Chasing Tomorrow

“Everything has to be ready by tomorrow night. You both need to know your roles inside out. Wednesday is our one shot to do this, you do realize that?”

“Of course.”

“There can be no more delays.”

“Don’t worry, my friend.” The mustachioed man smiled broadly. “We have completed many such jobs in Roma in the past. Very many.”

“Not like this you haven’t,” said Jeff. “I’ll see you both at ten. Don’t be late.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, IN bed, he turned on his laptop and reread the file Gunther had sent him on Roberto Klimt. Revulsion and anger swept through him again, hardening his resolve.

A notorious predator, Klimt had sexually abused and raped two young Gypsy boys two years ago. Posing as a wealthy mentor who could offer them an education and a better life, he had paid the boys’ mother a thousand euros to have them accompany him on a tour of Europe. The older child reported Klimt to the authorities on their return to Rome, but thanks to the art dealer’s connections and deep pockets, the case never made it to trial. A few weeks later, rejected by their own families thanks to some obscure Roma honor code, the boys leaped from the roof of a tenement building to their deaths. They were ten and twelve years old.

Jeff would never forget Wilbur Trawick, the disgusting old tarot-card reader at his uncle Willie’s carnival. Wilbur had abused countless carnie kids before he made a pass at Jeff, who had ended the old man’s career with a deftly placed knee to groin. Wilbur Trawick had been grotesque, but he had never wielded the kind of power of a man like Roberto Klimt. Klimt knew that the law couldn’t touch him.

But I can, thought Jeff. I’m going to hit him where it hurts.

He prayed Gunther was right about Marco and Antonio, that they wouldn’t let him down. Jeff’s plan was bold and daring, but it required absolute precision timing, and it could not be done alone.

Klimt’s security team was SAS standard. Thanks to somebody’s loose lips, they already knew that Nero’s bowl was a target.

Jeff felt the adrenaline begin to pump through his veins.

It was on.

“HIS NAME IS JEFF Stevens and he’s posing as an art dealer.”

Roberto Klimt was irritated. He was supposed to be at his country house by now, enjoying a professional blow job from his beautiful new boy. Instead he was still in Rome, locked in a meeting with the head of his security team, a fat, middle-aged man with sweat patches the size of dinner plates under each arm.

“He’s checked in at the Russie under the name ‘Duval.’ ”

“So? Have him arrested,” Klimt snapped. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Unfortunately he has not yet committed a crime. The police have an irritating reluctance to arrest apparently innocent foreign citizens going about their business.”

“Are you tailing him?”

The security expert looked affronted. “Of course. It appears he is planning to hit the apartment. He met with one of the top safe crackers in Southern Europe yesterday, Marco Rizzolio.”

Roberto Klimt thought for a while.

“Should we move the bowl today? As an additional precaution?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I want to make sure the transit is totally secure. Angelo’s sick, so I’m still vetting the new driver. But we can move it tomorrow. That’s a day earlier than planned and should be enough to throw off our Mr. Stevens and his friend.”

Roberto Klimt stretched and yawned, like a bored cat. “I’ll stay another night too, in that case. I don’t like to leave it here in the apartment without me. I’ll also put in a call to my friends at the police department. See if we can’t nudge them a little.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Klimt. My team and I can handle this. To be frank, police involvement may do more harm than good.”

“I don’t doubt that you are taking the necessary precautions. But I want to see this Jeff Stevens character spend the rest of his life in an Italian jail. For that, we need the Polizia. It will all be off the record, don’t worry.”

He picked up the phone and began to dial.

JEFF CALLED GUNTHER.

“I have a bad feeling about this job. Something’s wrong.”

“My dear boy, you alwa