Page 98 of Gilded Saint

“This is cash.” He unzips the empty duffel. “I want you to keep this on hand. Cash is the only untraceable entity. In this bag, there are pounds, euros, and US dollars.” He removes the outer coat he’s wearing and slips his hand inside. “Here’s an EU passport with an alternate identity. Two more passports will arrive later in the week — one United States, and one from the UK. You need to store them in this bag. Do you understand?”

He tilts his head, listening with his back to me.

“I’m heartbroken, not deaf.”

“You—” He stretches an arm out as if pushing back on an invisible force.

“Please don’t.” I’m not above begging.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do have a choice. Choose me.”

“I am choosing you. I’ll always choose you.”

My eyes fill with unshed tears and hope.

“What’s best for you.” The brief bubble of hope bursts with his determined countenance. There’s nothing I can do or say. Unless… Can I convince him his beliefs are wrong? What’s best for me is for us to be together.

He steps past me, gaze locked on the ground, and opens the box of burner phones. “Keep some of these in the duffel. If you suspect someone is following you or you are in danger, use these.”

He pauses, and I half expect him to ask me if I understand, but he twists his head, and his neck cracks. His jaw flexes, his eyes a stone wall of resolution.

“This is an alternate plate for the automobile. If you ever find yourself on the run, switch the plates out. But do so after you get away from your flat, so no one can be certain which automobile is yours. CCTV canvases London. The chances someone will connect the plate change to your vehicle are too great if you do it in your garage or anywhere near a traffic cam.”

I am listening, but I swear, once again, the surreal sensation threatens to drown me.

A loud beep sounds. He gently sets me aside and touches the mouse. The photographs of a flat in Notting Hill go away, and in its place, there’s a view of the downstairs garage. That view switches, replaced by a side street view.

“Fuck,” he snarls.

“What?”

“Ex-Mossad.”

He presses a button, and the shelves move back into place.

“Where?”

“Black-haired man in the gray sedan.”

“You know him?”

“Recognize him.”

“Is he here for you?”

“Possibly.” He pulls one of his burner phones from the box. “He takes odd jobs.”

I move aside as he messages someone. On the opposite side of our building, on Olympic Park, there’s another occupied car. The occupant dangles a cigarette out the car window.

“Can you zoom in?”

He clicks a few keys, and my view zooms closer, although the car I’m looking at doesn’t stay centered and now it’s nearly off the screen. But I see enough.

“That guy is Italian. He’s Lupi Grigi.” I can’t remember his name, but I remember his face. His unofficial title, or what everyone calls men like him, is a foot soldier.

“Fuck.” Leo puts his jacket on and scans me, his eyes running over me for the first time since this morning. “Get a hat. A coat. Shoes you can run in. Let’s go.”

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