Alex looked at it and began the process of memorizing her new name and date of birth, as well as her cover story. For the purposes of Cairo, she was a Canadian university professor, a single woman, on sabbatical and spending a holiday visiting the antiquities of Cairo and the Nile.
“I assume this will jibe with Canadian records?” she asked. “In case there’s a problem?”
“Canada’s a friendly country, so yes,” he said. “Usually.”
“Thanks for the ringing endorsement,” she said.
She carefully examined the passport. She smirked at the new pictures, taken the day before. Not bad. She was now fifteen months older and had been born in Ottawa, eh? Her newest alternative universe took shape.
She sorted through the rest of the envelope. There was an Ontario driver’s license and two credit cards along with an ATM card from the Bank of Toronto, all in the name of the fictitious Josephine.
“I think I’ll go by ‘Jo’ for short,” she said.
“Whatever, Jo,” said Meachum.
He gave her a selection of pens. She signed everything, alternating pens. Using his skilled hands, Meachum then put some scuff and age on all the documents.
“Which passport do I leave the United States on?” Alex asked.
“Your American one,” he said. “I cross-checked your travel plans. In fact, your instructions are a little complicated. You’re to fly to Toronto first on your US passport. We have a secure mail envelope. After you’ve gone through Canadian immigration, you’ll rendezvous with someone from our consulate in the Toronto airport. He’ll approach you and introduce himself as Ken, and he’ll say that he works in Detroit. We have an envelope ready. Give him your US passport in the envelope.” Meachum showed her the envelope, a padded manila one about four by six. “It will be returned to us via a diplomatic courier. Thereafter, you’re Josephine, a nice girl from the Canuck Midwest.”
“Go, Leafs,” she said.
“That’s the spirit. We worked things with the Alitalia reservation, also, so you can check in for the trans-Atlantic flight as the Canadian woman.”
“Got it,” she said.
The afternoon she spent packing and purchased a few guide books on Egypt, as well as a phrase book. She stopped by her doctor’s office. The wound to her arm was checked. It seemed to be healing properly. It was fitted with a new bandage. There was no lasting damage but some scar tissue would remain. That evening, she played basketball and had dinner with Ben at the hotel pub across the street.
Then next morning she was at Dulles International and caught her midmorning flight to Toronto.
She rendezvoused easily with her contact, Ken, at the Toronto International Airport. She gave up her United States passport to him, then killed a couple of hours in one of the airport bars, reading, drinking too many glasses of wine, and waiting for her departure.
The ten-hour Alitalia flight took her across the Atlantic, down across Western Europe, and into Rome, where she arrived the next morning. She had booked a small suite at the Hassler Roma, another upscale lodging on the American taxpayer’s dollar. The hotel was situated just above the Spanish Steps in the heart of the Eternal City. After clearing customs and immigration, Alex took a taxi there, arriving shortly before noon.
Fortunately, the hotel allowed her an early check-in. She was able to grab a shower and then lay back for what she hoped would be a short nap.
TWENTY-NINE
She blinked awake several hours later and looked at the clock by her bedside. It was almost 6:00. For several seconds she couldn’t figure out which 6:00 it was. Or where she was.
Then gradually she realized. It was evening. The disorientation of trans-Atlantic travel had caught up with her. She came to her feet. There was a coffeemaker in the kitchen area of her suite, and she put it to use.
She sat by a window and sipped coffee. The view of Rome from the Hotel Hassler had taken on the light blues and misty yellows of evening. From her window Alex watched the city grow darker and more vibrant as the evening approached.
She went to the hotel dining room at seven, early by Italian standards, but her dining companion that evening, Gian Antonio Rizzo, had made concessions to Alex’s circadian rhythm.
Carlo, the ramrod erect and proper maître d’, met her at the entrance to the dining room. She gave Rizzo’s name. Carlo managed a low bow and showed her to a reserved table set for three.
She sat. Then, moments later, Gian Antonio Rizzo appeared, arms wide in a gesture of reception. A smile swept across his face. He was dapper in a light brown suit that almost perfectly concealed the ever-present pistol that he wore on his hip.
“Well, well, well,” he said, greeting her in English.
She stood and let him embrace her. He kissed her on each cheek, he released her, and they sat.
“So?” he asked at length. “This hotel is usually up to my high standards. Is it up to yours?”
The hotel was lavish, one of the most distinctive in Rome. She took his question with several grains of salt. “It’s excellent,” she said.
“Ever stayed here before?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“But you’ll only be here for overnight?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” he said. “I have a formula. An equation, as you will. Gian Antonio’s Rule of how to stay in a hotel and be remembered forever.”
“Leave bullet holes in the walls of your room?” she asked. “Or a body under the bed?”
“Very funny,” he said, “but that’s not quite the effect I was after. I mean, how to be remembered favorably. Here’s what you do. You book for a week. On the first day give them your order for breakfast, exactly what you want and the hour you want it. Tell them what kind of jam or mustard you like, what sort of coffee or tea. Tell them which newspapers you want, I suggest the best local newspaper, Le Monde in France or Il Messassero or Il Corriero della Sera here, plus the American one, The Herald Tribune. Don’t ask for USA Today; it’s only the American peasants who read that.”
“I get my news off the internet,” she said. “Maybe three or four sites per day.”
“Of course you do. We all do. Don’t be silly. That’s not the purpose of this. Order the newspapers anyway.”
“Okay,” she said, laughing.
“Give each doorman a ten-Euro note when you arrive. Learn the name of the room service manager, the concierge, and the desk manager and give each one a twenty when you arrive and when you leave. Take at least two saunas. You’re a woman, so be seen at least in one outfit with a daring skirt and boots in the middle of the day. In your case, swim at least once so the staff can get a good look at your fine figure. Have dinner or cocktails prominently with at least three different men. Always order the same cocktail and have the concierge book your dinner reservations away from the hotel. Come back in a year, and they will remember you.”