Parallax Page 4

  As he ran, he worked out the logistics. Moe once told him that exercise cleared the mind. It enabled a man to think about what he needed to do and how he would do it. Moe was right. Frank always ran when he needed to sort things through.

  Would the Don have Gia under surveillance? Possibly, he thought, but not likely. Maybe he has me under surveillance, he thought grinning. Make sure I don't warn her and let the chick fly the coop.

  That didn't make sense, either. Maybe for someone else. But not Frank. The Don wouldn't risk pissing him off like that.

  He reached Black Falcon Terminal and spotted the ever-present State Police cruiser idling by the gate. He waved. The cop, probably earning about sixty bucks an hour for drinking coffee, frowned.

  Well, fuck you, Mr. Cheery.

  Frank kept jogging.

  And he kept sweating.

  Gia.

  Frank had seen her the first night after he'd come back in from a job. She'd been sitting at a cocktail table wearing a short skirt that showed probably too much thigh. But it was nice full thigh, the kind Frank preferred. She didn't look like any of the anorexic waifs that strutted their bones up and down the fashion runways of the world. Gia was woman – old-style 1950's buxom brunette with long lashes, stocking and garters,; a big busted all-American full-on pulse-racing woman.

  And damned if Frank didn't think she was probably the best-looking babe he'd ever laid eyes on. Straight out of his private eye novels - the damsel in distress. The kind who needed a guy like Frank in her life.

  Patrisi had done him the favor of introducing them. Frank had sat down when she'd offered him a chair next to her. He could feel the body heat coming off her in waves that seemed to reach right through his clothes and nuzzle his skin. The hairs on his forearms had jumped to attention.

  And every man who walked through the place sucked in an eyeful of memories. Gia must have had sex at least fifty times that night - if only in the minds of the men who saw her.

  She tuned in right away to Frank, though. Seemed almost overly interested in him. When she asked him what he did for Patrisi, Frank had sipped his beer and said that he simply did boring work for the Don.

  It was partly the truth.

  Killing people wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Sure, there was the tension of setting up a clean hit - Moe had always taught him the importance of proper preparation and planning. "Any fool can kill," he'd said. "But it takes a real pro to kill again and again without getting his ass landed in jail."

  So, once you got beyond the setting up, the rest of it was sort of boring. There's the target, walk over, pull the trigger. Two rounds in the skull to be sure. Add more if necessary. Walk away. Get in car. Leave area. Collect pay.

  Yawn.

  Frank chuckled. Maybe it wasn't quite so nonchalant, but that was the way he'd painted things with Gia. Better she not know anyway.

  But she found out soon enough. Other people knew Frank well enough to whisper about him when he wasn't around. The next time Frank saw Gia, she'd asked him point blank if he was a hired killer or not.

  Frank found her gaze a bit unsettling. Almost like being under of those bright hot lamps the cops used to use for interrogations.

  He'd begged off answering her, telling her his life was pretty mundane. She'd held on, stronger than he would have suspected her capable of.

  "Take me to dinner," she'd said.

  So Frank took her down Hanover Street to a little joint that overlooked the crowds. While Franco parked his car down a side street in a chain-linked parking area reserved for his best guests, Frank ordered them the best veal in the city. They'd drunk a Merlot straight from a small vineyard in Tuscany. And Gia had sat there drinking in not only the ambience, but also Frank.

  By the time dinner was over, Frank felt like she was the only woman in the world who'd ever mattered to him. The memories of all the other tarts he'd ever dated vanished.

  If we sleep together, he thought, it'll be like losing my virginity all over again.

  That actually took longer.

  Gia might have dressed like a 1950's harlot, but she was anything but. She took her time with Frank. In a way, it built up the tension to an almost unbearable point. Frank obsessed about her. All he saw were images of her dancing in his mind. All the time. Unless he was on a job. Moe had taught him absolute focus on jobs and he was able to maintain that at least.

  Gia finally seduced him - because she called the shots that night and Frank merely went along like a hapless fool - on the night of the Feast of Saint Anthony's. While fireworks went off below on the streets, Gia and Frank made a few combustions of their own. Gia made love like a rollercoaster on acid and Frank felt only too blessed to be along for the ride.

  Afterward, in the glow of the post-coitus ecstasy, Gia's heart continued to thunder against his chest. Frank had asked her if everything was okay and she'd smiled and said it was.

  Frank's own heart ticked down as the orgasmic release lulled him into the best sleep he'd ever had.

  The next morning she had vanished.

  Gia.

  He'd need to see her soon. He'd promised results within a week.

  And Frank never failed to deliver.

  *** *** ***

  Her office sat on Congress Street where she worked in human resources for a major mutual fund corporation. Frank hated corporations. Frank hated what he felt was the enslavement of a lot of good people into cubicle hell. And Frank hated the omnipotent greed heads that ran the companies.

  Say what you liked, he thought, but at least the Mafia retained a very hands-on family approach to running business.

  Showered, shaved, and dressed in a charcoal suit and thick wool overcoat, Frank walked to Congress Street just after ten o'clock. He paused at the entranceway and took a breath.

  The Corporate America atmosphere stifled him.

  He strode past a security guard more interested in doing the crossword puzzle than in asking him his business. At the elevator banks, he pressed the third floor and waited for the doors to close.

  Why was his heart rate increasing?

  At floor three, he stepped out and paused at the receptionist's desk. "Good morning."

  She looked up as if suddenly surprised by his appearance. "Can I help you?"

  "Yes, Gia Scolomari, please."

  The receptionist nodded. "Have you filled out an application yet?"

  "I'm not here for a job."

  "Oh." The receptionist turned away and dialed an extension. After a moment she started talking while Frank examined the nonsensical lithographs that passed as appropriate artwork for an office.

  A wave of pain descended on him. His head throbbed.

  Frank closed his eyes. Images rushed at him. He saw an airplane. A big one. Coming across the water. The ocean? He shook his head. Heard the roar in his ears subside, felt the pain vanish.

  "Sir?"

  He turned. "Yes?"

  "Are you all right?"

  Frank rubbed his temples. "Fine."

  "Whom should I say is calling?"

  "Sorry? Oh, tell her it's Frank Jolino."

  The receptionist spoke into the headset and then hung up. Frank turned. Gia emerged from an office beyond the double-paned glass doors.

  Frank caught his breath and forgot about his headache.

  He might hate Corporate America, but he sure liked seeing women dressed in suits and skirts.

  He smiled at Gia.

  Gia frowned at him.

  She pushed her way through the doors. "What?"

  "We need to talk."

  "Now?"

  "It's not the kind of thing that'll wait."

  "Let me get my coat."

  Frank put his hand on her arm. "Inside is better."

  She looked at him and sighed. "All right. Come into my office."

  Frank followed her down an aisle bordered by cubicles toward an open door. Inside, Gia slid behind a mahogany desk and folded her hands on the blotter.

  Frank looked arou
nd. "You've done well for yourself."

  "You can drop the educated vocal inflections now, Frank. We're out of earshot."

  He smiled. Moe had insisted Frank learn to drop his Boston Italian accent when dealing outside the realm of the Family.

  Frank draped his coat onto a chair and sat. "So. How you been?"

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "What?"

  "You show up at my office, basically demand to see me-"

  "I didn't demand."

  "And now we're going to go around like a couple of junior high school kids on their first date. What the hell, Frank?"

  "You always gotta get things out in the open, huh?"

  "Always made it easier, yes."

  "If you say so."

  "Are you bringing our past into this already?"

  "Not unless I have to."

  She leaned forward. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You piss anyone off lately, Gia?"

  "Sure, yeah. Of course. I pissed off the guy working the coffee counter downstairs this morning. I told him I wanted extra sugar. He's probably plotting my untimely demise right now."

  "I'm being serious."

  "Serious? What the hell kind of question is that? How would I know if I've pissed anyone off lately? I don't give out score cards after every interaction I have." She sighed. "Why?"

  "Because you've got a marker on you." Frank let the words hit the floor and stay there a few seconds before he cleared his throat. "I thought I'd come to you first and see what the deal was."

  "You can't be serious."

  "I've never been more so."

  "How'd you find out?"

  Frank cocked an eyebrow. Gia's eyes went wide. "Oh my God. You?"

  "Like I said, I wanted to check with you first."

  "Before you kill me."

  "I never said that."

  "Is that why we're in here? So you won't be tempted to kill me outside the office?"

  "Gia-"

  "I can't believe this. My ex-boyfriend gets contracted to kill me. Damn, I love Mondays."

  "Gia, don't make me play twenty questions. You need to be straight with me on this. What are you up to?"

  "Nothing."

  "Don Patrisi doesn't bother with people unless they've messed him over somehow. You must have done something. Think, will you?"

  "Did you tell him you'd do it?" Gia's voice sounded soft. Scared. Was that possible? Frank hadn't thought so before.

  "Yes."

  Her cheeks went red. "Get out."

  "We're not done talking yet."

  "I'm done talking to you, Frank. I can't believe you said yes. After everything that we've been through together."

  "What the hell was I supposed to say – no? Grow up, Gia. It doesn't work that way. I'd be dead right now and there'd be a hit team waiting to pop you when you went to lunch." He sighed. "Listen: I don't want to kill you. I don't intend to kill you, either." Did he mean that? "But I have got to know what the hell is going on here. It's not like Don Patrisi to do this. You know that. Hell, you know the guy almost as well as anybody in the Family does."

  "He's my uncle, Frank."

  "Yeah, which makes me wonder all the more why he wants you taken out. Blood means a lot to the guy. And he's gone and given the green light to have you whacked."

  She slumped back into the chair. "I can't believe this."

  "Believe it, already, would you? Now tell me what's going on."

  "There must be a leak."

  "What leak?"

  She looked at him. "A leak in the Family. How else would he have known about me?"

  "What's to know about you, Gia?"

  "He knows about my activities. Christ, I was so sure I'd been careful. They promised me protection. They said this wouldn't happen."

  "Who said it wouldn't happen? What are you talking about?"

  She grinned but all of her self-confidence had drained out of her body. "I'm working with the Feds, Frank. I'm working to put my uncle in jail."

  Frank's stomach dropped. "Shit."

  Chapter Five

  Stahl emerged from Logan International Airport Terminal E and took a breath of the smog-laced cold January air. He smiled. It had been years since he'd been in Boston.

  And even longer since he'd killed here.

  He walked the line of yellow cabs idling by the curb and slid into the back of the first in line. Normally, he would have taken one further down. But if he did, he would have attracted the attention of the local FBI watch teams in place since September 11th, 2001's terrorist attacks.

  He gave the cabby directions and leaned back against the vinyl seat. They cruised out of the airport, into a rotary and then toward the Sumner Tunnel. Stahl watched seven lanes of traffic merge into two as they oozed into the tunnel's slow crawl.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. He wasn't happy about the financial arrangements for this mission. But he'd had little choice. The old man knew he was almost broke. He knew his son needed the operation soon. And the manipulative bastard had used Stahl's remorse against him.

  Stahl wanted nothing to do with his former life. He was lucky enough to be alive now. But he was even luckier to have a son like Alois. Stahl fought back the surge of emotion as he recalled his last glimpse of his son lying in the hospital outside of Ramstein.

  He'd left directions with the team of doctors to go ahead and begin the search for a transplant donor. Stahl himself was not compatible. He hoped by the time he finished the assignment, the hospital would have found a donor and Stahl would simply write a check for the operation.

  He hoped.

  Alois was all of eleven years old and already shaping up to be a fine man. He had his mother's good Italian genes. But he had Stahl's keen eyes and sharp nose.

  Stahl thought how fun it would be to school his son on the finer points of becoming a man when he got out of the hospital.

  A man, he decided. Not a killer. Not someone who had to walk in the shadows because of the many people who wished to see him dead. Only Stahl's new face would keep him safe now. That and the years of perfecting his tradecraft.

  But part of him wondered how well equipped he was for this assignment. His last mission was ten years ago. An eternity in this game, he decided. The birth of his son, following a harrowing escape with hit teams hot on his trail, had caused Stahl to reevaluate his life.

  He knew well enough that he would not have accepted this assignment if Alois wasn't near death. Stahl's jaw tightened. There was nothing he wouldn't do to make sure Alois lived a long life.

  Ten years.

  Back then, he'd been famous for his high-profile killings. Stahl worked for anyone whose agenda matched his own bizarre set of internal machinations. For a few years, he'd worked for terrorist groups until he realized they were all hypocritical excuses to cause havoc without any real intention of creating change.

  He worked freelance for several intelligence agencies, including the Mossad, who appreciated Stahl's deft touch with explosives. He could turn anything into a bomb. From a telephone to a paperback novel, Stahl had rigged them all. And his scorecard was filled with the names of high-ranking Palestinian officials.

  But then Tel Aviv decided Stahl was expendable. Worse, he was deemed a liability in light of the peace plans being proposed for the Middle East. Stahl narrowly ducked a Sayaret Mat'Kal hit team waiting in his apartment in Madrid.

  He went to South America next and worked for the Medellin Cartel. Stahl took out Cali Cartel targets as well as Colombian government officials who thought about cracking down on the narcoguerillas.

  That was how he ran afoul of the American DEA. But the DEA wasn't in the habit of killing people it considered a threat. So the DEA had turned to the US military for assistance. And Stahl had his first run-in with a Delta Force team assigned to the case. Their mission was to capture him if possible, but kill him if necessary.

  Stahl escaped, making his way overland up through the Isthmus of Panama and hopped a freig
hter bound for North Africa.

  The near misses kept mounting. And even Stahl knew he wouldn't be able to avoid them forever. So, he retired.

  Well, not exactly.

  Stahl blew himself up.

  And let the bits be found by Western intelligence teams who then pieced them together and pronounced that the man he used to be, Javier Schmidt, was no more.

  Ernst Stahl emerged from the ashes to take his place.

  Stahl stretched his hands over his head and thought about his son. All of this was for him. He nodded.

  If Stahl had to kill thousands to save his son, he'd do just that. What parent wouldn't?

  The cab crept out of the tunnel, driving into the sunlight that warmed the interior of the cab. Stahl looked out of the windows as they rode past the mouth of Commercial Street.

  Boston's North End.

  He frowned. His head suddenly throbbed. A wave of pain crashed on him. His stomach lurched. Stahl closed his eyes and saw an image in his mind. A man. Not his target. Stahl didn't recognize him at all.

  The image faded, the roar in his ears waned, and the throb in his skull subsided. Stahl opened his eyes.

  "You okay, sir?"

  He looked at the cabby. "What?"

  "You okay? You look a little peaked. Everything okay? You getting car sick?"

  "I'm fine."

  The cabby nodded. "Sorry, Ôbout the traffic. It's always thick as cold blood in the morning. Not much I could do about it."

  "I'm not concerned," said Stahl. He glanced back at the North End as they jumped the on-ramp to Route 93. What was going on with him?

  *** *** ***

  Harvard Square bustled.

  College students just back from winter break flooded the streets, their backpacks and long coats swirling about them as they pushed through others at high speed.

  Stahl watched them and smiled. There was a time in his own life when the college scene had excited him more than anything else. A time when every aspect of his world was tied into it.

  Then he woke up to reality.

  He strolled away from the Charles Hotel, past a series of brick buildings close to the Post Office. Stahl had checked into his hotel across the river in Boston under a pseudonym, made the Trans-Atlantic phone call letting the old man know he was active, and then caught a cab over to Cambridge.