The Ultimatum--An International Spy Thriller

by Karen Robards

  The only windows were tall arches interspersed with the French doors at the far end of the room. Other exits led to inner corridors like the one she’d used to access the cellars. Not ideal for escaping. She noted the location of the security guards, all of whom were armed. The gentleman whose pocket held her phone was not far inside the entrance. He was nodding vigorously in response to something one of his companions was saying as he chowed down on what looked like a crab cake, still clearly unaware that there was a foreign object in his pocket. If he found it, when he found it, there was nothing that could connect it to her.

  She could not see Durand, or the prince.

  Not seeing them was worse than seeing them. It made her feel edgy, like she could jump right out of her skin.

  She grimaced to herself. So much for “Ice Ice Baby.”

  “Please come this way.” As they skirted the group that was murmuring admiration of the sapphire blues and jade greens of Woman with a Hat, King Kong indicated a narrow sliver of open floor space snaking away along the nearest wall.

  “Certainly.”

  At least she sounded cool and untroubled. Guided by the hand gripping her elbow and flanked by the gorilla-size bodyguards, Bianca figured that at this point going where they took her was the only thing to do. She’d made her choice out there on the terrace. Still, she continued to try to identify every possible threat and exit.

  Just in case.

  The young, attractive waitstaff wove in and out among the crowd, offering drinks and canapés. Couples danced in the center of the room. Even where she was, walking so close to the wall that her arm practically brushed the cool marble, the crowd kept getting in the way. King Kong finally had to release her elbow and move in front of her to clear a path. For an instant after he let go of her arm, Bianca again considered making a run for it, but another hand belonging to another bodyguard captured her elbow almost at once. That and awareness of the four bodyguards still behind her discouraged her, as did the thought that if she tried and failed to escape, her situation would be made infinitely worse. There would be no easy way of coming back from that.

  Keep your game face on: it was another one of the rules. She could almost hear her father’s voice whispering it. The first time he’d said that to her she’d been six years old and the two of them—a handsome, well-dressed forty-four-year-old man with his blond-haired, blue-eyed, Alice in Wonderland lookalike daughter—were walking hand in hand out of a New York jewelry store where they’d supposedly been picking out a present for Mommy, who in reality by that time had been dead for almost two years. The bright blue bag containing the inexpensive locket they’d purchased had been clutched in Bianca’s small hand. The numerous pockets of her specially designed dress had been filled with jewels Richard had lifted from the display cases. The manager had stopped them just before they reached the door, said, “Wait right here,” in a stern voice and stepped behind a counter. Scared to death, horribly conscious of her weighted-down dress, Bianca must have started to look as panicky as she felt, because her father had leaned down to murmur in her ear, “Keep your game face on.”

  She’d managed to do so, the store manager had returned with a lollipop for her and she’d given him a big beaming smile in her relief before her father had led her on out of the store.

  So, game face on one more time, twenty years later.

  As Tony’s gorgeous voice slid over her without even registering, her gaze skimmed the beautiful people in their beautiful clothes who were laughing and drinking and eating and dancing, all unaware of this life-and-death drama unfolding in their midst.

  She was searching for Durand. She didn’t find him.

  Not knowing his whereabouts was driving her around the bend.

  “Where is His Highness?” Raising her voice, Bianca directed the question to King Kong, who was obviously in charge of the group of bodyguards. She couldn’t ask for Durand; she ostensibly didn’t know of his existence. Locating the prince was the next most reassuring thing.

  King Kong glanced back at her and jerked his head toward the far right end of the ballroom, not far from the stage.

  “There.”

  Looking through the throng of milling guests in the direction he indicated, Bianca caught a glimpse of the prince, a tall, portly man in traditional Middle Eastern garb. He was standing in front of one of the Matisses she had authenticated for him after having originally won his trust by approaching him in a Paris auction house and telling him that the painting he was getting ready to buy for millions was a forgery. She had known it was because, as part of the setup for tonight’s debacle, she’d stolen the real painting and personally replaced it with the forgery not long before approaching the prince. Having already had it authenticated by his own expert, the prince had not believed her until a subsequent reexamination of the painting confirmed that it was, indeed, a forgery. After that, her bona fides were firmly established with the prince, and the upshot of the whole thing was that she had been invited here tonight to celebrate the first public showing of his collection.

  Which had been her goal all along.

  The crowd shifted.

  Durand was standing with the prince. Their heads were close together as they talked in front of Woman in a Purple Coat.

  The shock of it ran through Bianca like an electric current. Goose bumps raced over her skin. The sudden surging of her pulse made it pound in her ears.

  The two of them knew each other. Of course they knew each other. What, had she ever really thought that Durand’s presence tonight was some kind of terrible accident of fate?

  Keep walking. Keep breathing.

  As an Interpol agent, Durand didn’t actually have the power to arrest anyone. Instead he got the job done through local authorities—like the prince and his men.

  A person less used to finding herself in deadly peril might have out-and-out panicked at that moment. Bianca didn’t, because she had learned long ago that panic could get you killed. She did experience a rush of adrenaline, but what that resulted in was a focusing of her mind, a sharpening of her senses, a kind of revving up of her body. After all these years she was a pro, and in the face of what felt like extreme danger, her training kicked in.

  Head up, shoulders back. Walk like you own the place.

  Meanwhile, her mind worked at breakneck speed.

  It was possible that neither Durand nor the prince had a clue about who she really was, had no idea that a robbery was going down, had met by chance and were simply discussing the painting. The prince had sent King Kong after her because he wanted Jennifer Ashley to clarify some point about the canvas or Matisse’s technique.

  Right. Keep dreaming.

  It was possible that they were aware that Traveler had targeted the money in the vault but neither of them had any idea who she really was or knew about her connection to the crime in progress. They were still in the ballroom idly discussing the painting in front of them because they thought that the robbery would happen on its original timetable. In that scenario, the trap would still be in the process of being set. It was now nine minutes, sixteen seconds until midnight. If Richard hadn’t moved things up, she wouldn’t be heading for the cellars, and the surprise that awaited her in the vault, for another forty minutes, forty-four seconds.

  Maybe. If the planets are aligned and the stars are in your favor.

  It was possible that they both knew exactly who she was and what was happening, and she was being brought to them as a precursor to being hauled away, tortured until she spilled everything she knew and then finally murdered after some present-day proclamation of “off with her head.”

  That was the one she really didn’t like.

  Durand’s primary target would be her father, not herself.

  To her knowledge, Durand had never actually seen her father, who was a master of disguise, in any identifiable form.
No clear pictures of Traveler were known to exist. Durand had also, to her knowledge, never seen her. The only other time she had seen Durand in the flesh was when she was ten years old and he was waiting outside a hotel where her father was taking her for a weekend outing (actually, a heist for which he had required her help) after picking her up from her boarding school. Bianca remembered the occasion well, because her father, who rarely used profanity, had sworn furiously upon spotting Durand and, to her great relief, abandoned his plan, returning her to her school and disappearing until he’d needed her for another job.

  Durand’s face had been emblazoned in her memory ever since.

  Durand might not know that Traveler had a daughter, or that she was frequently part of his team. But he would know that Traveler had confederates. Her father kept an extensive dossier on Durand, including all known associates. She didn’t doubt that Durand had an even more extensive dossier on Traveler. Would it include information about her, pictures of her? As Traveler’s confederate, if not his daughter? She would be a fool not to assume it did.

  The question thus became, would he recognize Traveler’s confederate, or, alternatively, Bianca St. Ives, in Jennifer Ashley? Since the beginning of this job, she’d been in disguise, her features altered into exotic beauty by makeup and prosthetics, the color of her eyes changed by contacts, her luxurious mane of red hair a wig, chosen because the prince had a notorious weakness for redheads. She had a foolproof false identity in the art expert she was pretending to be. But was she willing to trust her life, her freedom and a whole host of other things she held dear, to the hope that Durand wouldn’t be able to identify her, anyway?

  No.

  Bottom line: whatever the prince’s motivation in having her brought to him, she could not come face-to-face with Durand.

  Her body vibrated with barely suppressed tension. Time to shift gears.

  4

  Doing her Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon thing would probably attract too much attention, Bianca concluded reluctantly as her gaze swept the ballroom. Besides, given the abundance of guards with guns, she could wind up getting shot.

  Not the outcome she was looking for.

  Subterfuge was the key. Quick, dazzlingly effective subterfuge.

  Surrounded by her goon squad of escorts, she was approaching a side-by-side pair of alcoves. What they were, basically, were shallow, dead-end corridors with a single door at the end. Those doors led to restrooms. Discreetly hand-lettered signs propped on gilded easels outside each alcove directed gentlemen to the left, ladies to the right. She had known the restrooms were there, of course. She’d memorized floor plans and photos documenting every square foot of the palace down to the location of each light switch and thermostat, just as she always memorized every possible detail connected with a job.

  It was not in her nature to leave anything to chance. Preparation, she’d learned, was the key to success—and survival.

  A tuxedo-clad waiter—handsome, dark-haired, twentysomething—wove his way through the crowd just a few yards away. Balanced above his head on the flat of one hand was a silver tray loaded with drinks: red and white wine in goblets and champagne in flutes along with various cocktails and liquors in their appropriate glasses.

  Bianca’s eyes widened slightly. What she was looking at was opportunity. It shouldn’t be difficult to—

  Right in front of her, one of the male guests stepped back to make room for the waiter, inadvertently getting between her and King Kong, blocking her path and providing her with the opening she needed. With the lightning reflexes that had been honed by a lifetime of having to react fast, Bianca bumped into the guest hard, careened away (not incidentally jerking free of the bodyguard’s hand on her elbow at the same time) and stumbled sideways into the waiter.

  “Ah! Merde!” the waiter yelped as she sent him staggering. The tray upended and, drinks and all, came crashing down on top of Bianca.

  “Oh, no!” Ducking, she thrust an arm above her head in self-defense as a deluge of chilled liquid, maybe half a dozen crystal glasses and the tray itself hit her, light blows that caused no real damage. Jumping back to the sounds of shattering glass and clanging metal as everything subsequently smashed to the floor, she looked down at herself in feigned dismay. What previously had been the contents of the glasses rolled down the cascade of sequined ruffles that formed the outer layer of her skirt, soaking the tissue-thin material, dripping around her feet. “Oh, dear!”

  Having scattered, the people nearest her were now exclaiming in a variety of languages as they came together again to gawk.

  “Verdammt!”

  “Would ya look at that!”

  “Clumsy idiot!”

  “Ahmaq akhraq!”

  “I say, are you all right?”

  “Mademoiselle! A hundred million apologies!”

  “Miss Ashley!” Obviously caught by surprise, King Kong had spun around to survey the scene with consternation. She was free now, with no one holding on to her and a circle of gaping, tsk-tsking onlookers to provide a—brief and temporary, she knew—buffer zone.

  Fortunately, the noise seemed not to have carried too far. Tony continued to sing, the band played on and only those guests in the near vicinity had turned to look. She could not see Durand and the prince through the crush of people all around her, but unless she was officially the unluckiest person on the planet, which at this point was not outside the realm of possibility, they were too far away to have seen or heard anything and would remain unaware that this little contretemps was going down.

  “Ce n’est pas grave.” It’s all right, she comforted the lamenting waiter, who wrung his hands as he spouted a babble of nearly incomprehensible French at her. “Accidents arrivent.” Accidents happen.

  Swiping ineffectually at rivulets of what looked like red wine rolling down the front of her dress, she took a few more steps to the side, ostensibly to get out of the mess of broken glass and spilled drinks but really to put more distance between herself and the bodyguards. The smell of wine was strong. Spreading puddles of multicolored liquid made the marble treacherous underfoot; fortunately, her custom-made shoes had nonslip rubber soles. Everyone was stepping back, taking care. Gazes darted from her to the abashed, still-apologizing waiter to the floor.

  She was now the center of a small open circle. Along with the milling onlookers and the scattered debris, the space the accident had given her provided a measure of protection from the bodyguards.

  A lightning glance down told her that it was eight minutes, twenty-five seconds until midnight. Her breathing quickened along with her pulse. She mentally clamped down hard on both.

  “My dress.” Bianca started shaking out her skirt at the same time as she began to edge unobtrusively toward the restrooms. Near-instant response to the airborne droplets: more space around her as everyone drew farther away.

  “I have a hankie.” A white-haired gentleman with a plummy British accent leaned forward to proffer it.

  “Thank you.” Accepting the monogrammed linen square, Bianca used it to dab at the splotches on her dress as she took a few more steps closer to her goal.

  “Mademoiselle, que puis-je faire...?” What can I do? The waiter, sounding agonized, followed her.

  “Range ce désordre.” Clean up the mess. She just managed not to say it through her teeth. The last thing she needed was him calling attention to her movements.

  The alcove where the ladies’ room was located was maybe ten feet away on her left. She had to get past the alcove where the men’s room was located to reach it. Still applying the handkerchief to her dress, she took care to keep as many of her fellow guests as possible between herself and the bodyguards as she edged away.

  A stirring in the crowd nearby caught her and everyone else’s attention. Some of the staff hurried toward them. One pushed a mop in a bucket. In a bit
of good news, the bodyguards were distracted, glancing away from her in response to the bucket’s rattling wheels.

  Bianca broke for the restroom.

  “Je suis vraiment désolé,” the waiter called after her. I’m really sorry.

  Bianca’s shoulders tensed. His raised voice, to her at least, made it obvious that she was now some distance from him.

  King Kong apparently caught the verbal cue, too. His head snapped around. His face tightened as he saw where she was, and that she was walking away. “Miss Ashley—”

  Damn it. Bianca picked up the pace. Now she was fast-walking away.

  “I can’t possibly appear before His Highness like this. I’m going to duck into the ladies’ room for a tiny moment and see if I can’t do something about my dress,” she called to King Kong over her shoulder. The man’s pit-bull eyes widened.

  “I do not think—” His tone made it clear that he was getting ready to object.

  Bianca didn’t give him the chance. With a bright “I’ll be right back,” she ducked into the alcove.

  She walked so fast as she made for the white-painted ladies’ room door that her long skirt swished behind her like an angry cat’s tail and her legs flashed in and out of the thigh-high slit. A hand on the knob, a turn, a push, and she was inside and pivoting to face the door.

  “Miss Ashley, wait—” King Kong barreled into the alcove after her, looking big as a semi, his hands outstretched to grab her even as she put her weight into closing the door. Approximately three long strides away, he was coming after her like a heat-seeking missile and closing fast.

  Not quite fast enough, turkey.