by Davis Bunn
Her face was cradled in a pillow that looped around her forehead and cheeks, with a central opening through which she could breathe. Rhana shifted her face from side to side, wiping away the tears.
The masseuse asked, “Is madame comfortable?”
“The session must end early,” Rhana replied. She raised her voice. “Kitra?”
“Yes, madame?”
“Please send away the attendant.”
A few seconds’ pause, then, “What is it?”
Rhana asked her attendant to leave and then slid open the woven screen. “I must ask you a question, and in return you must give me the truth.”
“I have given you nothing else.”
“I believe you,” Rhana said, and felt the burning remorse of having lost the comfort of such candor. “Tell me this. Did you and your people have anything to do with the attack on the Geneva gallery?”
“We did not.”
“I accept your statement. Others doubt you. I need proof that you are on our side. That is why we are here today.”
Kitra nodded acceptance. “Whose side is that?”
“Proof,” Rhana replied, shaking her head. “Give me this, and I will answer all your questions. For now, all I can tell you is, by speaking to you as I do now, I put my life and all I possess in your hands.”
“I thank you for the gift of trust, madame,” Kitra said quietly.
“The young man in the forecourt, you must warn him.”
Kitra gripped the towel more tightly. “What do you mean?”
“There is going to be an attack. How it will be fashioned, I do not know. They are going to come after Sir Geoffrey, and they will slaughter everyone who stands in their way.”
Kitra gave no time for further questions. She slipped on her robe and bolted, only to stop just beyond the portal and return long enough to hug Rhana with a fierceness that she felt in her bones. Kitra whispered, “Thank you,” and vanished.
When Rhana finally moved, it was with the slow motions of a very old woman. As usual, she avoided glancing at her reflection as she passed through the foyer. But as she climbed the stairs up to the changing rooms, Rhana found herself wondering if there was indeed the chance, however slim, that one day mirrors would no longer be her enemy.
Chapter Twelve
Walton told Marc, “We have no sign of infiltrators.”
“Hold one.” Marc hit the speaker button on his phone. “Sir, I am joined by FIS Special Agent Behlet and Geneva Police Inspector Remy Reynard.”
“Gentlemen.”
Marc explained to the two Swiss officers, “This is my superior in Washington. We spoke with him in the chief inspector’s office.”
For once Remy Reynard was willing to follow the agent’s lead. Behlet said simply, “Understood.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
“The drone has done two full circuits of your environ. We have tracked both visually and with infrared scanners. The road beyond the Chamonix turning is empty. The only movement within five klicks comes from a pair of deer.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Keep me in the loop.”
“Roger that. Royce out.”
Remy said, “So we made this trip for nothing?”
Bernard Behlet pointed out, “We have recovered the stolen artwork.”
“So he says.”
Marc shook his head. “They’re out there. The danger is real and inbound.”
“But your superior just told you—”
“What he said was, they could not be seen. Which means only one thing. They are already here.”
The police inspector started to scoff, but was halted by his associate’s reply, “I agree with your assessment.”
“What do you—?” Marc’s phone rang. He checked the readout. “I need to take this.”
Kitra’s voice held the steely tone Marc had last heard in Kenya. “The attack is real.”
“Rhana told you that?”
“She did, yes. Marc, she says by giving us this information we place her life in our hands.”
“Understood. Did she say who is the target?”
“Sir Geoffrey.”
“Any details?”
“She doesn’t know any. Only that it is happening. Here. Today.”
“All right. I want you to get the lady and Sir Geoffrey and meet me in the lobby ASAP.”
“Two minutes.”
“Make it less.” He cut the connection and relayed what he had just heard.
Bernard Behlet demanded, “Can we trust her?”
“My Washington people would say no. My gut says yes.”
The chief inspector scowled. “I am thinking we should arrest—”
“Remy, you need to learn to trust this man,” Bernard said. “Lives may be at stake. He is a specialist at such events. If anyone can keep us all safe, it is Marc Royce.”
“You know this how?”
“I have accessed his records. He is precisely who he says he is. He has given us nothing but the truth from the very outset. The time for doubt and argument is over. He says we must protect this Rhana, this source, and I accept this, and so should you.”
“We have to move,” Marc pressed.
Bernard gave the inspector a long look, then asked Marc, “What do you want us to do?”
“How long would it take to get reinforcements up here?”
“Half an hour,” Remy replied. “They would need to drive up from Aigle.”
“Too long. I need a gun.”
The police inspector sternly replied, “No gun. Guns are forbidden to foreign operatives on Swiss soil. We do not protect Swiss law by breaking it.”
Marc had expected the response. “Please tell me you’re carrying.”
“The ban on weapons is directed at you, monsieur. Not an officer of the Swiss police. Of course I’m armed.”
“As am I,” Bernard confirmed.
“Okay, the inspector comes with me. Bernard, you watch the entry. No one comes through those gates.”
Marc and the inspector climbed the stairs and entered the spa’s foyer, where he found Kitra standing between a striking older woman and Sir Geoffrey, who demanded nervously, “What on earth is the matter?”
“We have an indication that the spa might be coming under attack.”
The woman at the front desk reached down, and Marc snapped, “Don’t touch the alarm.”
“Monsieur, I have specific instructions—”
“Do as he says,” Remy barked, and showed her his badge. “Chief Inspector, Geneva Police. You are duty manager?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“How many staff are on duty?”
“Including the chef and masseuses and cosmeticians, eleven. Plus the duty guard at the front gates.”
“Are there any guards inside the building?”
“No, monsieur. They are strictly forbidden to go beyond this front foyer.”
Marc asked, “Besides these three, how many other guests are there?”
She checked her book. “Sixteen.”
“Are any besides Sir Geoffrey here for the first time?”
One glance at the police inspector was enough for her to reply, “One other. A woman from Finland. Referred by a client we have known for many years.”
“Ask her to join us. Immediately,” Marc said. “Don’t tell her anything.”
The duty manager nodded at a hovering attendant, who vanished.
Marc asked, “Is this the only way in or out?”
“There is a rear entry leading to the kitchen. For supplies.”
Remy asked, “Can it be sealed?”
“Certainly, monsieur.” She turned to the computer connected to the security system. “It is done.”
Marc gestured to the three who watched with wide-eyed alarm. “We need to get the two women and the gentleman safe. If there’s an attack, these three are the target.”
“We have a security room in the cellar.” The duty manager lifted her phone. “May I call for an
assistant?”
“Do it.” Marc turned to Sir Geoffrey. “Did you come with bodyguards?”
“Two gentlemen I’ve known for years.”
“Can you phone and tell them to do whatever I ask?”
As he made the call, another attendant arrived and was directed to lead Kitra, Rhana, and Sir Geoffrey downstairs. As they departed, a woman in her fifties entered from the women’s wing. Her English was crisply irritated. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Remy showed his badge. “I beg your pardon, madame. Would you happen to have your passport with you?”
The attendant said, “I took the liberty of bringing up your purse, madame.”
“What on earth for?” But she did not wait for a response. She fished through her purse, handed over her document, waited while it was inspected, then said, “Now will someone tell me what is going on?”
Marc had seen enough. The woman was pudgy and flaccid and carried herself with the lax attitude of someone not at all familiar with exercise. He gave Remy a slight shake of his head. Not an assassin.
“I beg your pardon, madame. We had word of a possible thief intending to rob patrons. Your name was one of three guests who are here for the first time.”
“Well, I suppose I should be angry over the interruption, but it is nice to know we are granted such protection.”
Remy sketched a salute. “I do so hope you enjoy your stay.”
When the attendant had led the woman back into the rear chambers, the duty manager asked, “What now?”
“If there’s indeed a threat, there can be only one other place for them to hide,” Marc said.
The duty manager’s name was Helene. In her early forties, tall and pale blond, her skin almost translucent, she led them across the forecourt carrying a tray of fresh sandwiches. Marc held a coffee urn while Remy carried a dozen clean mugs. One of the security detail held the guardroom door and smiled at their arrival. Helene did a quick swing around the room, speaking with each guard in turn. There were nineteen in all, eleven men and eight women. Some of their female clients insisted on being guarded only by men; others refused to have a man anywhere near them. Helene asked the gathering which of them accompanied Sir Geoffrey and said she had a message. The two men followed her outside.
They crossed the forecourt and climbed the front steps, where Helene announced, “This is as far as I can allow them to come.”
“Understood.” Marc turned to the security detail. “You received a call from Sir Geoffrey.”
“Affirmative.”
“My name is Marc Royce. We suspect that a killer is among the guards. His target is your man.”
To their credit, neither showed any reaction. The taller of the pair said, “Any idea who?”
“None.”
The shorter man was built like a fireplug, with a shaved head and a jaw that would have done credit to a Brahma bull. “You certain there’s a definite hit?”
“No. But the source is credible. We are assuming the risk is real.”
“The bloke with the smart clothes, the one standing by the guard-station door, he’s with you?”
“He is FIS. Swiss intel. And this is Inspector Remy Reynard with the Geneva Police.”
“So how do you want this to go down?”
Marc asked the duty manager, “Did you notice anyone suspicious among the guards?”
“Not really.” Her hands started to flutter. “But I seldom have any contact with them. They do not come inside. I normally send a maid out if anything is required.”
“How do you alert a guard when the guest is to depart?”
“I ring the guard station. In Sir Geoffrey’s case, it would be a few minutes early because they have to start the helicopter and request clearance for takeoff.”
“Who flies Sir Geoffrey’s chopper?”
The fireplug raised his hand. “That would be me.”
“Okay, here’s how we’ll play it. You go start the chopper. Helene, when you hear the motor revving, bring Sir Geoffrey to the lobby. Remy and I will go watch the duty room.” Marc nodded to the tall man. “You hustle Sir Geoffrey across the lawn and into the chopper.”
“I can do that,” the tall man said. “That is, assuming the baddies don’t pull out a weapon and blast away.”
The duty manager clenched her arms so tightly her hands went chalk white. “That cannot happen.”
The chopper pilot asked, “Any chance of a bit of firepower?”
“No guns,” the inspector said firmly.
Marc stifled further protest with, “Okay. We’ve finished our chat. Everybody smile and shake hands in case we’re being watched.”
Chapter Thirteen
Marc lounged by the guardhouse door, just another mildly bored security specialist. He inspected the empty road through the room’s rear window. He glanced across the silent forecourt to where Remy Reynard leaned against the stone wall bordering the spa’s front stairs. For all his grumpiness and suspicion, the inspector knew how to follow orders. Remy wore an extremely bored expression as he surveyed the surrounding Alps.
Helene ignored Remy as she descended the steps and crossed the forecourt, carrying another tray of sandwiches. She did a quick turn of the guardroom, then motioned for Marc to pick up the empty coffee urn. Behlet sat on a sofa, leafing through a magazine. Together Marc and Helene started back across the forecourt. Marc waited until their footsteps on the raked gravel drive would mask their quiet conversation. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary back there?”
“Nothing.” Now that Helene was out of the room, her nerves emerged in the form of a breathless and shaky voice. “But as I said, I rarely have any contact with our clients’ security.”
Sir Geoffrey’s two guards were over by the chopper. Marc liked how they also held to an easy boredom, one of them playing with his keys while the pilot went through his preflight check. There was nothing to alert an attacker that anything was out of the ordinary. No sign that he had in fact now had the castle’s front perimeter ringed by allies. “All right. We are going to go inside and get ready to move Sir Geoffrey.”
The industrialist waited for them in the front lobby, his urbane demeanor in tatters. Sir Geoffrey was a man afraid for his life. “Are you sure we must proceed with this?”
“I can’t tell you what to do. But there’s no other way to determine if we face a real threat.” Marc turned to the hovering duty manager and attendant and said, “Give us a moment.” When they were alone, Marc added, “This isn’t just about seeing whether Rhana is trustworthy. This is about flushing out a global threat. You understand?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.” He swallowed audibly. “That is—”
“Before you put your life on the line,” Marc finished for him.
“It all seemed so simple until about ten minutes ago. Rather a lark, really. Use my position for the greater good.” His hands trembled as he patted down his still-damp hair. “I’m too old for this.”
“Say the word and we’ll stop.”
“No, no.” He did his best to dredge up a smile. “I had always thought the danger element was rather fun.”
“You’ll do fine.” Marc called to the duty manager, and when she reappeared, he said, “Walk with me and play along.”
He opened the front door, stepped through, waved his arms angrily, then said through the front door, “This is the third time she’s changed her mind!”
Helene showed a professional’s ability to ad lib. She retorted, “The mademoiselle is your patron!”
Marc stomped down the stone stairs. “I’m a professional and deserve to be treated like one!”
A pair of heads appeared in the guardroom’s doorway as Helene snapped, “You are an employee and should show your betters some respect!” She then turned to the lounging inspector and added loudly, “And you will be so good as to find somewhere else to lean!”
Marc kicked at the groomed gravel and fumed his way over to the line of parked cars. Remy made a show
of rising from the steps and sauntering across the forecourt. The other guards showed them cynical humor and retreated. All, that is, except for Behlet. He now leaned against the open doorway, offered his trademark slit of a smile, and partially blocked the guardroom’s only entry.
Marc watched as the helicopter’s turbine gave a whining noise that rose in pitch and volume. The tall security man walked from the chopper toward the spa. Marc felt his adrenaline surge in time to the snap of blades. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead and pretended to rub weary eyes, scouting in every direction, wishing for a gun.
When Sir Geoffrey appeared in the front doorway, Marc stretched and yawned and blinked at the sun, then bent over and gathered a double handful of gravel. He tossed a rock at the valley beyond the groomed perimeter, and allowed his throw to spin him partly around, taking in the keep and the guardhouse and the forecourt and the parked cars. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the guard lead Sir Geoffrey in discreet haste. The bodyguard was a pro and shielded the industrialist with his own body. Marc kept the pair in the perimeter of his vision as he tossed another rock. Waiting.
The attack came from the direction he had both expected and feared. The one area where they were most vulnerable.
Two of the vehicles parked between the Ferrari and the front entrance were new Rolls-Royce Silver Ghosts. They were the world’s largest mass-produced cars, as heavy as an empty bus, with trunks large enough to house a family of four.
The vehicles had smoked security glass that shut off the rear cabin from view. Anything and anyone could hide inside. It was far from unusual for bored guards and drivers both to sneak into the back and catch a quick twenty winks. And no way for Marc to check without showing his hand.
Over the thrusting noise, Marc heard the click because he was waiting for it. The instant the first one appeared, he knew they were in trouble. The assailant rose from the rear seat of the car furthest from Marc and threw something across the forecourt.
Marc yelled, “Grenade! Down, down, everybody down!”