“Of course,” says Rosie, taking the book. “What’s her name?”
“Yevdokiya-Ivanovna,” says Vasiliy.
Rosie nods. “And how do I spell that?”
“Just the normal way,” says Vasiliy. “We were at a barbecue, in Sochi, and I was angry about something, I don’t know what, and I saw she had your book and I say, ‘Oh, that’s the lady I am going to kill!’ and Yevdokiya-Ivanovna says, ‘She is my favorite writer, she is beautiful; if you kill her, I will kill you back,’ and if you know my sister-in-law, you know she means it, so I said I won’t kill her.”
“When was this?” Rosie asks.
“A few weeks ago,” says Vasiliy. “Something like that.”
Rosie signs the book and hands it back. “And you didn’t tell anyone you’d called off the hit?”
Vasiliy shrugs. “I call for so many hits, I call off so many hits. It would be a full-time job.”
“So I’ve had a bodyguard for no reason?”
“No such thing as no reason,” says Vasiliy. “Everything has a reason.”
He has a point there. But it does leave one loose end hanging.
“So you haven’t hired a man called Eddie Flood to kill me?”
“Never heard of him,” says Vasiliy.
Rosie nods. “Sorry I used your name in my book. I shouldn’t have, really.”
“I got a signed book out of it,” says Vasiliy. “And if you ever need me to kill anyone?”
Vasiliy stands, with some effort, and shakes Rosie’s hand.
“That’s terrifically kind of you,” says Rosie, having to avert her eyes from the departing Russian’s Speedos.
On the way up to her suite last night Rosie had seen a familiar sight. Eddie Flood hiding badly.
But if Eddie Flood isn’t here to kill her, and he isn’t here to kill Amy, what is he here for?
87
Eddie Flood stretches and looks at his watch. He’s had a good nine hours’ kip. That’ll serve him well. You have to sleep well.
He’s decided. Today’s the day.
The odds are against him, he knows that. But he’s been in that position many times before.
Is he nervous? Sure. But is he ready? Yes.
He packs his bag and pats it for good luck.
He’ll follow Rosie this morning, then, as soon as she’s by herself in her room, that’s his cue to strike.
He walks over to his window and draws back the curtains. His view is of aluminum air-conditioning ducts, snaking up a crumbling stone wall. Rob Kenna’s fifteen grand was never going to last forever.
And that’s why today’s the day.
88
Max Highfield is lying naked, save for some white briefs, on a sheepskin rug, with diamonds sprinkled on his bare chest.
A photographer moves around him, exhorting him to “Look mean, Max,” “Look sexy, Max,” “Think deep thoughts, okay, okay, even deeper thoughts if you can.”
Rosie is sitting on a yoga ball, smoking a joint.
“What would my character be called?” Max looks into the distance, as if at the explosion of a distant planet he once called home.
“Do you want to hear the idea first?” Rosie asks.
Max’s bodyguard, a woman in her twenties called Abby, who has been sitting at a laptop up to now, stands.
“Okay, that’s time.”
“Just two or three more,” says the photographer, still snapping away.
Abby takes the camera in her fist and places it gently on the floor. “I said that’s time. Tux on now, Mr. Highfield.”
She hands Max Highfield a tuxedo, and he turns to Rosie.
“Name first,” says Max. “Let me get the vibe of the thing.”
