Final Target

Chapter Fourteen

"Piece of cake," Stuart Thomas said. He stood up and gestured to the computer screen. "There you go, Mr. Travis. It's all yours."

Thomas's T-shirt was sweat stained and as unpleasant smelling as Galen had warned him, Travis realized. The idea of working in close contact with the kid was not appealing. "Why don't you go get a meal? I'll page you if I need you."

"You're not going to find him just by browsing. What's he supposed to have done?"

"Murder."

"What kind of murder? Crime of passion, burglary, mercy killing? You've got to narrow it down if you want results."

" Let me work at it."

Thomas hesitated. "Then will you give me my money? I usually get paid half upfront and half when you say you're through with me. I waived the first payment, since Galen is a good friend, but I really should have-"

"How much?"

"Five thousand."

"Wait here." He left Thomas and went to the apartment across the hall.

"Trouble?" Galen rose from a chair.

"More an inconvenience. Thomas wants to be paid and I have a cash flow problem. Five thousand?"

Galen shook his head. "I can get it by tonight."

"He wants it now. Never mind." He went to his duffel and drew out h is laptop, then opened the disk drive and took out a pouch. "You'll have to use your powers of presentation and convince him to accept goods instead of cash." He poured out half the contents of the pouch onto the coffee table.

"Holy shit," Galen murmured. "Diamonds?"

Travis sorted through the gemstones. "Even the smallest of these will bring over five thousand dollars."

Galen was staring at the pile. "And you smuggled these in your laptop?"

"It seemed a pretty good place as long as I wasn't going to be frisked by airport security."

"So that's why you hitched a ride on Air Force One."

He nodded." I wasn't about to risk losing these to customs after all I'd gone through to get them."

"Andreas won't be pleased you used his plane for your own ends."

"At this stage of the game, he'd agree that smuggling is the least of my sins." He picked up one of the stones. "I'm no expert, but I'd say this is pretty high quality."

"The best."

"Is that how you're going to pay off that curator at the museum?" Melissa had come into the room, her gaze on the diamonds glittering on the coffee table. "They're stolen, aren't they?"

"You might say that."

"And this is why your friend died?"

"You might say that too." He handed the first diamond he'd chosen to Galen. "Tell Thomas it's bonus time. Any appraiser in Paris will tell him that stone is worth twice what he asked me for."

"You can bet he'll be hotfooting it to the diamond exchange to check it."

"No problem. It will pass any test they can put it through." He separated the pile and gave one half to Galen. "For Guilliame. I'm sure he'll want to check the merchandise before tonight."

"This has got to be worth more than the price he asked, Travis."

"Just give them to Guilliame and let's get it over with." He scooped the rest of the diamonds back in the pouch and stuffed the pouch in his duffel. "But I want a guarantee of those four hours or I'll cut his heart out."

"What a true gentleman you are, Travis," Melissa said.

"I wasn't gently reared on a southern plantation. I was taught to smooth the way with sugar but always have the knife handy." He met her gaze. "You should appreciate that. You're very good with the knife, Melissa."

"I'm getting better."

"I believe I'll get out of here and go about my job," Galen said. "It's getting a little too chilly in here for me. I'll let you know if there's a problem, Travis."

"Right." His gaze never left Melissa. "I have enough problems."

"That you have."

"No wonder you haven't been worried about moving us around Europe like chess pieces," Melissa said after Galen had left. "Money can open doors, can't it?"

"The doors of the Museum d'Andreas, at least."

"What if I tell Jessica that you're using stolen money to help Cassie?"

"We both know it won't make any difference to her. She'd find a way to justify spending ill-gotten loot if it saved the kid." He smiled. "But it would make her worry and feel bad. So you won't tell her, will you?"

She didn't answer.

"Nice try, Melissa." He stood up. "Now I have to get back next door and do a little work. If you need anything, come and get me."

"Where's Travis?" Jessica asked when she came into the kitchen ten minutes later.

"Next door." Melissa forced a smile. "I just made iced tea. Would you like some?"

"Please."

"How's Cassie?"

"The same." She sat at the table and rubbed her temple. "Jesus, I hope this Wind Dancer thing works out."

"If you have any doubts, you shouldn't do it." Melissa put the glass down before Jessica. "We're making progress. I know it. If you'd let me try to be a little tougher with her, we might even hurry it along."

"You might know it, but I don't." Jessica took a sip. "I may be going along with you, but I still can't quite believe all this psychic connection stuff. It goes against my every instinct and training."

"I know it does. That's the problem." Melissa suddenly fell to her knees before her sister and buried her head in her lap. "Try to believe me, Jessica." Her voice was muffled. "I love you and I want only what's best. That's all I've ever wanted for you. I took so much away, let me try to give something back." Her arms tightened around Jessica's waist. "Let me help you. Listen to me. Please."

"Mellie?" Jessica lifted Melissa's chin and looked down at her. She touched her wet cheek. "You're crying…"

Her lips twisted. "Just goes to show how unstable I am, right?"

"Not right." She grasped Melissa's shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "And you took nothing from me that I wasn't willing to give. Everyone has a path to follow in life. Don't you realize that you helped me to find mine? I've never regretted one minute of those years I spent with you."

"I have."

"Then stop it." She grimaced. "And for God's sake, stop crying. You're choking me up."

"Sorry." She laid her head back in Jessica's lap. "Just answer me one question. If I swear on my love for you that I'm right about the Wind Dancer, that it's a danger to Cassie, will you believe me?"

Silence.

"Oh, Jesus."

"I'm too firmly grounded in reality, Mellie. I know you think you're right, but my mind automatically searches for a reasonable explanation for everything that's happened. And reason tells me that exposing Cassie to an influence that's always been benign to her might open a door."

"It's a risk, such a terrible risk."

"A risk worth taking." She paused. "And I have to take it, Mellie."

" That's your final word? "

"Yes. But if you disapprove, you don't have to go with us."

"The hell I won't." Melissa sat back on her heels and wiped her eyes. "Where you go, I go." She stood up. "Drink your tea. I'll go wash my face and then I'll fix you some lunch."

2:45 P.M.

He was getting nowhere.

Travis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Flipping through the records on the computer screen was proving to be as tiring as it was frustrating. He'd known there was little chance, but he'd hoped he'd run across something that might trigger a memory, anything…Sometimes something clicked, a flash of-

Nothing.

Well, what had he expected with what he had to work with?

Green eyes, slightly tilted. Blond hair that might or might not be his true color. A beard that hid his features like a mask.

Mask…

He slowly sat upright in the chair.

Mask.

He hadn't recognized the man's face. He hadn't thought the man was familiar until he'd seen him walk from the cotton-candy stall to the bench.

Mask.

"Christ."

"Have you got it?"

"Cool it. It takes time." Thomas didn't take his gaze from the screen. "I've been working on it for only a couple of hours."

"You said it would be easier if I could narrow it down" Travis said. "I've narrowed it down."

"Six foot two or three, age between thirty-five and forty, Nordic coloring, nine-millimeter pistol weapon of choice." He flipped through more screens.

"And a terrorist background," Travis said.

"That's the key. If you'd told me that before, I could have been-"

"I didn't know before. How long? There can't be that many who fit the profile."

"You'd be surprised. It's a violent world we live in."

Another hour passed.

"Bingo." Thomas leaned forward. "Take a look. This may be your man."

Age thirty, but this record dated back ten years. Clean-shaven, pale brown hair slightly receding, but the eyes were right. Green. Slightly tilted at the corners.

Yes.

"Print it out."

Thomas pressed a button. "Nasty." He read the history. "Arson, theft, murder…IRA, Italian Sons of Liberty, Nazi skinheads. He doesn't seem wedded to a single cause, does he?"

"Not unusual. Mercenaries go where the money is." He took the mug shot off the printer. "I thought he may have terrorist affiliations since two of the dead at Vasaro had them."

"Vasaro?"

"Never mind." He grabbed a pencil and began shading in a beard. There was no doubt.

"It's him?" Thomas asked. "I did it?"

"You did it." He pushed back his chair. "You're a genius, Thomas."

"Genius should be rewarded." Thomas smiled slyly. "Don't you think I deserve a tip? Maybe another one of those pretty baubles?"

"Don't be greedy," Travis said absently, as he stared at the mug shot. "Can you get me a background and psychological profile?"

"The CIA probably has one. Give me thirty minutes."

It took forty-five minutes before he punched the button to print and then handed the two pages to Travis. "There you go."

"Thanks." He headed for the door.

Edward James Deschamps.

Gotcha.