Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [41]
He hung up. The noose was tightening around the neck of the young man who had his diamonds. And now Chukov had two assassins competing to track him down. Once he had the diamonds back, he’d be happy to pay Marta Krall for killing the Ghost.
He smiled to himself. In an ideal world, he thought, they would kill each other.
Chapter 48
KATHERINE WAS SITTING up in bed when I got back to the room.
“Bonjour, sleepyhead,” I said as I sat down beside her.
She was wearing a pale pink nightshirt made of the softest, silkiest cotton I ever touched. The neckline had a tiny little bow in the center, totally nonfunctional but definitely adorable.
I gave her a quick kiss.
“Bonjour yourself,” she said. “It’s way too early in the morning to be this chipper. What have you been up to?”
“I woke up at six, went for a walk, grabbed some coffee, and then had a long, serious talk with the concierge.”
“About what?”
“Dinner. I had him make us a reservation at a nice little restaurant he recommended. It’s called Antico Martini.”
“It sounds Italian.”
“It should,” I said. “It’s in Venice.”
“Venice? Italy? We’re going to Venice for dinner?”
“That would be crazy,” I said. “So I had the concierge book us a hotel for a couple of nights.”
“But…but…” She was dumbfounded, and I hated to admit it, but I was having fun dumbfounding her. “But we just got here.”
“Hey, I’m feeling adventurous. We’ve already made love in one romantic city. Let’s do it again in another.”
“Just like that?” she said.
“Why not?” I said. “Didn’t we leave New York just like that? Come on, our flight leaves at ten fifteen.”
I got up, took my bag out of the closet, and started packing.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. “You are not only drop-dead amazing to look at, fantastic in bed, and wildly spontaneous, but you are also ridiculously romantic. Who cares if you’re going to be a poor struggling artist all your life?”
“Who cares?” I said. “I care.” I threw the pillow back at her.
She hugged the pillow to her chest. “I love you,” she said.
“You talking to me or the pillow?”
“Our plane leaves at ten fifteen?” she said.
“Yup.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s only seven oh five, and I’m a real fast packer.”
She lifted the pink nightshirt up over her head, tossed it on the floor, and slipped under the covers.
“I love you,” she repeated. “And I’m not talking to the pillow.”
Chapter 49
MARTA KRALL CAUGHT the 7 p.m. Delta flight out of JFK. She had only one small suitcase, and despite the fact that there was plenty of room in first class to bring it on board, she checked it.
She touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport at 8:45 the next morning and went to the baggage carousel, where she was reunited with her bag.
She cleared customs, then found the nearest ladies’ room. She locked the stall door, sat on the toilet, and opened her bag. Her hair dryer was in the black drawstring case, exactly as she had packed it.
It wasn’t a working dryer. It was built for her by a mold maker in Holland. She used a paper clip to push a recessed button on the grip. The dryer popped open. Inside were the pieces of her Glock, each one held in place by a steel clasp.
It took only three minutes to assemble the gun.
Forty minutes later, she was in the lobby of the Hotel Bac Saint-Germain.
The front desk clerk was young, slender, and extremely beleaguered.
“No, madame. No one else has complained about the water pressure,” she told the guest on the other end of the phone. Her voice was calm, but her body language said otherwise. “Of course. I’ll send the engineer back to your room immediately. Yes. I know. Room three one four. Merci.”
She hung up and smiled at Marta. “Bonjour, madame. May I help you?”
“I’d like a room,” Marta said. “Preferably on the same floor as my friends Matthew Bannon and Katherine Sanborne.”
The clerk’s long bloodred fingernails clicked lightly on her keyboard. “I’m afraid you just missed them,” she said.
“Out sightseeing, I’m sure,