Page 35 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"I just meant--"

"I can only give you the facts as they are."

"That's fine."

Alyse Mervosh slowly picked up a notepad and checked her notes. "The teenager's features, with one notable exception, are well within the norm of the six-year-old's. His eye color has altered slightly, but that's not noteworthy. It is also very difficult to tell the exact color from a television interview. I was able to get a solid estimation of the height of his parents and sibling and compare it to Patrick's height at age six. From those calculations, this teenager is two inches shorter than the median, but again that's certainly within the margin of error. In short, this teenager could indeed be Patrick Moore, but one thing does concern me and leads to my inconclusiveness."

"And that is?"

"His nose."

"What about it?"

"The nose of the teenager, in my opinion, does not match what I see on the six-year-old. That's not to say it couldn't have aged this way, but it would be unlikely."

Myron considered that for a moment. "Would a nose job explain it?"

"A classic nose job? No. Nose jobs by and large make noses smaller. In this case, the new Patrick Moore has a larger nose than expected."

Myron thought about that. "How about, I don't know, if his nose was broken repeatedly?"

"Hmm." Alyse Mervosh picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser against her cheek. "I would doubt it, but it's not impossible. There are also surgeries to build up a nose, due to trauma or congenital deformities or, mostly, cocaine abuse. Perhaps that would explain it. But I can't say with anything approaching certainty. That's why I am ruling as I am."

"In other words," Myron said, "we miss a conclusive identification by a nose?"

Alyse Mervosh looked at him for a second. "Wait, was that a joke?"

"Sort of."

"Ugh."

"Yeah, sorry."

"Humor aside," she said, "you need a DNA test."

Chapter 23

I stare at the Dutch farmhouse through binoculars.

The flight from Rome to Groningen Airport Eelde in the Netherlands took two and a half hours. The ride from the airport to this farm in Assen took twenty minutes.

"Only four people in the house, dreamboat," a heavily accented voice says to me.

I turn to Zorra. Zorra's real name is Shlomo Avrahaim. He is former Mossad and a cross-dresser, or whatever the appropriate term is for a man who likes to dress as a woman. I have known many cross-dressers in my time. Many are quite attractive and feminine in appearance. Zorra is neither. His beard is as heavy as his accent. He does not manscape in the brow area, so both appear to be hairy caterpillars with no interest in turning into butterflies. His knuckles could best be described as midtransition werewolf. His curly red wig looks like something he stole from Bette Midler's show trunk in 1978. He wears stiletto heels, literally, as in an actual blade is sheathed in the heel.

Way back when, Zorra nearly killed Myron with that blade.

"We know that from the thermal imaging?" I ask.

"The same Zorra used in London, dreamboat." His voice was a deep baritone. "This will be too easy. How you say? Fish in barrel. You waste talents of legendary professional like Zorra."

I turn to him and look him up and down.

"Problem, dreamboat?" Zorra asks.

"Peach skirt with orange pumps?" I say.

"Zorra can pull it off."

"Glad Zorra thinks so."

Zorra's head swivels back to the house. The wig doesn't move with it. "Why are we waiting, dreamboat?"

I do not believe in intuition or sensing something is not quite right. But then again, I don't simply dismiss

what I'm feeling either. "This seems too easy."

"Ah," Zorra says. "You sniff a trap."

"Sniff a trap?"

"English is Zorra's second language."

We turn back to the house.

"We have one goal," I say.

"Your cousin, yes?"

"Yes." I think about the various possibilities. "If you were Fat Gandhi, would you keep Rhys here?"

"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe Zorra would hide him so if bad man like Win come after me I have leverage."

"Precisely," I say.

We met years ago, when Zorra was on the other side, a sworn enemy. In the end, I had chosen to spare Zorra's life. I'm not sure why. Intuition perhaps? Now Zorra feels that he must be forever in my debt. Esperanza compares this particular outcome to one of her pro-wrestling scripts where the bad wrestler is shown kindness by the good wrestler and thus turns good and becomes a fan favorite.

I am debating my various options when the door of the farmhouse opens. I do not move. I do not pull out my gun. I stand and wait for someone to appear at the door. Five seconds pass. Then ten.

Then Fat Gandhi steps outside.

Zorra and I are standing behind shrubbery. Fat Gandhi turns that way, smiles, and waves.

"He knows we are here," Zorra says.

Zorra, Master of the Obvious Observation.

Fat Gandhi begins to stroll casually toward us. Zorra looks at me. I shake my head. As has been pointed out, Fat Gandhi knows exactly where we are. I consider that for a moment. We had been careful in our approach, but this is a quiet road. If Fat Gandhi had men posted--and clearly he had--they would have seen us turn down the road.

Fat Gandhi waves again when he sees me. "Hello, Mr. Lockwood. Welcome!"

Zorra leans close to me. "He knows your name."

"Your Mossad training. It's really impressive."

"Zorra misses nothing."

Fat Gandhi could have figured out who I am via a hundred different avenues. He could have employed some complicated hacking scheme, but I doubt that would have been necessary. He knew Myron's name. Myron and I are business partners and best friends. He also knew about Rhys and Patrick and the kidnapping. He could have done a modicum of research and learned of my personal connection.

Or, more to the point, Rhys could have told him.

Either way, here we are.

Zorra slowly slides off the sheath on his heel. "What's our play, dreamboat?"

I check my mobile to see if our other two men are still in place on the perimeter. They are. No one has taken them out. Fat Gandhi continues to stroll toward us. He tilts his face toward the sun and grins.

"We wait and see," I say.

I take out my weapon--a Desert Eagle .50 AE. Fat Gandhi stops when he sees this. He looks disappointed.

"There is no need for that, Mr. Lockwood."

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