It took five days to get the passports. Five days, two hotels and, after the forger contacted them demanding a million dollars for his work or he'd contact someone who knew someone and let them know that Anna Quinn was looking for a new papers, a nighttime trip to Queens to persuade the man that his life and his wife's life were worth far more than a million bucks.
"You can't blame me!" the poor man said, sitting up in bed with the comforter clutched to his chest. "I heard you had a price on your head. I'd be a fool not to try to make some serious money on it!"
His wife was sitting upright beside him, frozen in horror, staring at the dark figure of Anna Quinn at the foot of their bed. Anna had her gun aimed at the man but every minute or two she moved it a couple of inches to the right and trained it on his wife's head. She smiled at the woman amicably, straightening the blanket to cover her feet.
"Mr. Horowitz," she said softly, "We have worked together for many years and you should be well aware of what I'm capable of. If you tell anyone that I was here, that I made contact with you, that you produced anything for me, I will come back for you. Not only you, but your wife, too."
The woman in the bed gave a little gasp.
"And if you even think about telling anyone the number of our spanky new passports or our credit cards or the names we're travelling under, I will pay a visit to little Cooper and Stephen and Mackenzie one fine night – "
Mrs Horowitz started to sob.
"Are you threatening my grandchildren?" Mr Horowitz said.
"Am I?" Anna asked pleasantly. "Maybe I am. You know what I'm capable of, after all. Now, while I'm here, I think I'll pick them up – save you having to come into the city to deliver them."
"This is the last time I'll work for you," Mr Horowitz said, getting up out of bed.
"Yeah," said Anna, "I'm not sold on your customer service, either."
… … …
"You get them?" John said when she slid into the car. He'd parked a couple of blocks away, in a residential area. The car was stolen – borrowed – from a street near the hotel. They figured no one would notice it was gone on a short trip out of the city at three o'clock in the morning. Anna leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. John drove well, he'd always had a love of cars and drove them like some people played a musical instrument: attuned to the sound of the car's engine, lightly touching the wheel to make it weave in and out through traffic. She didn't think he was particularly relishing this drive in someone's old Ford, but they were both happy to be out of their hotel room and moving.
"I like what you did today," John said into the silence and she opened her eyes again.
"What did I do?"
"The internet research, the phone calls," he said. "I'd forgotten how good you are at that kind of thing."
When they had pooled their resources – money, coins and weapons, - they realized that they weren't in as strong a position as they would've liked to be. In fact, as John pointed out, they would not be able to use their coins, as he was ex communicado and unable to access any of The Continental or The Agency's services, and their weapons were useless if they were planning to travel. Without the proper resources, there was no way they could take their guns with them to Germany, they'd have to re-arm when they got there. As for the cash they still had? Well, it didn't take long to figure out that they didn't have enough to offer a succulent bribe to anyone for information. Not when the price on their own heads was so much more tempting.
So Anna had spent two days on her laptop, trying to track down Römermann. As was expected, he had no internet presence, so they racked their brains trying to remember anything – any tidbit of information – they knew about him. John had met him once in New York. They'd talked about cars. Probably some other stuff as well, but all he could remember was that they'd spoken about cars. Anna knew a lot more. She'd met him a few times in Germany with Pfeiffer: they'd spent a holiday there, a working holiday, travelling from Pfeiffer's native Berlin southwards through Leipzig, stopping to do touristy things in the picturesque cities of Bayreuth, Bamberg and Nuremberg, before Pfeiffer's business dinner with Herr Römermann in Munich.
"He has two sons," Anna said. "One of them was there, the older one. Max was his name. They spoke about the younger one, he was doing his Abitur at the time, his school-leaving exam. What was his name?"
She tapped her pen against the keyboard. "Something that started with T … Thomas, maybe."
She Googled Thomas Römermann and read the entries.
"That's not it," she said, almost to herself. "And they probably don't use his surname unless they're involved in his work …"
She tapped a rhythm with her pen.
"Tim," she said suddenly. "His name was Tim and his mother's name was Gordana. She's not German, though, she's Serbian – she's a real beauty, used to be Miss Belgrade or something like that. And her surname is …"
She banged her forehead against the keyboard.
"Are you okay?" John asked, startled.
"I know this," she said, her forehead bearing the imprint of the space bar. "I remember this stuff. I make it my business to remember this kind of thing because I know that someday I'm going to need it. It's just that I've got an awful lot of this shit stored in my head and it's like I can't find the right file. It drives me crazy."
"Why do you need to know his mom's maiden name?" John asked.
"Because young Tim didn't want to go and join his Dad's band of merry men. To Dieter's endless amusement, Tim wanted to study medicine. And I'm pretty certain he didn't do that as Tim Römermann – chances are, he took his mom's name. And if I can find him, I can find his Dad. What was it?"
"Don't bang your head again," John said quickly.
She lay her head on her arms on the desk. John waited silently.
"Christmas!" she said suddenly. "Her surname was Christmas."
"Gordana Christmas?"
"No, Božić, it's Serbian for Christmas. Tim Božić, wanted to study medicine at the University of Regensburg. He didn't want to stay in Munich, Dieter thought it was funny that he wanted to study at a little provincial university. I can find him. I'll find him."
"I think I'll go out for a while," John said.
"Yeah," she said absently. "Tim Božić. Where are you Timmy, my boy? Let me find you."
He closed the door on her, her face almost pressed up to the laptop screen, whispering to herself and Tim Božić.
By the time he came back, she'd found him. He was a doctor in Nuremberg. Single. Lived in the city centre. Looked like a nice area on Google Streetview. She also told John that their forger was trying to bribe him but that didn't seem to bother her at all, she was on the high of her sleuthing success.
"How do you know all of that stuff?" John asked. "The internet stuff?"
"I made it my business to know," she said. "You've got to move with the times, Johnny."
"So where are we going?"
"Nuremberg," Anna said and her face shone bright at the prospect. "Beautiful Nuremberg in Bavaria. Lots of dumplings and sausages and really good beer. Pretzels and gingerbread and delicious cream cakes. You're going to love Nuremberg, John."
He was a little doubtful about that but he didn't contradict her.
… … …
"So now we book our flights to Nuremberg?" John said, waking her. She'd dozed most of the way back in the warm car, lulled to sleep by the music on the radio. "Pay a visit to Römermann's son and find out where his dad is?"
"That's the first step," she said.
John pulled in. The parking space they'd vacated was still free, so he parked neatly, swiftly. They got out of the car; she yawned, he stretched.
Then he grabbed her and yanked her down behind the car.
"What?" she whispered.
"Look up there," he said. "Isn't that our room?"
She counted one, two, three storeys, second window to the left. They'd left the drapes open a crack, through which she saw only darkness.
"What did - ?" she began, then saw a short streak of light – a flashlight.
"They've found us," he whispered. Anna felt her heart pound, the adrenalin shot through her arteries, her veins. She reached into her bag and withdrew her gun.
"Fire escape?" she asked softly.
"You go up the stairs, I'll take the fire escape," he said. "Silently. No fuss. We need to get our things and get out of here."
Anna nodded, hesitated.
"John," she said as he started. He looked at her. "John, if it's the Aimes brothers, you won't - we won't - "
"It'll be okay, Quinn," he said in his husky voice. "Trust me."
Without saying another word, he slipped across the street. She watched him go, his slim frame moving in and out of the shadows. She wanted to call, "Be careful!" but he was already out of sight, hidden by the darkness.
The reception was empty. Anna paused to look behind the desk and saw the body of the night receptionist pushed in out of sight, an ugly smear of blood on the grubby tiles. She moved as fast as she could, taking the stairs two at a time, her rubber-soled shoes were silent, her ears pricked to hear any sounds. She opened the door to the third floor corridor a crack, a fraction of an inch, holding it tight so it wouldn't creak. The corridor was empty, but the door of their room was open. She slid along the corridor and as she approached, a man came out of the door.
"Hey!" he yelped.
From inside the room there was the sound of a scuffle, the man looked in the doorway of the room and Anna used the opportunity to shoot. He whirled around, and the shot missed its mark, shooting him in the shoulder.
"Bitch!" he shouted, "She's here!"
But there was no reply, just the sound of relentless thudding, things getting thrown over.
"What the fuck?" Anna heard. She glanced around. A middle-aged man was standing in the door of one of the other rooms, scratching his crotch with one hand and his head with the other.
The injured assassin took aim, Anna pushed the scratcher into the room and took shelter behind his door-frame.
"Did he just shoot at me?" the hotel guest yelped. "Did that fucker just shoot at me?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she said and dipped her head out of the room long enough to aim and fire.
"Stay here," she hissed at the guest. "Call the police and I will fucking kill you, you hear me?"
She moved down the hall, skirting the wall, peeped around the doorway. Somewhere outside the hotel she heard sirens, behind one of the doors there was the sound of hysterical crying. John was pressed against the wall, his breathing labored, rattling, two hands wrapped around the hilt of a knife held by one of the biggest men Anna had ever seen. The mountain of a man was grinning easily, pressing the knife deeper into his neck.
"No," she said. He looked at her and raised his other hand, the hand that held a gun. Quick as a flash, he pulled the trigger.
But Anna was faster. As the bullet ricocheted behind the wall behind her, she shot a second time, and John pushed him backwards. The man tipped like a felled tree onto the bed.
"John," she said and pushed his hands away so she could see the wound. It was bleeding, so she grabbed the t-shirt she'd discarded that morning, bunched it up and pressed it against his neck.
"We need to get out of here," he said and gave her a gentle shove. "Grab as much as you can."
She bundled her laptop, some clothes, into her blue backpack. Her hands were covered in John's blood, she suddenly noticed that she was shaking as the adrenalin deserted her.
They heard doors opening at the end of the corridor.
"Where?" Anna asked frantically.
"Back down the fire escape," he said and looked out the window. He put a finger to his lips, indicated the door. Anna scrambled over the body of the huge man who was half-lying on the floor and closed, locked the hotel door. There was a shout in the corridor. John peeked out the window again, shot once, twice.
"Clear," he said curtly. "Come on."
She hesitated.
"Come," he said, holding out her hand. "I know you don't like heights, but you have to do this, Quinn. Come on."
She followed him down the fire escape, stepping over the body of man he'd killed.
"Who are they?" she said. He was unlocking the car he'd only carefully locked minutes before.
"Don't know, don't care," he said and without waiting for her to put on her seatbelt or stow her bag, he tore off.
He got on the interstate and drove. Anna told him to head for Philadelphia airport and while he drove swiftly, checking the rearview mirror, she booked their flights to Cologne.
"Why Cologne?" John asked . "Is it near Nuremberg?"
"It's a few hours by car, but it's a small airport. If we want to fly to Nuremberg, we have to go through London, Munich or Frankfurt. We're leaving tomorrow afternoon. This afternoon," she corrected, "at 3 p.m."
She didn't need to tell him that they were less likely to be expected at a smaller airport. She tapped the keys.
"Is it direct?"
"No, via Dublin," she said. "I doubt that they'll reckon with a stopover in Dublin."
John nodded, then winced as his wound started to bleed again. Anna shut the laptop.
"We'll need to find another hotel in Philly," she said, "Somewhere near the airport. We have to get some bags and straighten up our story in case we get stopped in immigration."
"Sure," he said softly.
"You okay, John?" she asked.
"Yeah, just a bit beat up," he said. "Again."
He smiled at her wryly and she leaned over, touched a bruise on his cheek. He froze.
"I hate to see you hurt," she said.
"Never bothered you before."
She shrugged. "I'm getting soft in my old age," she said and tried to laugh it off casually. It fell into silence. Neither saiid anything, each looking out of their own window to watch the winter sun rise.
