The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  Until she recalled something she’d heard years ago. One word that was the same in French as it was in English.

  “Tampons.” She smiled.

  The guard’s hand stilled as he was about to open it. He gave a curt nod, ran the wand over her, then waved her in. She looked at Griffin, smiled, then mouthed, Winging it, as she followed him in.

  A minute later the four walked down a hallway up the circular stone stairs, then entered the huge stone kitchen of the château, where several white-coated men stood working feverishly at the stainless steel counter. One, wearing a chef’s hat, looked over, saw them, and started yelling.

  Giustino responded, holding up his box, and the two argued. It was only then that Sydney realized that dinner had not only been already served, but the waiters were clearing the dishes, dumping them into large plastic bins. The napoleons were already plated, and were being placed onto serving trays. Sydney couldn’t imagine spraying store-bought whipped cream over them, even if such a dessert called for that topping, which this one did not. Apparently the chef thought the same, as he continued arguing with Giustino, then pointed to somewhere beyond the brick oven where a fire burned, presumably telling him where the refrigerator was and to remove the offending ingredients from his sight.

  They followed Giustino past the fire, the intense heat warming Sydney’s skin. Beyond that stood several stainless steel racks filled with various utensils and cookware. The walk-in refrigerator was just around the corner in one direction, the other way led down another hall, presumably to the main rooms. The four entered the refrigerator, where Donovan and Giustino removed the weapons and phones from the whipped cream boxes.

  “What was that all about?” Sydney asked, dropping her gun and phone in her purse, then stepping out of the white uniform, before smoothing out her black velvet Yves Saint Laurent gown, which had taken on the appearance of crushed velvet in some spots.

  “He said he would flay us all if we dared touch the dessert with that topping. And who could blame him?” he said, stashing his uniform behind a box of lettuce heads. “I told him it was merely being brought in for an emergency, should the cream filling fail.”

  Griffin kept an eye on the kitchen, then motioned for Giustino to precede them. “Dumas will inform us once Luc arrives at the train station to meet his buyer. You have thirty minutes to find his office, get into that safe and out of here,” Griffin said. “I’ll text updates. If there is an emergency, I’ll call.”

  Giustino patted the phone in his pocket, then left.

  She and Griffin followed shortly.

  “Ready?” he asked her.

  “Ready,” she said.

  They stepped through the doors where they were confronted by the back of a large wide Chinese screen, designed to better conceal the comings and goings of the servants from Montel’s guests in the grand salon. On the other side of the screen was a raised platform where a string quintet was playing Schubert. The interior of the château belied its simple eighteenth-century exterior. The parquetry floor of the long salon had been buffed to a glossy sheen that almost mirrored the guests in their chic formal attire. On the spaces between the tall, velvet-draped windows, portraits of purported Montel ancestors alternated with genuine Aubusson tapestries in which muted shades of rose, blue, and green predominated. Their exquisite workmanship, undoubtedly taken for granted by Montel’s guests, displayed the recurrent theme of the god Dionysus and his drunken coterie of maenads and satyrs—the only subtle reference to the Montel vins d’époque. From the ceiling, which had maintained its pristine simplicity, hung great crystal and ormolu chandeliers. Their myriad glittering faceted pendants reflected the diamond tiaras and jewels that adorned the haute couture satins and velvets of Montel’s female guests.

  Griffin took Sydney by the arm, escorting her into the grand salon, and when she looked at him, he was the epitome of calm. “What if Luc returns before we get out?”

  “He’s not expecting us,” Griffin said. “People see what they want to see.”

  “And if he does notice us?”

  “We cross that bridge when we come to it,” Griffin replied, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, then handing one to Sydney. “Give me a minute to find a party to blend into.”

  He left her to wander through the guests, pausing beside a group of people, listening to their conversation before moving on, finally stepping into a circle, shaking hands with a middle-aged man and then the woman standing next to him. He finally looked over at her, waving to have her join him, and she realized just how smooth he was in this environment. Much better than she’d been back in Italy, when she’d had to attempt the same with Tex. The moment she arrived, Griffin took her by the hand, saying, “You remember Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, darling?”

  “Milan, wasn’t it?” Sydney replied, smiling warmly.

  “No,” Mrs. Johnson said. “We haven’t been there in years. Maybe Copenhagen? The pharmaceutical convention?”

  “Of course,” Sydney replied. “I remember, because the dress you wore was stunning.”

  “Vintage. I’m not sure I will ever again pay retail for a gown I can wear only once,” she said, as Griffin and Mr. Johnson wandered off, apparently to join a new group. But when Sydney would have followed, Mrs. Johnson placed her hand on Sydney’s arm, stopping her, as she whispered, “I really need a mint before I go in there. A strong one,” she said, opening up her rhinestone-edged evening bag. “Dinner was fantastic, but far too much garlic. Damn. Please tell me I didn’t leave them in the car.”

  While the woman searched through her purse, Sydney glanced up, surprised by how far Griffin and the group he’d latched on to had traveled. Look up, she wanted to shout. He didn’t seem to notice he’d left her behind, and she hid her momentary panic at being separated. Be calm, she told herself. She could do this, act the part of the high-society girl. After all, she’d succeeded this far.

  “You don’t have any mints, do you?” the woman asked, as the quintet started a new piece and several couples gravitated to the dance floor.

  “Perhaps my husband does.” She managed to guide the woman over to where the men stood talking, and then she linked her arm through Griffin’s, vowing not to lose him again. All she needed to do was play the socialite for the next hour while Giustino found Luc’s office and the safe. An easy job, she thought, with little that could go wrong. And as she scanned the room, her gaze landed on a woman at the far side, her short dark hair bouncing in the light as she laughed at something someone said. In that moment, Sydney realized there was a lot more that could go wrong. The woman in the sketch. Griffin’s wife, Becca. The woman they were told to bring in at all costs.

  Griffin tensed beside Sydney. “Wait here,” he said, then started in that direction.

  Chapter 66

  December 12

  ATLAS Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Tex walked into the conference room where Carillo was still working. “You sure you don’t want to go out on this?”

  “Trust me,” Carillo replied. “I wouldn’t be an asset. First hoity-toity schmuck that made a complaint would find a tray of hors d’oeuvres dumped in his lap. My time’s better spent here, doing what I do best.”

  “Eating stale donuts?” Tex said, nodding at the box from this morning which was nearly empty.

  “Sorting through old paperwork, connecting the dots. I’ll probably go get a couple sandwiches, bring one to the computer room where Izzy’s working.” Carillo looked up from his paperwork. “Your guys grumbling about being assigned to dignitary protection?”

  “They’ll get over it. It’s good to have a few quiet jobs every now and then.” Carillo’s attention shifted back to the paper he held. “What is it?” Tex asked.

  “The list of numbers the CIA thinks are tied to LockeStarr but can’t pin down. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this phone number before.
I swear I had it in my hand not five minutes ago.” Carillo started digging through other folders, sorting through the papers at a lightning pace. “Here,” he said, holding up a sheet. “Cavanaugh’s phone. Damned number was on Cavanaugh’s phone.”

  “Guess that links Cavanaugh to LockeStarr,” Tex said. “As if there was any doubt.”

  “I swear I saw it somewhere else . . .”

  Tex turned a dubious eye to the mountain of papers, then walked to the door. “I’ll be upstairs monitoring the operation if you need anything.”

  “Yeah. Have fun,” Carillo said, flipping through the files. “Where the hell did I see that number . . . ?”

  Carillo finally found the document he was searching for. The list of calls from Senator Grogan’s Washington, D.C., office. He scanned the numbers, finding it second from the bottom. Second to the last call Grogan received at his office . . . “Right before he was killed,” Carillo said, then dug out his notes. He’d checked the number before, but hadn’t been able to cross-reference it to anyone, and so he’d marked it for follow-up.

  And now he knew it was linked to LockeStarr.

  Carillo leaned back in his chair, staring at the list. What didn’t make sense was why someone from LockeStarr would be calling on the public line . . . Not if Grogan was part of LockeStarr. They’d be calling his cell, cut out the middleman, which in this case would be Grogan’s secretary . . .

  He checked the record of received calls from Grogan’s cell phone. The number was nowhere to be found . . .

  “Hell,” Carillo said, sitting up and reaching for the file box with Grogan’s murder case. He dug through the box, pulling out a thick black binder that contained the Grogan murder investigation. He scanned the pages, found the passage he knew would be present, but wanted to verify, because his memory wasn’t adding up to what the evidence showed. But no, it was there, just as he recalled. The statement from the secretary, reporting that nothing unusual occurred before Grogan left for his speech the day of his murder. He had only two calls. His wife to wish him luck and his aide to tell him his car was waiting.

  He looked at the numbers, realized the one that should be there wasn’t.

  But memories were faulty, so he looked up the secretary’s number from the report and called her. “Hate to bother you again,” he said after identifying himself. “I’ve got a couple more questions about those phone calls the investigators talked to you about.”

  “Phone calls?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. The last few before the senator left for his speech. Just trying to cross-reference them to our list. You told the detective that the senator’s wife called right before he left . . . ?”

  “That’s right. They spoke together for several minutes.”

  “Several minutes?”

  “Something like that. And then his aide called to say his car was ready.”

  “How sure are you about the order of these calls? That it was his wife who called right then?”

  “Very sure. I recognized her voice and she asked how I was doing before I transferred it over. And then when his aide called, I remember the senator telling her, um, that he loved her . . . before he hung up.”

  The girl’s voice shook, and Carillo had a faint recollection of someone mentioning that she and the senator had been having an affair. Had to hurt to know his last words were for his wife. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “If you remember anything else, you have my card.”

  He disconnected, staring at the sheet with the list of CIA numbers, coming back to LockeStarr. And then he looked at the now identified number on Grogan’s public line. A dead match.

  Carillo walked down the hall, where Izzy sat working the analysis on the computer data. “How sure are you about Olivia Grogan being hit?”

  “Hit?”

  “Bumped off. Killed.”

  “Oh, right.” Izzy typed something on the keyboard, brought up the screen, then pointed at it. “I mean, it doesn’t say killed specifically. It says sacrificed.”

  Carillo stared at the monitor a full second before it hit him. “I need to tell Tex,” he said, rushing out the door. Apparently the CIA had been investigating the wrong Grogan all these years . . .

  Which meant Marc and his crew had no idea they were babysitting a woman who was part of LockeStarr.

  Chapter 67

  December 12

  Château d’Montel Winery

  Outside Paris

  With every step, Griffin felt his pulse increase, diminishing all sounds but the pounding in his ears.

  Becca. Standing there, laughing as though she hadn’t a care in the world. As though she hadn’t left a grieving husband behind. They’d been separated, their divorce not final when she’d gone with him on that last operation, got caught up in the explosion. But still he’d grieved. He’d blamed himself for her death. And now he had to rethink everything about that day.

  Because she wasn’t dead.

  She was very much alive.

  He started in her direction, wanting, needing to see her reaction when she saw him. She was accused of being a double agent. Of stealing and selling this virus research to the highest bidder. The proof was incontrovertible, according to McNiel. The question was why? When had she become so shallow that money became more important than her beliefs? She’d never seemed obsessed by material things, and yet here she was, wearing a strapless burgundy gown that was clearly custom-made, and a diamond necklace shimmering against her pale skin. This was not the Becca he knew, and Griffin stopped in his tracks.

  He wasn’t ready.

  He’d never be ready. All his years in the special forces, the CIA, and finally ATLAS couldn’t have prepared him for this moment. There were no instructions on confronting one’s wife who was resurrected from the dead, especially when said wife was allegedly guilty of espionage. And there were definitely no instructions on how to do it with a few hundred onlookers.

  Suddenly the music started up, and the man to Becca’s right placed his hand possessively on her arm, leaned over, whispered something in her ear. She smiled as he led her to the ballroom, where a waltz was playing.

  Griffin felt as if a lead weight had filled his gut. Finally he turned, saw Sydney standing there, watching him, and he retraced his steps. “Dance?”

  “News flash. I don’t know how to waltz. Not part of basic training.”

  “It’s one of the first things they teach you in spy school,” he whispered.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Of course I’m kidding.” He looked at her. “Your hand.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Can you think of a better way to get on that dance floor?”

  “It’s a waltz!”

  “I think it has something to do with the price of admission. Charge enough, throw in a waltz, people think it’s high-class.”

  “It is high-class. They’re wearing enough diamonds in this room to fund several third world countries.”

  “Which is why they’re playing a waltz,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the dance floor as several couples swept by.

  She cocked her head at him, allowed him to lead her out. The floor grew crowded and he did his best to maneuver Sydney toward Becca. He had to know whom she was dancing with.

  “Maybe,” Sydney said, “you should do like they do in the movies. Ask to cut in. Then, as the two of you are dancing, casually mention something like, Gee, you’re the last person on earth I would’ve ever expected to see.”

  “Sydney?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.” She looked away, her arm going slack, causing her to misstep, and he immediately regretted his short temper, because he knew what she was doing, trying to lighten things up, put him at ease. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding her tighter, feeling the warmth of her through the velvet fabric of her dress. “I
didn’t expect this. Seeing her in person is different than a composite sketch on paper.”

  “I can only imagine.” She was quiet as he turned her about the dance floor. Then, “What are you going to do?”

  “Work our way toward her.”

  “And?”

  “Like you, I’ll be winging it.”

  “Lead away.”

  Griffin spun Sydney around in time to the music, glad she was able to follow, because the only thing he could concentrate on was leading her across the floor until they passed within a few feet of Becca and her partner.

  Becca never looked his direction.

  He took Sydney for another turn, trying again with the same result, and then the music ended. When Becca and her escort filed off the floor, he guided Sydney in that direction, feeling as though he should know the man she was with. He’d seen him before, but couldn’t remember where.

  Arm in arm, Griffin and Sydney meandered about the room. She did an admirable job pretending to mingle, admire, and smile as though she were born to the high-society life, and all the while his attention was on Becca. Finally the man who seemed permanently attached to Becca’s side was interrupted by someone who strode up to him and whispered in his ear. He leaned over to Becca, said something to her, then followed the other man from the room, leaving Becca alone for the moment.

  “Looks like your chance,” Sydney said.

  “Keep watch. If he returns, stall him until I get done. I’d like to convince her to walk out with us.”

  “I’d feel a lot better if Giustino were down here.”

  “I have confidence in you.”

  He saw a waiter bearing champagne and he took a flute from the tray, then wove his way across the room to where Becca stood. Unfortunately he was waylaid by the very couple he’d used to crash the party. “Ah,” Mr. Johnson said. “Just the man I was looking for.”