28
Cassie was warm from her walk through the park, and she craved a Bellini. She thought of the tray of them she had seen at the bar in Enrico’s hotel. But she didn’t order one. She took a breath and ordered sparkling water instead. And then, because this was Rome, she asked for a cappuccino, too. She expected withdrawal—not physical, emotional—but she knew if there had ever been a moment in her life when she needed her wits about her, it was probably today. Tonight. Enrico, however, as if he had been put on the earth for no other reason than to tempt her, did order a Bellini. The two of them had a table in the bar’s courtyard that an hour earlier would have been in the sun, but now it was shade and the air felt about as perfect as the air ever could feel in August in Rome. When their drinks arrived, she watched Enrico sample it.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He seemed to take the question more seriously than she had meant it. “I make a better one, but it’s hard to screw up Prosecco and peach juice. But they should have pureed fresh peaches, not just opened a bottle of juice. It makes a world of difference.” Then he leaned across the small, round table, his elbows on the wrought iron: “What kind of trouble are you in, mio amore? If you tell me, it might be easier for me to get you that gun.”
She reached into her purse for her phone, planning to show him the article from the New York Post. She wasn’t sure how much she would share after that. But before she had done anything, she saw that she had a text from Buckley. He wanted to know the difference between a Cart Tart and a Pop Tart, but admitted that he clearly had a fondness for both. The text was playful and perfect, and she found herself smiling. It was a relief to hear from him; she was a little undone by how happy his brief text had made her.
“Good news?” he asked.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is.”
“So you no longer need that gun?”
She looked across the table at his Bellini for a long moment. It was so beautiful. Alcohol was so beautiful. The colors, the bottles, the labels, the glasses. The rituals. This bar served the Bellini in a highball glass with a red and green swirl at the lip. It was still almost full. She imagined Buckley reading the newspaper—the inky paper itself, a surviving dinosaur from the days before the digital asteroid had obliterated so many of its genetic cousins—at a coffee shop in the West Village.
Was it only ninety minutes ago, at the bar in her hotel, that she was fantasizing taking this young man back to her room? It was.
She opened the app on her phone for the web and found the story about her in the newspaper. Then she handed him the phone. “Happy reading,” she said.
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When he was done, he placed the phone on the table and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “So they think you killed this man?” he asked, his tone almost prosecutorial.
“They do,” she answered, though she wasn’t completely sure whom she meant by they. The media? The FBI? The Dubai police? Really, it could be any of them or all of them.
“But you didn’t.”
She almost told him the truth. She almost said that she had worried at first that she had, but she hoped that she hadn’t—and now she was sure that she hadn’t. But she needed to keep her stories straight. And so she answered, “When I left the hotel room, he was still alive. He was about to get dressed and get ready for his meetings in Dubai.”
“So someone killed him after you left.”
“That’s right.”
“And now you are asking me for a gun.”
“I am.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “I don’t think you plan to kill me.”
“No. Never.”
He took a deep breath. He met her eyes. “I will get you that gun.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You know, there might be Italian reporters who will want to talk to you. Do they know your hotel?”
“According to my lawyer, they’ll find it. But no one approached me today in the lobby. No one, at least this afternoon, was staking out the front entrance.”
“One more reason I am very glad we are going back to my apartment.”
She felt a small pang at the way she was going to disappoint him. She looked down at her hands in her lap, gathering herself. This would all be so much easier if she could have a drink. Even one. But if she had a drink, she would have two, and then once more she would be in his arms and his bed. “We’re not going back to your apartment,” she said. “We can’t. I can’t.”
He looked crestfallen. “Why?”
“I don’t want to endanger your brother and your friend. I don’t want to endanger you.”
“So we’ll go back to your hotel room?” She could tell that he hadn’t really misunderstood what she was saying, but he was grasping for any small thread that gave him hope. She was flattered.
“No,” she said firmly. She picked up the cappuccino and studied the swirl of milk for a moment, a little hypnotized by its allure. She took a sip. “We won’t. I will. I’ll go there alone. We’ll get the gun, and then you’ll walk me back to the hotel—the lobby. Please. And tomorrow morning I will leave the gun for you in a box or package of some sort when I check out. I’ll leave it for you at the reception desk.”
“I think you need me.”
“Oh, I need a lot of things, Enrico. I really do. Trust me: The things I need? It’s a very, very long list. But I can’t let you take that risk. I just can’t. And…”
“And?”
“Things have changed since last week.”
“Because of the newspaper article?” he asked.
“Because there’s another man.”
“There wasn’t last week?”
“There was, but it wasn’t like it is now.”
He nodded. His disappointment had deepened, but she had a feeling that he wasn’t hurt. There was a difference. “I could still stay with you,” he insisted.
“No. I wouldn’t allow it. I won’t stay with any of the other flight attendants for the same reason. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Is there any chance you’re worried for nothing?”
“There is,” she said, but she didn’t believe that. She thought of what her lawyer had told her when they had spoken that afternoon. She knew what she herself had sensed when she had been on that subway platform in Manhattan the other day. They were out there. They were. But for Enrico’s sake, she continued. “That has certainly crossed my mind. Let’s hope that’s the case.”
He took another sip of his Bellini and seemed even less satisfied by it now than he had been originally. She doubted he’d bother to finish it. “I have one more question for you,” he said. He looked very serious.
“Ask me anything.”
“Has it ever crossed your mind, maybe, you drink too much?”
Her phone rang almost the moment that they left the bar and started the short walk to Enrico’s uncle’s apartment. She saw it was her sister and took the call, motioning to Enrico that she was going to stop and focus. She recalled reading Rosemary’s e-mail on the plane last night over the Atlantic, and realized with regret that she had never responded. As soon as she had said hello, Rosemary started speaking.
“I just had two FBI agents at my house,” she said, her fury evident over the phone. “Dennis just had two FBI agents and a pair of MPs show up at his office at the base. At. The. Base. How the hell bad is this, Cassie? What have you done?”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I should have answered your e-mail. I just…”
“You just what?”
I just got sidetracked when I nearly tackled some woman at the airport in Rome who I thought I had seen in Dubai. I just got maced. I just lost track of time when I was interviewed by Fiumicino Airport Security. I just collapsed into a deep sleep. I just talked to my lawyer. I just convinced an Italian bartender to get me a gun.
But she said none of that. Instead she walked a few feet away from Enrico and said, “I just forgot.”
“The FBI, Cassie. The FBI.”
“What did they ask you? What did they ask Dennis?” She saw that Enrico was watching her. He looked concerned.
“They wanted to know what the hell kind of relationship you have with my husband. They wanted to know if you’ve ever discussed money problems with me. With him. With us. They wanted to know if you’ve been acting weird lately. Or ever. They wanted to know how much you drink. I could go on.”
“Then do.”
“They wanted to know if we ever saw you with strange people or with this Alex Sokolov person—the one who was killed. I guess, like you, he lived in New York. They wanted to know any stories you shared from Dubai. Or Europe. Traveling stories.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them you don’t have any relationship with Dennis, except he’s your brother-in-law. At first I thought they were implying you two were having some sort of really icky affair—and maybe they were—but that wasn’t it. At least that wasn’t the main thing.”
“We’re not! He loves you. I love you.”
“They were digging for something else. It was like they thought he was telling you things about work he’s not supposed to tell anyone!”
“I promise you, I wouldn’t understand a word.”
“I don’t think that was their point, Cassie. You know what he does is classified. He’s in the Chemical Corps, for God’s sakes!”
“What else did you tell them?”
Rosemary blew her nose. Cassie realized that as angry as her sister was, she was also scared: she’d likely been crying before she had phoned. There was far more terror than truculence in her tone. “I told them you drink too much, but you’re not—as far as I can tell—as irresponsible as our father. I told them I know nothing about any strange people in your life because I don’t know any of your friends. Or boyfriends. When I told them that, I think it sounded suspicious, but mostly it just made me sad. It dawned on me that I know nothing about your world except the sense that you travel to cool places and you bring my children sweet gifts.”
Cassie wanted to lash out, to say something defensive about the fact it was really Rosemary who kept her at bay. But her sister was already so upset and Cassie knew that it was her fault that Rosemary was being dragged into her nightmare, and so she didn’t respond. Instead she inquired only, “Is that the sort of thing they asked Dennis, too?”
“I don’t know. He was at the base and couldn’t talk. But I suppose so. They brought him to some conference room and just kept grilling him.”
“Well, it sounds like he had nothing to hide.”
“Nothing to hide? Dennis’s work involves chemical weapons. You think he’s just some goofy engineer geek, but that geek spends his days getting rid of our sarin and VX and some of the scariest stuff in our arsenal.”
“I know.”
“I mean, he’s got a very high security clearance!”
“I get it,” Cassie said softly.
“And now the FBI is interviewing him!”
“But he hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“I know that. You know that. But it’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“It just looks bad. It just looks terrible.”
“I’m sorry,” Cassie murmured. “I am.”
Her sister ignored her apology. “They wanted to know what you told me about this man who was killed. I told them the truth: you’d never even mentioned the guy because you never mention any of the legions you sleep with.”
“It isn’t legions, Rosemary. Come on.”
“What am I supposed to tell Jessica and Tim?”
“I gather you don’t think they’ll be especially proud of their aunt?”
“Cassie, I love you. I really do. But what the hell have you done? This is different. I’m scared for my husband and I’m scared for my children. Tell me what sort of trouble you’re in.”
“I’ve done nothing,” she said. She told herself this wasn’t lying. This was staying on message. “I spent the night with an interesting man in Dubai. When I left, he was still alive. After that? I have no idea what happened.”
“Except we do have an idea,” her sister said. “Someone practically cut off his head. And as for him being interesting? I have a feeling the FBI would use a very, very different adjective.”
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The front door was unlocked, and Enrico led them into the apartment without knocking. They walked through the dark, immaculate living room and kitchen, and out onto the terrace. His uncle was in a white dress shirt and light blue suit pants, no necktie, sipping Cointreau neat on the private terrace and reading the newspaper beneath a small pergola. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair. The terrace had a four-foot-high fountain with a goddess holding a pitcher, and two raised beds with tomato plants. There were lemon trees. It was a lovely, private oasis in the middle of a city.
Cassie guessed that Piero Bianchi was in his midforties, and when he stood to greet her she detected a wisp of verbena. He was Enrico’s mother’s youngest brother, and he worked for a bank. He was trim, like his nephew, but his hair had receded and what was left was more salt than pepper. Still, Cassie found the reality that she was much closer to Piero’s age than to Enrico’s disconcerting. Enrico had texted his uncle to make sure he was home, but he hadn’t said why they were coming. He had told Cassie that she was not to bring up the gun or say a word about it. He’d said firmly that he would take care of it.
“And you’re a flight attendant,” Piero said when they were settled around the table. His accent was almost nonexistent. “I have friends who fly for Alitalia and American.”
“Pilots? Flight attendants?”
“Both. But mostly the latter.”
“I like the lifestyle.”
“As do they. You’re sure I can’t get you two something to drink?”
“No. I’m fine,” she said. She looked at Enrico, and he shook his head, too.
“Where is your base?”
“JFK.”
“Among my least favorite airports in the world. It’s a dinosaur.”
“It really is.”
Abruptly Enrico stood up and said he was going to the bathroom.
“So, tell me: how did you meet my nephew?”
“The airline was staying at his hotel. He made me an excellent Negroni.”
“I’m not surprised. Someday soon, I believe, I will be bankrolling a bar for him. A restaurant and bar. First, however, he needs a partner who can cook. Can you cook?”
“My refrigerator is nothing but leftover Indian food and yogurt that’s gone bad.”
“I am guessing that means no.”
“A very good guess.”
He finished the last of the Cointreau. She stared at the empty glass when he put it down, and she had a feeling that her longing was so powerful that Piero could sense it. “Enrico’s a good boy,” he said, and Cassie couldn’t miss the way he had used the word boy. She couldn’t decide whether he was chastising her or teasing her—giving her a little good-natured grief—or merely referring to his nephew the way any uncle would, even when the child was a grown man.
“He is,” she agreed simply.
“When he said he had someone he wanted me to meet, I was expecting something different.”
“Something…younger?”
He gave a loud, reflexive laugh. “No. Italian.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. I’m kidding. I don’t know why, but I heard something in his voice when he called that led me to believe he wanted to tell me something important, and I was thinking this was it: I am about to meet a person who does something exquisite with wild boar or scallops or zucchini, and he wanted to start a restaurant with him or her.”
“Sorry.”
“Good heavens, why should you be sorry?”
“I’m not that person. You sounded disappointed.”
“Not at all. But I am still trying to understand why he wanted me to meet you. Are you two dating?”
“No. We’re just friends.”
“Well, now: that does surprise me. Even if you weren’t dating, I assumed there was more to the relationship than friendship. I know my nephew’s hobbies well.”
“Maybe in another life.”
“Maybe.”
A moment later Enrico returned. She noticed that he had untucked his shirt. He smiled at her, leaned forward, and pretended to scratch his lower back. She glanced there and saw that he was pulling tight his shirt with his thumb and forefinger so she could see the outline of the grip of the pistol he had slid into the back of his jeans.