“Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’ ” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you out on a date, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’ll do,” she said, satisfied.
He grinned. “I don’t even want to kiss you. That mustache gives me the willies.” He had just finished packing the charges, some in the duffel bag and some in a box. The detonators were in a separate box, and as a precaution he’d taken the batteries out of the remote control.
He was dressed in coveralls that matched hers, with SSC embroidered on the left breast pocket, but underneath he wore a white dress shirt and a tie, to denote he was the boss and draw attention his way. The coveralls were unzipped enough to reveal the tie, and they were loose enough to hide the line of the shoulder holster he wore. She had opted for her familiar ankle holster, though with these boots, getting to her pistol was more difficult than usual. They weren’t entering a fast-draw competition, though; when the time came, if everything was working right, she’d have plenty of time to pull her weapon.
He carried the duffel bag and the box containing the charges, while she carried the box with the detonators. They had the elevator to themselves, but they didn’t indulge in any small talk, or go over the plan one more time. They each knew what they had to do.
“You drive,” Swain said when they reached the van, taking the keys from his pocket and tossing them to her.
Her eyebrows went up. “You’re trusting me to drive?”
“A: I’m the boss and I’m the driven, not the driver. B: a van’s no fun to drive.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said drily. The van must handle as agilely as a beached whale for Lucas Swain to have willingly turned over the keys.
They were supposed to meet Damone Nervi at the complex at three pm. Swain had chosen that time because in the afternoon people are tired and less alert than they are in the morning. When they reached the complex, Lily couldn’t help looking at the small park where the gun battle had erupted just two weeks before. The incident had been mentioned in the news; then when no additional excitement was added by someone dying, it had been completely dropped the next day. She was pleased to see that even though it was a weekend, the cold weather had kept most people from enjoying the park. It was mostly deserted, except for the very occasional hardy soul walking a dog. The fewer people who were about, the better.
As they approached the gate where two guards waited, she coughed several times again, to roughen her voice. One guard held up his hand and she obligingly eased to a stop, then lowered her window. A blast of frigid air made her glad she was wearing the vest. “Monsieur Lucas Swain to see Monsieur Nervi.” Before she could ask, Swain handed over his international driver’s license for the guard to check. She fished out her new fake license and handed it over, as well.
“Fournier,” the guard said, reading the name off the license. They checked the names against a list, which, she noticed, had only the two names on it, so completing their task didn’t take very long.
“Go to the main entrance on the left,” the guard instructed, returning the licenses to them. “Park in the slot marked for visitors. I will call Monsieur Nervi and notify him of your arrival. Beside the door is a buzzer; press it and someone inside will release the lock for you to enter.”
Lily nodded as she slipped the license back into her pocket, and raised the van window to shut out the cold air. She coughed several more times, because she didn’t think she had sounded hoarse enough when talking to the guard. The more she coughed, the worse the cough sounded, as if her throat was getting into the spirit of things. It was already a little sore, so she needed to be careful not to overdo.
Two men stepped out of the entrance. One was Dr. Giordano. “That’s the doctor on the left,” she said to Swain. “The other man must be Damone Nervi.”
There was, in fact, a strong family resemblance, but where Rodrigo was a very good looking man, Damone Nervi was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen, though in no way was he effeminate. His looks were classic, from his thick black hair to his smooth olive-toned skin. He was tall and trim, elegantly dressed in a double-breasted charcoal gray suit that draped on him the way only the Italians could get a suit to fit. Dr. Giordano was smiling in welcome, but Damone’s face was set in an aloof, rather stern expression.
“Something’s off,” Lily murmured.
“How?” Swain asked.
“Supposedly we’re here at Damone’s insistence, so he shouldn’t look as if we’re as welcome as the plague.”
“An apt simile,” he observed. “Yeah, I see what you mean. The doctor’s smiling, Damone isn’t. Maybe he isn’t a smiley type of guy.”
Sometimes the most simple explanation was the best one, but Lily couldn’t shake her vague uneasiness. She parked the van in the appropriate slot and tried not to be obvious as she studied the two men.
Swain didn’t wait. He left the van and strode confidently to the entrance, where he gave both men a brisk handshake. His bearing had changed, Lily realized, the habitual lazy saunter had been replaced by a walk that said, “get out of my way.” Everything about his body language had subtly changed, and he looked like an aggressive, no-nonsense businessman.
According to their plan, she got out and went to the back of the van, opening the doors and getting out two clipboards that each held a thick sheaf of printed forms, plus two circuit testers that were totally useless for anything they were supposed to be doing but which Swain had decided looked impressive. They might even test a circuit or two, just to look as if they were doing something.