Convicted - Romig Aleatha (читать книги полностью без сокращений .TXT) 📗
“Mr. Rawlings, we have word that you’re making yourself visible.”
“Oh, you see, that’s not true. No—no one can see me, right now”—Tony scanned the corners of the room for signs of cameras—“or, can you?”—he lifted his free hand to wave—“Can you see me?”
“No, Mr. Rawlings, I can’t see you; however, you’ve been spotted.”
“Well, is that so? I’m not using my real name.”
“Mr. Rawlings, we’d like you to meet with a field agent. He’ll instruct you on better ways to stay hidden.”
“I don’t think I’m up for more learning today. You see, I’ve already had a lesson or two, so I’m really over the entire educational system at this moment.”
“That wasn’t a request. You’re staying at the Kempinski; our agent will meet you in fifteen minutes at Mulligan’s near the train station.”
Tony looked at his watch. “I’m gonna have to pass. You see, I had room service in mind.”
“Mulligan’s—fifteen minutes.” The line went dead. On the corner of the screen, the time said 02:24, so—they were finally able to trace a call—it didn’t matter. They already knew where he was staying.
Tony made his way to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and straightened his tie. If he were expected to meet with some FBI asshole, then he’d at least do it with dignity.
Phil watched Tony leave the Kempinski. If Rawlings was supposed to be in hiding, Phil didn’t think he was doing a very good job. His demeanor, swanker, and aura all screamed Anthony Rawlings. It truly didn’t matter what name he chose to use, no one who knew him would mistake him for someone else—hell, Phil was good, but anyone could’ve found him.
From the time Phil left Claire on the island, he’d been staking out the bank. She’d told him the name of the institution where she’d secured her new fortune. It only made sense that sooner or later, Rawlings would show up at the same place. Claire never told him what she’d left for Rawlings in the safety deposit box, but whatever it was, Rawlings didn’t appear happy about it when he left the bank. He hardly looked like a man who’d just accessed his hidden millions.
Flagging down a cab, Phil instructed the driver to follow the cab up ahead. It may not have been the best detective work he’d ever done, but this wasn’t about learning. Phil didn’t want to know any more about Anthony Rawlings than he already did. In all honesty, he knew more than he wanted to know. Phil had something he wanted to tell Rawlings.
The cab with Rawlings pulled up to a small tavern, Mulligan’s, not far from the train station. Again, Phil wondered what Rawlings was thinking. This was way too public for someone who was supposedly missing. When Phil entered the tavern, it took all his self-control not to stand and gape at the scene unfolding in front of him. Even Rawlings seemed bewildered as he tried to comprehend the reality. Harrison Baldwin was meeting Rawlings mid-room. Yes, there were other patrons, sounds—talking, music, chairs moving, yet as Phil slipped into a dark corner, none of that registered. It was like a movie where the rest of the room turns to fuzz. All Phil could watch were the two men standing chest to chest. If it were a western, then their hands would be on their revolvers.
When Rawlings left the hotel, he didn’t look happy. Unhappy was an understatement to describe his current demeanor. Phil couldn’t hear their conversation, but he could feel the waves of tension radiating from their encounter. For a second, when Baldwin took out his badge, Phil was afraid Rawlings would deck him. It wasn’t true fear—actually, Phil would’ve enjoyed the show; however, for Claire’s sake, it was something that shouldn’t happen—at least, not in public.
Phil wanted to hear what they were saying; however, slipping into the neighboring booth wouldn’t add to the warmth of their reunion. If Phil were to trust his own intuition, this meeting had blindsided Rawlings. Phil wondered who Rawlings thought he was meeting. Shaking his head, he assessed—if this was set up by the FBI, it seemed pretty shitty.
Phil ordered a beer and continued to watch. Neither man in the booth across the room ordered when the waitress approached. Although they sat calmly, an aura of discontent fell like a cloud all around them. Phil didn’t think it was his imagination or the fact he knew their background. Even strangers were steering clear of that corner of the bar. Despite their too low voices, their body language suggested a heated discussion. Baldwin was talking, and Rawlings wasn’t interested; however, when Baldwin pulled out his phone and showed something to Rawlings, Phil thought he saw virtual sparks fly. Rawlings’ finger pointed at Baldwin and moved to emphasize every word of his retort. Without warning, Rawlings stood and headed toward the door.
Phil watched to see if Baldwin would go after him. When he didn’t, Phil laid a few Euros on the tabletop and slid out after Rawlings. As he watched the cab stop and Rawlings begin to enter, Phil let out a breath and told himself, this is for Claire.
The next second, Phil reached for the handle of the cab’s door. When it opened, he eased onto the seat next to Rawlings.
“Excuse me, this cab is—” Tony’s words, in French, stopped when their eyes met. It’s understandable that he didn’t recognize Phil right away; after all, they’d only met a few times in person. Most of their correspondence had been via email and text message, but when Rawlings realized who’d just entered his cab, his eyes darkened and he growled, “What the hell?”
Also in French, Phil replied, “I’d address you by name”—Phil moved his eyes to the driver—“however, I’m not sure what that is.”
“Collins,” Rawlings said, as he exhaled and laid his head against the seat.
“Monsieur Collins, I’m sure you’ll want to hear me out.”
“This fuck’n day won’t ever end, will it?”
The cab driver looked back at Tony and asked if everything was all right. Tony nodded and replied, “Oui, to my hotel.” Then under his breath, he continued the conversation, “Monsieur, I assume you’ll be joining me?”
Phil nodded. “Bien sur.”
A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success.
—Elbert Hubbard
Each day was a little better than the last. Claire only allowed herself to cry or acknowledge her loneliness when she was alone in her suite. It wasn’t compartmentalization—she’d accepted her fate. These weren’t the cards she’d been dealt; no, they were the ones she’d drawn.
She reasoned that Madeline and Francis didn’t need to be burdened by her sadness, and her child didn’t need to experience the anguish coming from its mother—all of the time. Claire kept the sadness defined, and the rest of the time, she bluffed her way through. Fake it until she made it—her new mantra.
The odd thing—the thing that surprised Claire—was as she bluffed and feigned happiness, the real pleasures of day-to-day activities seeped into her life. One afternoon, while in the kitchen with Madeline and without pretending, Claire heard her own laughter. The light, foreign, and whimsical sound surprised her more than anyone else. It had been so long since she’d truly laughed that she almost didn’t recognize it.
On the afternoon after she and Tony spoke, she lay on her bed, phone in hand, for what seemed like hours. Her plan was well thought out and well designed; nevertheless, he hung up. The pain from his decision and her situation was physical. She’d experienced physical pain before, and this was equally as immobilizing. Had it not been for the child inside of her, Claire might have chosen to remain forever on that big bed; however, as the life within her moved and grew, she knew that she too, must go on.
