how to kill. I did it for my country, but I doubt it’s a skill I can put on my résumé when I’m looking for something to help me pay for school in New York.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

We were sitting at a corner table in a little bar tucked away in the back room of the North Fork Diner in Hotchkiss, Colorado. My father took a long tug on his beer and set the bottle down.

“I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you this, Matt.”

I could feel my chest tighten.
Tell me what?
I didn’t like the look on his face.

“For as long as you can remember, you’ve seen me travel around the world from one corporate headquarters to another as a security consultant. Well, that’s not exactly true,” he said. “I do fly all over the world, but I’m not a consultant. I kill people, Matthew. Bad people. But I kill them all the same.”

I was in shock. Complete. There was a buzzing sound suddenly in both my ears. My chest felt hot on the inside.

“You murder people?” I said. “For money?”

“I
eliminate
scum—the dregs of our world. Most of them are killers themselves. Some just order the murders of others. It doesn’t make it any more righteous that I target only folks who deserve to die. But you know what? I sleep okay at night. I don’t have a problem with it. Do you, Matthew?”

I did, actually. “And you think, what? That that’s what I should be doing? Killing bad people?”

“Not
should
be doing,” he said. “
Could
be doing. It’s just an option you have. I saw your service record. I held your shooting medals. You’re one of the best-trained Marines to come out of Parris Island.”

“Dad, fighting for this country is a lot different from being an assassin for hire.”

“Is it?” he said. “Badasses are badasses, aren’t they? I think so. Seems perfectly logical to me.”

“I don’t know about your logic there, Dad.”

But I’m pretty sure the seed was planted inside that barroom in Colorado.

A few months after I talked to my father, I took my first job, and I’ve been following in his footsteps ever since. I think of myself as the ghost of my father. That’s how I got my name.

I remember the last question I asked my dad the night he told me about his secret life. “Does Mom know?”

He nodded. “I didn’t tell her at first, but I knew I had to sooner or later. You can’t live a lie with someone you love. She could have walked out on me. She could have told me to give it up. But your mother stuck with me and never brought it up again.
Rarely
brought it up again, I should say. Occasionally she does. When she wants something she considers worthwhile—like tuition if you decide to go to art school.”

And now it was my turn. It was time to share my secret with Katherine.

I went to the closet and opened the room safe. I got out the doctor bag filled with diamonds. I sat down on the bed next to her.

“Katherine,” I said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Katherine looked at
the bag. “Dr. Matthew’s magic medical bag,” she said. “Is there another surprise in there?”

“Kind of.”

“Well, you gave me brie and baguettes when we went to France. What’s in there now that we’re in Italy? Chianti and cannolis?”

“No. Remember I told you I found a bag full of diamonds at the train station?”

“How could I forget?” she said. “The first thing I thought when we set foot in this incredible room was, I hope you brought enough diamonds.”

“But you don’t think the diamonds really exist,” I said.

She rolled her eyes, put her hand to her chin, and shook her head slowly from side to side. I think it’s something she learned in professor school. It’s a way of letting a student know he is completely wrong without broadcasting it to the entire classroom.

I dipped my hand into the bag. The diamonds were loose now. I had taken them out of my socks so I could show them to Katherine in all their dramatic glory. I scooped up a fistful just as Professor Sanborne decided to let me know how preposterous my story was.

“Matthew, you know I love you,” she said. “But love is not blind or stupid, and that whole cock-and-bull story about finding diamonds in a train station is ridiculous. I don’t care how you can afford to pay for this vacation, but I’d feel a whole lot better if you finally decided to tell me the truth.”

What the hell?
I thought. I dropped the whole fistful of diamonds on the bed.

“Behold the sparkling truth,” I said.

Katherine shrieked. “Oh, my God!”

Then I opened the medical bag wide and held it so she could get a good look at the other thirty or forty fistfuls.

This time she jumped off the bed and the
oh, my God
s came in a flurry. Then she sat back down. “Are they real?”

“Very.”

“My God, Matthew, they must be worth—I don’t know—millions.”

“So I’m told.”

“Are they yours?” she asked.

“They are now. In fact, they’re ours. This is the key to a whole new life.”

I gave her the watered-down version of how I found them in Grand Central.
Bomb goes off. I stumble on Zelvas. He dies. I take the diamonds.

“What are you going to do with them?” she asked.

“Sell them. Depending on what I can negotiate, I figure I can get seven to ten million.”

She let loose another string of about half a dozen
Oh, my God
s.

“But what about that man who got killed at Grand Central?” she said. “Maybe he’s got a wife, kids. I don’t even know what I’m saying, Matthew…”

“Trust me,” I said, “Walter Zelvas had nobody. No wife, no kids, nobody.”

I inhaled. It was time to tell Katherine the whole truth about myself and hope she didn’t walk out when she heard it.

“Katherine,” I said, “there’s one more little fact about me you really should know. That man Walter Zelvas who had the bag of diamonds.…I’m the one who —”

Bam!
A loud cracking sound and the door to our hotel room flew open. And there she was—Marta Krall standing in our doorway with a large-bore gun in her hand.

Pointed at me, then at Katherine, then back at me.

“Where do I start?” she said.