Then the words. “Allahu Akbar!”
Borgia watched as the four men left their seats, two dashing to the front of the theater, hardly more than shadows in the darkened auditorium. One jumped onto the proscenium, his silhouette visible as it cut across the screen, his intent clear.
By now, Borgia was moving, too, up the balcony aisle and through the doors to the upper mezzanine. The shooting began as he reached the stairs. First one shot, then a dozen all at once. He did not slow, his hand delving into his pocket as he descended the stairs. Fingers found the phone, taking it into his palm. Reaching the lobby, he made himself stop and slipped the phone from his pants.
Outside again. Safety.
He flipped the phone open. The sun’s glare prevented him from reading the number on the screen. He turned to block its rays, brought the phone to his eyes. Yes, it was ready. He lifted his thumb.
As he entered the auditorium, Simon heard the man cry out.
He saw him at once, standing in the aisle fifty feet away, shouting. Two more men ran past the man toward the front of the theater. Another had reached the stage. The bombers.
The images on the screen froze, then went dark. The overhead lights came up. Distressed voices ruffled the crowd. People turned in their seats. Something was wrong.
“Restez assis,” shouted Simon. Stay seated.
The first gunshot came from behind Simon, then it seemed everyone was shooting at once. A furious firefight, even if all the bullets were aimed at the four North Africans. Screams. Pandemonium. Danni was running past him down the aisle, kneeling, shooting one of the bombers in the head, then rising, turning, shooting the man still in his seat a second time, a third. Jean-Marc and Michel, the security guards, had reached the front of the auditorium. Simon lost sight of them as the audience rose and frantically sought to escape. More shots. Before Simon could bring his weapon to bear, the attackers were down. All of them.
He looked toward the lobby, seeing a man running out the front doors. The first to leave. Fifty years old. Tall. Black hair. Roman nose. It was him.
Luca Borgia.
“Borgia!”
The man slowed, but only for a second, before continuing. He held something in his hand.
But Simon was already outside, running down the stairs in close pursuit. “Borgia,” he shouted again.
This time the man turned. Simon recognized him from the dozens of photographs he’d looked at online. Borgia reached the bottom and began to run across the red carpet, haltingly at first, then faster. Simon caught him in ten strides and tackled him to the ground. Borgia landed on his back, wriggled free. He held a phone in his open palm.
His thumb came down on the SEND key as Danni’s boot crushed his wrist.
Borgia screamed.
The phone dropped from his hand.
Behind them, men and women streamed out of the theater. A column of soldiers charged up the stairs. Sirens came from every direction. Mayhem.
Simon picked up the phone. A ten-digit number blinked on the display. He looked toward the auditorium—waiting for the terrible cataclysm—then back at the phone.
The call had failed.
Simon closed the flip phone and placed it in his pocket.
“Is it you? Riske?” Borgia climbed to his feet, clutching his shattered wrist. “I’m going to the police. I’ll tell them what you’ve done.”
Simon pressed the machine gun to Borgia’s stomach. “You,” he said, thinking of Rafa, then of the others.
“We’re done,” said Danni.
Simon shot her a glance, not understanding. “We can’t leave him here.”
“We’re done,” she said again. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, go,” said Borgia, threateningly. “Leave. But I will find you, Riske. Count on it. We know all about you.”
Simon lowered the weapon. Danni was right. They were done. The bombers were dead. They had stopped the attack. No innocents would die tonight. What else were they to do? The cellphone by itself constituted no proof. On what grounds could they have Borgia arrested? If the Italian could have Kruger freed from a jail in Singapore, he would have himself released within the hour by a French magistrate.
“We’re done,” said Simon.
“Believe me,” said Danni, taking his arm. “He isn’t going anywhere. Are you, Signor Borgia?”
“Who are you?” demanded Borgia.
Danni put her face close to his. “I am the angel of death.”
There was a flash of blue, a glint of silver. Borgia grunted as the knife entered his chest. Danni wrapped an arm around him, ramming the blade home, twisting it. Borgia’s eyes widened, and she noticed that one was blue, the other brown. His mouth fell open. A skein of blood poured forth.
Danni left the blade inside him.
They were ten steps away when he fell to his knees, dead.
Epilogue
London—Six Weeks Later
Simon set the neatly wrapped package on the table. “Hello, Delphine,” he said. “Brought you a present.”
It was one o’clock. The restaurant Bibendum on Fulham Road in Chelsea was nearly full. It was one of Simon’s favorite spots. He liked the food and the décor, which changed according to the season. Today, the fifth of July, the colors were yellows and oranges—something to do with growth and abundance. Mostly, though, he liked the memories the restaurant evoked. He had a history with the place.
Delphine Blackmon offered her cheek. Simon bent to kiss her, then took his place across the table.
“We missed you at the service,” she said. “I didn’t know he’d come from such a small town. So remote.”
“I’m sorry,” said Simon. “I couldn’t get there.” It was all he wanted to say.
He’d had his own service for Rafa. One Friday evening not long after he returned, he made his way to the Blackfriar. He bought two pints and set them on the bar where they used to sit. Guinness for himself. Stella for Rafa. He hadn’t known what to say, so he’d thanked him silently for the good times they’d had. It was enough. Upon leaving, he gave the untouched beer to a young man in an almost decent suit. A banker, probably a trainee. Rafa would have liked that.
“What’s this, then?” With care, Delphine unwrapped the plain brown paper. Inside was an old hardcover copy of Alexandre Dumas’s The Three Musketeers.
“Or should I call you ‘Milady’?”
Delphine put down the book. “She was always my favorite character.”
“She was a spy for Cardinal Richelieu. She tried to betray the king. I believe that made her the villain.”
“That’s one way of looking at things. She also knew how to look after herself. She didn’t rely on husbands, lovers, or friends. For a woman in the seventeenth century, that was something.” Delphine set down the book. She looked at Simon forthrightly and without apology. “How long have you known?”
“Long enough.”
“The first time I saw the painting I was with you.”
“I remember the day.”
Delphine’s eyes shifted to the distance. “I didn’t like it. It scared me. Still does.” She looked back at him. “I guess it stayed with me.”
“Guess so.”
Simon ordered a DeLap—grape juice, soda water, a large chunk of lime—a thing he’d picked up from a former flame.
“You’re looking prosperous,” she said. “Business good?”
“Very. Smart money is figuring out that the right sports car is a better investment than the stock market or real estate.”
“Doesn’t that spoil the fun?”
“Fun is for purists. I’m more of a mercenary these days. My bank account comes first. People want to pay me a half-million pounds to restore a car, I don’t care what they do with it afterward. Drive it in the Gumball Rally or keep it under lock and key in a bonded warehouse. Their choice.”
“My, that doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“It’s been a tough couple of months.”
“You’re not t
he only one.”
“Spare me the crocodile tears.”
“And I thought you’d invited me here to cheer me up after all I’d been through.” She sipped her mineral water, eyes locked on his. “Now that I’m a single woman.”
Simon laughed dryly. “Isn’t six weeks a little short as far as periods of mourning go?”
Delphine put down her glass and sat tall, appraising him. “You know, I think I rather prefer you this way.”
“What way is that?”
“Stripped of all illusion. You were such a wide-eyed dreamer.”
“Maybe I just prefer to see the better side of people.”
“In Bangkok you asked if I still wanted to save the world. I hate the world. I only want to save myself. It’s you who can’t resist helping the damsel in distress.”
“Is that why you made sure your father asked me to help Rafa?”
“That was Rafa’s doing. He always looked up to you so. Simon this, Simon that. Simon for sainthood. Still, even you couldn’t save him.”
Simon adjusted his napkin as the server brought his drink. He squeezed the lime and took a sip. Had Bangkok been only six weeks ago? So much had happened since.
Luca Borgia’s death remained unsolved, his involvement with the attempted attack shrouded in mystery. Hints, rumors, nothing more. Sometimes silence told one more than a thousand words. The right people knew. That was all that mattered.
Despite an abundance of CCTV cameras in and around the Palais des Festivals, none had captured an image of the culprit who had stabbed him to death. Secretly, Simon thought that such images existed but certain powers had made sure they remained hidden from public scrutiny. Then again, what did he know? What had Samson Sun called him? “A glorified mechanic”? Simon liked the title. He was thinking it would look nice on his business card.
London Li had published her exposé about Harrington-Weiss, PetroSaud, and the sovereign wealth funds that had defrauded investors of billions. The story had made her a worldwide celebrity. A day didn’t go by when she couldn’t be found on at least one cable channel somewhere around the world. Simon hadn’t been to Singapore in the interim. And London hadn’t come to London. Ah well…they’d always have forty thousand feet.
He looked across the table at Delphine. She’d never looked better: sharply turned out, sophisticated, radiantly intelligent. It was easy to see why he’d fallen in love with her, his first true love. It was only now, years later, that he was able to see the other side of her. The cynicism, the distrust of human nature, the congenital pessimism. Maybe he’d loved her because she possessed so many qualities alien to him. She was his dark side, albeit with a nice ass and a great pair of legs.
“Did you know?” he asked.
“What?”
“That your lover was a terrorist.”
A gasp. A look of horror. “You can’t think that I knew Luca was going to use my screenplay as a means to mount some kind of large-scale attack. That I’d say nothing if I had.”
Simon looked away. The restaurant was bustling, and he enjoyed the efficient orchestration of food and service and ambience united in pursuit of a common goal. Not unlike a perfectly tuned motor.
“When did you meet him?” he asked.
“Years ago. I was on one of my fundraising jaunts for Chatham House. Working at a think tank is more about raising money than anything else. He had a humanitarian foundation in Rome. I pitched him the story of the Medusa as a documentary film Chatham House could make. We’d put his name on it as executive producer. Buff up his image. He turned me down on the spot.”
“You thought he’d turned you down. In fact, he’d passed you along to Samson Sun via Sun’s aunt, Nadya Sukarno. He owed Sun a favor. It was Samson Sun who’d come up with the idea of how to use PetroSaud to steal billions.”
“How could he know that I’d write the screenplay?”
“You probably talked him into it after you had sex.”
“I ought to slap you.”
Simon wanted to ask her if she knew about Prato Bornum, but he knew she’d say no and he wasn’t in the mood to listen to any more lies.
Delphine went on: “The film will do more good than all the articles I’ve ever written put together.”
“If you still believe those things, how could you be with a man like him?”
“You think I’m some kind of Eva Braun.”
“Not ‘some kind.’”
“You really are being a prick today.”
Simon smiled. Maybe he was. If so, he was enjoying it. “Did Rafa know?”
Delphine’s eyes flared. Her cheeks colored, and for a moment Simon thought she really was going to slap him. As quickly, she calmed. After all, it was just Simon, and she’d known him forever.
“He suspected. He’s not dumb.”
“So you rubbed his face in it. What was he supposed to do, especially after your father put some of his money into the hotel?”
“That’s why I could never have been with you. It always has to be about the truth. The whole goddamned truth.”
Simon leaned closer. She was right. All he wanted was the truth. “Tell me one thing. Why didn’t you go to the premiere? You were there at the hotel. It was you London Li saw in the shower. So why? It was your movie, after all.”
Delphine didn’t answer. For once, she was at a loss for words. He could see it made her angry.
She eyed him smugly, sliding to the edge of her chair. “You want the truth. It wasn’t Daddy’s idea to make you leave me. It was mine. I knew I could never be with someone like you. Someone who saw the world in black and white, when I saw it in a continuum of grays. Someone so…so uncomplicated. I told Daddy that you’d treated me badly, then let slip that you’d been in prison in France. A bank robber, no less. I pleaded with him not to say anything. I told him that I still loved you. But I knew him. Just like I know you. I knew that he’d do everything in his power to protect his only daughter.”
Delphine folded her napkin, set it neatly on the table, then rose. Her step as she left the restaurant was not the least bit hurried. As always, she refused to live life on anyone’s terms but her own.
The black Rover idling at the curb across the street from Bibendum pulled a sharp U-turn as Delphine left the restaurant. The car’s driver was a woman, fortyish, fit, with raven hair and glacial-blue eyes, though both were concealed by a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. The car was not hers. It had been stolen the day before from a car park in Immingham, several hours’ drive from London. As a precaution, she’d been sure to change the plates. She was nothing if not professional.
The woman followed Delphine for a city block before opening the glove compartment and removing a small pistol with a large noise suppressor attached to its snout. A nine-millimeter hollow-point bullet lay snugly in the chamber. She had been working on her shooting these past weeks and felt confident that one would be enough, especially at close range. The light turned red. The pedestrians stopped at the curb. The woman pulled up alongside Delphine.
“Excuse me,” she called out. “Can you help me with directions?”
Delphine barely glanced in her direction. “I’m sorry, I’m busy.”
“Please. I’d be grateful.”
Maybe it was the foreign accent. Maybe it was her sad, pleading tone. Delphine Blackmon sighed as she approached the car. “Just this once,” she said, lowering her head toward the open window. “What is it, then?”
As the Rover sped away, the driver smiled to herself. She was right. One shot was enough.
“Knock, knock.”
Simon opened the door and poked his head inside the hospital room. “Lucy?”
The bed was empty, sheets thrown back. He had called ahead, as was his custom. The nurse at reception had said she was expecting him.
“Lucy?”
Four weeks had passed since the doctors had removed her from a medically induced coma, judging that her cerebral swelling had decreased sufficiently. Another week passed before
she began speaking. Since then, she’d made remarkable progress.
Her motor functions had returned more slowly. Five days earlier she had begun feeding herself. Walking, however, still posed a challenge. Her casted leg didn’t help matters.
A toilet flushed. The door to her private bathroom opened. Out walked Lucy, balancing on a pair of crutches.
“Look at this!” Simon rushed forward.
“I’m fine, thank you very much,” said Lucy, in a proud and nearly polished voice. The accident had somehow robbed her of her Cockney slur. But her eyes remained fixed on the floor, her face a mask of concentration. He stood to one side of the room, ready to help if needed.
“Take them,” she said.
Simon accepted the crutches, setting them in the corner.
“Let me help you get into bed.”
“No, let me!”
Simon turned to see Lucy’s mother, Dora, hurry from the bathroom. She was dressed in a knee-length skirt and short-sleeved blouse, her hair done nicely. Simon was quick to notice the absence of a pall of smoke.
“Hello, Mrs. Brown.”
“Dora, please. And hello to you, Simon.”
Dora Brown lifted her daughter onto the bed. “Would you look at her?” she said, beaming. “Almost as good as new.”
“I’m going to be better than new,” said Lucy, lifting her eyes to Simon.
“Yes, you are. I don’t know what to say. This is a good day.”
Dora Brown pulled a chair close to the bed for Simon and took a seat on the sofa beneath the window. “Lucy and I have been talking. We’ve decided we’re going to take a trip to Paris when she’s recovered. Just the two of us.”
“Is that right?”
Lucy nodded. Her hair had begun to grow out. If anything, it was blonder than before. “Mum’s never been. It will be the first time for both of us.”
Dora Brown sat, hands clasped in her lap, smiling beatifically.
“This may help.” He took an envelope from his jacket and gave it to Lucy. She needed a moment or two but managed to open it and take out the check that was inside.
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