Page 121 of One Minute Out

Who the hell is this guy?

I don’t know why I’m asking myself that, because I know. He’s American, short, bald, and obviously important.

This is exactly how Roxana Vaduva described the Director of the Consortium.

Holy shit, I say to myself.

If Roxana was aware that the man she knew as Tom was going to be in Venice tonight, she sure didn’t tell me. I saw no signs of her trying to deceive me back on La Primarosa, so I’m guessing she had no idea he’d be making an appearance.

This makes me wonder if she was correct about her going to the USA after the sale.

And it also makes me worry, because if the Director is here, it may mean he’s already raped her.

I close my eyes and fight to push the thought out as a wave of guilt washes over me. I tell myself I could have found a way to get her off that boat, even if she didn’t want to go. I know I could have but, if I’m being honest with myself, I know exactly why I didn’t do it.

Roxana was absolutely right—she was Talyssa’s best chance for finding out who was running the Consortium.

I left her there, on the yacht and in mortal danger, because she was our agent in place and, despite the risks to her, we needed her in play.

I’d never tell her sister this in a million years, but it’s the truth. Roxana’s life was worth risking for me to complete my mission.

And knowing all this does nothing to mitigate the guilt I’m feeling.

I open my eyes, refocus on my objective, and start taking pictures like a madman.

Soon the men enter the tiny square, then step through the iron gate in front of the house next to the casino. They walk through the small forecourt and enter through the red doors.

I don’t get a single usable shot of the man in the middle of the security detail.

Son of a bitch.

All I can do now is sit here till they leave and shoot images of anyone else who comes and goes. There are over twenty women who will be lost in the wind forever unless I can ID the shitheads who are taking them.

I settle into place, ready to wait this out.

•••

Willem Klerk stood inside a well-lit gelato shop on the Rio Tera San Leonardo, biting into a pistachio cone and gazing only intermittently out onto the touristy street, still relatively crowded at half past midnight. He was the only White Lion operative in a three-block radius, and as he listened in to the others reporting from their positions, all closer to the market, he put his own chances for sighting the Gray Man as low.

He ate more of his gelato as his eyes focused on a pair of men walking a meter apart through the crowd. He’d noticed they were moving a little faster than others around them, and this pace set them apart at first.

But that was not all that Klerk found remarkable in the pair. He watched them as they passed, then scanned behind them for signs of others who might be with them. He did see one man who interested him but quickly discounted him when he stopped walking and picked up a menu from a rack in front of a restaurant. Then he brought his hand to his mouth and spoke softly into his cuff mic.

“Lion Actual. Lion Eight. I’ve got a pair of suspicious characters on the main street up here.”

“Describe them.”

“Subject one is white, thirties, gray jeans and brown shirt. Subject two is white, forties, off-white shirt and black pants. They have small rucks with them. They are moving with intent in your direction.”

Verdoorn replied, “We’re looking for one man, not two. Either of them look like the target?”

“Negative. Neither of these blokes is Gentry. But they are somebody. Maybe they’re confederates.”

Verdoorn paused as he thought, then said, “Or maybe they’re hunting him, same as us. CIA has been after him for years.”

“These two definitely could be from American intelligence.”

“If they are, they might be watching you now.”

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