Crystal Whisperer (Spotless Series #3)

by Camilla Monk

  In the mirror, I studied the dispirited features of our second-most-important witness . . . who didn’t understand a word of Italian. I sighed. “Please try to remember. Did anything stand out?”

  Karl released a deep breath, like he was trying to contact spirits. “Not really. You know, most of the time, I just took care of the boxes.”

  March’s eyebrows jerked. “What boxes?”

  “Back in Dubrovnik, they made us fill a plane with boxes that we were sending to France. So I took care of that. I was in charge of the tape.”

  Maybe Gerone was just moving into a new place, but I doubted he’d have needed to recruit men on Yaythug for that. “Do you remember where exactly they were sending those boxes?”

  “The street, no. Too complicated. French stuff.” His face pinched in intense concentration. “But I know that the town’s name sounded like Range Rover . . .”

  Uncharacteristically, March twisted his neck to look at Karl, road rules be damned. “Rangiroa?”

  “Yes, yes! Rangiroa in France!”

  I shook my head. “That sounds Tahitian; is it—”

  “Yes,” March confirmed. “It’s an atoll in the Tuamotus.”

  So, French Polynesia, a mere ten thousand miles away from Paris. What the hell was Gerone planning there?

  As if to answer that question, one of March’s hands left the wheel so he could properly drag it across his face. My initial thought was that he was running on empty, having slept too little and run too much since our escape from South Africa. But there was something else. His cheeks were pale, his features taut. It was possibly the first I’d ever seen him . . . freak out.

  “This is going to be a problem,” he murmured.

  “What do you mean?”

  In the mirror, Karl too followed our exchange, his mouth slightly parted in anticipation.

  “The Poseidon Dome. Have you ever heard about it? It’s”—March fished for his phone in his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to me—“you can look it up.”

  I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, and without looking, I knew I was making a face similar to March’s. “You mean the glass dome, the resort? I heard about it”—I launched the search, and on the screen appeared a series of vacation pics in a tropical heaven—“I knew it was in Polynesia, but . . .” Oh my God. He was right, the Poseidon Dome was in Rangiroa, well, not exactly: according to their website, the resort stood on a motu one—a tiny patch of emerged sand—150 miles northeast of the atoll, in the northern Tuamotu Islands, indeed. Rangiroa was probably the closest place Gerone could get his “boxes” delivered without arousing too much suspicion.

  I opened another pic. Framed by two palm trees standing on a pristine beach, a massive bubble seemed to emerge from a turquoise sea on the horizon. My eyes skimmed through a page advertising delights of “a week in a partially underwater luxury resort protected by a two-hundred-yard-wide transparent dome.” Sweet Jesus. “Please don’t tell me Novensia had any part in this.”

  March took the phone back from my hands and did the unthinkable: he texted while driving. “Phyllis will help us answer that.”

  I turned to Karl, whose mouth had yet to close. “Do you know anything about this? Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us?”

  When he shook his head slowly, I insisted, my voice becoming urgent. “Karl, this is really important. You know what Gerone did before Novensia, right?”

  His gaze instantly dropped to his boots. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll tell you then. He—”

  “I know, okay? I heard the others talk about it.” His tone had suddenly become cutting, and the green eyes that wouldn’t meet mine seemed even more like a teenager’s now.

  “There were a lot of people on that plane. Children, babies, even!”

  “But that’s not what I do! I just . . . don’t go putting it all on me—”

  “Quiet, please.”

  March’s command effectively shut Karl up. I registered the low buzz coming from inside his jacket while he parked by a tiny square on the port.

  “Good afternoon, Phyllis,” March greeted, before turning the speaker on. “You couldn’t have called at a better time. We’re going to need some assistance.”

  “And that’s my middle name. Regarding the dome, I’m waiting for confirmation. But the project involved several European companies, so yes, I’m afraid we’re gonna see Novensia’s name come up. By the way, Scar is still with you?”

  I cringed at this new nickname for Dries. Seemed like Phyllis had a variety of expletives ready for her “favorite bedside rug.”

  “No, which is my other concern,” March admitted.

  Karl chimed in. “But I’m here.”

  “Who’s that?” Phyllis asked.

  “Me. My name is Karl. I’m being held hostage. It’s a pleasure to speak to you.”

  I think Karl would have said more, but in the mirror, March stabbed him with the cold-killer look, and he shrank in the back seat in response.

  Phyllis’s voice held a note of uncertainty as she asked, “Should I worry about that?”

  “No,” March replied.

  “All right, then back to business. There was actually a reason for my call, besides the dome. I think you made quite an impression in Venice. I just received an invitation for you.”

  I scooted closer to the phone. “From Dries? Where is he?”

  “No. From Director Erwin.”

  Reading March’s and my facial expressions, Karl feigned shock and genuine interest, while we picked our jaws from the Golf’s floor mats.

  March cleared his throat. “That’s . . . unexpected. I don’t suppose he was willing to provide any kind of details?”

  “Time and coordinates, nothing more. I think the message here is basically, ‘Take it or leave it,’” Phyllis replied, distrust obvious in her tone.

  March’s gaze fell on me. “I see. Send those to me, please.”

  “Done. What else do you need? I can book something at the Atrium and have a suitcase delivered there. Fresh car too?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  After he had hung up, March leaned back in the driver’s seat and stared at the fat palm trees lined in front of the car, the white bench where an old lady sat, searching her colorful bag for a city map. He remained silent.

  I touched his forearm. “Can we talk?” My eyes darted to Karl, watching our every move in the mirror. “Outside?”

  March nodded. Without so much as a glance for our “hostage,” he opened his door and told the boy, “Wait for us in the car, please. If you try anything, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”

  To be honest, the threat was unnecessary, but Karl’s head bobbed up and down in agreement anyway.

  Once we were outside, I sat on the Golf’s hood, reveling in the late-afternoon breeze that carried the scent of the sea, laced with that of fried food. A small blessing after the day we’d had so far. “Are you going?” I asked.

  March’s eyebrows drew in a pleading expression. “Island, I can’t take you with me.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” I said quietly. “But Erwin is going to want me too. I bet he thinks he can use me to bait Dries.”

  “The idea crossed my mind as well,” March agreed.

  “What if you go and there’s no deal? What do I do if they arrest you?”

  A tired smile etched a dimple in his cheek. “I won’t be arrested.”

  No, I thought, you’ll be killed. “I don’t think you should go,” I eventually said. “I think we should follow Karl’s lead and go directly to Rangiroa. We might even find Dries there too, if Sabina Falchi talked to him.”

  March stepped forward. Not too close. Because not in goddamn public. “Island, if I keep running”—he drew a heavy sigh—“if we can’t strike a deal, you’ll lose everything too; your life, your friends, your family . . . You’ll be a fugitive.”

  “I’ll go with you. I already told you I will. I don’t trust that old fart Erwin. P
lease . . .”

  I saw the moment I had lost that battle before he even spoke. It was the way his spine straightened, the clenching of his right fist. A decision had been made, and any further arguing would be in vain. “I’m going to take you and that bumbling idiot to a hotel downtown. You will wait for me there. If anything happens, Phyllis will arrange for you to be extracted out of the country. If I come to a satisfying deal with Mr. Erwin, I’ll come back for you.”

  I pursed my lips tight and acquiesced. I didn’t trust myself to speak with the mix of fear and disappointment welling in my chest.

  March’s hand reached for my waist in a bid to pull me to him.

  I avoided his gaze and squirmed away. “What about Karl? Do we let him go?”

  He looked back at the Golf’s windshield, through which the interested party watched our exchange with wide, attentive eyes. “No. He’s our only witness. We might still need him.”

  . . . To bargain with Erwin, I mentally completed.

  23

  The Bait

  Carly was mortified. The mysterious Sugar Daddy she had surrendered to was in fact her boss! Hot and powerful billionaire Redmond Velvet!

  —Lena Raven, A Mouthful of Red Velvet

  “Have a pleasant stay Mr. August. Would you like me to call someone to carry your luggage?”

  “No, I’ll be all right, thank you.”

  Next to a giant vase of flowers, Karl and I stood stiff as March finished check-in. With a congenial smile, he took the metal case that had been waiting for him at the reception desk of the Atrium, a nondescript business hotel a mile away from the crowded seafront. Phyllis worked fast. And, indeed, it was preferable that no overzealous groom was called to handle a suitcase that was undoubtedly full of guns and ammo. Our disheveled little group treaded across a sleek, soulless lobby. The whole thing almost reminded me of an actual office building, made of white walls and black glass panels encasing each area, complete with the mandatory wooden inserts to create some illusion of warmth.

  An elevator took us all the way to the top floor, where March led us inside a suite so impersonal it looked like an IKEA display. Studying the many shades of gray of the carpet and bed linen, the black-and-white pictures on—you guessed it—gray walls, I wondered whether someone had forbidden the designer to use any color. Oh well, the bed wouldn’t be any less comfy.

  By then, I thought our relations with Karl had warmed to the point of being courteous—if not cordial. Wrong. The moment the doors had closed behind us, March laid the new mystery case on the bed, unlocked it with a six-digit code . . . and took out a pair of hinged handcuffs.

  Karl cowered. “I wasn’t actually planning to escape.”

  March’s gaze flitted to me before it settled on our guest, unforgiving. “You tried to kill her less than six hours ago.” He tipped his head to the bathroom door. “Please follow me.”

  His head hanging low, Karl complied, and March secured the handcuffs to a towel radiator next to the sink. Karl let himself slide down the black-tiled wall with a despondent sigh and gave me a beaten-puppy look.

  I responded with an uneasy smile. “Sorry about that. Maybe I can get you something from the minibar?”

  “Yes, thank you. A soda. Like, a Fanta, if there’s any.”

  March’s head jerked up, scandal written all over his face. I decided to ignore the unspoken message. Yes, I was aware that any snack eaten from the minibar would be billed to us. Yes, I knew that it would be cheaper to drink liquid gold than to grab a can from there. And it was Karl, and we didn’t want to spend money on him or hand-feed him. Because we didn’t like Karl. When I left the bathroom to start a quest for orange-flavored soda anyway, March followed me and closed the door behind us, leaving our prisoner to his own—limited—devices.

  “Island, that can wait,” March said as I knelt in front of the minibar. He walked to the bed where his suitcase still rested, and patted the comforter, inviting me to sit by his side. “I’ll leave in thirty minutes. I need to give you something before I go.”

  I joined him, and my eyes widened in curiosity as he unlocked the new magic suitcase. He opened it, revealing a collection of many horrible and interesting things, all perfectly organized. One side was lighter than the other and appeared to be reserved for personal items, such as passports, a medical kit, and a change of impossibly wrinkle-free clothes. The other side, that one was the real deal. Four guns rested on the top layer, encased in black Styrofoam compartments, along with various accessories. Some I recognized, like suppressors or magazines; others I had never seen before—a flashlight, maybe?

  March freed a semiautomatic that seemed a bit smaller than its siblings and held it in front of me. “This is a compact CZ 75. Czech. Excellent quality and very accurate aim.” Thumbing a button on the side of the grip, he dropped the magazine. “You have fourteen rounds and one in the chamber.”

  I looked back and forth between him and the pistol in confusion.

  “Take it.”

  Before I could object, the CZ rested in my hands. His own hands cradled mine to help me rack the slide. “Now, the hammer is cocked, and if the gun was loaded, you could fire it. This, here, is the safety.” There was a black switch on the side that he flipped down, revealing a red dot painted on the black steel. “If you can see the dot, it means the safety is off.”

  I pulled the trigger, experiencing a strange chill when it offered no resistance.

  March guided my hands as together we loaded the magazine and repeated the same routine. Rack. Hammer. Switch up. “Now it’s loaded, cocked, and locked. You can flip the safety anytime and fire.”

  As soon as he had said this, I laid the gun on the bed, safely away from my hands. He searched the magic suitcase’s compartments and retrieved a black cylinder, almost as long as the CZ itself. “The suppressor will reduce the recoil. It might be best for you.”

  His mouth twisted as he screwed it to the barrel. Maybe he remembered the way the aforementioned recoil had sent me flying to the ground when trying to handle an assault rifle for the first time in my life in Paris. I hoped that the guy I had shot in the legs in that strip club was getting better, by the way.

  I poked the silencer gingerly. “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s yours. I don’t want you to use it unless it’s absolutely necessary. But I trust you with it.” His brow quivered. Not quite a pleading expression, but he wasn’t the type to get on his knees, after all. “If I can’t come back for you, you’ll have to leave. Promise you won’t try anything . . . crazy.”

  Promise me you won’t try to find me. Promise me you’ll just run without looking back. I couldn’t. I didn’t even want to consider that outcome. I took the CZ. It felt heavy in my hand. Placing it on my lap, I drew March closer to kiss his cheek. “Don’t go. You know Alex will be there.”

  He nuzzled my hair. “Officially, I am to meet outside the city with local agents acting on behalf of Erwin. Nothing else transpired.”

  “He’ll be there. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity.”

  “Island. Trust me.”

  I looked up at his eyes, startled by the sudden burst of confidence in his voice. There was a hard glint in his irises, but they also seemed brighter, as if some of the exhaustion of the past few days had lifted, revealing a new determination.

  “I still have a few cards up my sleeves. Erwin knows it, and Mr. Morgan isn’t all-powerful as he likes to believe.”

  “What kind of cards?”

  He gave a faint shrug. “I know a lot of things. I too could take an interest in journalism if I felt like it.”

  Blackmail, huh? “But you’d rather not, right?”

  “Pour vivre heureux, vivons cachés,” he concluded with a wink and the most delicious accent. To live happy, live hidden. Old French adage, probably something he’d learned from Kalahari, his—nice—ex, who was married to a former French spy and ran a beauty salon chain in Paris. A chain March possessed stakes in. I couldn’t stop a grin from tugging
at my cheeks. There it was, the little spark of weird that made him so damn special. The reason I loved him.

  The fleeting joy turned to an ache in my chest. I threw my arms around his torso and hugged him tight. I wanted to memorize the heat of his body, even the tang of sweat and smoke that clung to his clothes after our encounter with Lucca Gerone. “You need to change. Gotta look your best for that party.”

  He squeezed me in return before letting go to rise from the bed. “Indeed.”

  “Oh and, March.”

  “Yes, biscuit?”

  “Let’s just untie Karl. I honestly don’t think he’ll go after me at this point.” I rolled my eyes. “And you’re gonna need that bathroom. Do you really want to share it with him?”

  “Mr. March, he’s your boyfriend, right?”

  I paused in the obsessive pacing that had no doubt started to leave marks on the carpet by now. The afternoon was reaching its end, and March had been gone for a little over thirty minutes now. Sitting in a black leather sofa, Karl hadn’t taken his eyes from me since March’s departure, his staring punctuated by slow sips from a fifteen-dollar Fanta bottle. The handcuffs were still on, March’s only concession being that our prisoner was no longer chained to the towel radiator. Because sometimes, when you had a bad day, you just want to be alone in the bathroom, rather than with a stranger sitting at your feet and commenting on the softness of the hotel’s towels while you shave.

  Yeah, that’s how Karl got himself kicked out of there.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “We’re together.” I crossed the living room to sit next to him. “My turn: how old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  That made me smile. “I was pretty sure you were younger than me.”

  He shrugged. “Probably not that much.”

  “I’ll be twenty-six in September.”