Two people pulled out of Venice that night on an overnight Eurostar sleeper, a man and a woman who didn’t give the city so much as a backwards glance. They were traveling under the names Myra Abrams and John Galt, carrying full sets of ID retrieved from a train station locker, along with clean sets of clothes.
Before we left, there had been a whispered conversation on the platform, neither of us looking at the other:
“How do you know they won’t follow us?”
“They will.”
“What?”
“The second boat will not stall them forever.”
“Then what?”
She had brought out a folder bulging with receipts and itineraries. “I have booked three different flights out of Venice Airport. Four sets of train tickets. Two rental cars. All of this will buy us time.”
But how much time, Gobi?
How much is enough?
After the conductor came by for our passports, the compartment lights were dimmed and she retrieved the iPad from the waterproof bag where she’d stowed it. She’d changed into a white T-shirt and a leather jacket and jeans, her hair tucked back under a green Mao cap with a low brim that did a decent job of covering her face. At first glance she looked like any other young traveler whiling away the long night. Glancing over her shoulder, I flicked my gaze over the first CNN headlines trumpeting the assassination of George Armitage without really seeing them. It had taken less than an hour for the shock wave to go global. Gobi didn’t offer the iPad, and I didn’t ask to see it. Anything of Paula’s that I had to touch, I wanted to bleach first. It felt as contaminated as my memories of her.
Instead, I looked down at the folder of rail receipts and unused tickets.
“So where are we really going?”
“Zermatt.”
“Why?”
She held up the iPad. “There is someone who might help us with this. Tracking the picture. Finding your family.”
“Well, try not to kill them before they do.”
“If it is not too late.”
“Why would it be too late?”
Gobi looked like she might not answer the question, but then at the last moment she relented. “Armitage was only holding your family to get to me. Now he is dead. Is only a matter of time.”
“Before what? You mean before the rest of his organization decides not to keep them alive anymore?”
This time she really didn’t say anything.
“How much time?”
Again, no answer. Not that I really expected one at this point. “Maybe the cops-” I started.
“Perry, I told you.” Her hand found my wrist and held it. “No police in the world can help you with this now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You want to get off this train?” She pointed out at the dark Italian countryside speeding by. “Next stop, take your chances? Be my guest. Tell your story to authorities. See how far it gets you.”
“Maybe I will.”
We held our positions like that for a few seconds, neither of us saying anything. Then, hating her more than ever, I pointed at the image of Armitage on the screen.
“Who was he really?”
“A target.”
“What else?”
“That is all.”
“So why did this Kaya guy hire you to-”
She let out a shuddery breath that didn’t sound much like her at all. “I am tired, Perry.”
“Yeah, well, I’m really sorry about that, but if it weren’t for you killing these people, my family and I wouldn’t be in this situation, so I think I’m entitled to some kind of explanation, don’t you?”
She reached up and switched off the overhead light. We sat in the darkness for a long moment, rocking back and forth with the motion of the train, and finally she spoke again.
“In a past life,” Gobi said, “Armitage helped people buy things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Weapons.” Gobi gestured with her hand, a so-so gesture. “He was, how do you say, tarpininkas. . a go-between?”
“So why did your guy Kaya want him dead?”
“Bad blood.”
“They were related?”
“Former partners. They dealt with the same fringe groups. Third world dictators. African warlords. Providing them with the weapons they needed. When Armitage went legitimate ten years ago, Kaya began to worry about his old partner’s discretion.”
“So Kaya hired you to kill Armitage, Monash, and Paula?”
“Not hired,” Gobi said.
“Why do you keep saying that?” I was trying to keep my voice down in the sleeping train compartment, but it wasn’t easy. “If they’re not paying you to kill all these people, then why are you doing it?”
She didn’t answer, not even when I finally got tired of waiting, reached for her arm, and pulled her toward me. Her head lolled sideways, and in the light of a passing railway trestle, I saw the whites of her eyes rolled back in her head. A seizure, at the worst possible moment. She never seemed to have them at any other time.
“Gobi?” Her skin felt cold, clammy, and when I tried to shake her, her limbs were loose, without any resistance in the muscles or the joints.
I touched her face and felt something sticky and wet.
At first I thought maybe it was sweat. Then I looked at my fingers and saw they were red. Blood was trickling from her nose and the corner of her lips, covering her chin and neck. She had already soaked the whole front of her T-shirt.
“Oh, shit,” I said, lifting her limp body. “Gobi… What the hell?”
Her mouth fell open and she made a clicking noise. There was still a lot of blood coming from her nose, and maybe her mouth too. Out of nowhere I thought about what the guy with the beard, Swierczynski, had said to us last night.
The bullet is already in your head.
I tried to think clearly about what was happening. The blood didn’t make sense. She hadn’t been shot back in St. Mark’s Square, and there was no way she was really walking around with an actual bullet in her head.
I picked up her wrist and felt her pulse. It was irregular, and when I watched her chest rise, her breathing seemed shallow and labored.
“Look, I don’t know what to do here,” I said. “Is there an injection or something I can give you?”
Her eyes flicked toward me silent and helpless. When she still didn’t say anything, I reached down and started digging through the canvas tote she’d dragged from the locker back at the Venice train station. Inside were our fake passports and documents, two bottles of water, a silk scarf, sunglasses, a Eurail map and train schedule, a thick bundle of euros, a tube of lipstick, and a few bullets rolling around. No medicine, no messages, no clues.
At the very bottom, my hand came across a key tucked into one of the seams. It was a big chunk of brass, and at first I thought it was the room key from Venice. Then I realized there was a different tag on it completely. It read, in total:
Hotel Schoeneweiss, Zermatt
I dropped the key back in her bag, poured some water on the scarf, and tried to wipe some of the blood from her face, zipping up her jacket to cover the stained shirt. I guess I knew where we were heading after all.
Next to me, Gobi had started to tremble.