and Chuck loved most. That and the risqué thrills. The thump of the clubs late at night, the dancing, the drinking, living for the moment. The lasting friendships among those who worked in the clubs in London, Paris, and Rome. The casual assignations when couples would pair off, including each of them without each other.
Then there was their professional life.
Their current assignments would soon have them in one of the old Soviet republics again where it was even colder and nastier. Oh, well, they were making a good career out of their involvement in this international cloak-and-dagger stuff.
They had money stashed in Switzerland, New York, and the Bahamas. If they weren’t doing it, they reasoned, someone else would be, just not as well. So they continued on. Across the street an American tourist was barking through a souvenir-shop megaphone asking a woman to hike up her skirt, eliciting laughs from his friends and, surprisingly, the woman herself, who was equally soused. Chuck was amused.
The sidewalk was terrible. Ice everywhere. Chuck checked the shadows in the doorways nearby. He was always on his guard. He never knew when someone would step out of such shadows and, from some grievance in a complex past, raise a weapon. He always had an eye out for anyone who might recognize them and know them by their real names. There would be no end to the inconvenience that would cause.
They were partners in a gray world, a world of the political underground, half-formed conspiracies, plots, and counterplots. They thought of themselves as warriors for a good cause. The truth was, they were closer to foot soldiers, and the validity of the cause was open to argument.
Their last work project, the one in Paris, had ended in complete disaster. So they weren’t celebrating this evening. They were trying to forget.
Chuck led Susan to the single waiting cab. He and Susan had a local woman in tow, someone they had met at the club. The woman had called her roommate and left a message, or so she said. She was staying over with “a friend” that night. So as she dropped her own cell phone into her purse, she was at liberty.
Chuck approached the cab. The driver looked up. A face that could have belonged to one of Caesar’s centurions. Drawn, unshaven, and tired.
“Le Grand Hotel,” Chuck said. He spoke good Italian but an American accent was noticeable.
It made perfect sense. A hotel with a French name in the heart of Rome. Back in the 1890s when the hotel had been named, the French motif had suggested elegance, as if the Romans didn’t have enough on their own. Yet the hotel was still the most luxurious in Rome. “ Vittorio Orlando Strada , numero tre ,” he continued.
The driver replied with a grumble. He was still gabbing into his own cell phone. “ Non in servizio ,” he answered, pointing to the roof of the cab. “Off duty.”
“I’m never off duty, so why should you be?” Chuck said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
The cabbie looked at him as if he didn’t understand. The Italians were good at that. Chuck dug around his pocket and came up with something the driver would understand.
An American fifty-dollar bill. Nice and crisp. Ulysses S. Grant in one of his sober moments.
“This is yours on top of whatever’s on the meter.”
The cabbie hesitated. Then, “ Va bene ,” he said.
The cabbie put his hand on the fifty. Chuck eyed the vehicle from end to end, trying to assess any potential danger.
Standard Roman cab. A white Mercedes with a fresh dent in the driver’s side front door. Brand new and it had already collided with the rest of the city.
He dug deeply into the cabbie’s eyes. Standard sorehead Roman cabbie.
“I’m getting cold,” the second woman said, stamping her feet briskly, holding her legs tightly together against a sharp breeze. “Are we going somewhere or not?”
“Okay,” Chuck concluded. He released the fifty. They huddled into the taxi, the three of them in the back
Then there was their professional life.
Their current assignments would soon have them in one of the old Soviet republics again where it was even colder and nastier. Oh, well, they were making a good career out of their involvement in this international cloak-and-dagger stuff.
They had money stashed in Switzerland, New York, and the Bahamas. If they weren’t doing it, they reasoned, someone else would be, just not as well. So they continued on. Across the street an American tourist was barking through a souvenir-shop megaphone asking a woman to hike up her skirt, eliciting laughs from his friends and, surprisingly, the woman herself, who was equally soused. Chuck was amused.
The sidewalk was terrible. Ice everywhere. Chuck checked the shadows in the doorways nearby. He was always on his guard. He never knew when someone would step out of such shadows and, from some grievance in a complex past, raise a weapon. He always had an eye out for anyone who might recognize them and know them by their real names. There would be no end to the inconvenience that would cause.
They were partners in a gray world, a world of the political underground, half-formed conspiracies, plots, and counterplots. They thought of themselves as warriors for a good cause. The truth was, they were closer to foot soldiers, and the validity of the cause was open to argument.
Their last work project, the one in Paris, had ended in complete disaster. So they weren’t celebrating this evening. They were trying to forget.
Chuck led Susan to the single waiting cab. He and Susan had a local woman in tow, someone they had met at the club. The woman had called her roommate and left a message, or so she said. She was staying over with “a friend” that night. So as she dropped her own cell phone into her purse, she was at liberty.
Chuck approached the cab. The driver looked up. A face that could have belonged to one of Caesar’s centurions. Drawn, unshaven, and tired.
“Le Grand Hotel,” Chuck said. He spoke good Italian but an American accent was noticeable.
It made perfect sense. A hotel with a French name in the heart of Rome. Back in the 1890s when the hotel had been named, the French motif had suggested elegance, as if the Romans didn’t have enough on their own. Yet the hotel was still the most luxurious in Rome. “ Vittorio Orlando Strada , numero tre ,” he continued.
The driver replied with a grumble. He was still gabbing into his own cell phone. “ Non in servizio ,” he answered, pointing to the roof of the cab. “Off duty.”
“I’m never off duty, so why should you be?” Chuck said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
The cabbie looked at him as if he didn’t understand. The Italians were good at that. Chuck dug around his pocket and came up with something the driver would understand.
An American fifty-dollar bill. Nice and crisp. Ulysses S. Grant in one of his sober moments.
“This is yours on top of whatever’s on the meter.”
The cabbie hesitated. Then, “ Va bene ,” he said.
The cabbie put his hand on the fifty. Chuck eyed the vehicle from end to end, trying to assess any potential danger.
Standard Roman cab. A white Mercedes with a fresh dent in the driver’s side front door. Brand new and it had already collided with the rest of the city.
He dug deeply into the cabbie’s eyes. Standard sorehead Roman cabbie.
“I’m getting cold,” the second woman said, stamping her feet briskly, holding her legs tightly together against a sharp breeze. “Are we going somewhere or not?”
“Okay,” Chuck concluded. He released the fifty. They huddled into the taxi, the three of them in the back
Similar Books
