The Columbus Code (32 page)

He had been more of a gentleman than any guy she'd ever dated. The fact that he was twenty years older might account for some of that, but still . . . he was polite without being stiff and charming without seeming phony.

Their conversation had been surprisingly genuine too. Over a light dinner on the east portico and later in his study—which she had requested to see—he'd asked her questions about her family, her education, her rise at Gump, Snowden and Meir—all with a keen interest that gave no hint he was really waiting his turn to expound on himself as most men did. She'd been guarded, especially when he gently probed about her parents, but she'd told him more than she did most people.

“I blamed my father for my mother's death,” Maria had said as they stood on the balcony overlooking the Barcelona lights. “It was stupid. I wanted her to come to my school that day because I was presenting a science project and getting an award. How big can it be in fifth grade, right?”

“It was big to you,” Tejada noted.

“She said she couldn't—she had an important case and she needed to be at work.” Maria brushed back the hair the breeze swept into her face. “That was always the way it was with her—the cases came before me. I guess at ten you have no concept of the importance of work.”

“But you had a concept of the importance of family.”

“It wasn't like we didn't have a family life, though.” Maria gave him a wry look. “I was just being a brat.”

“I can't imagine it.”

“
Really
.”

“All right.” His smile was wide. “Perhaps I can.”

“My father volunteered to go with me that day.”

“Now, your father,” Tejada said. “What did he do?”

“He worked for the government,” Maria said—and hurried on with the story, though she suddenly doubted the wisdom of telling it. Things always got hairy when anyone questioned her about her father's work. “I told him, no, that he should tell Mom she needed to go with me. I wanted him to be on my side.”

“Was he?”

“They usually didn't take sides. That was the problem that day. I knew I wasn't going to win and I was mad at both of them.”

“And now?”

“It haunted me that my last words to her were angry. I know I was just being a kid, but sometimes I would give anything to take it back.”

“And your father?”

“Like I said, I blamed him—for years, until I was old enough to realize that he was doing the right thing that day. But by then, we were miles apart.”

She'd stopped there. It had always been hard to talk to anyone, except
Abuela
, about her father's emotional distance after 9/11. But she'd never even admitted to
Abuela
that she felt he didn't love her as much after her mother died, that maybe he'd only put up with her before because Mom wanted her. She wasn't going to tell Tejada that, either—even though he was looking at her with fathomless compassion.

But beyond that, something seemed not quite right with the conversation. Tejada had been listening, but perhaps too hard and too attentively, as if searching for hidden meaning in her words. Maybe she was being paranoid again. She had, after all, bugged the man's office and his home. Maybe it was just his natural intensity that made her feel as if she'd told him more than she realized.

All the more reason to get out of here soon
, she thought now. That and the fact that, as much as it set her off balance, she liked the light in his eyes when he looked at her. That couldn't happen right now. Not as long as there was the smallest chance that Tejada knew what Molina was into. If he didn't, maybe they could revisit this sometime. If he did, she had to run as fast as she could and not look back.

When Maria reached the breakfast room, Tejada was nowhere in sight, but the food was there and ready. Eggs Benedict. Mozzarella cheese and tomatoes. Steaming croissants oozing with butter. A sweet-looking woman who spoke in delightfully broken English told her to get started, that
Señor
Tejada would be there soon.

As Maria took a seat at the table, the woman gestured to a television in the corner. “You would like to turn it off?”

“No,” Maria replied. “You can leave it on.”

While she waited for Tejada, Maria poured herself a cup of tea and focused on the news.

On the screen she saw images from Jerusalem and the announcer droned on about an incident that occurred overnight. Another issue in Jerusalem. Wasn't there always trouble there of one sort or another? What was it this time?

“Two tourists were attacked early this morning in Old City Jerusalem,” the anchorwoman said. She seemed about as interested in the story as Maria. “While their names remain unknown, witnesses reported the victims were a man and a woman. Both victims escaped the attack but authorities have not been able to locate them. We turn now to our CNN correspondent in Jerusalem.”

The screen shifted to a Jerusalem street clogged with traffic and pedestrians. Three vehicles sat in the middle of an intersection. A young man's body was draped over the steering wheel of the larger car. Maria grimaced at the sight of it. Why did they show that?

“The intended victims still have not been located,” the young Israeli reporter was saying, “nor have the perpetrators, although witnesses said all three assailants were reportedly injured. A Jordanian group called the Army of the Mahdi, which is known to target Western tourists, has released a statement claiming responsibility and demanding that Israel lift the Gaza embargo.”

“Why Western tourists?” the anchorwoman asked.

“They are apparently playing it as an attempt to drive a wedge between Israel and the US.”

Suddenly, the screen went black. “This is not appropriate for such a beautiful morning,” a voice said from across the room.

Maria turned to see Tejada standing behind her, holding the television remote in his hand. His voice was less inviting than it had been the night before and his face was expressionless, as if he were about to transact business. Maria felt a tightening in her chest.

“You slept well, I hope?” Tejada said.

“Yes,” she replied. “You look worried. Is something wrong?”

Tejada had a surprised look. “You are a perceptive woman, Maria. One of the many things I like about you.” He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. “I have to attend to some business, but for only an hour at most. You'll stay, won't you, until I return?”

“I think I should go.”
Go to the apartment, where I can hear what goes down in that office
.

“Please,” he said. “Stay. We should talk some more.” He lifted his hand from her shoulder and gently brushed it against her cheek. “One hour. And then we have much to talk about.”

Maria nodded reluctantly, but the foreboding sense of uneasiness she'd felt that morning grew deeper.

Winters switched off the television in disgust and tossed the remote on the bed. With the other hand he pulled Sophia closer to him. She had almost stopped shaking, but the silent tears still ran down her cheeks.

“That group they were talking about just now,” she said finally. “Are they the ones who are after us?”

“I doubt it,” Winters replied. “The guys who came after us were
not
Jordanian. Someone fed that story to the police or the reporters as a cover story.”

“Why?”

“To keep anyone from finding the real reason they were after us.”

“Which is?”

“Who knows?”

She pulled away from him. “I think
you
know why.”

“I don't know.”

“But you have a theory.”

“A guess.”

“And what do you guess?”

Winters looked beyond her. “I don't know why they want us, but they fed that story to the authorities so they could continue looking for us.”

“Unimpeded by the police.”

Winters nodded.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I am truly frightened.”

“I know,” he said and pulled her into his arms.

She sobbed until she fell asleep.

As much as Winters wanted to stay there—to kiss the tears away from her cheeks and stroke her face—he had to make a plan.

He gently extricated himself from Sophia and folded the bedspread over her, then dug his cell phone from his pocket. As he feared, he still had no service. Sophia's bag lay open on the dresser and her phone was visible through the top flap. He picked it up and dialed the number he knew by heart.

Donleavy answered on the first ring. “Maria?”

Maria?
“No,” Winters said. “It's me.”

“John?” Donleavy lowered his voice. “Where the—where have you been?”

“Why were you asking about Maria?”

“I thought it was her. This is a Barcelona number.”

“Why would she be calling you?”

“Because she's looking for you. I ask again, where
are
you?”

“Why is she looking for me? Is she in trouble?”

Silence. “Donleavy,” Winters said tersely.

“I'm here.” Donleavy sighed. “She's not in trouble. She just needs your help.”

“With what?”

“You want to give me a chance?”

Winters closed his eyes. “Sorry, man. Talk to me.”

“Maria's back in Barcelona, doing more legal work with Catalonia Financial. Actually,” he corrected, “with Emilio Tejada, the CEO. And before you go off on why she didn't let you know she was in Spain again, she's been trying. We both have.”

“I haven't had phone service since I got over here.”

“Because you're a cheap—”

“Back to Maria,” Winters interrupted. “Why does she need my help?”

“A girl she was working with had an ‘accident,'” Donleavy began slowly. “She was in some trouble over the—”

“Maria? I thought you said—”

“Not Maria,” Donleavy snapped. “The girl. This other girl. She was in trouble. Somebody was blackmailing her and Maria was trying to help her. But that's a whole other story.”

“So, the girl's death. It wasn't an accident.”

“No—and Maria's pretty sure she knows who set it up.”

“Did you tell her to call the Barcelona cops?”

“Tejada—the Catalonia CEO—practically owns the city.”

“So, he was behind it?”

“Him or one of his employees. Head of security for the company. A guy by the name of Molina.”

Winters ran his hand through his hair. “She's going after people like
that?”

“Look,” Donleavy said, “I've been helping her. She promised me she wouldn't do anything stupid. As soon as she has some solid evidence, she's going home. That's our deal.”

Winters moved to the bathroom, closed the door, and sat on the toilet seat. “Well, thank you. I think. Should I ask how she's gathering this evidence?”

“No. You should tell me why you haven't gotten back to me about the laptop deal.”

“Because I forgot about it.”

“You forgot. What the heck is going on with you?”

“That's why I called.” Winters peeked through the crack in the door. Sophia was sleeping soundly again. “I'm gonna give you the short version, and then I need your help.”

“Hey, rescuing the Winters' family is my new career.”

Winters summarized what had happened from the museum visit to the attack on the way back from Hirsch's. Taylor was uncharacteristically quiet as he talked.

“You still with me?” Winters asked.

“Yeah. But let me ask you this. Is there anybody who
isn't
after you?”

“I need to focus on the ones trying to kill us.”

“Right. What do you need?”

“I need a safe house for Sophia and then I need information so I can find out who's doing this.”

“I don't know about a safe house. You're persona non grata around here right now. But I might be able to help you with the other. Give me half an hour and I'll get back to you.”

“Thanks, buddy. I owe ya.”

“Don't mention it.”

“Hey, and Donleavy.”

“Yeah?”

“When you hear from my daughter, have her call me on this phone, okay?”

“I'm expecting her to check in anytime,” Donleavy said. “And listen, we still have to deal with this other thing.”

“One thing at a time,” Winters said. “Right now the name of the game is keeping Sophia alive.”