by John Sneeden
As she neared the back, Drenna saw Botha sitting on the right side of the square-shaped bar, which was exactly where Rana had said he would be. She smiled. Botha was already chatting it up with one of the bartenders, a cute thirty-something with red hair and freckles. Rather than sit near him, Drenna veered left and slid into a seat on the opposite side. It would afford her a good view of Botha. More importantly, it would give him a good view of her.
A male bartender with curly dark hair came over. “What can I get you started with?”
Drenna noted his thick Irish accent. “Rum and Coke,” she answered. “Light on the rum, please.”
He hesitated. “That’s no fun.”
“I may be here for a while, and it would really be nice if I could walk out when the time comes,” she said with a wink.
He grinned. “I understand. Light on the rum it is.”
As he walked off, Drenna stole a glance at Botha. He had on a heavily starched gray dress shirt and dark-framed eyeglasses. She had never seen the glasses before, despite having reviewed a dozen or so photographs of him the night before. She guessed they were an effort to mask his appearance, much like the newsboy cap he wore around town.
While not a particularly handsome man, Botha did exude a certain confidence and charisma, two traits that many women were drawn to. He had medium-brown hair with a smudge of gray at the temples. Even though he was some distance away, Drenna could see his deep-set eyes would occasionally flicker around the room. He’s either looking for women or trying to make sure no one is looking for him.
Two minutes later, the bartender came over and set Drenna’s drink in front of her. “Here you are. One weak rum and Coke for the lady.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me know if that’s not strong enough.”
She took a sip but couldn’t taste the alcohol. “No, that’s perfect.”
Drenna turned her attention to the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall behind the bar. A Premier League soccer match was underway. Liverpool was leading Chelsea in the first half. A graphic on the screen indicated Mo Salah and Sadio Mané had both scored for the Reds.
As she watched the action, Drenna felt someone’s eyes on her. Trying to appear casual, she took a sip of her drink and cast her eyes across the bar. Botha. His eyes were locked onto hers like a cheetah tracking its prey from the tall grass. She took a slow sip of her drink and held his gaze for several seconds, just long enough to communicate that she was both available and interested.
Message sent, she looked back at the television. Liverpool skipper Jürgen Klopp was protesting a call by the referee.
A minute later, Drenna felt the eyes on her again. Looking across the bar, she saw Botha staring at her. She stared back for a few seconds then turned her attention back to the game.
The third hard stare came several minutes later, but this time, Drenna ignored the urge to look in the Afrikaner’s direction. She had sent a clear enough signal, so it was time to play hard to get. She hoped that would force him into action.
Botha’s response came five minutes later.
“Here you are,” a voice said, pulling Drenna’s attention away from the soccer match.
Drenna looked up to see the female bartender with red hair standing in front of her. It was the same bartender Botha had been flirting with several minutes before. She held another rum and Coke, which she set in front of Drenna.
“Sorry, but I didn’t order that.”
“It’s compliments of the gentleman in the gray shirt,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything else, love.”
As the bartender walked off, Drenna decided to give Botha a little wave to acknowledge she was thankful for the drink, but when she cast her gaze across the bar, he wasn’t there. Had he sent her the drink right before settling up and leaving? Maybe she had played too hard to get.
She plucked her phone off the bar. Even though they had agreed to limit communication, she needed to send a text to Vinay Rana to see if he had seen Botha get up. It was possible he had gone to the men’s room.
She had started to type a message when a man slid into the seat next to her.
“I would have pictured you as being more the martini type,” he said.
Botha. His South African accent was heavy.
Caught off guard, Drenna set her phone on the bar and turned toward him. “Do I really look that girlie?”
“It’s a compliment.” He flicked his eyes up and down her figure. “I’m a man who knows classy when he sees it.”
You’re a man who recognizes a potential conquest when he sees it. “Well, thank you. And does this man who knows classy when he sees it have a name?”
“My apologies.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jacques.”
“Monique.” She shook his hand lightly, intending to reinforce his image of her as weak and vulnerable. “Thank you for the drink.”
“It’s my pleasure. Do I detect an American accent?”
“Yes, and I think I’m the only one in here.” She nodded at him. “But you don’t sound Irish either.”
He laughed. “No, I’m not Irish. Not even close.”
“Australian?”
“South African.”
Drenna purposefully widened her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to visit Cape Town. I hear it’s one of the most beautiful cities on earth.”
“You heard right. Then again, I’m probably a little biased, but I agree.”
“So do you still live in South Africa?”
He took a sip of the scotch he had brought with him then set the glass on the bar. “I have a home there, yes.”
His remark seemed meant to convey that he owned more than one home. Drenna knew that rich men on the prowl would often weave their wealth into a conversation, particularly if they thought it would move them closer to their goal.
“So what brings you to Nice?” Drenna asked.
“I’m here on business.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in exports. Food. Vegetables. Nothing sexy, but the money is good. What about you?”
“I’m here on vacation.”
He took another sip of Scotch then asked, “Are you one of these young American women I meet who say they’ve come to Europe to find themselves?”
Drenna laughed. “Young? Thank you for the compliment, but I’m probably older than you think.” She paused. “No, I’m far past the point of going off to find myself. I know who I am and what I want.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Vacation.”
“By yourself?” Hopefulness flashed in his eyes.
“I’m meeting some friends. They’re arriving this weekend. I work for myself, so I decided to come over a little early for some me time.”
Botha seemed pleased by her answer. He had managed to find a beautiful young woman vacationing on her own. A woman who returned his flirtatious stare and accepted his drink. Like a hungry spider, he could tell the prey was beginning to stick to his web.
“What are you and your friends going to do when they get here?”
“We’re going to spend some time lying on the beach and shopping,” she continued. “Once we have our fill of Nice, then we’re going to take the train up to Paris.”
“I’m jealous. For me, it’s all work and no play.”
Drenna nodded at his scotch. “It looks like you’re playing tonight.”
“True, but I’m not able to get out every night.” After a brief pause, he said, “You mentioned that you work for yourself. What do you do?”
“I’m a photographer.”
Drenna liked to photograph nature in her free time, so she often used that as an occupation when operating under an alias.
His expression seemed to darken briefly. “For a newspaper or magazine?”
Drenna wondered if she had somehow spooked him. Men like Botha probably didn’t like to be around people who carried cameras and took lots of pictures. Sensing the need to reassure him, she reached out
and grabbed his arm lightly. “No, I’m not a journalist. Far from it. I take outdoor family portraits. I work weddings. That kind of thing.”
Botha’s expression softened. “Did you bring your camera? Nice is the perfect place to take pictures.”
She tapped her phone with a finger. “This is my only camera. To be honest, I’m just here to enjoy myself. Occasionally, I like to experience life without the pressure of getting the perfect photograph.”
“I get it, and yet I find it odd that you’re not going to take any pictures of one of the most scenic cities in the world.”
“Oh, I’ll take a few with my phone. I’m just not going to feel any pressure to get the perfect shots. I’m here to relax before anything else.”
“That’s too bad.”
Drenna could sense he was trying to tell her something. “What do you mean?”
“I’m told my apartment has the best views of the city and the Mediterranean, especially on a clear night like tonight.”
Drenna smiled. “Tell me more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Vinay Rana took a sip of his Guinness draft as he watched Drenna Steel and Jacques Botha converse at the bar. A half hour earlier, the South African had walked over and taken the seat next to the American operative. Rana wasn’t sure what had motivated him to do that. Perhaps Steel had drawn the former banker over with a flirtatious glance. Or perhaps Botha had simply seen an empty seat and decided to make his move.
Whatever the reason, all seemed to be going perfectly so far. The whole thing almost seemed too easy. A beautiful woman sat down at the bar, and a few minutes later, the man took the bait. Then again, Rana guessed that operatives like Drenna Steel probably had a good deal of experience in drawing their quarry in with a certain look.
As Rana set his mug on the table, he realized he had made a mistake. Before entering the pub, he had committed to consuming only one pint. But when the server found out he was taking up an entire table just to drink one beer, he had decided to order another and promise her a good tip. The problem was that he now had a strong urge to relieve himself. Driscoll had made it clear that Rana couldn’t let the two out of his sight. Not even once.
He swore under his breath. How could he have been so dumb?
Unfortunately, he no longer had a choice. Despite the clear instructions from Driscoll, wetting his pants wasn’t an option. And if he was going to go, then it needed to be now. Botha and Steel had been talking for only thirty minutes, which made it highly unlikely they would leave anytime soon. He remembered the American operative saying she would initially play hard to get. That being the case, it would be a while before the two left, assuming they did.
Just go now and get it over with.
Rana slid out of the booth and made his way quickly toward the back. He would take care of business and return in less than five minutes. Driscoll would likely never know.
As he entered and opened the door to the restroom, two loud Chelsea fans pushed past him. Both men looked like they could barely walk. Those lads need to be cut off.
Five urinals lined the right-hand wall, and three stall doors were situated along the back wall. Rana chose a urinal on the far end. As he unzipped his pants, he wondered what Steel and Botha were talking about. Since Botha had come over so quickly, it might not take him long to suggest a trip to his apartment. Then again, it was also possible he would pull back if he sensed something was wrong. Drenna Steel was likely very good at steering him in a certain direction, but if she pushed too hard, a man like Botha might realize what she was doing.
Rana was finishing up when he heard the door open behind him. Even though someone had undoubtedly entered, he couldn’t hear them taking any steps. Rana turned his head enough to see a man standing near the mirror. It looked like he was checking his hair.
As Rana pulled his zipper up, he heard footsteps moving in his direction. The man seemed to be moving strangely faster than someone would normally move in a restroom. Rana had just started to turn for another look when a garrote came down over his head. He reached up to keep the thin wire off his neck, but it was too late. It was already cutting into the flesh of his neck.
Left with no other options, Rana tried to elbow his opponent, but it had no effect. The person behind him was strong and powerful. Weak elbows and squirming weren’t going to work.
Soon, Rana felt himself being dragged toward the back of the room.
He’s pulling me into one of the stalls.
There was a brief respite from the tension on his neck as the man let go with one hand to open the door and drag Rana in. Sensing an opportunity, Rana reached for the garrote, but the man somehow managed to keep enough tension to get the door locked behind them. Left with no other options, Rana pushed the man against the sidewall of the tiny space. But like the elbow, it seemed to have no effect on the man.
Sensing he was now in control, the attacker pulled even harder, causing the wire to cut deeply into Rana’s neck.
A half minute later, Rana’s view of the space began to blur. He stared at the wall over the toilet, and someone had scribbled something across the white paint: Welcome all who come to the porcelain throne. May everything come out all right.
“No,” Rana thought as his world faded to black. “Everything isn’t going to come out all right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jacques Botha grabbed Drenna’s arm lightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a quick visit to the loo.”
The Afrikaner had begun to touch her more frequently as the night went on, a sure sign his confidence was growing. The contact made Drenna’s skin crawl, but she knew it was part of the game she had to play.
“Don’t be gone too long.” She gave him a wink.
“I’ll make it quick.”
As Botha walked off, Drenna glanced at his glass. It was half full. Perfect. It held enough scotch to dilute the benzodiazepine pill she was about to drop into it. Alan Bowles had cut a pill into thirds and given her one of the pieces to take with her. According to him, a third of a pill should make the person taking it drowsy in a matter of minutes. There was also a fair chance that Botha would nod off within an hour, which would allow Drenna to search his apartment for useful information.
Unfortunately, cutting pills into pieces often gave mixed results, and that was because active ingredients weren’t always spread evenly throughout them. In other words, someone taking a third of a pill might actually get more than 33 percent of the active ingredient. Conversely, they might get almost none.
Drenna placed her clutch in her lap where no one could see it. She slid a hand in and opened the small plastic bag containing the pill. Before pulling it out, she looked around to make sure no one was watching. Her only real concern was the man sitting in the seat on the other side of the one Botha was using. Fortunately, he was turned in the other direction.
Satisfied no one was watching, Drenna brought her phone and the pill up with one hand. She held the phone between her thumb and index finger, and she used the other three fingers to press the pill against her palm. In one smooth motion, she moved the phone over Botha’s glass and released the pill into his drink. It fizzed for a few seconds then stopped. As best Drenna could tell, there were no obvious signs it had been tainted.
Botha returned two minutes later, sooner than she’d expected.
“Did you miss me?” he asked.
“Of course I did. Unfortunately, now I need to go too.” She slid off her seat and put a hand on his shoulder. “And after I do, let’s go see that view you’ve been telling me about.”
Drenna did have to go, but she also hoped that leaving Botha alone would encourage him to finish his drink. She wondered if he would notice anything strange about the taste. Alan Bowles had promised the substance was tasteless. He claimed to have tried a small amount himself just to be sure. She hoped he was right. If he wasn’t, it would definitely make her job more difficult.
When Drenna entered the short hallway that le
d to the restrooms, she passed a tall well-built man with curly hair. He looked Mediterranean, perhaps Greek or Italian. As he went past, his eyes never turned in her direction. He actually dropped his head slightly. She found that odd simply because men always checked her out, especially men who had been drinking.
Once in the ladies’ room, she realized that all the stalls were taken. While she waited, she sent a brief text to the group, letting them know that she and Botha would likely be leaving in the next five to ten minutes. Rana would monitor things from inside the pub, while Driscoll would be ready to follow the couple once they emerged.
When Drenna returned to the bar a few minutes later, Botha had already drained the last of the Scotch. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was exactly what she’d hoped he would do. If all went according to plan, he should start to get drowsy within the next few minutes. That meant they needed to get moving.
“Ready to go?” Drenna asked without taking a seat.
Botha nodded at her glass. “You aren’t going to finish yours? I thought you liked it.”
The South African had talked her into trying the same single malt scotch he was drinking. It was actually very good, but Drenna knew she had already gone past her usual limit of alcohol.
“It was wonderful, but I’m just so anxious to—”
“Please, I want you to enjoy it.” He gestured toward the glass. “We have time.”
Drenna thought for a moment. It might be better to go along. She didn’t want to let a small conflict sour the mood. “Sure, why not?”
She raised the glass and drained it in one swallow. The expensive whiskey warmed her throat as it made its way down. Drenna hoped that the last gulp wouldn’t push her over the edge and dull her senses. She had important work ahead, and she needed to be on top of her game.
As the two walked toward the front, Botha put a hand on the small of Drenna’s back and directed her to the right.