points.
It would also remove him from the temptation of rifling through private papers, letters, diaries. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do that.
Or at least that he wouldn’t get caught.
And there’d be less of a chance of someone walking in on his unauthorized browsing after the camp was asleep.
Besides, it looked as if anything of interest was securely locked up in one of the larger trunks.
Trunks had locks any beginner criminal could pop in a heartbeat.
He quickly unzipped his bag and put his clothing into the one empty trunk and locked it.
His real valuables would go elsewhere. Not that he had much. His cans of “Silver Fox” theatrical hairspray—irreplaceable out here in Nowhereland—went up between the top of the tent and the fabric faux-ceiling. He hung them from the tent pole, so that they wouldn’t be seen, either from inside or out. His passport he kept with him, along with the remainder of his cash.
He went out the door and was already several steps toward the mess tent before he remembered and scrambled back inside. Jesus! It was a careless mistake, a stupid mistake. What the hell was wrong with him, after coming so far?
But no one had seen him. Thank God for that.
Heart still pounding, he picked up his cane and, leaning on it heavily, he limped out the door.
C HAPTER T HREE
D ULLES I NTERNATIONAL A IRPORT
J UNE 20, 2005
P RESENT D AY
Jules drove Max to the airport.
A surprisingly lively discussion on alternatives to fossil fuel was being broadcast on NPR and that plus the wipers, slapping in rhythm as they cleared the early evening rain from the windshield, had kept them from having to speak more than necessary.
But now Max cleared his throat. “Did you call the hotel in Hamburg?”
Jules turned down the radio’s volume. “The one where Gina was—”
“Yes.”
Staying. “Yes. They haven’t touched her room,” Jules reported. “As long as you’re willing to pay for the extra nights—”
“I said I was.”
“Yes, sir, I told them that. The hotel manager said he’d put a do-not-disturb sign on the door,” Jules told him. “The room’ll be exactly as she left it.”
Max nodded grimly. “Good.” He turned the radio back up.
Jules felt compelled to turn it back down. “Her room’s not a crime scene,” he gently reminded his boss. “She wasn’t—”
Max cut him off. “I know,” he said, but Jules had to wonder.
“It was random,” he reminded Max. “Gina’s death. It had nothing to do with you. You can’t blame yourself because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Max reached over and turned up the volume on the radio again. “Just drive,” he ordered.
So Jules drove as Teri Gross interviewed Willie Nelson—of all people—about fuel made from vegetable oil.
He glanced again at Max.
His carry-on bag wasn’t much larger than an oversized briefcase. Jules took that as a good sign, that his boss truly was going to arrive in Hamburg, identify Gina, pack up her things from her hotel, and then return with her body—oh, God—on the next available flight home.
Gina’s brother Victor was planning to meet them at the airport in New York. Jules was to call him with information about their return flight. Jules had spoken to Vic on the phone several times already today—to let the Vitagliano family know that Max was going to bring Gina home.
The usually abrasive and tough talking New Yawker’s expression of gratitude had been heartbreakingly eloquent in its simplicity. Vic had told Jules that Max’s generosity would allow him and his brothers to comfort their parents during this time of sorrow.
They deserved to have Gina’s body returned to them as quickly as possible.
Jules glanced at Max again. Surely, if he were intending to do some serious terrorist hunting, he wouldn’t’ve packed quite so lightly.
Still, Jules would never dare to hazard a guess about exactly what might be in Max’s bag. It was too small for a bazooka
It would also remove him from the temptation of rifling through private papers, letters, diaries. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do that.
Or at least that he wouldn’t get caught.
And there’d be less of a chance of someone walking in on his unauthorized browsing after the camp was asleep.
Besides, it looked as if anything of interest was securely locked up in one of the larger trunks.
Trunks had locks any beginner criminal could pop in a heartbeat.
He quickly unzipped his bag and put his clothing into the one empty trunk and locked it.
His real valuables would go elsewhere. Not that he had much. His cans of “Silver Fox” theatrical hairspray—irreplaceable out here in Nowhereland—went up between the top of the tent and the fabric faux-ceiling. He hung them from the tent pole, so that they wouldn’t be seen, either from inside or out. His passport he kept with him, along with the remainder of his cash.
He went out the door and was already several steps toward the mess tent before he remembered and scrambled back inside. Jesus! It was a careless mistake, a stupid mistake. What the hell was wrong with him, after coming so far?
But no one had seen him. Thank God for that.
Heart still pounding, he picked up his cane and, leaning on it heavily, he limped out the door.
C HAPTER T HREE
D ULLES I NTERNATIONAL A IRPORT
J UNE 20, 2005
P RESENT D AY
Jules drove Max to the airport.
A surprisingly lively discussion on alternatives to fossil fuel was being broadcast on NPR and that plus the wipers, slapping in rhythm as they cleared the early evening rain from the windshield, had kept them from having to speak more than necessary.
But now Max cleared his throat. “Did you call the hotel in Hamburg?”
Jules turned down the radio’s volume. “The one where Gina was—”
“Yes.”
Staying. “Yes. They haven’t touched her room,” Jules reported. “As long as you’re willing to pay for the extra nights—”
“I said I was.”
“Yes, sir, I told them that. The hotel manager said he’d put a do-not-disturb sign on the door,” Jules told him. “The room’ll be exactly as she left it.”
Max nodded grimly. “Good.” He turned the radio back up.
Jules felt compelled to turn it back down. “Her room’s not a crime scene,” he gently reminded his boss. “She wasn’t—”
Max cut him off. “I know,” he said, but Jules had to wonder.
“It was random,” he reminded Max. “Gina’s death. It had nothing to do with you. You can’t blame yourself because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Max reached over and turned up the volume on the radio again. “Just drive,” he ordered.
So Jules drove as Teri Gross interviewed Willie Nelson—of all people—about fuel made from vegetable oil.
He glanced again at Max.
His carry-on bag wasn’t much larger than an oversized briefcase. Jules took that as a good sign, that his boss truly was going to arrive in Hamburg, identify Gina, pack up her things from her hotel, and then return with her body—oh, God—on the next available flight home.
Gina’s brother Victor was planning to meet them at the airport in New York. Jules was to call him with information about their return flight. Jules had spoken to Vic on the phone several times already today—to let the Vitagliano family know that Max was going to bring Gina home.
The usually abrasive and tough talking New Yawker’s expression of gratitude had been heartbreakingly eloquent in its simplicity. Vic had told Jules that Max’s generosity would allow him and his brothers to comfort their parents during this time of sorrow.
They deserved to have Gina’s body returned to them as quickly as possible.
Jules glanced at Max again. Surely, if he were intending to do some serious terrorist hunting, he wouldn’t’ve packed quite so lightly.
Still, Jules would never dare to hazard a guess about exactly what might be in Max’s bag. It was too small for a bazooka
Similar Books
