on the boxâs lid and eased it open.
This was not a trinket, I thought, as the top fell back on its hinges and my heart stopped momentarily. Sitting on the very top of the boxâs contents, wrapped in a thin velvet cloth, was a bulky L-shaped object. There was no mistaking what the cloth covered, and when I finally unwrapped it I was not surprised to see the burnished black body of a handgun staring up at me. I picked it up and read the writing etched into the barrel: PIETRO BERETTA, GARDONE V.T.âMADE IN ITALY . And below, in smaller letters: MOD . 84 F â CAL . 9 SHORT .
There was a clip in the barrel. I released it, and it fell into my lap, fresh and full, the ten bullets it was meant to hold still neatly packed. I put my hand around the stock, and my hand knew the feel and weight of it. My palm knew the gunâs contours, the pattern of ridges and the circular stamp of the maker, just as it had come to know the smooth texture of perfectly kneaded bread dough.
Setting the gun aside, I turned my attention back to the case. Beneath the cloth was a thick stack of dull green American dollars, the top bill a hundred. I picked up the stack and flipped through it. My best guess said there were at least five thousand dollars in all. A nice nest egg, enough for several rainy days, I thought, setting the bills in my lap, turning my attention to what lay under them.
At the bottom of the case were some half dozen passports, seven, to be exact, once Iâd counted them. The covers and countries of origin varied. Among the seven were two American, one Canadian, one French, one British, one Swiss, and one Australian passport. I opened each little book and paged through the contents, studying the names and birth dates, studying the glossy face that graced each document. Here was Sylvie Allain, a brunette, with close-cropped hair and a pale face. Here was Michelle Harding, her face tanned, her hair bleached by the Australian sun. Here was Meegan McCallister, a redhead, born on an April day in Toronto. Here was Leila Brightman, a severe-looking Brit. But the one passport Iâd expected to find was not in the bunch. Among the faces, shocking in their familiarness, the features my own, the noses and mouths and slightly asymmetrical eyes, was no Hannah Boyle.
Each passport was imprinted with a variety of visas and exit and entry stamps. Whoever these women were, they were a well-traveled bunch. The smudged stamps showed trips to everywhere from Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland to Argentina, South Africa, and a number of former Soviet Bloc countries. Not pleasure trips, I assumed, unless the beaches of the Black Sea were your idea of a tropical vacation. It was a disparate set of destinations, with little to tie them together other than the fact that of the dozens of trips each woman had taken, none, according to the dates on the imprints, had been made within the last five years. Not a single one.
The bathroom door opened, and I heard heels on the polished floor. Leaning forward, I peered through the crack where the door met the stall and watched the newcomer make her way to the sinks. Familiar, I thought, and then I realized that beneath the makeup and simple black sheath was the fanny-packed woman from the Continentalâs lobby. She set her purse on the marble counter and leaned in toward the mirror, surveying her face.
Hesitating a moment, I stuffed everything back into the case and closed the lid. Then I stood, reached back, flushed the toilet, slid the case into my pack, and let myself out of the stall. I glanced up at the woman when I emerged. Sheâd taken a lipstick from her bag, and the red tip was poised against her mouth. Her eyes were intent on her task, focused on the double arch of her upper lip, but as I turned for the door I saw them move slightly, taking note of me as I went.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
As my taxi headed past the Jewish cemetery and the walls of the Old City toward the
This was not a trinket, I thought, as the top fell back on its hinges and my heart stopped momentarily. Sitting on the very top of the boxâs contents, wrapped in a thin velvet cloth, was a bulky L-shaped object. There was no mistaking what the cloth covered, and when I finally unwrapped it I was not surprised to see the burnished black body of a handgun staring up at me. I picked it up and read the writing etched into the barrel: PIETRO BERETTA, GARDONE V.T.âMADE IN ITALY . And below, in smaller letters: MOD . 84 F â CAL . 9 SHORT .
There was a clip in the barrel. I released it, and it fell into my lap, fresh and full, the ten bullets it was meant to hold still neatly packed. I put my hand around the stock, and my hand knew the feel and weight of it. My palm knew the gunâs contours, the pattern of ridges and the circular stamp of the maker, just as it had come to know the smooth texture of perfectly kneaded bread dough.
Setting the gun aside, I turned my attention back to the case. Beneath the cloth was a thick stack of dull green American dollars, the top bill a hundred. I picked up the stack and flipped through it. My best guess said there were at least five thousand dollars in all. A nice nest egg, enough for several rainy days, I thought, setting the bills in my lap, turning my attention to what lay under them.
At the bottom of the case were some half dozen passports, seven, to be exact, once Iâd counted them. The covers and countries of origin varied. Among the seven were two American, one Canadian, one French, one British, one Swiss, and one Australian passport. I opened each little book and paged through the contents, studying the names and birth dates, studying the glossy face that graced each document. Here was Sylvie Allain, a brunette, with close-cropped hair and a pale face. Here was Michelle Harding, her face tanned, her hair bleached by the Australian sun. Here was Meegan McCallister, a redhead, born on an April day in Toronto. Here was Leila Brightman, a severe-looking Brit. But the one passport Iâd expected to find was not in the bunch. Among the faces, shocking in their familiarness, the features my own, the noses and mouths and slightly asymmetrical eyes, was no Hannah Boyle.
Each passport was imprinted with a variety of visas and exit and entry stamps. Whoever these women were, they were a well-traveled bunch. The smudged stamps showed trips to everywhere from Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland to Argentina, South Africa, and a number of former Soviet Bloc countries. Not pleasure trips, I assumed, unless the beaches of the Black Sea were your idea of a tropical vacation. It was a disparate set of destinations, with little to tie them together other than the fact that of the dozens of trips each woman had taken, none, according to the dates on the imprints, had been made within the last five years. Not a single one.
The bathroom door opened, and I heard heels on the polished floor. Leaning forward, I peered through the crack where the door met the stall and watched the newcomer make her way to the sinks. Familiar, I thought, and then I realized that beneath the makeup and simple black sheath was the fanny-packed woman from the Continentalâs lobby. She set her purse on the marble counter and leaned in toward the mirror, surveying her face.
Hesitating a moment, I stuffed everything back into the case and closed the lid. Then I stood, reached back, flushed the toilet, slid the case into my pack, and let myself out of the stall. I glanced up at the woman when I emerged. Sheâd taken a lipstick from her bag, and the red tip was poised against her mouth. Her eyes were intent on her task, focused on the double arch of her upper lip, but as I turned for the door I saw them move slightly, taking note of me as I went.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
As my taxi headed past the Jewish cemetery and the walls of the Old City toward the
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