The Devil_s Garden

TWELVE

Two hours later Aleks stood near the bank of the East River, in the shadow of the massive United Nations Building. A chill had fallen over the city, a wind that whispered that spring had not fully arrived.

He took out one of the disposable cellphones, tapped the number written on the cocktail napkin. After two rings, the woman answered. They chatted for a minute or two, dancing the dance. Finally, Aleks asked. Moments later, after what might have passed for coquettishness in the woman’s experience, she gave Aleks her address. He committed it to memory, signed off. He then snapped the phone in half, threw both pieces into the river.

As he walked toward the avenue, and a cab stand, he felt the heft of the Barhydt on his hip.

Jilliane Murphy was the woman’s name. She said she would make tapas, and open a good bottle of Barolo. She said that from the moment they met on the plane, she had known he would call.

It had been a mistake to let her see the marble eggs on the plane. This Aleks knew. What he did not know was whether or not, when she moved the papers from the seat next to his, she had seen the name Viktor Harkov, or the address of People’s Legal Services. The lawyer’s murder was bound to be all over the news very soon.

As Aleks slipped into a cab on First Avenue, a Yankees cap pulled low on his head, he gave the driver an address eight blocks from Jilliane Murphy’s apartment.

He lay back his head thinking about the next day. His heart began to race. He was going to meet his daughters, a moment about which he had dreamed for four years.

But that was tomorrow.

Tonight he was really looking forward to the Barolo.