Ah, there it was. Why wouldn’t she tell him about anyone in her past? Why was she so secretive? That was what bothered him about her; there was no reason for her not to give him the name of everyone she had been with since adolescence. Was she protecting someone? Did she have an idea of who could have put the poison in that bottle, knowing her dislike of wine and never dreaming she might drink some of it?
He hadn’t investigated her as thoroughly as he would have liked; first Salvatore had been too impatient to wait, and then their dates had been so no eventful-until the last one-that Rodrigo had basically put the matter aside. Now, however, he would find out everything there was to know about Denise Morel; if she had ever even thought about sleeping with anyone, he would know it. If anyone was in love with her, he would find the man.
He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “I want Mademoiselle Morel watched at all times. If she moves an inch outside her door, I want to know about it If anyone calls her, or she places any calls, I want the call traced. Is that understood? Good.”
In the privacy of the guest bedroom’s bathroom, Lily had worked hard to regain her strength. A thorough search of the room had revealed neither camera nor microphone, so she knew she was safe from observation there. At first she’d been able to do only stretching exercises, but she’d pushed herself hard, jogging in place even when she had to hold on to the marble vanity to keep her balance, doing push-ups and sit-ups and ab crunches. She forced herself to eat as much as she could, fueling her recovery. She knew pushing herself could be dangerous, with her damaged heart valve, but it was a calculated risk, as was almost everything else in her life.
The first thing she did once she was back in her flat was subject it to the same exhaustive search that the bathroom had received. To her relief, she didn’t find anything. Rodrigo must not suspect her, or he would have had the place bugged seven ways from Sunday while she’d been incapacitated. No, he would have killed her on just suspicion alone.
That didn’t mean she was safe. When he asked about her past lovers, she’d known she had only a few days to get away, because he would be digging deeper into Denise’s past and finding out there was no past.
If her flat had been searched-and she had to assume it had been-the searchers had been very neat. But they hadn’t found her stash of getaway items, or she wouldn’t be standing here now.
The old building had once been heated by fireplaces, which at some time after World War II had been replaced by radiators. The fireplace in her flat had been bricked over, and a chest shoved in front of it. She had put a cheap rug under the chest, not to prevent the floor from being scarred, but so she could silently move the chest about by pulling the rug. She pulled the rug away from the wall now, and got down on her belly to inspect the bricks. Her repair job wasn’t noticeable; she’d dirtied the mortar so it looked as aged as the mortar around it. There wasn’t any mortar dust on the floor, either, to indicate that anyone had tapped on the bricks.
She got a hammer and chisel, lay down on her belly again, and began gently tapping the mortar from around one of the bricks. When it was loosened, she worked it free, then another, then another. Reaching her hand into the cavity of the old fireplace, she pulled out an array of boxes and bags, each item safely wrapped in plastic to keep it clean.
One small box held her alternate identities: passports, credit cards, driver’s licenses, ID cards, depending on which nationality she chose. A bag held three wigs. There were distinctive changes of clothes, kept hidden because they were so memorable. Shoes were a different matter; she’d simply put the shoes she’d need in her closet, dumped in a pile with all her other shoes. How many men would pay any attention at all to a tangle of shoes? She also had a supply of cash, in euros, pounds sterling, and American dollars.
In the last box was a secure cell phone. She turned it on and checked the battery: low. Taking out the charger, she plugged it into a wall outlet and set the phone in the cradle.
She was exhausted, sweat beading her forehead. She wouldn’t go tomorrow, she thought; she was still too weak. But day after tomorrow, she would have to move, and move fast.
So far she’d been lucky. Rodrigo had kept the news of Salvatore’s death quiet for several days, which had bought her some time, but with every minute that passed, the danger grew that someone in Langley would see a photograph of Denise Morel, scan it into a computer, and the computer would spit out the report that, hair and eye color aside, Denise Morel’s features matched those of one Liliane Mansfield, contract agent for the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. Then the CIA would be hot on her trail, and the Agency had resources Rodrigo Nervi could only dream about. For practical reasons, Salvatore had been left in place with the Agency’s blessings; no one there would look kindly on her for taking him out.
It was a toss-up who would come after her first, Rodrigo or someone sent by the CIA. She would have a better chance against Rodrigo, because he would probably underestimate her. The Agency wouldn’t make that mistake.
Because it would look odd if she didn’t, and also because she wanted to see if she was under surveillance, she bundled up against the chill and walked to the neighborhood market. She’d spotted one guard as soon as she came out of her building; he was sitting in a nondescript gray car parked halfway down the block, and as soon as she walked out, he lifted a newspaper to cover his face. Amateur. But if there was one in front, she could assume there was also one in back. The good news was there wasn’t a guard inside her building, which would have made matters a bit more iffy. She didn’t want to have to go out a third-story window, as weak as she was.