“Everyone who’s anyone at this summit will be eating here at some point,” Jayne whispered conspiratorially. “They’ve made considerable exceptions for the U.N. delegates.”
“Oh?” asked the boy-king.
“Indeed. They’ve free rein of the town, you see, where the commoners are essentially under house arrest for the time being.”
“Yes, I see,” the king lied, staring in wide-eyed amazement. The slightly claustrophobic restaurant was packed. The polite rumble of conversation rippled and eddied around them, a stray laugh here and there mixed with the clinking of silverware to create a rather congenial background hum.
The restaurant’s close confines and secluded side rooms were all luxuriously paneled in dark, gloriously carved Victorian mahogany and walnut, rippled with minute details of fantastical creatures and magic taken from Scotland’s colorful history. Warm, well-appointed booths and matching chairs lined every table. Crackling fires in large stone hearths built into the walls of the main floor cast a warm glowing light across the entire space. Bustling servers in liveried uniforms carried shiny platters of food and drink in a constant flow of polite efficiency.
Before they’d had time to catch their bearings, the maître d’ fell upon them, hands behind his back. “Good morning, madam, young sir,” said the handsome man with a chiseled jaw and the confident posture of one who took pride in his position. “Welcome to the Shadowbook. You have reservations, I presume?”
Jayne removed her sunglasses and opened the snap enclosure on her jeweled handbag, dropping them in. She glanced up and read the maître d’s burnished nickel nameplate. “Indeed we do, Pierre. I thought you didn’t sound very Scottish.”
Pierre gave a slight bow and smiled. “Mais non, I hail from Rouen, madam.”
“Oui? Tres bien,” Jayne said, smiling. “I believe you shall find our reservation is under Claudine Seagrave.”
Pierre pulled a tablet from behind his back and quickly scanned the screen. “Ah, c’est bon. If you will follow me, I shall escort you to your table.”
Once seated at the corner booth well away from other patrons, the king leaned over the polished wood table and whispered, “This place is quite unbelievable…even in the midst of the summit and the attack, it’s as if nothing matters to them. I’ve heard of it, but Father never took me here…he said it was too…public.”
Jayne smiled. “Dear, the people in this room have little to fear from the likes of those who are causing all the trouble. These are some of the most well-connected and powerful people in the United Nations and the world.”
The king swallowed. “Then what are we doing here?”
Jayne laughed softly. “Having brunch, of course. Now, mind your manners, sire—here comes the table service.”
“Good morning, madam,” the waiter said to Jayne with a stiff bow. He pivoted and nodded to Louis. “Sir.” He handed over two menus and rattled off the list of specials for the day. After taking their drink orders—water for both and a mimosa for Jayne—he left them alone again.
“I still don’t understand how we got in here. I think that’s…” The boy king faltered. His eyes grew round. “Is that the Secretary General?”
Jayne looked up from her silverware and nodded. “Indeed. Don’t stare—his guards are watching. Swiss, you know.”
“This is very dangerous for me, Jayne…I shouldn’t have come…these people are hunting me. Some of them are responsible for my cousin’s death!”
“Relax, sire, no one will bother us here. I assure you, you’re quite safe with me.” She patted his hand under the table as the server returned carrying one of the silver trays, inscribed with runes around the edges.
Louis put on a brave show and thanked the server who dropped off their drinks, then took a sip of water, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he brought the glass of ice water to his lips. “Why? How can you keep me safe from…”
Jayne’s smile widened. “Because now that I control Reginald’s fortune, I’m the wealthiest woman on the planet.”
The king seemed to take that under advisement and picked at his spoon. “Isn’t…”
“Is it not what?” asked Jayne in her best schoolmarm’s voice.
The king cleared his throat. “Well…is it not a bit dangerous for you—us—to be flaunting wealth like this? Reginald’s wealth?”
Jayne sighed. The waiter had returned to take their orders. She shooed him away before replying. “In truth, it is, dear. Quite dangerous, really. But I have a plan.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to invest in a legitimate business as to keep the finances separate. Several businesses actually.”
The discussion seemed to be alleviating the king’s initial nervousness. “Such as?”
Jayne interlaced her fingers on the table, deciding on exactly how much to divulge to the young fool. “Well, let me see. There are several munitions manufacturers that are suffering a bit from the economic chaos our Korean friends unleashed on the world. Oh, and then my favorite, the little-known subsidiary of Claspnote-Middelyn…they’re under hard times as well.”
“The aerospace company? Don’t they make jets and bombers for the Americans?” he whispered, leaning over the table.
Jayne nodded. “Indeed. However, lately it seems their advanced tactical drone division is faltering under poor management.”
“I take it by the smile on your face you…may have had something to do with that mismanagement?” the king asked, one eyebrow raised.
Jayne leaned back against the plush leather booth and regarded the future monarch. “My, my, aren’t we the observant one? Nicely done, Your Majesty.” She smiled as the boy flushed bright pink.
The waiter arrived again just as her phone began to vibrate in its garter belt sheath. Jayne giggled at the tickling sensation that rippled up her thigh and excused herself. “Be a dear and order for me, will you, dear nephew?”
“Oh, of course…Auntie.” The boy’s face reddened even further, if that were possible.
Jayne ignored the king as he stumbled through the menu, ordering bits of this and that, guessing what Jayne might want. She didn’t bother to tell him she wasn’t hungry, but one must keep up appearances.
“Hello?” she asked when she’d reached the edge of the booth and as much privacy as she could gather.
The rough voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “Listen to you. You sound…aristocratic.”
“Why, Trevor, dear! It’s so good to hear from you!” she gushed, nodding at the king. Play along, you little fool.
“Trevor? Terrible name,” the speaker on the other end of the line complained.
“What is it that you’re calling about, darling?” she asked, adding just the right amount of tightness to her voice to convey the real message: What the fuck is going on? You’re not supposed to contact me unless something goes wrong.
“Your senator went off the reservation. We are trying to lead him to the kill box—”
Jayne put a hand over the mic and glanced around, making sure the waiter had moved on. “What the fuck do you mean he went off the reservation?” she whispered urgently. “And what’s this about a kill box?”
“His driver’s good. They didn’t take the bait. And that woman you’re after—”
“Svea?”
“As you say. She is with them—in the lead car.”
Jayne’s blood ran cold. The traitorous bitch was with the senator. It was too good to be true. “Listen very carefully,” she murmured into the phone, leaning away from the obviously eavesdropping young king. “I want them alive—the senator and the woman. Do you understand me?”
“Da. But this makes things more…complicated.”
“Do you understand me?” Jayne continued, ignoring his words. “Gregor, if you harm a hair on either of their heads, I will make you my masterpiece. You will understand a new level of pain, heretofore unknown to mankind. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a long pause during which sh
e heard his breathing increase. The man was scared shitless—and well he should be. When someone gets a personalized threat from Jayne Renolds…well, she had taken great pains throughout her long and bloody career to ensure that those who received the threats lived just long enough to tell someone else. Her reputation was legendary among the Council’s operative corps.
“Da. I understand.”
She straightened in her seat as the waiter returned with rolls and plates and a little stone crock of butter. “It was ever so good to hear from you, dear! You simply mustn’t wait so long to call next time!”
“But—”
“Ta-ta and do give my love to your charming sister,” Jayne said, and ended the call. She placed the phone on the table and stared at her mimosa.
“Is…is everything all right? I’d say by your eyes, you could kill that drink if it were alive.”
She looked at the boy-king and flashed a sudden, reassuring smile that he returned at once. “Why of course, darling. Auntie has everything under control.”
They enjoyed lunch and Jayne waited patiently for the maître d’ to return to her table and enquire about their dining experience. Eventually, when the king was working on the last of his smoked salmon topped oatcakes, the Frenchman appeared out of the shadows.
“Ah, Madam Seagrave. Young sir,” he said, nodding toward the king. “I trust everything was acceptable to you today?”
“Quite!” the king blurted around a mouthful of oatcake. He reddened and pulled his napkin to his face to dab at some crumbs.
Jayne held her anger in check and turned her smile on the Frenchman. “I do so enjoy dining here, Pierre.” Now it was time to put the real object of her coming here into motion. She stared into his gray eyes.
“Will you be sampling from our dessert menu today?” he asked conversationally. Shall I release the chemical?
Jayne cocked her head in the prearranged signal. “I think we shall. What would you recommend?” Yes. It’s time.
He nodded. “Our dark Belgian chocolate tart is a wonderful complement to your repast. It is also, if I may be so bold, my personal favorite, and served with orange marmalade ice cream.” It will be done.
“Thank you ever so much. This restaurant is truly remarkable.” You have done well and will be rewarded.
“Merci,” he replied with a deep bow.
“What’s this ganache tart he’s talking about? I didn’t see it on the menu…” the king pondered, picking at the remains of his brunch.
“Oh, it’s something Auntie had prepared, just for our special visit.”
The king looked at her, mid-chew. “Special?”
Jayne smiled as she looked around the crowded dining room, filled with the world’s political elite. “Indeed.”
12
Ambush
Danika checked her Glock 26, and insured she had a round in the chamber. She wasn’t going to win any marksmanship contests with the Baby Glock, but until she could get her hands on something bigger, it would work.
Someone was trying to lead them off course and funnel them toward a trap, she was certain of it now. They’d taken one hair-raising turn after another, attempting to stay on their backup route, only to find garbage lorries loading trash or illegally parked vehicles at every turn—even pedestrian traffic. Yet just ahead of them was the mysterious figure on the black Ducati, always pulling away and leading them further off course—like he had a roadmap and knew where the open streets were.
She clenched her jaw in frustration. “I could really use that cavalry right around now, Braaten,” she muttered.
“Chase car still with us?” asked the driver, his eyes focused on the road.
They swerved around a car emerging from a side street and hopped the curb, flashing by several startled pedestrians whose yells went unheeded.
Danika braced herself against the window and glanced out the side mirror. “He’s still back there.”
The stone buildings scrolled past in a never-ending parade of gray as they wound down tiny, narrow side streets past ancient buildings, shops, and apartments.
“This isn’t good—we’re getting further and further off track,” Danika observed.
“I can’t turn anywhere,” the driver complained.
Danika saw a car make a right-hand turn two blocks ahead. The Ducati motorcycle continued speeding past it. “Follow that car,” she said, pointing at the windshield.
“Roger that—everybody hold onto your butts!” the driver said, slamming on the brakes and ripping the wheel to the right. On squealing tires, they rounded the corner. The left rear quarter panel kissed the building and jolted everyone inside, but they maintained their speed and continued down the narrow alley behind the car she’d had spotted, a few blocks ahead.
She turned in her seat, ignoring the whimpers from the terrified staffers in the back, and stared out the rear window until the senator’s car careened around the same corner.
“We picked up a tail,” the chase car’s driver said, making Danika’s earbud crackle.
She pulled a throat mic out of her bag and strapped on it at the base of her neck, linking it to the earbud via a tiny wire. She placed her hand at the base of her throat and squeezed. “Roger that, just stay with us.”
Danika’s phone buzzed. Bracing herself against the dashboard when the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid careening into a building, she slapped the answer button and kept it on speakerphone. The driver muttered a curse, spun the wheel to the left and turned another corner.
“Tell me you’re on your way!” Danika barked into the phone, trying to avoid crashing into the driver.
“Not exactly,” Braaten reported, his voice heavy with regret. “It seems there’s been a bomb threat called in against the parliament building. The local cops locked the damn place down—nobody in or out. I’m trapped.”
In the background, Danika heard an indignant voice complain about being called a mere ‘cop.’
“Look, bub, I don’t give a fuck what you call yourselves—but no cop that I know would stand aside when somebody’s trying to assassinate a foreign dignitary on his turf!” Braaten retorted. A shouting match erupted over the phone.
“Braaten! We don’t have time for this bullshit!” Danika opened her mouth to say something else when the driver made a sudden right turn and she found herself pressed against the side window, grunting with the effort to stay upright. More squealing tires announced the arrival of the senator’s car behind them. But another sound sent a string of curses from her mouth.
“Shots fired, shots fired! We’re taking damage!” warned the chase car driver.
“Goddammit, we gotta get out of this fucking rabbit warren!” said her driver, slamming his open palm on top of the steering wheel. Ahead of them, the motorcyclist looked over his shoulder, the black, tinted helmet flashing in the dim sunlight.
“That son of a bitch knows something,” the driver said, pointing. “Every time we have to make a sharp turn, he slows down…see that? He’s doing it again—hang on back there!”
As they rounded a gentle curve, a delivery lorry blocked the immediate path, its driver sitting behind the wheel with a calm expression on his face.
“This is all set up,” Danika muttered. The motorcyclist raised a hand in a casual wave at the truck as he made a leisurely right-hand turn and disappeared down a side alley. Their only option was to follow.
“I got a bad feeling about this, Braaten—are you tracking our location?” Danika called out.
“Roger that,” Braaten said, ignoring the shouting going on behind him. “Looks like you’re heading into a zigzag pattern back here…I don’t understand why they want to bring you back here to assassinate the senator…”
“I don’t know either,” she replied, “but we’ve got to get out of here and get some distance. They’re shooting at us,” she complained.
“You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine—the problem is I can’t shoot back!”
“Well,”
Braaten said, “can you shoot forward?”
A smile creased Danika’s lips. “I sure as hell can.” She rolled down her window, no easy task while the car jostled and bounced down the increasingly decrepit back-alley road system. Just as she got the window down, someone stepped out of a side building with a bag of trash, yelping as the car narrowly missed taking it out of his hands. She caught a glimpse of movement in her side mirror and saw the man lean out the doorway, still holding the trash bag to see where her car had went. A split second later, the trash bag erupted into a mountain of garbage as the chase car plowed into it, smearing the windshield with the debris.
“Son of a bitch—I’m driving blind here!” the chase car driver announced as the car slowed down.
Over the sound of the wind ripping past her open window, Danika yelled at the driver, “Just keep going straight—you have to stay with us! If we get separated—” She was cut off as their car hit a pothole, slamming her into the open window frame.
After a sharp twinge of pain from her face, Danika lifted her head and tasted iron in her mouth. This day just keeps getting better and better.
“Enough is enough,” she muttered. Danika wedged her left arm and head out the window, took careful aim at the motorcyclist in front of them and fired two shots from the Glock. The first missed—she was shooting left-handed—but the second hit the rear wheel, spraying a few sparks. The rider noticed immediately and wobbled as he turned to take another look over his shoulder.
“Gun, gun, gun,” her driver warned as the motorcyclist half turned and presented an Uzi.
Danika pulled herself back inside as a spray of bullets ricocheted off the windshield. Sparks flew as the rounds struck the stone buildings to either side of their car and one of the staffers in the backseat screamed.
“Oh my God—I’m hit! They shot me!”
Without turning back to look, Danika yelled over the noise, “Put pressure on the wound; we’ll get you medical attention as soon as it’s safe!”
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