The Columbus Code (17 page)

The flights from San Francisco to London and then to Barcelona were more grueling than a two-day stakeout. Winters emerged from the last plane bleary-eyed. His spine felt twisted like a question mark and his face was dotted with stubble. He was grateful that Sophia Conte wasn't meeting him at the airport. His breath alone would be enough to send her away.

Not only that—he was cranky. The little sleep he'd gotten was tormented by snatches of dream from the raid and images from the book he'd brought for the plane ride—Columbus'
Book of Prophecies
. It read like a nightmare.

By the time he got through customs, found a cab driver who spoke English, and located his hotel, he was ready to pinch off someone's head. Not the best frame of mind for meeting the woman who was supposed to help him solve the riddle of his ancestry.

Exhausted as Winters was lying in the hotel bed with the drapes drawn against the brilliant Barcelona sun, he stared, sleepless, at the stained ceiling. A four-star rating obviously meant something different here than it did in the States. He counted the drips from the bathroom faucet . . .

The zip tie they used to secure his hands behind his back should have gone on smoothly. Whoever was applying it had the coordination of a drunk. The guy was either nervous or he didn't know what he was doing. Or both—and both could be used in Winters' favor.

They didn't blindfold him either, and that part worried him most because it only made sense if they were going to kill him anyway.

But why not do it now? Why lead him to another room in the basement? Why hurl him into a chair?

Winters continued to ask himself rational questions until the Russian who had held the gun to his head stepped forward and plunged his fist into Winters' face. Again. And again—each time sending bone-jarring pain through his head. There was a pause, long enough for him to think it was over—then once more the Russian punched a fist that was not just flesh but also brass straight into Winters' nose. He cried out in agony—a long, thin cry he didn't recognize as his own—followed by the piercing ring of his cell phone that interrupted the dream.

Winters fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, then found it at last and pressed a button to accept the call.

“
Bienvenidos, Señor
Winters,” a female voice said. “How do you find our Barcelona so far?”

“Who is this?” he asked, still groggy and confused from the dream.

A short pause was followed by a stiffer version of the voice. “This is Sophia Conte. You
are
John Winters, yes?”

Winters bit off a curse and climbed out of bed. “Sorry, Sophia. I'm a little disoriented.”

Did he just say that? He did
not
just say that.

“Ah, jet lag will do that, yes,” she said. “I should have waited longer to call you, but I was eager to reach you.”

“No, it's all right. Let me just get myself together here—”

Did he say
that
, too? And how was he planning to get himself together? There was no coffeepot in the room and the water drooling from the faucet was rust-brown so a face wash was out of the question.

“I have captured you at a bad time,” she said.

Winters pushed at his closed eyes with his thumb and index finger. “I think the word you want is ‘caught.'”

“I think the expression I want is ‘Good night.'”

“What time is it?”

“Barely 10 a.m. But you need sleep. Call me in the morning—around eight?”

“No, really, I'm fine.”

“No. Rest. We have a full day tomorrow.”

“We do?”

“I have arranged for us to meet with a man who knows much more than I do about a link you have not explored yet.”

“Okay.” Winters blinked his eyes until he could actually see. He needed to salvage this conversation. “Sounds good. How about if I buy you breakfast?”

“That would be lovely. Where shall we meet?”

“How about—the hotel dining room?”

“Where are you staying?”

Winters told her and was met with a stony silence.

“Hello?” he said. “Are you still there?”

“Get some sleep, John. And first thing tomorrow, find a different hotel. I will e-mail you several suggestions. And in the meantime . . . do not drink the water and do not eat the food.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” she replied. “I am being kind.”

Winters hung up feeling the same way he had the first time he asked a girl on a date and she turned him down because, she said, he
couldn't afford to take her anyplace she wanted to go. Maybe Ben was right when he said Winters was cheap. Sounded like he couldn't afford this town.

“I'll worry about that tomorrow,” he groaned. Right now sleep was all he wanted and he fell back on the bed. Let the dreams hit him. He was too wiped out to care.

It was they in Barcelona who controlled the finances, Diego—it was they who resisted. They were afraid to know the truth, and not only the truth about the means of reaching the East by sailing west, which would disrupt their power. They were terrified of the truth about us . . . and about themselves.

—Christopher Columbus

Thanks again for picking me up,” Maria said. “I know it's a hassle to get in and out of Dulles, but you can see now why I didn't want to talk about this at the office.”

Austin glared at her across the table. His brown hair seemed to be standing up even straighter than usual, and his eyes were narrowed to slits the way he looked when he was aggravated.

Maria couldn't really blame him. He had every right to dump her here, go back to Gump, Snowden and Meir, and turn in his resignation.

“It didn't occur to you to request that I go
with
you to Barcelona?” he snarled.

“Of course it occurred to me. I've been missing you since the moment we left.”

“Oh, that's clear.”

Maria shoved her half-eaten salad aside and glared at him. “Listen to me. First of all, if you came with me I wouldn't need Elena and that is the whole
point
in my going back.”

“And second of all?”

“I need you here to find the best attorney for her and look into what happened that got her into this whole mess.”

“On the firm's time.”

“I haven't gotten to that part yet.” Maria leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I want to pay you myself. On the side.”

“You can't afford me.”

“My grandmother left me some money—”

“You can't use your inheritance for this. I won't let you do that.”

Maria gave him a look. “And you started not letting me do things when?”

“I meant I'm not taking any money from you. I'll do it for free, but on one condition.”

“Anything—as long as it's legal.”

“You have to promise me the Barcelona thing is only temporary.”

“Of course it is. I'm going back
there
to bring Elena back
here.”

“And what about this Tejada character?”

“What about him?”

“You don't see yourself getting hooked up with him? I mean involved.”

“Not gonna happen,” she said shaking her head. “I don't trust him. Not totally, anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he's not some villain. He's just a successful businessman—”

“Over-the-top successful.”

“—who may bend the occasional rule.”

“I thought you didn't like people bending the rules.”

“I don't. Which is why I'm not getting involved. As soon as you get things set up here, I'm bringing Elena back and I'm done in Spain.”

“I don't see why you didn't just bring her with you now.”

“Yes, you do. There's too much to do, including finding a place for her to stay. I can't harbor a fugitive, no matter who she is.”

“I'm glad to see you draw the line somewhere.”

“Austin—what is going on with you?”

“This just doesn't feel right to me. No—” he said, correcting himself. “It's worse than that. It feels dangerous.”

“Well,” Maria shrugged. “It kind of is. One of the reasons I'm going back is to see if I can find a way to take Molina down.”

“No stinkin' way.”

“It doesn't feel right to smuggle her out of there to face the music here while he gets off scot-free. He's been blackmailing her—and who knows how many others. I can't let him get away with it.”

“Come on,” Austin groaned. “Let somebody else deal with that.”

“I intend to.”

“Who?”

Maria smiled. “Emilio Tejada.”

“And you're going to do that how?” Austin put both palms up. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”

“Good, because I'm not sure yet. You want dessert?”

“No.”

“Then ask for the check, will you?” She reached into her purse for her wallet. “Here's some cash. I'll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom, Austin. And I'm sure I'll be safe.”

“I'm afraid to let you out of my sight.”

She hadn't been lying to him, Maria thought as she wove her way among the tables of the large dining room. She
had
missed Austin and if she could do this any differently she would. But that would only slow things down and it had been hard enough to leave Elena yesterday. The only thing holding Elena together at this point seemed to be Maria's promise that she would return within a week. But all the plans she'd made with Austin evaporated as she neared the restroom hallway.

From the corner of her eye she saw two men seated at a table to the far right. The guy facing her she recognized as Jake Schlesinger. His picture was all over Washington media. Him she wasn't worried about. But the figure with his back to her sent a chill down her spine. She would have known that square head and those menacing shoulders anywhere.

He was Carlos Molina.

What were the chances that he'd show up here—now?

Acting more on instinct than plan, Maria continued straight across to the hallway and ducked out of sight beyond the corner—hidden from view but close enough to hear the voices from Molina's table.

Maria pulled her cell phone from her purse, flipped the screen to Notes, and typed what she could hear. It was disjointed, but she'd try to figure it out later.

JS: Appreciate your help with that matter in Kenya—

CM: —return the favor . . . intercepted in Chechnya . . .

JS: . . . secure location, I assure you . . .

CM: (mutter, mutter, mutter)

“Is it full?”

Maria jerked her face up to see a woman standing nearby.

“The restroom,” the woman explained. “Is it full?”

“I don't—”

“You're standing in the hall. I thought it was full.” The woman gave her an annoyed look and pushed open the restroom door. Maria went back to the conversation but she'd clearly missed something. They were now talking about a suitcase and some agent named Jason Elliot.

JS: . . . out of your mind . . .

CM: . . . like you were in Copenhagen . . .

JS: . . . you assured me . . .

CM: You assured
me
 . . . pictures.

Two women erupted from the restroom, voices blaring. By the time they'd carried the discussion out to the dining room, the voices from the table were silent. She glanced around the corner to check and saw Molina and Schlesinger standing, shaking hands.

Maria ducked into the bathroom and made for an empty stall, where she read the notes.

Molina had done Schlesinger some favor in Kenya and was now asking for payback. Something about whatever Schlesinger had intercepted in Chechnya, something that was now in a secure location. Whatever Molina was asking of him was insane, although apparently Schlesinger had done something crazy in Copenhagen that involved pictures. And, somehow, there was a suitcase and an agent involved.