The sight of the two women watching him forced him to take a calming breath. What he needed to do was reevaluate. He hadn’t gotten this far in life by letting his emotions rule him.
He had only himself to blame. Recalling the photos that Colton sent in the original dossier on the Fargos, he opened that file, took a second look. The truth was, he hadn’t given the photos more than a cursory glance. Who cared what the spoiled rich wife of a multimillionaire looked like? How was he to know that this Remi Fargo was anything more than just a pretty face who could shoot straight?
He stared at her photo a few seconds more, angry that he hadn’t recognized her when she’d stood next to him outside of Rossi’s villa. Of course, he’d had other things on his mind, like securing the Ghost before someone else bid on it.
A small consolation—and little he could do about it for now. As infuriating as it was that Colton, once again, had let the Fargos slip past him, Oren knew better than to voice his displeasure too much. Like it or not, he needed Colton. That didn’t mean he intended to let Colton do as he pleased. Oren had Bruno to keep an eye on Colton’s men, which meant there was little they could do without him knowing.
Distrust, unfortunately, came with the territory. Someone had stolen the Ghost from right beneath his nose, and when he found out who was responsible, he fully intended to exact his revenge.
For now, though, the Fargos were his main concern. The photo of Remi on the balcony bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t like the fact that they’d gotten that close without him knowing it.
He’d like it a lot better when they were dead.
60
Remi joined Sam at the open window, where the early-morning sun turned the fountain’s shimmering mist a pale silver as it rose from beneath the two horses pulling Neptune on his shell-shaped chariot. The soothing sound of rushing water almost muted the voices of the dozens of tourists packed around the base, watched over by the two carabinieri officers whose patrol cars were parked nearby. They were, apparently, permanent fixtures during the daytime.
“I wonder how many reports those officers take each day. Pickpockets, lost kids . . .”
When he didn’t respond, she checked the direction of his gaze and noticed he appeared lost in thought. “Sam?”
“Sorry. I was trying to figure out how we can get out of here if Oliver and Chad are being followed.”
“You don’t think they’d come in from the direction of the fountain square, do you?”
“I doubt it. The standard route for the taxis is to drop everyone near the front of our building.” He walked to the window on their left, this one facing north. Remi followed him. The fourth floor gave them a clear view down the narrow cobbled street that led out to the main road. Within the few seconds they stood there, two taxis pulled up, dropping off passengers who came to see the fountain. “What we need is a quick getaway. We don’t want to be trapped up here if Oliver and Chad are spotted ringing the doorbell downstairs.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t be followed.”
“Not likely. It’s the only way Bruno and company can find us.”
“Too bad we couldn’t slip Chad and Oliver’s phones in someone else’s pocket, like we did at Castle Rising in King’s Lynn.”
“Except we were the ones doing the following . . .” Sam’s voice drifted off. He watched the taxi taking off with a new fare. “Actually, you might be onto something there, Remi.”
“Whose pocket are we slipping their phones in?”
“Ours.”
“You mean you want them to follow us?”
“That’s the plan. At least to start off with. Paris is a fifteen-hour drive from here. We get them to follow the phones for a few hours, I’m hoping we’ll be halfway to France before they realize we’re gone.”
Less than an hour after Sam outlined his plan, Chad and Oliver arrived in a taxi that let them off in the square of the small church across the street. Unfortunately, Bruno and his new partner, a blond man neither of them had seen before, pulled up about a half block behind the church, on the opposite side than Sam had predicted, cutting them off from the car he’d parked around the corner. Sam surveyed the crowded square, a look of concern on his face. “We’re going to need a distraction to get to the car.”
“On it,” Remi said, pulling out her phone. She called the emergency number, reporting two armed men standing in front of the building across from Santa Maria à Trevi Church. “I heard them talking about shooting up the fountain. I saw guns beneath their suit coats.”
Two minutes later, the officers from the fountain rounded the corner, both looking in the direction of Bruno and his partner. Bruno suddenly stopped, as though realizing they were the focus of the officers’ attention.
“That’s them,” she said to the woman on the phone. One of the officers touched his ear, adjusting his earpiece, to hear the dispatcher. When Bruno’s partner turned to run, the two officers tackled him. Bruno, however, took off in the opposite direction.
“One down, one to go,” Sam said, as Remi ended the call. “Nice work. You get the car, I’ll get Oliver and Chad before Bruno catches up to them.”
Remi pulled up a few minutes after that, glad to see Bruno was nowhere in sight.
“Good timing,” Sam said, as he slid into the front passenger seat and Oliver and Chad got in the back. She drove to Rome Termini. At the train station, Sam took Oliver and Chad’s phones, walked inside, and returned a few minutes later. “One is on its way to Austria, the other to Germany.”
“That should keep Bruno busy for a while.”
He opened the glove box and pulled out the tracking device Oren’s men had hidden in their rental car. “Might be a good time to reactivate this little thing before we take off.”
Remi looked over at him. “You don’t think he’ll suspect that it’s suddenly starting up?”
“He might. But these things are designed to sleep if there’s no movement, to preserve battery power. And what better place to wake it than where the phones were last seen?”
“But where?” Remi asked. Sam nodded toward the bus, and Remi smiled. “Pick you up on the other side?”
“See you there.”
Sam jogged over, pretended to drop something next to a bus scheduled for Naples, then planted the device.
“Why go to the trouble?” Oliver asked when he got back in the car.
“Confusion,” Sam said. “Your phones are here. If Bruno’s still tracking them, he’ll end up at the train station, trying to find the both of you. And if we’re really lucky, the device I stuck under the bumper of that bus will cloud things even more. Naples is a long way from Paris.”
“So is Rome,” Remi said. “We better get started.”
61
Sam took the first shift at the wheel, and, minus a few breaks for food and fuel, they drove straight through, arriving in Paris a little after two in the morning. Once again, limited to cash only, Remi’s friend Georgia was able to find them a Paris apartment in the 20th arrondissement. Situated in a working-class neighborhood, the second-story apartment offered a partial view of the Eiffel Tower from the kitchen window—provided they leaned to the left.
Late the next morning, as Oliver and Chad returned from a trip to buy groceries for a late breakfast, Sam sat in the kitchen, looking over a map of Europe.
Remi brought two mugs of coffee to the table, taking a seat next to him. “What if he was lying about the location?”
“In case he can’t trust Oren?” Sam replied.
“Exactly. How certain are we that the Ghost’s not in Paris?”
“We can’t be sure,” Sam said. “Still, the Gray Ghost isn’t something you can hide in plain sight. A bit of a risky move to bring it this far inland. We need to think logically.”
He studied the map for possible routes. “If we knew how he got it
out of the UK, that might narrow down where he has it stored.”
“So where would he keep his less than legitimate goods?”
“Somewhere easy to get to, and easy to ship out after a sale, I’d think. We can safely assume they got the Ghost out of London in a truck. From there, it’s anyone’s guess.”
“They transport trucks through the Channel Tunnel,” Remi said. “That’s the closest and fastest route from the London Motor Show.”
Oliver looked up from the cutting board, where he was slicing fresh bread. “Except,” he said, “the police were notified right away. The investigator told me that the first thing they were checking was transport trucks and containers headed to France. I’d think the tunnel would’ve been the first thing they checked. And the easiest.”
Sam drew an X through the London Eurostar route, then circled Dover. “Good point. Less risky to send it to a major shipping port, where no one would notice one more container.”
“Calais’s busy enough to escape notice,” Chad suggested, as he brought over the cut apples and the grapes. “I’ve taken the ferry over quite a few times.”
“That’d be my first pick,” Sam said. “But we still have to find the specific facility Rossi’s using or it’ll be like—”
“A needle in a haystack?” Remi suggested.
“Exactly. I doubt Rossi’s got a website announcing which warehouse he’s using for his stolen goods.”
“Of course, we’re assuming he’s using one of his own,” Remi said.
“High-value and high-risk. There’s no way he’s going to entrust it to anyone else.”
“So how do we find it?” Chad asked.
“It’s Sunday,” Remi said. “What better time to visit?”
“Might be a night operation?” Sam asked. “What do you think, Remi?”
“After a quick recon trip during daylight hours to see what we’re up against, we can make that decision.”
Late that afternoon, they drove out to Rossi’s business office. As they stood across the street, it didn’t take long for Sam to discover that getting in after dark wasn’t going to be as easy as they thought. The office was housed in a business district with high-level security, including a bank on the first floor of Rossi’s building.
“So much for that idea,” Sam said. “That bank adds a layer of protection Rossi couldn’t get anywhere else.”
Remi gave a facetious smile. “I suppose pretending to be from Oren’s shipping company for a pre-inspection of the car would be too obvious?”
“Just a bit.”
Oliver looked relieved that they seemed to be backing out of the idea of breaking in. “So we’re not coming back tonight?”
“No.” Sam examined the windows of the four-story structure. Rossi’s export management company was on the third floor. “Breaking and entering into a building containing a national bank is likely to buy us a few years in prison. All we can do now is come back in the morning when the place is open for business.”
“Cutting it short,” Remi said. “They’re meeting at eleven.”
“If we want access, that’s our only choice.”
They returned the next morning at eight. The bank had its own entrance in the lobby. Those who were not bank customers had to check in with the security guard before being allowed to access the elevator.
After watching the people going in and out of the lobby’s front doors, Sam and Remi looked at each other, Sam saying, “You know what this place reminds me of?”
“That time in Madrid . . . ?”
Sam smiled. “I think we have our plan.”
62
Allegra and Trevor spent most of their time on the couch, side by side, staring at the television. Though she tried to concentrate on the plot of the movie playing, she couldn’t. Trevor, she was glad to see, laughed in all the right places. Somehow, he was able to relax. The resiliency of teenagers. She prayed that when this was over—when she somehow found a way out of this—he’d have no lasting damage to his psyche.
A knock at the door sent her heart leaping in her chest. Dex immediately reached for the gun in his waistband as he rose from his seat to see who was there. She grasped Trevor’s hand, silently reminding him to remain still, to stay quiet.
Not that he needed any warning.
The bruise on his cheek from where Dex had struck him with the journal was fading, yellowing at the edges. Trying not to let her attention catch on it, she watched as Dex crossed the room, looked out the peephole, opened the door. After Frank walked in, Dex checked the street in both directions. Satisfied no one was out there watching, he closed and locked the door. “About time.”
The broad-shouldered man’s right arm still bandaged and in a sling. Apparently, he’d been shot in a gun battle with the Fargos. A shame they’d missed, she thought as he scrutinized them. “Still here?” he said to her.
She ignored him, kept staring at the television. Trevor did the same.
“You want a beer?” Dex asked him.
“And something to eat.”
Dex looked over at Allegra, then cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen.
She immediately rose. “I’ll make us lunch. Come help me, Trev.” When Dex looked as though he was about to object, she said, “Where’s he going to go?”
“Go on,” Dex said.
Trevor followed her. While he got the bread, jam, and butter out, she opened a bottle of beer for Frank and an ale for Dex. “If he let’s down his guard,” she whispered, “you get out.”
“I’m not leaving you, Mum.”
“You are—”
“What’re you two talking about in there?” Dex yelled.
Allegra mouthed, “Quiet,” then took the bottles out to Dex and Frank. “Trying to find something to eat. Is bread and jam and butter okay?”
Frank, who’d sprawled himself on the couch, put his feet up on her coffee table. “If that’s all you have . . .”
Dex grabbed the ale from her hand. “Make cheese sandwiches.”
“We’re out of cheese.”
“Jam’s fine,” Frank said.
“Not for me,” Dex said. He wasn’t a fan of sweets. “What else do we have?”
“Nothing. Nothing for dinner. Or breakfast. I wasn’t expecting Frank back so soon.”
“Blimey, Dex. You starving them on purpose? Send one of them to the store.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“I’d offer to go for you, but the arm . . .” He pulled at the white sling.
Dex took a long swig of his beer. “Looks like we’ll starve.”
“You could always go,” Allegra said to Dex.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Frank’s here,” she pointed out. “He can stay with us.”
“I don’t mind,” Frank said.
Dex seemed to think about it, lowering his bottle to the table. “Yeah, okay. They try anything . . .”
Frank slashed his finger across his neck, making her glad Trevor wasn’t in there to see it.
“I’ll make a list,” she said.
Ten minutes later, Dex was gone. She breathed her first sigh of relief since this nightmare began—until she saw Frank resting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. “Another sandwich?” she asked.
“I’ll wait.”
“Beer?”
“Sure.”
She signaled for Trevor to stay at the kitchen table, as she opened another beer and brought it out to Frank. “How long do we have to stay here?” she asked.
He took the bottle, gazing at the television. “Until we get the car back and find what’s hidden in it. I mean, who knew?”
“Knew what?”
“There was a treasure somewhere.”
“In the car?”
“That’d be rich. Someone would
’ve found it by now, don’t you think?”
“How’d it get stolen?”
“Some train robbery back in the 1900s.”
“The car, I meant. The Gray Ghost.”
Frank looked at her, his brows raising. “You’re kidding, right?”
As much as she wanted to tell him that she found none of this laughable, she dared not do anything to arouse his anger. Keeping her expression as calm as possible, she picked up Dex’s half-empty ale and carried it to the kitchen, looking back at Frank. “I know how it was stolen from my uncle.” After all, she played a small but major role in that crime. But what choice did she have? “I was wondering how it was stolen from your boss.”
“You mean, you really don’t know?” He stared at her, shook his head. “That’s rich.”
A slow realization burned in her gut. “You and . . . Dex?”
“Who else?”
“Are you insane? What happens when your boss finds out?”
“How would he do that?”
“I— I don’t know.” She couldn’t believe what an idiot she was. Clamping her mouth shut, she pretended to do a bit of cleaning, working her way to the coffee table, turning up the volume on the television as she slid the remote control next to a magazine, then picking up Frank’s empty sandwich plate, returning it to the kitchen. “Trevor, come help me do the dishes.”
Trevor pushed back his chair from the table and trailed after her.
She turned on the water full blast, letting it run. “Do you think you can climb out the window upstairs?” It could open only a few inches, the crank having been removed, but she was certain he could force it open wider. The window frame was old, made of aluminum. “You can tie a couple of sheets together from the linen closet.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“You have to,” she whispered, looking back toward the living room. Frank’s attention was on the television. “Your father helped steal Uncle Albert’s car from the man who stole it to begin with. When that person figures it out, he’ll send someone here to kill him. And us. Assuming—” She was about to say “your father” again but stopped when she realized how horrible it sounded. As though this was Trevor’s fault more than hers.
The Gray Ghost Page 24