This was instinct screaming that she was in danger.
Striding purposefully along, head lowered against the misting rain, there wasn’t a whole lot she could do except continue to appear unaware. Knowing that Colin was back there somewhere made her feel a little better, but not a whole lot. He very well might not be aware of the presence of whoever or whatever this was, and contacting him risked alerting them that she was onto them and thus precipitating the very action she hoped to avoid.
The threat felt so real, so immediate, that goose bumps slid over her skin. Covertly she scanned faces, checked reflections in windows. This section of Paris was one that permitted commerce on Sunday, so it was packed. Shop doors opened and closed as people went in and out, meaning that the milling crowd on the sidewalk was in constant flux. She took care to stay in the center of a group of people going the same way she was. Her senses heightened so that she was hyperaware of every little thing: the earthy smell of the rain, the cold dampness of it on her skin, its faintly metallic taste on her lips.
The people closest to her, surrounding her, acted as an unwitting buffer between her and the threat. They were a family of five English tourists in plastic ponchos, two French couples with their heads ducked against the rain, a pair of teenage girls sharing a single umbrella, an old man in a long coat with his dog. She moved with them, matching her pace to theirs. Their chatter, the shuffle of their footsteps, the rustle of their clothing, the hum of the throng on the sidewalk and the more distant growl of the cars in the street, faded to background noise as she listened with almost painful intensity for the snick of a pulled trigger, the hiss of a thrown knife, the telltale sound of a deployed weapon.
Maybe, she told herself, she was overreacting. After all, she knew that she as Lynette had been followed from the time she’d gotten off the train. Could the feeling she was getting be from the tail Park had sent? But she was moving away from the back of the hotel, and Park’s tail had been on the right side of the hotel on another street entirely, and he would be looking out for Lynette, not the red-haired sophisticate she’d morphed into. So the answer was, almost certainly not.
Anyway, the vibe she was picking up on was way too menacing for someone whose brief it was to do nothing more than follow her. Menacing as in, something deadly this way comes.
That was the thought she was starting to fixate on when a crack of thunder so loud it made her jump shook the street. Right on its heels lightning flashed and the clouds opened up as if someone had unzipped them. Torrents of icy rain poured down. Cries from surprised pedestrians were almost drowned out by the fierce drumming of the rain hitting the hard surfaces of roofs and cars and pavements. Caught in the downpour, people covered their heads, dived for doorways and shops, and darted into the street in a desperate attempt to snag the few taxis among the snarl of traffic.
Bianca pulled the collar of her coat up over her head as best she could and ran. The apartment was still some ten blocks away. She would be soaked to the skin and half frozen by the time she reached it. If she reached it—
“La Chien Rouge on the corner,” said Colin’s voice in her ear.
Glancing up, Bianca saw the swinging sign with the picture of a grinning red dog above the words La Chien Rouge a few doors down. Hard to be certain given the blinding effect of the rain, but it looked like a restaurant and bar. Instant verdict: way better than what was out on the street. Darting toward it, she reached the heavy wooden door, pulled it open and went inside.
15
The smell—booze, roasted meat, wood smoke and wet dog from all the people crowding inside seeking refuge from the rain—was what first struck her, along with the warmth after the freezing wet. Then the sounds—the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, laughter, music. The lighting was low, intimate: a couple of dim chandeliers, multicolored Christmas lights draped around doorways, a corner hearth with a flickering fire, votive candles in glass holders on each table. The walls were white, rough, probably stucco. The floor was dark wood. The ceiling was tall and beamed. A dark wood bar ran the length of one wall. The stools in front of it were filled, and the people who couldn’t snag a stool crowded around. Busy bartenders poured without pause. Small tables were crammed with far more diners than they’d been intended to hold. Servers wove among them, taking orders, delivering food and drink. A pair of harried-looking hostesses worked to seat the newcomers.
Forget waiting to be seated. Bianca pushed through the knots of dripping people huddled near the door, walked swiftly away from the big front window toward the back of what seemed to be a combination bar/restaurant/nightclub, spied a tiny two-top in a corner sheltered by a fake ficus decked out with fake gold birds and sat down on a folding metal chair with her back to the wall. Her throwing star was there for the grabbing, and under the cover of the table she pushed her skirt up so that, if necessary, she would have unimpeded access to the knife in her garter belt. With so many people continually coming through the door it was difficult to be sure, but she thought she would know if any of the new arrivals were the source of the danger she’d felt.
Felt: past tense. Her skin no longer crawled, she realized. She no longer had the sensation that she was caught in the crosshairs. Of course, she was inside a restaurant crowded with people, her back squarely against a wall. Her exposure had lessened. Didn’t mean the danger had.
“Mademoiselle, are you alone? Tonight everyone must share tables.”
Bianca looked up at those words, which were spoken in French, to find one of the hostesses standing in front of her table with a party of three drowned-looking tourists huddled behind her. Clearly they were hoping to join her at her table.
“She isn’t alone.” A familiar deep voice spoke up in French behind them before Bianca could reply, and Colin stepped around the women. In English, for what she knew was their benefit, he said to her with a smile, “Unless she wants to be. My name’s George. May I join you?”
Ah, the chance-met stranger ploy. Anyone who’d watched her leave the hotel and walk down the street alone would hopefully be fooled into thinking she was a lonely single and he was picking her up.
“I’m Alice. And, yes, you may.” Bianca looked up at him as he loomed above her, so glad to see him that what felt like a warm little pulse kicked off inside her. Then the realization of how glad she was to see him hit her, disconcerting her, and she frowned instead of smiled at him. By that time the hostess and her hopeful trio had moved away.
“Do you always look this grumpy when you’re hungry, or did I do something to make you mad?” His hat and coat dripped water. He took them off as he spoke, dropping his coat over the back of the chair and thrusting his hat into its pocket. The gray thermal crewneck he wore over a T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders. It was dry, but rain had spattered the hem of his jeans halfway to his knees. More water droplets glinted on the ends of his hair, which was curling from the damp, and beaded the black scruff that darkened his jaw. Moving his chair so that he was beside rather than across from her, he sat down, his long legs stretching out under the table. His back was also to the wall: more tradecraft 101.
Bianca cut to the chase. “There was someone on the street right before I ducked in here. I could feel them watching me. It felt hard-core, like a hit in progress.” She kept her voice down. The place was so noisy, and there was so much commotion, that she didn’t really fear being overheard. Still, because of the whole pin-drop-on-Mars thing, and because dotting all her i’s and crossing all her t’s was second nature to her, she removed her earrings and set them side by side on the table facing each other. It wasn’t showy, it made no noise, but it was effective: both earrings contained tiny listening devices, and small as they were, those two listening devices placed in close proximity to each other would emit a high-pitched screech that was inaudible to the human ear but would be all any would-be eavesdropper with his own listening device could hear.
A quick look around proved disappointing: no one jumped up or cursed or clawed at his ears.
Colin frowned at her earrings. Then his eyes met hers in a moment of acknowledgment that told her he recognized exactly what she’d done and approved. Her feelings about that wavered back and forth between being pleased to be with someone she didn’t have to explain things to and disturbed to realize how much they really did have in common. They spoke the same language. Their frame of reference was the same.
Taking off his spectacles, he hooked them into the neckline of his shirt and looked out at the crowd, sweeping the whole with a thoughtful glance before concentrating on individuals.
“You see anybody following you?” he asked.
She appreciated the fact that he didn’t press her—are you sure, could you have been mistaken—instead accepting what she told him as the cool assessment of a professional that it was.
“No.” She shook her head. “But someone was out there. I’m sure of it.”
“They see you duck in here, do you think?”
“I don’t know. The rain—it came on so suddenly. Everybody scattered.”
The waiter arrived with menus. “Would you like drinks?” he asked in French.
Colin replied in the same language, “A bottle of cabernet sauvignon, please.”
When the waiter nodded and left, Bianca said, “Just for the record, I don’t drink on the job.”
He smiled at her. “Neither do I, beautiful. So what’s the best way to convince anyone who might be watching us that we’re not on the job?”
Good point. Bianca gave him an aren’t-you-smart grimace, opened the menu, glanced at it and switched her attention back to the crowd.
He’d opened his menu, too. “You think whatever you felt out there was directed at Lynette?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I picked up on the feeling a couple of blocks from here. After I left the hotel. Dressed like this. I don’t see how anyone could have made me as Lynette.”
His eyes swept her. “You don’t look like Lynette.” A slow smile crinkled his eyes, stretched his mouth. “You look hot as hell.” Before she could react to that, he added, “And wet.” Scooting the silverware that had been nestled on top of it aside, he passed her the white cloth napkin that had been folded in front of him. “Your hair’s dripping onto your coat. Pat the ends, take off your coat and we’ll grab some food. Kill two birds with one stone. The most dedicated hit man in the world isn’t going to stay out there long in this.”
He gave a nod at the sheets of rain pounding the big window. Thunder boomed as she obediently blotted the ends of her wig, and they both watched a flash of lightning powerful enough to light up the night. A few people close to the window cried out and jumped away from it. One of the hostesses, looking harassed, hurried over and drew deep red curtains across the window.
Bianca breathed a little easier. Although she knew that a shot fired through driving rain tended to be inaccurate, a crack sniper just might make the attempt.
And people sometimes got lucky.
“Could be a hit woman. Or a hit squad,” she pointed out.
“Could be.”
“They could go in across the street, somewhere where they could keep watch until I come back out.” She slid out of her coat and draped it over the back of her chair. Her purse she kept on her lap. There was too much that was damning, too much that was Lynette in it.
“As long as it’s raining like this, good luck recognizing you from across the street. Unless they’re in here with us, they’re done until it lets up,” Colin said.
“You were behind me. You didn’t notice anybody following me in?”
“Lots of people. Nobody that struck me as a problem.”
The waiter returned with their wine, poured it and took their order. Colin went for Coquilles St. Jacques. She chose salmon.
Your body is your temple. Her father—or, rather, Mason—had said that so often that anytime she thought about eating something that he would condemn as unhealthy she heard his voice in her head.
And listened, because he was right. But, oh, she loved Coquilles St. Jacques.
When the waiter left, they refocused on assessing their fellow patrons.
“See any familiar faces?” Colin asked. Kicked back in his chair with his shoulders resting against the wall, sipping at his wine, he looked casual, relaxed—and seriously handsome. She noticed, gave herself a mental shake and glanced away.
“No.” But the room was large, the lighting uncertain, the corners dark with shadows. There was a lot of movement, staff carrying in more folding chairs from wherever they were kept, hostesses seating people, more people milling around the bar, getting up to go to the restroom or do whatever. The music was an oldies mix of American rhythm and blues, pop, rock. At the moment the selection was Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” A few couples had gotten up to dance in a cleared space in the center of the floor.
“Anybody you know in Paris whose path you might have crossed on the street just now without realizing it?” he asked. The way his gaze roamed the place looked idle. It wasn’t. Good technique: she approved.
She’d been to Paris many, many times, as Bianca and a variety of other identities. On this trip, she’d taken good care to stay away from anywhere she’d been or anyone who knew her or any of her identities.
“Nobody who wants to kill me. That I know of,” she qualified. “Anyway, that would mean they’d recognized me. In the dark. And rain. Dressed like this. I won’t say it’s impossible, but it’s not very likely.”
“No,” he agreed. “You never know—US intelligence might be moving faster than I gave them credit for. Maybe they’ve already determined what was stolen, nailed Lynette as the culprit, traced her—you—here, spotted you on the street despite the red hair and sent a team to take you out.”
“Wait a minute—I thought the whole CIA kill team thing was over.”
His lips quirked in the slightest suggestion of a smile. “It’s over for you. Not Lynette.”
Bianca groaned and dropped her head in her hands.
Colin continued, “Or maybe it’s the French. Or the Brits. Or the Aussies. If they know what Lynette did, they’ll all be trying to stop her and recover the information she stole. The Russians and the Chinese, on the other hand, would be trying to get that information for themselves. So would about a dozen assorted criminal organizations. Or maybe the last time you were a redhead—let’s see, would that be Jennifer Ashley in Bahrain? That girl had some moves—you seriously ticked somebody off and they recognized you just now. After all, the prince and his minions put a contract out on you not so very long ago. Didn’t they?”
She looked up. “Yes,” she lied. The truth was complicated. And strictly need to know, which he didn’t. Ever. “Nice to reflect that multiple people want to kill me under multiple identities. Could be any of them. This is fun.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Before I stop a bullet would be good.”
“We’ll be out of here in under sixteen hours. I think we can keep you alive for that long.”
“You don’t know how reassuring I find that ‘I think.’”
He smiled. As “Billie Jean” gave way to Eric Carmen’s “Hungry Eyes,” he said, “Your only other exposure will be tomorrow.”
When she did the handoff to Park. Bianca wasn’t thrilled with the setup for that, but together she and Colin had worked out the way it had to go down. Park frequented a newsstand near his house every morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp before walking to a nearby patisserie for breakfast, after which he went to his office. As he’d been informed via the flash drive she’d given him, if he bought a copy of the New York Times along with his usual purchases, she, watching from a distance, would know that the sale was a go and would meet him along the route to the patisserie. He would transfer the money to her account, she would hand over the ChapStick, and the thing would be done and dusted.
The key to making it work lay in keeping Park convinced that she was Lynette, which was the tricky part. Lynette was not a spy. She
was not an operative of any kind. She wasn’t even a practiced criminal. She would not make sophisticated plans for a drop that would limit her vulnerability. She would do what she had done before: approach Park directly.
Thus exposing herself to danger. Which was why, as Colin had pointed out, she, Bianca, was earning the big bucks.
“After that I’m going home,” she said, and was surprised by how fiercely she wanted to. Being an international woman of mystery was getting old.
“Savannah, you mean?”
Before she could reply—or not—the food arrived. Bianca had forgotten how starved she was until the plates were set before them. Her salmon came on a bed of greens and was nutritious and, she had no doubt, well prepared, but she looked enviously at his Coquilles St. Jacques: plump scallops in a creamy wine sauce cooked with cheese and breadcrumbs. The savory scent of it made her mouth water. And her stomach growl.
Noticing, he grinned at her. She switched her attention back to her own plate and they both tucked into their food.
“You know, for a girl who seems as much at ease in Bahrain as Paris, in Macau as Moscow, who speaks at least five languages that I know of fluently, who flimflams the likes of princes and billionaires without batting an eye, a sleepy little town deep in America’s South seems an odd choice of a place to call home,” he said. “I thought that was just a cover for Bianca St. Ives. Apparently not?”
Bianca chewed, swallowed, before she replied.
“I like Savannah.” Her tone was noncommittal. If he thought Bianca St. Ives was just one more cover identity, that was all to the good. She made a show of sipping her wine, but because she was working and the necessity for staying absolutely clearheaded while she did had been drummed into her practically from birth, she was actually, stealthily, tipping her wine a little at a time into the ficus’s brass planter. His wine was disappearing at a steady clip, too, but if he was doing anything other than drinking it she couldn’t tell. “How, exactly, did you find me there?”
The Fifth Doctrine: The Guardian Series Book 3 Page 15