It was only as they made for the airport that he began raking over things again, Aurianne mainly, the confusion and mystery about who was trying to kill whom feeling obscene and petty against the unfairness of what had happened to her.
It wasn’t just her either, because however shallow things had been between them, they’d been happy together. And for two years he’d started to believe he could lead a life separate from what he did. They’d been two people whose jobs had taken them away a lot, that was all, and when they’d been together they’d been like any other young couple, almost, a life that was stable, something that had felt like normality.
But now here he was heading away from it, feeling like those two years had never happened, feeling naive and stupid for never having seen reality sitting out there on the horizon, waiting to make its move. He should have known better too, from the number of lives upon which he’d visited that same brand of shock therapy realism.
Approaching the airport he came around to the present again, realizing he still hadn’t decided what to do. He felt he needed the couple of weeks lying low that Danny had suggested, felt like he needed to lie somewhere with the late-summer sun working his skin, the heat of the Mediterranean.
But he’d already gone against what Danny had said, had gone back to Geneva and his apartment, and he’d been there to take that call from Holden, a one in a million chance. And if what Holden had said was true, maybe he didn’t have those couple of weeks.
For a short while in Paris he’d felt a rush at the thought of what was happening, the real nature of it sinking in only now—that his life was falling apart. He’d been slowly heading toward certainty for two years, but now it was all gone, even in his professional life, no Viner to call and harangue, Danny looking crippled with misinformation, no one he knew he could trust.
He was reduced to guessing games, trying to guess what Holden was playing at, why a total stranger was offering to help him, trying to guess whether it really was Berg who wanted him bagged and tagged, trying to guess why. It was all about information, information at a level he didn’t normally deal with, his usual way of quantifying threats based on bullets hitting the woodwork, on immediate risk, not on personalities and agendas.
Berg. JJ didn’t even know him that well, familiar only with the unassuming exterior, knowing of no dangerous side. They’d never worked together either, so why would Berg have wanted to do this to him? Perhaps it wasn’t Berg after all, and Danny was closer to the truth than JJ gave him credit for, but he had to find out. And Holden had gotten one thing right if nothing else: someone was undoubtedly trying to kill him. It was just a question of who, and how serious they were about it.
5
“Furst.”
“Hello, Tom, it’s JJ.”
A fleeting moment of mental placing and Tom said, “Jesus, JJ. Where are you?”
“In London.”
“So no one’s after you either?”
He noted that final either but let it go for now and answered straight. “Oh, people are after me. Can we meet?”
“Of course. Come over.”
“Stupid enough to be in London, Tom, not stupid enough to come skipping across Grosvenor Square.” Tom laughed and JJ added, “If you come up North Audley there’s a Waterstone’s bookshop.”
“I know it.”
“Meet me in there in about fifteen minutes. I’ll be looking through the thrillers.”
“Where else? See you there.”
JJ put the phone down and walked along the final fifty yards to the bookshop, the street brimming with people walking slowly, the air fume-sodden but warm and comfortable, like summer was getting a foothold rather than fading out.
In the bookstore he wandered around for a bit, checking where the exits were, making a quick survey of the handful of people browsing. He went over to a large table display of thrillers then and picked one up, pretending to read it while keeping an eye on the two ways Tom might come toward him.
When he noticed him approaching the main doors though, he lowered his eyes to the text and kept them there, sending out the message that there was no question of him not trusting the American. And only as Tom got close did JJ look up, smiling genuinely at the sight of him, the fresh preppy face, neat hair, the East Coast casual clothes.
“See anything you like?”
JJ shook his hand and said, “I’m looking at last pages.”
Tom picked a book up too, idly flicked through it. “I’ve read a lot of these,” he said. “They all try to be different, but the good guys usually live, bad guys usually die.”
“It’s knowing who’s who is the problem.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Tom smiled, looking pleased with himself. “If you die you’re bad, if you live you must be good—it’s the cat in the box thing.”