Of course, that didn’t mean Claire had afforded him the same exclusivity. In Tony’s current condition, that was somewhere he shouldn’t go. One thought opened the floodgate to many more—had she left him to be with someone else? Was she with someone now? There was always that thought that periodically infiltrated his thoughts: what if the baby wasn’t his? Refocusing on their conversation—where the hell was here? What kind of an answer was that?
Tony snickered as he poured his third glass. Damn, if he weren’t so refined, then he’d drink the shit from the bottle. He may still be using the same name as the man at the hostels, but he wasn’t that man. He’d drink like culturally duped men do—out of a glass.
He definitely had more questions swirling through his head than answers. Tony thought back to the research he tried to do. There were too many pieces of this puzzle still missing.
Slumping back into a plush chair and gazing out to the twilight sky above Lake Geneva, Tony acknowledged the FBI was right. Claire left him—of—her—own—free—will!
Slightly dimmed by the onslaught of ninety-six proof liquor, Tony’s thoughts were forming slower; nevertheless, Claire’s words were coming back, Really, Tony? How many people knew about it? How many people would consider us both children of children? He knew that answer in the pit of his stomach. With each second, the truth burnt within him—Catherine knew—she knew they were both children of children. Catherine knew about Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew how to access Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew!
Reaching for his nearest phone, Tony almost spilled his drink. As he steadied himself, he thought about Catherine’s number—not hers—no his! The idea that he could call his house and she’d be there—fueled the rage coursing through him. Just as he considered entering the number—with the phone in the palm of his hand—it rang.
He almost dropped it!
With a slight slur to his speech, Tony answered, “Hello, Agent Jackson, how are you this fine evening?” The momentary silence made Tony laugh. “What’s the matter, Agent? Cat’s got your tongue?”
“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?”