Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [43]
Marta let go of the concierge’s broken finger and grabbed on to his pinkie. “You’ve got nine left,” she said. “So let me ask you again. How much do you care about your fingers?”
Tears were streaming down the concierge’s face. Excruciating pain and paralyzing fear trumped hotel policy.
“I made reservations for Monsieur Bannon this morning,” he whimpered. “A flight to Venice and dinner at the Antico Martini at eight tonight.”
“What hotel?”
“The Danieli.”
“One more question,” Marta said. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? You don’t strike me as a man who would be a slave to hotel policy.”
“Monsieur Bannon gave me a hundred euros to be discreet about where he was going.”
Or where he was taking Chukov’s diamonds, Marta thought.
She released Laurent’s pinkie. His hands flew to his chest and he tucked them safely under his armpits.
He stood there cowering as Marta picked up the fifty euros she had put on his desk. She slipped the money into her purse, then slowly turned and left the hotel.
What a merry little chase this was turning out to be. Marta Krall absolutely loved it.
Chapter 51
It was 4:30 a.m. in New York City when Chukov’s phone rang. The voice on the other end was female and the accent German. Marta Krall didn’t have to identify herself.
“He’s in my sights,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a taxi on my way to Charles de Gaulle airport.”
“To the airport?” Chukov said. “Aren’t you on your way from the airport into the city?”
“I did that while you were sleeping. I went to his hotel. He checked out this morning.”
“Checked out—where did he go?”
“Venice. He booked a room at the Hotel Danieli.”
“The Danieli?” Chukov screamed. “Do you know how much that costs?”
Marta laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t care. He’s spending your money.”
Chukov was apoplectic. “That’s a five-star hotel! I want five bullets in his head—one for every star.” He grabbed the inhaler from his night table and sucked on it.
Marta closed her eyes and savored the sound of the fat Russian gasping for air.
“Five bullets won’t be easy,” she said. “One shot with my forty-five-caliber Glock and his head will explode like a mush melon.”
“Then put the other four bullets in his worthless dick,” Chukov wheezed. “But first get the diamonds.”
“If he still has them,” she said. “He was in Paris for twenty-four hours. He could have sold them.”
“No,” Chukov said. “What idiot would sell diamonds in Paris? And never in Venice. He’s not stupid. He’ll go to Antwerp or Amsterdam or even Tel Aviv.”
“No, he won’t,” Marta said. “Venice will be Matthew Bannon’s final stop. I promise you that.”
Chapter 52
CHUKOV TURNED UP the hot water in the shower full blast. He stood on the bathroom floor for ten minutes inhaling the steam, sipping his morning vodka, and trying to figure out his next move.
He dressed, ignoring the Bowflex and the rest of the exercise equipment he regularly bought from late-night infomercials, some of the pieces still in their boxes.
Then he called the Ghost. “Do you still have your thumb up your ass in Paris?” he asked.
“No,” the Ghost said. “My ass is currently in Venice, sitting in a very comfortable chair in a premium deluxe room at the Hotel Danieli.”
Chukov was stunned. “You’re at the Danieli already? How did you find out Bannon was in Venice?”
“It’s what I do,” the Ghost said. “The better question is, How the hell did you know? It’s five in the morning in New York. Who called you?”
Chukov took another swig of his vodka. Time to put his plan in motion. “Marta Krall. Do you know her?”
“Only by reputation,” the Ghost said. “She’s slow, she’s stupid, but she’s beautiful, so she has no trouble convincing lonely men like you to pay her fat fees and first-class travel. And then, more often than not, she botches the job.”
Chukov laughed. The Ghost was just like the rest of them. He didn’t like competition.