about its speed, the outside temperature, and time to destination. After a few minutes heading north, the Gulfstream banked to the left until its nose pointed south by southeast. Toward the Mediterranean Sea.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” said Palumbo. “Talk now or later. I can promise you that the first option is the one you want to take.”
Gassan’s timid brown eyes darted toward him. “I have nothing to say.”
Palumbo sighed, shaking his head. Another hardcase. “What about the explosives you picked up in Germany? Let’s start there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He looked at Gassan, imagining the terrible things that the young man had done, the deaths he had caused, the families he had torn. And then he thought about what the man would face when they landed.
In four hours’ time, Mr. Walid Gassan would get his due.
9
A knock came at the door.
“Moment, bitte.”
Jonathan pulled a worn Basque sweater over his T-shirt and slipped into a pair of moccasins as he walked to the door. “Yes?”
The hotel manager stood in the hallway. “On behalf of all the staff, may I offer our heartfelt condolences,” he said. “If there is anything I or any member of my staff can do…”
“Thank you,” said Jonathan. “But I’m alright for the moment.”
The manager nodded, but did not leave. Instead, he drew a buff envelope out of his jacket and extended it toward Jonathan. “Some mail. For your wife.”
Jonathan took the envelope and held it under the light. It was addressed to “Emma Ransom, Hotel Bellevue, Poststrasse, Arosa.” The script was large, bold, and meticulous. A man’s hand, he thought automatically. He turned the letter over. There was no name or return address.
“A day late, I’m afraid,” explained the hotelier. “The crew enlarging the railway tunnel near St. Peter-Molinas brought down an avalanche on the tracks. I explained it all to Mrs. Ransom. She was quite upset. I must apologize.”
“You talked to Emma about this?”
“Yes. Saturday evening before dinner.”
“So she was
expecting
this letter?”
“She whispered something about a birthday. She made me promise to hold it for her.”
A birthday? Jonathan’s thirty-eighth was March 13, more than a month off. “That must be it. Thank you.”
Closing the door, he walked to the bedroom, turning the envelope over in his hands.
Emma Ransom. Hotel Bellevue. Poststrasse, Arosa.
The postmark was smudged. While the date remained legible, the name of the town where the letter had been posted was blurred. The first letter was an “A,” unless, of course, it was an “R.” The second letter was a “c,” or an “o,” or maybe an “e.” The third an “l” or an “i.”
He gave up. It was useless.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he slipped a thumb beneath the flap. Taken by the blue express stamp, he paused. It meant the letter had been mailed Friday for next-day delivery.
Again, he turned it over. No return address.
How long had he suspected? Six months? A year? Was it only after Emma’s trip to Paris, or had there been intimations before? Hints that he should have picked up on, but had been too busy to notice.
It was no exaggeration to say that he loved her madly. “Madly” was such a frightening word. It suggested carelessness and danger and abandon. Nothing like his feelings for Emma. His love for Emma had been based on an absolute absence of doubt. He saw her and he knew. The crooked grin that said, “Try me. I’m game.” The wild mane of auburn hair that she refused to tame. The torn jeans that cried out for mending. “There are more important things, Jonathan, than putting your hair in braids and wearing a clean frock.” The challenging gaze that demanded the best of him. It was as if she had been run up and made especially for him. He held nothing back, because she didn’t either.
Yes, he loved her madly. But he had not loved her
“I’ll give you one more chance,” said Palumbo. “Talk now or later. I can promise you that the first option is the one you want to take.”
Gassan’s timid brown eyes darted toward him. “I have nothing to say.”
Palumbo sighed, shaking his head. Another hardcase. “What about the explosives you picked up in Germany? Let’s start there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He looked at Gassan, imagining the terrible things that the young man had done, the deaths he had caused, the families he had torn. And then he thought about what the man would face when they landed.
In four hours’ time, Mr. Walid Gassan would get his due.
9
A knock came at the door.
“Moment, bitte.”
Jonathan pulled a worn Basque sweater over his T-shirt and slipped into a pair of moccasins as he walked to the door. “Yes?”
The hotel manager stood in the hallway. “On behalf of all the staff, may I offer our heartfelt condolences,” he said. “If there is anything I or any member of my staff can do…”
“Thank you,” said Jonathan. “But I’m alright for the moment.”
The manager nodded, but did not leave. Instead, he drew a buff envelope out of his jacket and extended it toward Jonathan. “Some mail. For your wife.”
Jonathan took the envelope and held it under the light. It was addressed to “Emma Ransom, Hotel Bellevue, Poststrasse, Arosa.” The script was large, bold, and meticulous. A man’s hand, he thought automatically. He turned the letter over. There was no name or return address.
“A day late, I’m afraid,” explained the hotelier. “The crew enlarging the railway tunnel near St. Peter-Molinas brought down an avalanche on the tracks. I explained it all to Mrs. Ransom. She was quite upset. I must apologize.”
“You talked to Emma about this?”
“Yes. Saturday evening before dinner.”
“So she was
expecting
this letter?”
“She whispered something about a birthday. She made me promise to hold it for her.”
A birthday? Jonathan’s thirty-eighth was March 13, more than a month off. “That must be it. Thank you.”
Closing the door, he walked to the bedroom, turning the envelope over in his hands.
Emma Ransom. Hotel Bellevue. Poststrasse, Arosa.
The postmark was smudged. While the date remained legible, the name of the town where the letter had been posted was blurred. The first letter was an “A,” unless, of course, it was an “R.” The second letter was a “c,” or an “o,” or maybe an “e.” The third an “l” or an “i.”
He gave up. It was useless.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he slipped a thumb beneath the flap. Taken by the blue express stamp, he paused. It meant the letter had been mailed Friday for next-day delivery.
Again, he turned it over. No return address.
How long had he suspected? Six months? A year? Was it only after Emma’s trip to Paris, or had there been intimations before? Hints that he should have picked up on, but had been too busy to notice.
It was no exaggeration to say that he loved her madly. “Madly” was such a frightening word. It suggested carelessness and danger and abandon. Nothing like his feelings for Emma. His love for Emma had been based on an absolute absence of doubt. He saw her and he knew. The crooked grin that said, “Try me. I’m game.” The wild mane of auburn hair that she refused to tame. The torn jeans that cried out for mending. “There are more important things, Jonathan, than putting your hair in braids and wearing a clean frock.” The challenging gaze that demanded the best of him. It was as if she had been run up and made especially for him. He held nothing back, because she didn’t either.
Yes, he loved her madly. But he had not loved her
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