Page 82 of Gilded Saint

“I’m going to turn the fan on,” I say when I spot the switch.

“There’s a fan?”

I roll my eyes as I exit the bathroom, leaving the door ajar to allow some steam to escape.

And then I glance at the mobile in my hand.

The texts are from a number with no name applied.

Package en route.

Crystal

I flick to read more, but there are no messages. The history has been deleted. It’s probably a precaution. My brother called Leo the arms dealer. While that sounds more legitimate than drugs, it’s my understanding the trade isn’t always legal.

His email is also empty. Who doesn’t have any email history? How is that even possible? Nothing filed.

I switch over to the camera. I’ve never seen him snap a photo, but wouldn’t it be lovely if he secretly loves landscapes or architecture?

No such luck. He has all of a dozen photographs in his collection. I must have seventy-five thousand uploaded. Yes, the two of us have differences. I zoom closer to see what ranked as important enough for Leo to snap a photo. Documents. How bizarre. I zoom in. It’s a weapons list. Contracts. Bills of lading. Manifests for five of my father’s ships. I recognize the ships’ names. What’s he doing with these? And where did he get them? From my father?

The shower stops, and I close out of photos and set the mobile on the bedside table. While my discovery is better than finding plans to meet a mistress, a pit forms in my stomach. I never knew what Leo got out of our arrangement, but this discovery leads me to suspect he did, in fact, get something out of marrying into the Titan Shipping business. But why not tell me? What is he doing?

Chapter28

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

Mixing in with the parishioners, trench coat pulled tight, head bowed, nose appendage and glued mustache itching, I enter the church. Unlike the others, once inside, I veer right and head down the familiar hall through quiet passageways.

Interpol rents out the conference portion of St. Martin’s on meeting days, but my gut roils. Something’s not right. I pause outside the conference room door, listening. Organ music drifts, the faint chords chiding those who do not attend the service. There are no footsteps, no voices.

When I open the door, Nomad sits at the table on the far side facing the door, forearms resting on the table, hands where they can be seen, a glass of water before him, and a cell phone. The standard fare has been laid out on the side table. Water, wine, bread, biscuits.

“Good morning,” he says.

I clear the space behind the door out of habit and shut it, clicking the lock.

“No one else is here,” he says, relaxed as ever.

I exhale, hoping to slough off the foreboding sense gnawing at me.

“You got the documents?” I remove my trench coat and lay it over the back of a nearby chair, then pull out a seat, sit, and remove my hat.

“Work is underway to stop the ships.”

“All of them?”

“We can’t let those ships reach their destinations.” He taps one finger on the table. “You agree, right?”

“That’s why I sent it over. Destroyed the mobile card.”

“You’re concerned?”

“Short list of people with access to Falcon’s iPad.”

Falcon is the name Nomad and I apply to Nick in conversation. It’s a precaution to minimize the chance someone stumbling on a recording could piece together our discussion.

“Might be just me and Falcon.” If he shared documents, the list of suspects would be wider. But I was in his office. The rim of his device is shown in the photos.

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