The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath. Debra Webb
to screw it up with a misstep this trivial.
She could do this.
It wasn’t a big deal.
All she had to do was walk out the door and across the street. There was little traffic on the street and even fewer pedestrians. The chances of running into anyone she knew from before were about the same as winning the lottery.
Maybe a little less than that, but the basic concept was the same.
Concentrating on making her decision happen, she put one foot in front of the other. No looking back. No hesitating. Just do it.
She exited the building and didn’t stop until she’d reached the street. When the unexpected surge in traffic passed, she crossed the street.
It wasn’t until she’d gotten inside the door of the gallery that she could breathe again.
Thank God.
The shop owner glanced up at the tinkle of the bell and announced, “Aa-salaam-aleikum!” Peace be with you.
“Aleikum salaam,” popped out of her mouth before she’d considered the repercussions of responding at all. Would the typical American tourist know to say this traditional Muslim greeting? Possibly. It was on the Internet. Everything was on the Internet these days.
Besides, she’d said it. There was no taking it back now.
Stop being paranoid, she railed silently. She hadn’t been here in nearly a year. She had never been in this gallery. Kuwait was a bustling city. It wasn’t like she had to worry about running into someone from her past life around every corner. She hadn’t even known that many people.
She might not even know the man with Anders right now. Anxiety and panic could be playing tricks with her mind.
So she did what all Americans were famous for doing when traveling, she browsed and made all kinds of comments to herself as well as the shop owner and she even gasped from time to time at the lovely artwork. Willow felt certain the man was rolling his eyes behind her back.
Paintings, sculpture, pottery. She studied each piece in painstaking detail, anything to keep her mind focused on something other than the man across the street.
Eventually his name intruded.
Yuri Avnery.
She called his image to mind. What precisely was so familiar about him?
The way he moved for sure.
His whole profile? She couldn’t be sure.
Try harder.
Still nothing specific bobbed to the surface of that murky lake of memories. Maybe she’d suppressed so much of that past that she’d lost some details.
But she did know him, she decided after further consideration.
She was almost positive.
The bell over the door jingled and her head came up. Tension roared through her with the force of a freight train barreling down its track. She peeked around the piece she currently studied.
Three women, garbed in traditional Islamic dress, full hijab, whispered among each other as they hurried over to the wall where the oil paintings were displayed.
Willow let a whoosh of tension rush past her lips. She really did need to get a grip here. If she walked around acting like this someone would notice. Calling attention to herself was not the thing to do.
Okay. If she couldn’t remember the guy she should start a process of elimination. First, she resurrected the long-buried images of the household staff along with the names of each man in her husband’s domestic employ.
Nope. He hadn’t been someone she’d run into in the house on a regular basis. Not that she’d actually thought he was. She would surely have remembered someone she saw every day.
She thought of the people she saw from time to time at the various shops she’d frequented. Not the grocery clerk. Not the postman. Not the drycleaner. Not at the pediatrician’s office.
Then she moved on to her husband’s business associates. Not that she saw any of them that often, but she did on rare occasions. Those would be far harder to recall.
The trio of women moved to the metal sculptures next. The gaze of the one who appeared to be the leader of the group abruptly bumped into Willow’s. Willow smiled before she could suppress the impulse. The other woman quickly looked away.
God, she had to remember the rules of etiquette. No staring. No prolonged direct eye contact. No smiling.
No…
Yuri Avnery’s profile suddenly loomed in her head. Only it wasn’t the image she’d captured in the lobby across the street. He wore white robes… not the business suit he’d been wearing as he’d signed in fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Long white robes and the headdress, the ghutra. A shimmery gold over-cloak had embellished the pure white.
There were a lot of people at the event she recalled, all dressed in the very finest traditional garb. Tables. Waiters. Her husband…
Her breath evaporated in her lungs.
Oh, God.
She remembered him. Only his name hadn’t been Yuri Avnery… Abdulatif something. She couldn’t remember the last name.
He was her ex-husband’s hatchet man. She’d only met him that once, but she remembered Khaled referring to him in just that way. She had assumed he’d meant that he was the man who got rid of the excess in his businesses. You know, the kind of man who came in and cut the fat… job layoffs, pink slips. Stuff like that.
But her husband hadn’t meant that at all. Khaled had laughed at her later when she’d suggested as much.
The moment replayed over and over in her mind. The way her husband had looked at the man… the way he’d laughed when he made the statement about what the man did for him.
He was a hatchet man all right, but he didn’t cut excess employees… he got rid of problems.
Like Spencer Anders.
Willow was at the front window of the gallery before she’d realized she’d moved.
She stared up at the third floor of the office building across the street.
If she was right… God, she prayed she wasn’t… the man up there with Anders was an assassin.
“DOES THIS suite of offices satisfy your needs then?”
Spencer followed Avnery along the corridor that led back to the third-floor lobby that served the suite of offices.
“I have another location to preview this afternoon, but this is very much in line with my client’s interests.”
Avnery paused at the wall of windows that overlooked the street. “Quite a pleasant view,” he suggested with a wave of his arm.
Spencer took his time strolling over to join him. So far the meeting had gone off without a glitch. Still, Willow had been certain she knew this man. It wasn’t impossible that she knew him in his capacity as a real-estate agent. Her ex-husband might have sought his expertise at one time or another. Or perhaps they’d met at a social function. No matter, Spencer’s instincts were nagging at him.
Something about this man was not right.
“I may want to come back and take some digital shots of the place,” Spencer commented. “Unless you have photos or maybe a virtual tour on your Web site.” He watched the man carefully now that he wasn’t following him around from room to room. At one time he’d been particularly good at spotting a liar. “Your secretary mentioned a Web site.” He hadn’t actually spoken to this man when he’d made the call this morning.
Avnery nodded. “Of course. I believe you’ll find everything there that your client requires.”
His