The Perfect Fake Read online

  He stood over her chair. She folded the newspaper, set it aside. They looked at each other through their sunglasses. Her lipstick was the same hot pink as the hat.

  “Good morning, Mother. You look well.”

  “Shall I ask Fernanda to make you some breakfast?” “I’m not hungry.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.” She held out a

  hand. “I’m sorry if I was bitchy over the phone. I’ve been so worried. You know that better than anyone. Stuart is eating antidepressants like peanuts. I don’t know where his mind is anymore. Sit down.”

  He pulled out a chair. “It’s probably not as bad as you think.”

  “Oh, Larry.” She made a soundless laugh and shook her head. “It’s bad. We’re balanced so precariously right now. It all depends on that damned map. Have you ever heard of anything so insane? Stuart wants to go ahead with it! I tried talking to him, but he still thinks he can fool Leo Zurin.”

  Larry shifted to get the sunlight out of his eyes. “It could work. Zurin hasn’t seen the original. If Stuart gives him the copy, how would he know the difference?”

  “Oh, please. An obvious forgery? Think about it. Think what would happen.” She leaned forward, and he felt the pressure of her gaze like heat off the sun. “I like this house. I like our life. I like what we’ve built over the years. I like being able to see you succeed, but we’re this close to losing everything.” She held up her thumb and forefinger and looked at him through the gap.

  Shit, Larry thought. He would be spending the afternoon on a 747. “You want me to find Tom Fairchild.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Allison is at Claridge’s. He’ll show up, or she’ll meet him somewhere. You’ll have to hurry, because they’ll be leaving for Italy soon. You don’t have to do it yourself, but it has to be done. I want the Corelli to disappear, too. It can’t be found, not by Stuart, not by Leo Zurin. Not by anyone. Ever.”

  “What do you want done with Fairchild?”

  She returned to her newspaper. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Chapter 15

  Past the tree line, the small figure was a moving dot on a field of white, cutting back and forth, tracing long curves as he came down the mountain, hitting

  a mogul, airborne for a second, cutting around an outcrop of granite, then settling down in a tuck, ski poles straight out behind him, coming very fast now, a blur through the trees, hurtling toward the stone wall, toward the gate, going through, then across the yard, between the trunks of two pine trees, and at the last moment turning his skis and coming to a dead stop beside the terrace in a shower of snow.

  Leo pushed his goggles to his forehead and grinned. When he had caught his breath he said, “A good run, eh, Marek?”

  “You frightened me. I was afraid you would miss the gate.”

  “So was I! Welcome back. How did you find the women in Miami?”

  “They are all bones, and those that are not, have bottoms like horses.”

  Laughing at that, Leo clicked out of his skis, gave them to Marek to carry, and thudded up the steps in his boots. Marek pinched the burning end off his cigarette and flicked the ashes into the snow. The rest he returned to his pack.

  Leo said, “I hope you’re hungry. Luigi is making veal chops tonight.”

  “In that case, I’ll stay for dinner,” Marek said. It was a pleasure to speak Italian again, the language that he and Leo Zurin had in common. Marek had picked it up as a boy working in resorts in Italy. He could speak some Russian, but he wasn’t fluent, and Leo knew very little Croatian, though he owned a house on an island within sight of Dubrovnik.

  Marek propped the skis on the rack while Leo sat to take off his boots. His leather clogs waited for him under the bench.

  The cold had reddened Leo’s large, pointed nose. Thick brows angled up over his dark eyes, and deep folds went from his nostrils to the corners of his thin lips. In order not to show the sparse gray hair on his head, he shaved it all off. He was on the short side of average, and tears would often spill down his cheeks when he played his cello. And yet he’d never had any trouble attracting women. A puzzle.

  The tops of the mountains reflected the setting sun, and the shadows were turning purple. At dusk, the lasers around the perimeter would go on, and the dogs would be let out to roam inside the wall. The windows were made of bulletproof glass. This house was a fortress, yet Leo would go skiing alone, not a pistol with him, not even an emergency locator.

  By now he had pulled off gloves, hat, jacket, and scarf, and when his houseboy came out onto the terrace, Zurin laid them all across his outstretched arms. The boy, a Kazakh with a flat face and Asian eyes, looked over the top of the pile and, speaking in Russian, said: “Excuse me, Leo Mikhailevich. There is a telephone call from the United States. He says his name is Stuart Barlowe.”

  Leo looked at Marek as if for an explanation. Marek responded with a slight shrug. They went inside to the main room, where a fire warmed the rough stone walls. Leo picked up the telephone.

  “Stuart? Hello! I’ve just come off the mountain. You’re lucky to catch me. How’s the weather in Miami?”

  To Marek’s ear, Leo’s English was flawless, but he couldn’t be sure, since his was so bad. He went over to the fireplace and put on another log. The room had thick rugs on the wood plank floors, a U-shape of sofas facing the fire, and a high, beamed ceiling. Windows on the west side overlooked the Valle di Champorcher and the small town of the same name, whose steeply pitched roofs were now covered in white. The area was too remote to attract many tourists—the same reason Leo Zurin had bought the chalet.

  To get to the top of the mountain, Leo would traverse for half a mile, then go down one of the ski runs to the bottom and get on the chair lift. It would take him to the top, where he would go through some woods, come out in the open, and slalom down to his house.

  He was talking to Barlowe about a map—an antique Italian map of the world that he had wanted for a long time. A copy of it, made from a photograph Barlowe had sent, occupied a heavy gold frame by the fireplace. Marek had often seen Leo gazing at the copy as if it were the Virgin Mother. Marek suspected that Stuart Barlowe had delayed sending the original until he had Leo’s money. So far, Leo had been patient.

  “No, no, don’t trouble yourself, Stuart. Really, it isn’t necessary....Well, then, if you’re sure you want to.” He stood with one hand on his hip, leaning back slightly to stretch his muscles. “That’s wonderful. Excellent. Ciao.”

  He set down the phone and clapped his hands together.

  “The Corelli?” Marek asked.

  “Yes, the Corelli. Barlowe will deliver it himself, but first he’s taking it to a restoration expert in London. He wants to see if they can erase a few water spots and fix a tear in the fold. He won’t tell me more. He wants to surprise me. Do you know how long I’ve waited for that map?”

  Marek had heard the story, but he said, “A very long time.”

  “A lifetime. Four lifetimes.” Leo walked over to the replica and ran his fingers across the gold frame. “It will be the last piece in the atlas that the Communists stole from my grandfather before they put him against the wall. He used to hold me on his lap and show me the places I would go someday. Yes, Marek. I remember quite well. He had been given the atlas on his twenty-first birthday by my great-grandfather, who purchased it in Odessa. Before Odessa, the atlas had seen Constantinople, and before that, Milan and Venice.”

  The Kazakh returned with a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and some cheese and bread. He filled the glasses as Leo stretched out with his feet toward the fire.

  “The general who ordered my grandfather’s execution lost it in a game of Three Aces, and it wound up in the museum in Riga for fifty years before the regime fell apart and someone lifted it off the shelf. Imagine the pittance the thief must have got for it. If I knew who cut it to pieces, I would do the same to him. But sit down, Marek. I want to h
ear about The Metropolis. How is the view from the penthouse in Tower One?”

  Marek smiled. “You will have a fabulous apartment. I brought the plans with me, and some photographs of the site.”

  “What will I see from the fiftieth floor?”

  “The city, the river, Miami Beach, the Atlantic. Your terrace goes around three sides.”

  After giving them each a glass of wine, the Kazakh bowed and quietly left the room.

  Leo said, “Two years till it’s built, do you think?”

  “Barlowe says it could be sooner, as early as eighteen months. They have obtained the last of the approvals. Larry Gerard kept telling me it wasn’t easy.”

  “I believe that. American bureaucrats are expensive.” Leo tore off some bread and laid some cheese across it. “I’ve promised Pan-Global enough money to buy my penthouse five times over. Barlowe says the developer demands the money by the end of the month. Should I go ahead with it, Marek?”

  “If you believe Barlowe,” Marek said.

  “And you don’t?”

  “He’s hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but I sense it.”

  “We all have secrets. As long as he doesn’t pick too much from my pocket—and he delivers my map—Stuart and I have no quarrel. Now, this other matter ...how did Contreras impress you? You know I don’t like doing business with strangers.”

  “He is a peasant but very shrewd. I think you can trust him, although, as I told you last week, he’s on the Americans’ radar screen.”

  “What about that girl they were questioning? Did they get anything from her?”

  “No. I made sure of it. She had a roommate who also knew Contreras, but the roommate had connections to a judge. Larry thought there would be problems if anything happened to her. The judge is now dead, and the girl is in London.” Marek hesitated, then said, “One thing bothers me. She’s a friend, perhaps a lover, of Tom Fairchild.”

  “Fairchild. An odd name.”

  Marek said, “I don’t believe that he was going to Nassau to look at maps. His sister owns a map shop, but that could be a cover. He has a criminal past. He avoided my questions. He’s strong and quick. I think he’s had martial arts training.”

  “What are you telling me? That Fairchild is an American agent? What does that make Stuart Barlowe? No, Marek. Not Barlowe. I know him too well. It’s not in him.”

  “You are probably right.” Marek nodded. “Do you think Barlowe could have been used?”

  “Possible, but why do you suspect Fairchild?”

  “He had something in his bag. Long, but not too heavy. When he saw me opening the zipper, he almost attacked me. I would have found out what it was before we reached Nassau, but he left the boat. Whatever it was, he took it with him. I was thinking of a high-powered folding graphite rifle.”

  “Not yet. Those rifles are still in development. No one has them, not even the Israelis, who are making them.” Leo held up a hand. “Fairchild wasn’t going after Oscar Contreras. Our contact in Peru told me that Contreras returned two days ago.”

  “Then I can’t explain it.” Marek refilled Leo’s glass, then his own. “Fairchild is not in Miami. This much I do know.”

  Through the closed door came a muffled ringing, and a few moments later the Kazakh reappeared. “Another phone call for you, Leo Mikhailevich. A woman, Rhonda Barlowe.”

  “Really? I just spoke to her husband.” With a quizzical lift of his brows in Marek’s direction, he put down his wine and leaned over to pick up the extension. The door closed quietly.

  “Rhonda? Is it really you? My goodness, what a surprise. Come stai, cara? You are well?...Yes, I just arrived in Italy three days ago. The skiing is fantastic. I’ve been out all afternoon, and now I’m by the fire warming my toes and having a glass of excellent Barolo. But do tell me why you called. I’m all curiosity.” He frowned. “Oh?...But why not tell me now?...Yes, if you wish, but to go to so much trouble... All right, then. Have a safe journey. Buon viaggio, Rhonda.”

  He disconnected and tapped the phone on his small, cleft chin. “Che strano.”

  “How is it strange, Leo?”

  “She’s coming to Italy. Her husband thinks she’s on a cruise around Hawaii, but she’s arriving in Milan on Saturday. She wants to speak to me face-to-face, but she can’t discuss it over the phone. A mystery, eh, Marek?”

  “They are not trustworthy people, the Barlowes.”

  “Oh, I know. Very few of us are, but once you accept that, you’ll find la comédie humaine quite entertaining.” He got up to put another log on the fire. He gave it a jab with the poker, and sparks shot up and reflected in his black eyes. He leaned his crossed arms on his knee, staring into the flames. Shadows extended upward from his eyebrows. “I’d like to know more about this man who disappeared from the boat. Tom Fairchild. Quite a trick, to vanish so completely.”

  “Not completely,” Marek said.

  Leo glanced around. “Oh?”

  Marek smiled. “We found a shipping receipt in his backpack. An address in London.”

  Chapter 16

  Tom Fairchild sat on a stool at the Genius Bar in the Apple computer store on Regent Street waiting for the clerk to put his computer together. Since meeting Jenny Gray at two o’clock, Tom had purchased a cell phone, a digital camera with a macro lens, some clothes, a new backpack, and a suitcase on wheels. He had also paid Jenny two hundred pounds to be his tour guide.

  At the moment, she was playing with an iPod Nano, dancing to whatever tune was coming through the earphones. The white cords bounced on her orange sweater, her curly hair swung around her face, and her belly showed when she raised her arms. She was drawing a small crowd of appreciative male customers who had come here expecting to find USB hubs and hard drives.

  Jenny had asked Tom outright, then teased him and cajoled, to tell her what he was doing in London and how he had lost his backpack. He had finally said, straightfaced, that he was on a mission for the CIA, and he couldn’t talk about it. She had laughed, then said, “Really, Tom, why are you here?” He had said, “If you knew, I’d have to kill you.”

  He was entering names and numbers into his cell phone. The pages of his address book had gotten wet when the Balkan thug had put him underwater. Tom had to peel them apart, but the writing was legible. Several times since seeing his backpack drop to the cabin floor, he had mentally searched inside it for anything that might give a clue to his whereabouts. He didn’t think he’d left anything, but jet lag was making him loopy. He kept hitting the wrong buttons on the phone.

  After he’d entered Eddie Ferraro’s number in Italy, he tried it out, but voice mail picked up. “Hey, this is Tom. I have arrived. I’m at a computer store in London right now, getting the stuff we talked about....I’ll call you tomorrow.” He left his new number and cut the call short; it would be hard to squeeze the past thirty-six hours into a message.

  Next he dialed Rose, who told him she’d just come back from taking the kids to school. She said his probation officer was looking for him. Tom said, “What the frick does he want?” Rose didn’t know. As instructed, she’d said that Tom was fishing in the Keys, and he’d left his cell phone at home, but something told her that Weems was suspicious. She said Tom ought to call him back right away.

  “I can’t,” Tom said. “I need a phone with a local Miami number. I’ll have to think of something.” After he’d hung up, the solution came to him: Allison Barlowe. He would use her phone to call the Weasel—if he could get it away from her long enough. Tom’s finger hesitated over the speed-dial for Allison. He decided it could wait. He didn’t want her to think she had a leash around his neck.

  But soon he would be forced to call Allison: He was running out of cash already. The bill for the computer and various accessories had come to £3,488. He had stuffed the receipt into his wallet with the others. The bank card had dwindled to a few hundred pounds, and he still had to pay Eddie half of what he’d collected in fees.

  The clerk came back
wheeling a cart full of boxes. He was in his early twenties, red hair, wearing the store uniform of black shirt and black pants. He lifted the laptop off the cart, plugged it in, and turned it on. Two of the young guys who’d been drooling over Jenny came to stare at the equipment. The clerk turned the laptop so Tom could see the screen with the computer specs on it.

  “Okay, you’ve got your one-point-eight-gigahertz, fifteen-point-four-inch MacBook Pro with two gigs of RAM and a one-hundred-gig hard drive, complete with SuperDrive, a 256-megabyte graphics card, a fivemegapixel camera with videoconferencing. This box here is your Bluetooth Wacom tablet. This is your firewire connector. Here’s your Adobe Creative Suite Two. Plus one compact laser printer. And for storage, one sixty-gig video iPod—in black.”

  One of the young guys murmured, “Sixty-gig.” The clerk ran down the list, then smiled at Tom. “Right. That’s it, then.” Tom motioned for Jenny to come over, and she helped him take everything out of the packaging and fit it into a padded messenger bag. Tom put on his jacket, shouldered the backpack, and hung the messenger bag crossways over his chest. They pushed through the glass door to Regent Street. Pedestrians dodged around them, and Tom kept a tight grip on the strap. Six-story buildings of gray stone, columns, and arches extended in both directions. The rain had stopped, but there was no break in the sky. Mist from the churning traffic hung over the pavement.

  Jenny wrapped her scarf around her neck and put on a fuzzy black hat. “What next?”

  Tom said he needed to find a hotel.

  “They’re awfully expensive round here. Just stay at my house. It’s only fifteen minutes on the tube. I’ll make supper.” When Tom asked what her mother might think of a stranger staying over, she took his arm and turned him toward Oxford Street. “She won’t care. She’s working the night shift at a veterans’ home, so you might not even see her.” Jenny told Tom she didn’t like living in Brixton—hated it—but it was temporary, till she found the right job. She wanted to live in Chelsea. That was her plan.