She said yes so quietly I could barely hear her, clutched her by the shoulders, forced her to face me, asked why again, pleading, furious, my voice trembling.

“I can’t tell you,” she said, trying to pull out of my grip, but I wouldn’t let go.

“You can’t—or won’t?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not now. You have to forget this ever happened. Forget me.”

I wanted to shake her. “It’s not just about you and me, Alex. People died. Do you get that? I’d like to forget that, but I can’t. I’m going to find out whether you tell me or not. I have a list of names, art collectors who—”

Alex stopped struggling, her face close to mine, prickly with expectation and dread. “Art collectors? What do you mean?”

I told her about Smith’s list, the collectors of stolen art, and that I had started contacting them.

“You what? You have stop. Now!” Her voice pleading, a throb. “Listen to me, this journal—the people you’re dealing with—are dangerous, more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“And you’re working for them, these dangerous people?”

“I… It doesn’t matter anymore. Just stop.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already seen some of them.”

“Who? What are their names? Tell me their names.”

“Jonathan Teivel and Richard Baine. Those names mean anything to you?”

She took a quick breath. “No—” she said, the word bitten off.

“You’re still lying, aren’t you?”

She pulled out of my grip, opened her apartment door, her hand at my back. “Just go!” she said, her last words before she pressed me forward, shut the door, and turned the lock.

92

Down the street, half-hidden under the awning of a tall building, the Russian waits too. Having bought himself a topcoat of the softest wool, he feels like one of the many well-dressed New Yorkers he sees everywhere in the city. Never in his life has he spent so much money for an article of clothing, but the coat, purchased at a post-Christmas sale, was half-price and so soft he cannot stop petting it. “One hundred percent cashmere,” the salesman had said. The hat had been on sale too, a gray felt fedora to replace the old one, which was spotted with blood. “Mud stains,” he’d said. He bought a new pair of sunglasses too, metallic and reflective; he can see out, but no one could see in.

From behind the shades and under the brim of his new hat, he has been watching, has seen the American and the blond, the two of them going into the redbrick building.

He is getting close. He can feel it. His instincts are always good. Invaluable in his line of work, though he is tired. He needs a break: the beach, that pastel-colored hotel.

But first, he will find the man who tried to kill him and pay him back and, if possible, make him suffer.

93

Alex listened to Luke banging on the door and calling her name. Hands over her ears, she went into her bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the blur of sky outside the windows until he stopped.