“Who wants to get my attention?” she asked.
“Now, we just met, and I have a rule about kissing and telling, so why don’t we just say that they’re all good people and leave it at that.” He laid down his sandwich. “We figured you and your employee Ms. Lucent were not here for the sales on women’s wear.”
“So you listened in on our conversation?”
“Something like that. She seems like a loyal worker, coming to you and confessing like that.”
“She’ll be an ex-worker soon.”
“I figured. That’s why I decided it was time for us to chat.”
“About what?”
“Why is Cotton Malone in Venice?”
Finally, the heart of the matter. “We just met and I have a rule about kissing and telling, so why don’t we just say that Cotton’s good people and leave it at that.”
He smiled at her mocking. “We have a comedienne here. A real Carol Burnett.”
She dug in and readied herself for the fight she’d been hoping for.
“People wonder about you, Stephanie. Where you stand. What’s important. My boss—one of those good people I mentioned—defended you. He said Stephanie Nelle serves her country with honor. She’s a good American.”
He popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and she hoped he wouldn’t lick his fingers. But he did, then dried the tips with his napkin.
“I know a lot about you,” he said. “You’ve got a law degree and twenty-eight years at Justice. Before that you were with the State Department. You’ve been around, that’s one reason you were tagged to start the Magellan Billet. Experience and know-how, and you’ve done a heck of a job. Your agents are some of the best America has on the payroll. That kind of thing gets noticed.”
“Even by important people like you?”
He caught her sarcasm. “Even by me. You know, I love Chick-fil-A ice cream. Want some?”
She shook her head. “Trying to quit.”
He motioned to the other man. “Get me a cone and some more napkins.” The man headed off for the serving counter.
“Your minions always do your errands?” she asked.
“They do whatever I say.”
He seemed proud.
“You still haven’t said what you want with me.”
“And you haven’t answered my question. What’s Malone doing on that cruise?”
“I sent him.”
“Stay away from Paul Larks.”
Now it was her turn to play dumb. “Who’s that?”
He chuckled. “Do I look stupid?”
Actually, he did.
The man returned with the ice cream and Chick-fil-A Man started licking the sides. “Wow, that’s good stuff.”
As the other man withdrew, she asked, “What’s Treasury’s interest in Larks? He was forced out three months ago.”
The man’s tongue continued to attack the cone. “He copied some documents. We want them back. We’re also looking for a guy named Anan Wayne Howell. I think you know the name?”
That she did.
“We think Larks will lead us to him, but not with your guard dog on duty.”
“Tell the secretary of Treasury he needs to take all this up with the attorney general.”
He found the cone and bit into it. “I’m not an errand boy.”
No, he wasn’t. He was a fool, which made him even lower on the pole. He finished the cone and again licked his fingers.
She averted her eyes until he finished.
He stuffed the balled napkins, the Styrofoam cup, and the foil-lined jacket for the chicken sandwich into a paper bag. Then he stood, bag in hand, and threw her a glare that was devoid of all whimsical humor. “Remember what I said. Stay away from Larks and call Malone off. We won’t warn you again.”
“We?”
“People who can cause you problems.”
She kept her cool. “I need my phone back.”
He found the unit in his pocket, dropped it to the floor, and shattered it with the heel of his shoe. With his trash in hand, he and his companion strutted away.
She watched as they left the mall.
Pleased the fish had not only nibbled the bait, but swallowed it hook, line, sinker—even the whole damn boat.
SIX
VENICE
Malone fired up the inboard motors, which sputtered then, as he readjusted the throttle, roared to life. He backed the launch out of the boathouse. The V-hull looked to be a fifteen-footer, all wood, and he could feel the engines’ powerful hum. He knew little about the lagoon except that its navigable routes were defined by lighted pilings, bicoles, there to help boats avoid the mudflats, tidal islands, and salt marshes. Merchants and men-of-war had plodded these waters for centuries, the currents fed by the ebb and flow of the sea, so treacherous that no enemy had ever taken Venice by force.
He decided to follow the lighted route and head back toward town, then round the main island for the cruise ship dock that sat on its west end. When he’d left the ship earlier, water taxis and private launches were ferrying people to and from that dock. Another one would not be noticed.
He found the lagoon and shifted the throttle from reverse to forward. Boats were no strangers to him. His late father was career navy, achieving the rank of commander. He’d matched that rise, spending nine years on active duty before being reassigned to the Magellan Billet. Back in Copenhagen he occasionally rented a sloop and enjoyed an afternoon on the choppy ?resund.
He swung the bow around.
Another boat appeared from the darkness, its profile rushing straight at him at high speed. In the dim light he saw two men, one aiming a gun his way. He dove down as pops rang out and bullets thudded into the windshield.
Where the hell had they come from?