The Colossus (9 page)

Julian was unable to leave. He couldn’t stand to see Max alone and sad, burdened by her family’s past. He so wanted to do something useful for her.

But he had said goodbye. He checked his watch. It was past 10:30 p.m. He had told Raquel he’d be back by ten. He felt like he was being unfaithful merely by being here in Max’s company.

Why had he not told Max about Raquel? What was wrong with him?

He didn’t know how else to explain it, but being with Max was easy. Fun. It was like being home. Comfortable. He didn’t want to ruin it by mentioning a girlfriend. Max seemed obviously attracted to him. That meant he was leading her on by not mentioning Raquel. Surely, though, it wasn’t so wrong to enjoy Max’s adoring gazes if he wasn’t going to ever see her again, was it?

He looked at Max. She seemed mesmerized by the floor lamp. When she became thoughtful, like now, her flawless olive complexion turned transparent. It made her seem so much more delicate. Especially with those soft wispy curls around her face.

Stop!
he almost cried out aloud. This was getting out of hand. He needed to walk out the door and go back to his life. To Raquel.

And yet in front of him was Max, temptingly Rubenesque. The generous curve of her chest, covered, with barely a hint of cleavage showing. So tantalizing.

Julian had tried telling Raquel not to obsess about her weight, which was a joke, since she weighed about a hundred pounds. Dining out was painful since she would only nibble at her food. If she did eat, it would be a salad. Julian had tried ordering foods he normally ate, but seeing her wistfully eye his juicy steak while she toyed with some greens had become too difficult, and they had started eating out less and less.

Max was pushing a curl away from her face. She turned to him, her eyes puzzled. Perhaps because he was still there.

Really now
, he said to himself,
you have a gorgeous, fantastic girlfriend. A good life. You did this sweet woman a favor. This mini adventure was fun while it lasted. Time to bloody go home.

He stepped outside. Max moved to the door and started to close it when Julian noticed that her eyes were glazed and remote, her mouth quivering. She seemed to be thinking a hundred thoughts, each jostling with the other.

“Max—” he began.

She looked at him. Expectantly, he thought.

He was about to open a door he had no business even touching. If what he desired was excitement, he needed to find another line of work.

But it was more than that, wasn’t it?

Was he drawn to Max’s innocent charm and vulnerability? Or was it simply that this woman actually needed him? With Raquel, he often felt out-loved by her laptop. He was being idiotic, of course. Stumbling blocks were part of any relationship.

But there was no denying that this whole business with Max had rejuvenated him in ways that he hadn’t felt in years. That meant the attraction he felt toward Max was solely because of this journey she had embarked on. Or was it sympathy? Neither was reason enough to risk what he had with Raquel.

“If you go to London or…if you need anything, call me,” he found himself saying. “I…I know London well. I went to university there.” He should stop right now. He was making an utter ass of himself.

Max nodded absently.

And now that he
had
made an ass of himself, it was time to mention Raquel.

But the words refused to come out.

Julian had taken a few steps into the corridor when Max started to close the door. He turned, rushed back, and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. Without another glance at her, he left, his lips tingling with the soft electricity of her skin.

Pilsen neighborhood,

Lower West Side of Chicago

Aaron West was a slim man of about twenty-five. Five foot ten, with wispy reddish-brown hair, a waxy complexion, and a narrow, mousy face. He stood outside the new Big Bowl. The lunch crowd had dispersed. Aaron looked at the wallet he had just picked. Unbelievable. The guy had gotten out of a brand new BMW 7 series sedan wearing gold chains. Reeked of cash, too. Aaron threw the wallet away in disgust. Twenty bucks. One credit card—
check ID
, it said.

Plastic—the bane of his existence. And here in Pilsen! There used to be cash in this neighborhood, wads of it in every pocket, piles in every store. The business owners, mostly Hispanic, trusted only cash in their transactions. Aaron had friends who hit the ethnic grocery stores here and in other parts of Chicago—Indian, Chinese, and Mexican places—since these people kept so much cash around. But now, everyone was turning yuppie and the neighborhood was gentrifying. What a waste!

His cell phone rang. It was Geoff, the man who called himself Aaron’s pimp.

Aaron answered. “Got something for me?”

Geoff let out a laugh. He sounded tipsy. Aaron rolled his eyes. Geoff was losing control. He was becoming useless.

“Where you at today?” Geoff asked.

“Pilsen,” Aaron said tiredly.

“Dry day?” He laughed. “Not for me.”

“A man has to do something in his off time, which I seem to be having too much of.”

Silence.

“So do you have anything?” Aaron persisted.

“Well, it’s slightly different than your usual,” Geoff said.

Geoff brought Aaron computer hacking work. People wanting to get access to their ex-spouse’s bank accounts, disgruntled employees itching to install viruses on former employers’ mainframes. This paid well, but the work was starting to get sporadic. As a teenager, Aaron had picked pockets. He kept going back to it during lean times. He was constantly being tempted by Geoff to hold up pawnshops and grocery stores, but Aaron didn’t want that kind of exposure. Still, he would need to do something if the computer business slowed down any further.

“Come on. My landlord comes after me with a shiv these days. I’ll do anything, but no hold-ups, no guns.” Aaron could hear Geoff take a swig of a liquid he guessed wasn’t water.

“What a brave heart you are!” Geoff scoffed. “It’s a traveling job.”

Aaron was disappointed. “Traveling? Where?”

Geoff hadn’t heard, it seemed. “I can’t do it, Ricky and Nico are otherwise occupied right now, so all I had was you.”

Aaron sighed. Ricky and Nico were doing time for a Mexican grocery store break-in gone sour. “Why can’t you do it?” he asked. Geoff wasn’t one to let go of plum assignments.

“Smart ass, aren’t you? It involves going abroad.” Aaron let out a moan of protest as Geoff continued. “Maggie is pregnant and it’s not a good time.”

Maggie was Geoff’s self-proclaimed wife. But Geoff had another problem—one small matter of being an illegal immigrant from one of the numerous Russian republics.

“Where?” Aaron said.

“London, for starters. You’ll need visas if—”

“How much?” Aaron interrupted.

“Twenty grand!” Geoff shouted. “All you have to do is follow this girl and grab whatever it is that she gets her hands on. Easy mark. Just a fancy pickpocket job.”

“And your cut?” Aaron asked.

“A meager twenty-five percent.”

Aaron inhaled through clenched teeth. “Ten is what you usually take. And for doing exactly nothing.”

“You are being given an opportunity. I was asked to find a tough guy—a thief with serious skills. Not a soft computer hacker who snatches purses on the side. It’s a gift. Take it or leave it.”

Aaron sighed. “Where did you find this job, anyway?”

“Heard about it from the father of a friend. Why?”

“Nothing, I was just—”

“Ok. For you only, twenty-two percent,” Geoff said with a tinny laugh.

A young woman with a large Louis Vuitton handbag walked by, looking confused. Her entire being screamed “tourist,” with her Chicago Bulls cap, camera, and practical shoes. What the hell was she doing here? Sears Tower, Michigan Avenue—
that way
, Aaron wanted to point. He watched her fumble in her handbag, drop something, and bend down for it.

“So, what’ll it be?” Geoff said.

The woman started to walk away.

Aaron needed rent money and he needed it now. “Expenses?” he asked.

“I negotiated a grand more,” Geoff said.

The woman was hailing a cab. Aaron slid his phone into a deep pants pocket and glided up to her with practiced ease. There was no one around. He snatched her bag and started to sprint.

A police car turned onto the street a block ahead. Aaron felt his stomach tighten. The woman was screaming in a foreign language.

Aaron ran into an alleyway and entered a tobacco shop owned by his cousin Marco. From his pocket he could hear Geoff singing. He tossed the bag to Marco. “’Sup, brah!” Marco called and stashed the
bag under the counter. Aaron took off his T-shirt and turned it inside out. It was white on the inside, black on the outside. He took off his baseball cap and tossed it to Marco, too.

The police car seemed to have taken off. Aaron’s heart slowed to a steadier beat. He gave Marco a nod and went to the back of the store.

He returned the phone to his ear. Geoff was still there. He was calling Maggie vulgar names. Aaron winced. Perhaps this trip to London was his ticket to start a legit business—a liquor store, a donut franchise even.

“Oi, you there?” Geoff said. “Got some rent money, I hope.”

“Yup, and yes, I’ll do it,” Aaron said.

Geoff let out a shout. “I told them you would. They won’t tell us who they are—it’s very hush-hush. But there’s an emergency number to call in case of trouble.”

Aaron’s ears perked up. “Whoa! Trouble? What kind?” Aaron lived on the less-than-right side of the law, but he liked to avoid unnecessary trouble as much as possible. That and any job that might involve blood. Aaron considered himself strictly white collar—the pickpocketing notwithstanding. That was artistry. And desperation.

“More than a paper cut, less than a knife wound,” Geoff offered.

Twenty thousand was not money to be easily refused, but Aaron needed some assurances. “You gotta give me more info than—”

Geoff sneered. “No pain, no gain, buddy.” Maggie was shouting for him now. “One of these days I’m going to off this woman, I swear.”

Aaron hung up.

The Bengal Clipper Restaurant

Shad Thames

London

Max looked at her watch. 10:00 a.m. London time, but the middle of the night according to her body.

Lars had asked her to wait by this Indian restaurant. The place was closed, but her mouth watered as she studied the menu on the door. She would love to have dinner here. Maybe she and Lars could discuss the papers over the fish hara masala or, ooh…that beef bhoona sounded good, too.

Half an hour passed.

Where was Lars?

Coming to London was starting to look more and more stupid. Could this be an elaborate trick like those Nigerian email scams? Lure a gullible person away to a foreign land with an irresistible story and take them for all they’ve got. Could the German attacker have been an actor? She tried not to panic.

She tapped her feet until they started to hurt.
Lars, where the hell are you?
He lived near Tower Bridge, didn’t he? He had said the Bengal Clipper was not far from home. Lars didn’t own a cell phone, but she had a number to his apartment. She pulled out her cell phone.
But Lars had asked her not to use it. Letting out a groan of irritation, she looked around for a phone booth. There was none.

“I’m going to use my cell just this once,” she said aloud and dialed Lars’s apartment. Great. No answer.

Max was drained. She’d gotten less than an hour’s sleep on the flight. Seated next to a talkative young man on his first trip abroad hadn’t helped. Neither had her nerves about wandering around a strange city on what might be a wild goose chase. Her anxiety about flying was another matter altogether—something she solved with Xanax and a red wine chaser. The combination usually left her somewhere between calm and slightly overconfident for a day or so after. It was that feeling of confidence that was keeping her on her feet right now and her brain cells somewhat alert.

Poor Uncle Ernst
, Max thought. She should call and tell him she had landed. He had tried so hard to tell her not to go. Why confront danger when she could avoid it? His eyes had teared up as he tried to tell her in a halting voice how important she was to him. Oddly enough, his dissuading had only served to convince her to make the trip. When she refused to budge, he finally relented. He even said he’d wrack his brain for anything important he may have forgotten. And before letting her go, he held her close and begged her to be careful.

She promised to keep Uncle Ernst informed about her movements so that he could call the police if needed. His face had drained of color. That was when she decided she had worried him enough.

Before she could change her mind, she told Kim she was going away for a bit and quickly bought a ticket to London.

It was done. Here she was. And there was no turning back.

*
*     *

Aaron West, who had taken an earlier flight, watched Max from about a hundred yards away.

Geoff had pointed her out to him in Chicago, but she looked different, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail. It made her look like a lost schoolgirl.

Aaron glanced around to see if anyone else was watching her. Someone would come, he had been assured. The thought made his stomach turn. Was he supposed to attack this person if he got in the way? All he was armed with was his trusted penknife. He had refused to carry a gun.

He saw a man rush toward Max. It was his secondary mark, Lars Lindstrom.

*
*     *

Lars reached for Max and gave her a hug. “Good flight, dear?”

She nodded. “How are you?” she asked.

“Not so good,” he said, not meeting her eye. Lars’s hair was uncombed, standing out in wild bunches. His shirt was untucked. The last time she had seen him, he had looked so calm, so dapper. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I’ve just not been myself these past few days. And to top it all off, early this morning, someone called and asked me to ‘back off.’ His exact words. He even said my daughter’s name. He spoke better English this time. Odd that.” Lars considered it. “Or maybe I just didn’t notice the German accent.” He shrugged helplessly. “He didn’t say ‘or else.’ Just ‘back off’ and my daughter’s name. In an almost friendly voice. It was altogether more frightening than if he had said ‘or else.'“

Poor Lars. Max squeezed his hand.

Fatigue began slamming down on her. Even intense dread would have to take a back seat until she was rested. It was an anesthetic, this intense sleep deprivation. All she wished for now was a nice long nap.

“Lets walk to the Little Tower Hotel,” Lars said. “It’s just around the corner. It’s close to my place and the area is lively at all hours.” He handed her a copy of a credit card receipt for the hotel. Two hundred and fifty pounds, it said. This was going to be an expensive adventure, Max thought wearily.

The Little Tower Hotel was a two-story bed and breakfast with large windows, facing the cobbled Shad Thames on one side and the river Thames on the other.

Lars helped Max check in. A bellhop opened the door to a charming little room furnished in sea blues and greens, with antique furniture and a view of the street below. From one of her windows, Max could see the London Bridge and from the other, a flower shop bursting with color.

Lars settled into a sofa.

“Shall we have dinner at the Bengal Clipper tonight?” Max said. “We can talk about the papers then.”

“It’s best if we go to the bank right away.”

Max shook her head. “I know we have to get to the locker, but I need a short nap or I’ll drop dead.”

“Very well. I have to see about a few things at my patisserie anyway.” Lars scratched his forehead, a frown pasted on his face.

“What time shall I see you?” Max asked.

Lars looked at his watch. “Come to my apartment at two. We’ll go to the bank and collect the papers. After, we can talk and you can decide what you want to do. We’ll eat at the Clipper. Excellent food.” There was a tone of finality in his voice.

Max felt like a child about to be abandoned.

Lars seemed to be steeling himself. “My apartment is a few doors down from the Butler’s Wharf Chop House. There’s a back door to the apartment compound. Not many know about it. Come in that way to be safe.” He drew her a little map, pointed out to his place from the window, and gave her the entry code.

Now seated on the bed, Max was consumed by its incredible softness. She managed a small nod before Lars left the room.

She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the cloud of pillows and down.