Chapter 5

Marco rolled over in bed reaching for the ringing cell phone. He glanced at the watch on the bedside table. Two seventeen in the morning. "Pronto," he snapped into the phone.

"Mr. Lucchese, it's Paulo Conti. You told me to call at any time."

"Si. What do you have?" Marco asked of his contact in the credit bureau.

"We've picked up a credit card charge by Mr. Julian Blackmore."

Marco's attention snapped into focus. "Tell me. Where?"

Two minutes later he dialled, spoke sharply giving a location in Madrid, Hostal Conchita. "This time don't fail me," he growled into the phone. "Kill them!"

"What was it?"

Marco glanced at Aldo in bed next to him. "Nothing that can't wait," he said, reaching out to caress Aldo's shoulder. A spark of renewed arousal hit him. Rolling, rising onto an elbow, he kissed Aldo, his hand caressing down over his lover's hairless chest, moving down with intimate familiarity seeking an erection he knew he'd find.

I'D MADE AN ALMOST fatal error. It was immediately apparent when Bianca and I left the hotel. I recognized them; three of the four that had found us at the café in Cordoba. Fuck! How had they found us here in Madrid? What was my mistake?

They tried to be casual, positioned to intercept us on the way to the Audi. Nervous hands edged inside jackets towards hidden guns. They tried too hard to not see us. No question they were Slovac or Serb, their features heavy, grey eyes watchful and cautious, all three with dark stubble-shadowed cheeks. They looked hungry and angry.

It seemed almost automatic. I immediately assessed each, their stance, the eye contact between them identifying their leader. It was a thoughtless action on my part, instinctual, adrenalin arriving as I assessed angles of attack, strike points, vulnerabilities. It was almost a reflex. The action was clear. I would approach leading Bianca with my hand as if I hadn't noticed or recognized them. Bianca being with me would lower their guard; no one would start anything with a child in tow. I'd ease her behind me as we closed in on them and, when near enough, I'd explode into action. A hard chop with the edge of my hand across the leader's throat would disable him, maybe even kill him by crushing his trachea. Turn my body to add velocity to my fist and hit the second under his chin in a powerful uppercut, throwing his head back, breaking his jaw and knocking him senseless, maybe even snapping his neck. Kick the third in his balls, hard, hard, and smack my palm into his nose when he reacts by bending forward, breaking cartilage, maybe slamming shards of bone into his brain, maybe killing him, too. One, two, three, four. Four moves, three men incapacitated.

Straightening, breathing deeply, I reached for Bianca's hand, her mouth still open, shock on her face. Three men lay on the ground, two not moving, the leader rolling and trying to breathe. He'd probably choke to death.

The Audi started with a throaty purr. We were back on the highway before Bianca spoke.

"You killed them!"

"Perhaps," I responded. They would have killed us. I was fuming inside, furious with myself. I'd figured out my mistake. Somehow Bianca's uncle had a contact in the credit bureau. I'd been so exhausted last night I'd paid for the room with my credit card! Fuck!

"How did you learn to do that stuff?" Bianca asked.

"How the fuck would I know?" I growled back at her, my adrenalin-driven fury spilling out.

"You don't have to snap at me!" she threw back, crossing her arms, a frown appearing on her face. She looked away from me. Her shoulder was very chilly.

The Audi ate up the miles. At one point Bianca thawed enough to inform me she was hungry, we'd missed breakfast, we needed to stop. At the next service centre we pulled off. After filling the Audi with petrol, we hit the service centre restaurant. Food was tasteless, the coffee cafeteria-weak. The meal was barely nutrition. We ate in strained silence and pressed on.

Just after five o'clock we arrived at the port of Palamos, a small city on the Mediterranean just south of the Spanish-French border. On a waterfront street I found what I was looking for, several seedy bars plying their alcohol even this early.

"Stay here. Don't move," I instructed Bianca.

Still pissed at my rudeness, she snapped, "Where would I go anyway?"

The first bar was a strike. But the second wasn't. Moving up to the bar, when the big, beefy and heavily tattooed bartender wiped the scarred bar top in front of me and asked what I wanted, I told him, "Necesito papeles."

He looked me up and down and didn't respond. I added, "And a beer."

Nodding, he poured beer from a tap into a tall glass, the amber liquid slowly filling up and forming a white, foamy head. He placed it on a coaster in front of me and waited. Pulling out my wallet, I dropped fifty Euros on the bar.

He counted, nodded, and finally spoke giving me an address of a portrait photographer who could supply papers. The beer was untouched when I left.

Bianca greeted my return with a nervous smile - being alone had obviously thawed her icy demeanour slightly. "Where to now? Dinner?" she asked. "I need to go to the bathroom," she added.

"Soon."

Three streets away from the waterfront we found the studio, a grimy shop with a paper sign in the door window saying, "Abierto." False advertising. It wasn't open. The door was locked. I shook the handle and banged on the doorframe, peering in. Weak light leaked from a room at the back. Eventually a small, balding man with an impressive comb-over emerged wiping his hands with a dirty rag.

An hour and a half later Bianca and I climbed a narrow staircase in a generic low-end hotel. The dark red runner carpet had seen better days. It was threadbare and grimy. The key had cost me forty Euros, too much for the hotel but it made them forget about IDs.

Bianca, fed and bladder relieved from a visit to the restaurant bathroom, followed me down the dimly lit hall. There was a musty smell to the hotel, mouldy. The door opened to a very small room and one bed. We both contemplated our unfortunate fate. It was shabby and barely clean.

With a shrug, I justified it. "It's only for one night."

I was in the one bed when Bianca emerged from the bathroom. I didn't miss that she was once again wearing her small cotton camisole and panties. I didn't miss how snugly they fit, either. Without looking at me, Bianca slipped into the opposite side of the narrow bed and turned away from me, presenting her back, maintaining as much distance as possible.

I did the same.

Morning arrived to find Bianca in my arms. Her hair tickled my nose again. I was spooning her, hugging a remarkably slender, almost delicate body. She felt good in my arms. She smelled good too, warm comfort with a hint of floral soap.

Without moving I enjoyed her. Her gentle breathing was calming. She made me think of females and sex and, with a smile, I realised I couldn't remember making love, having sex, intercourse. Did that make me a virgin again? I knew the mechanics just fine but couldn't remember ever actually experiencing it.

Warmth washed over me. Blood stirred. An erection threatened. With a soft kiss on her hair, I eased my arms out from her and slipped out of bed, closing the bathroom door quietly behind me.

BIANCA HEARD THE BATHROOM door close. She lay unmoving. Julian's presence was still felt, a ghostly remnant against her. Waking up in his arms was wonderfully comforting. She felt safe and protected. His kiss on her hair had caught her by surprise. It was oddly gentle, soft and almost affectionate; a contrast to the person she'd seen so far.

She'd been so pissed off at him yesterday. After everything they'd been through, after all the time she'd spent caring for him, she hadn't deserved his snapping at her in the morning. Her question was innocent. In all the excitement she'd forgotten he'd lost his memory.

Lying in bed quietly, Bianca smiled to herself. She'd given him the cold shoulder treatment to prove a point. It hadn't worked. Julian hadn't risen to the bait. He'd remained silent throughout the car trip, as stubborn as a mule.

Her smile broadened. She liked him. She liked waking up to being cuddled, too. That was a completely new experience and a rather nice one.

The bathroom door opened.

"Buongiorno," she greeted him.

"Morning. The bathroom's all yours. We should get moving. We have a long day ahead of us."

"Bene," Bianca agreed, slipping out of bed. She closed the bathroom door, sat and peed, her mind considering Julian's slight smile. It was really nice, and with those amazing green eyes, he was really quite cute. How did he get the scar on his chin?

Her stomach grumbled with hunger. It felt like she was always hungry now. Since being rescued she couldn't sate her hunger. Why?

Forty-five minutes later Bianca ate her third croissant, buttery flakes of pastry falling to her lap. She watched Julian emerge from the photographer's shop and walk to the car. Huh. She'd never noticed how he moved. It was odd, like flowing water, smooth, as if his limbs were relaxed, at ease, almost loose. Startled, Bianca had a vision of him attacking those three men yesterday and realised he'd moved exactly the same way then, too, except for being blindingly quick.

The car door opened. Julian folded himself into the driver's seat and she accepted the card he passed across to her. The Italian Carta d'Identità Elettronica was credit card-sized with a microchip embedded in it and a magnetic stripe on the back. Bianca recognized it. She used to have an ID just like it. The name on the front was Bianca Russo. Not hers. "This isn't my name, Julian," she pointed out.

He started the car and nodded. "When we cross the border, do you want your real name showing up?"

"Oh. Right."

THE ID CARD HAD cost me a lot. With security these days it wasn't enough just to have a fake. You had to have an electronic trail backstopping it, too. Computers had to have a card registered that matched the one presented. Juan Compos, the photographer and forger, had proved remarkably skilled. But how did I know what to ask him for? How did I know what questions to ask or what features to check?

Glancing across at Bianca, seeing her crumb-covered face, I automatically smiled. I liked her company. Then again, given she was the only person I knew, I didn't have much choice.

The trip was long, seven and a half hours. We stayed within the speed limit the whole way and crossed the border into France on a very small side road at Col d'Ares up in the mountains without incident. Just before five o'clock we skirted the city of Nice, passing it to curve around to the east. Nothing in the passing scenery was familiar. After several wrong turns we found Chemin de Passable.

Number 14 was indicated by white numbers on a blue enamel plaque attached to a white stone wall. The drive was walled with tall dark-green, glossy-leaf hedges on either side. I eased the Audi along the winding drive as it descended. The crystal blue Mediterranean appeared just as a house came into view. Was that mine? It looked almost medieval. Pale ochre stucco covered a tall structure with a turret rising on the left. An attached garage sat on the right. Small windows showed the home had two floors, the turret rising to a third with narrow archer-type slot windows.

The car door closed with a solid thunk when we got out, the only noise heard.

"Bella casa," Bianca observed. I agreed with her assessment. It was a nice house.

Opening the Audi's back door, I grabbed my duffle bag, my eyes still trying to assess the house. Was I rich? Opening the bag I fished for a key ring I'd found earlier.

We explored together. I was as awed as Bianca was. The interior was pale cream stucco, every room with very dark, old hardwood floors. The kitchen was a dichotomy; old, distressed wood cabinetry and a white ceramic farmers sink mixed in with contemporary brushed steel appliances. The other rooms followed a theme, the furniture plain, dark wood frames and cream cushions. Mullioned windows facing the sea were huge and framed with the same dark wood. Windows facing inland were small providing privacy.

Upstairs we discovered three bathrooms, all with claw-feet tubs and separate showers, old-fashioned taps, white tiles. Several bedrooms filled the second floor including a huge master.

"Do you own all this?" Bianca asked. "What do you do to afford it?"

About to bark out my frustration, I stopped myself. "I don't know," I answered.

"Sorry, Julian. I forgot," Bianca apologized. "You have good taste, though ... at least you used to."

Our inspection of the lower floor revealed a study, a den with a comprehensive entertainment system, an expansive living room, a large dry-goods larder, a powder room, a laundry room, and a garage with a black Maserati Quattroporte sitting silently, spotless and gleaming. Was I that crass? That flashy? The rear flagstone patio was more like a balcony overlooking a thirty-foot drop to crystal clear blue waters and an empty wooden pier, the undulating sand and rock sea floor perfectly visible for more than a hundred feet out.

It was too much for me. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed with so much to absorb. I wasn't ready to delve into the files in the study to find out who I was, the task too daunting. We went out for dinner, returned the Audi to Avis, and took a taxi home. By nine thirty I was done. With Bianca settled in a guest bedroom, I showered and hit a remarkably comfortable bed. Nothing felt familiar. Nothing struck a chord. I might be in my own house but I was a guest, a stranger, and it didn't feel good at all.