To start at the beginning of the story go here.
I didn’t need the umbrella or the trench coat, so both of them went under my arm as I pretended to study the lagoon while scanning for Russians. There was a part of me that was disappointed I didn’t see any. Imagining their black-clad presence and cold-climate ancestry struggling in the Mediterranean heat made me chuckle.
I realized I was spending a little too much time fantasizing about punching something. As much as I might like to see Sartre and Mitnick destroy one another, despite the lies that I had been telling Atwell and now Rotella, all of that had become complicated enough that I was losing sight of the simple thing Sophie wanted to accomplish. Get the girl out, reunite her with her boy, watch everything else burn down.
OK, that last part was a broad interpretation, but I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. That caused me to consider the motivations of everyone in this mess, which was enough to drive anyone mad.
I tried to put that out of my mind, watching over the sun-baked garden as the warmth and mist of the lagoon surrounded me, tempting me to sink in. In those sensations I found my vigilance floating in a memory of the Alhambra, an ancient Moorish fortress that had been sitting in Spain long before Cheryl and I visited it. With its palm trees and flagstone pathways and surrounding fountains, the botanical gardens reminded me of that place and I sighed, thinking of the peace I had felt there.
The memory pinged me with guilt as I wondered what Cheryl would think of Sophie and I. Bringing Sophie to mind produced an entirely different reaction, however, and I felt myself heat up. After a time, though, I realized I wasn’t sweating from lust, embarrassment, or shame, but that the sun had fully shed its winter coat, and my shaven head couldn’t take it. I headed into the pyramid.
Inside the greenhouse, the moisture of the lagoon and irrigation fountains misted the inside of its glass, muggy with a hothouse humidity. A path led through it a forest of the pinnate leaves, shrub fronds, and orchids. They created a canopy that covered the flagstone walks like a jungle, keeping the area cool, making staying out of sight easy.
There was no sign of Lanzo. With the vegetation obscuring my field of vision, I set myself on a roving patrol, hoping that I’d run into him at some point after his entry. Making these rounds, I found under the pyramid’s pointed center a clearing of diamond-shaped flagstones. A bench sat at each of its sides. Some caretaker of the place, recognizable by the brown uniform that matched the stone, disappeared into the jungle, either wanting to grant me privacy or wanting some himself.
Just looking at the benches reminded me of how much time I had been spending on my feet lately. I sat down, folding the trench coat into my lap like some kind of traveling blanket. I still felt sore from some of the bruises that had been left on me, the idea of another Russian catching me unaware the only thing that kept me from dozing in the wet heat of the garden.
When Lanzo emerged from the edge of the jungle into the diamond clearing, he saw me and walked over with the long strides of a young man who’s trying to establish his own confidence. He stopped in front of me and I lifted my head as if it weighed as much as a bag of hammers. Despite the temperature, Lanzo was wearing his black leather jacket, visibly sweating, the perspiration adding to the continual oiliness of his hair. Neither of us said anything immediately. This silence dragged on long enough that he reached into a pocket to fish out a cigarette.
The careful attention and maintenance that had been put into this place and the slight peace it had granted me made me stand and say, “You can’t smoke in here.”
The Corsican looked around at the garden, indicating the lack of anyone else, so I stepped closer, imposing my size next to his slighter frame. I repeated my words more forcefully.
Realizing there was, in fact, someone there to stop him, Lanzo turned his gaze from the garden to me. His eyes suggested he was considering how our initial encounter might have gone if he hadn’t been handcuffed. However, his desire to cooperate overrode his masculine prideand he said, “Let us go outside.” We strode outside, the near confrontation giving me a small shot of adrenaline to wake me.
Lanzo walked to the railing around the lagoon and lit his cigarette with a pink disposable lighter. For some reason the action made me want to pick him up and toss him into the water, but instead I looked out over the pond, making sure we were alone before I said, “Things are moving fast.”
“Oui. You said that.”
I breathed slowly through my nose, calming myself in the face of what felt like disrespect towards his elder, a man trying to help him, and his physical superior. Lanzo wisely deciding to say nothing more. “Mitnick,” I continued, “wants to meet me tomorrow afternoon. We need to have everything ready by then.”
Lanzo bumped himself off the railing with a thrust of his hips and, for a moment, I thought I could understand why Nika, or any girl, might find him attractive. But then he ruined it by speaking. “Let us go talk to le hommes.” I almost corrected him with ‘the Idiots’, but just nodded and followed Lanzo as he headed out of the park.
Not far, we made our way to the Augustin north-south bus stop. This close to the ocean, I could smell the tides mix with the downstream of the river. Out of whatever pathetic sense of operational security I could maintain, I kept quiet while we waited, trying to appear as the clueless American. When the bus arrived, a few tourists exited the coach. Judging by the looks the skinny, smoking Corsican and his hulking companion received, I didn’t do a very good job.
The air-conditioning and padded seats of the bus were welcome, especially as it was crowded. While I had been busy, tourist season had truly begun. In that crowded coach, we traveled down a narrow parkway, the bus windows leaving a narrow, sun-bleached view of the city. With every pothole we ran across, it reminded me of traveling down the narrow canyons of a desert city in a crowded humvee. It didn’t take long before my imagination conjured shattered windows and scorch marks left from explosions.
That illusion was gratefully interrupted by a German couple, fair-haired as they were smiling, embracing one stereotype while shattering another. They got on, a baby strapped to the mother’s chest like some kind of suicide bomb. The father was trying his best to keep the child entertained, playing peekaboo, as the woman held onto a commuter pole. The simple joy of the father and child made me smile until I saw the fatigue of the mother, a woman clearly not accustom to the heat. She had a long day ahead of her.
I stood, then rapped Lanzo lightly with the back of my hand and said, “Get up.” Not accustomed to taking directions he hot back irritation. I just gestured again for him to move and, with an expression of frustrated disgust, he did. The vacancy created, I gestured at the Germans to the seats. The woman hardly noticed until her husband pointed to the empty bench. An undisguised relief came over her, and the family moved to sit down, both of the parents nodding their thanks. I nodded back, then pushed Lanzo towards one of the exits, hoping we’d be getting off the bus soon.
To reach the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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