The Sixth Station(110)

“Then, before you brush your teeth or have your coffee or anything, lick the scarf. Toss it under the bed, get your things, and leave. No need to check out. A friend will be waiting at the entrance—the one we used last night. He’ll take you to the airport at Toulouse. He’ll also have your ticket. Rome. Got it?”

Huh?

“Go to the restaurant Les Etoiles in the Atlante Garden Hotel on the Via Crescenzio. It’s near Saint Peter’s, and I’ll meet you there. Trust me on that. I’m not done with you yet. I may never be done with you.”

Whoa. You sure I should trust no one?

“My God, you are one helluva woman. Now, hit the number three on the keypad to erase this message.”

I smiled and did as instructed, and then checked my e-mail. Nothing. I turned on Sadowski’s phone. One text and one voice mail.

The text was from Donald. “Baby,” he began.

That’s the second “Baby” in two days. One more of these bad boys and for sure I’ll end up dead.

“You owe me. Here it is—a photo of the deadbeat dad known as Yusef Pantera. It’s a high school photo, or whatever they call it in Frog land. I can’t believe how good I am.”

I looked down at the attached photo. It was Pantera all right.

“It’s from someplace called C-a-r-c-a-s-s-o-n-n-e in France. It’s very old. The photo, I mean. Like forty years old or something, but it’s him. Got it through a connection, a Fed who went rogue. Don’t worry. He thinks I want to be the first shooter to break the photo of the man listed as ben Yusef’s father.

“Have I told you lately that I love you? I do.”

I stared at the photo circa 1975. Teens in France apparently didn’t look as disco moronic or metalhead as teens in the USA back then. It was definitely Pantera, and I got that funny feeling inside again.

How cute was he with that buzz cut? He must have looked like a freak compared to all the longhairs back then.

This was great. At least I knew I could trust him.

Trust no one.

Okay, more specifically, I knew he was who he said he was.

“I love you back, Donald,” I said out loud to no one. For the first time in a hell of a long time in what had been a hellishly long and overwrought relationship with my ex, I realized that I actually meant it. Truly, I did love Donald—but not in the way that I’d truly meant it before. Now I honestly felt that he was my friend, and I loved him for it.

Sorry, Donald. How you gonna keep her down on the farm after she’s been down in Carcassonne? I may never get over last night.

I was desperate to dish with Dona about the whole escape-and-sexcapade thing, like I would have done in the old days. Of course the old days were just a few days ago. I hit the voice-mail button.

“Dahling.” It was Dona, but she didn’t sound like she was ready to dish. In fact, she sounded frantic, and music was playing very loud in the background. Not good. An old Mafia trick to keep the Feds from hearing you on bugs.

“Things are really heating up. I was taken to Federal Plaza quite by force. The Feds, the CIA, Interpol—it was a reporter’s dream—except I was the prey this time. They grilled me for three hours. Thank God I know nothing. I pointed out that there were more pressing issues right now, like stopping the rioting and figuring out who was inciting it, which, by the way, they seem to think is you, or your operatives.

“I know they’re tailing me. Please. Stay deep under. Please. If any of my online postings have the words Little Big Man in them, it means I found out that they’ve got a bead on you again. I’m calling in some big favors here. I love you. This is a pay-and-toss phone, and I’m about to toss. Stay safe.”

Too late.

I took a quick shower and packed up the few things that would fit into my red bag. It was either the Chanel dress or the Prada shoes, which I just noticed Pantera had been cool enough to pick up from where I’d dropped them outside last night, and which I had been ready to blow off. I knew the shoes meant extra baggage, but damn! That was a killer right there.

No. Leave them. If you’ve only one life to live, you should live it as a redhead in a Chanel dress.

I walked down the stairs to the side entrance, where a man was waiting. “Ms. Russo, I am a friend of Yusef’s,” he said, with just a hint of a French accent. “I shall drive you to the airport.” Somehow I hadn’t expected a motorcyle. I hopped on the back of his Ducati and we took off. In minutes we were through the drawbridge and out of the magical city and on to the airport.

The airport was fifty miles away, but we sped like crazy. I was able to make the morning EasyJet Rome flight without any of the usual airline fuss. The flight was smooth, and more important, it was quick.