Adrenaline still pulsed through her veins like fire. She had to breathe. She had to slow herself down or she’d blow it. When she was about five feet away she saw the dark figure leaning over the rail, gazing down at the city before him and the pageantry on the Place de la Concorde below and along the Champs Elysees.
She eyed his dark jacket and slacks, his oily dark blond hair, the gold medallion hanging from his neck. He looked just like his photos.
He sensed her presence without turning around. “Have you come to see my work?”
His words startled her. “Your work?”
“My final masterpiece.” He turned around and smiled at her as if he were an old friend. “I had planned to rent a room here. The renovations saved me some money.”
He wasn’t making sense. For a moment she listened to the sound of her own heart beating, trying to figure out what he meant.
Then she decided to cut through the bullshit. “Where’s Dave Becker?”
He only chuckled.
Miranda glanced at the pendant on his chest.
Following her gaze Yanick picked it up. “Saint Barbara. Patron saint of military personnel who work with explosives. An American gave me this in Lebanon. He said the saint is fickle. She favors some. Others, not so much.”
What was that supposed to mean? Miranda wasn’t interested in his resume. She’d already heard it at French Intelligence.
“Answer my question.” She poked her gun out a bit, to make sure he saw it.
He looked down at the pendant. “According to the legend she was martyred by her own father. Ironic, isn’t it?”
What the hell was he talking about? What the hell was he up to? He had something up his sleeve, but he hadn’t thought it through. It wasn’t going to work this time.
Parker and Haubert had been only half a block away when Yanick fired the shots at the agents. Haubert would have called for the car, but it wouldn’t have taken that long to pick them up. Turmel had communicated their position. Fayette and Haubert and Parker should be right along any minute.
The police were probably didling with the accident scene in the church courtyard down below. But as soon as Haubert arrived, he’d commandeer all the forces. Turmel might meet them with Kosomov at gunpoint. They all might be coming up the steps now.
She wanted to put down her gun and tear Yanick’s throat out with her bare hands. But that wouldn’t get her anywhere.
Play it cool, she told herself.
She forced calm into her voice. “Why don’t you tell me where Odette and Dave Becker are? You do know their names, don’t you?” She moved her gun again for emphasis.
He was supposed to reply with some information. Maybe feel insulted. But he acted as if she weren’t there, as if she wasn’t holding a military grade Beretta on him.
She needed to shake him back to reality. “Pretty careless to drive around a crowded city, wasn’t it, Yanick? Didn’t you think you’d attract attention?”
He replied with a sneer. “Some of us live for attention.”
Then his expression turned dark and recalling that he’d avoided his psychological examination, she wondered if maybe he didn’t have a plan just now. Maybe he’d snapped and gone completely nuts.
“You have no idea what it is like,” he said.
“What what is like?”
“To work year after year. To pour your heart and soul into it, to risk your life over and over. And what do they do? They give your job, the one you’ve had your heart set on, to an incompetent imbecile with half your experience.”
So that was what this jerk was? Just a disgruntled employee? He should have worked some of the shit jobs she’d had. But she didn’t dare rile him. All she wanted to know was where Becker’s body was, so Fanuzzi could take him home and bury him.
And then she’d kick the shit out of this asshole.
Without moving her gun, she smiled back at Yanick. “I heard it was because you were so good in the field.”
His eyes blazed. “Is that what they told you at headquarters? Yes, I saw you there. You and your husband. They are fools.”
“You must have thought so after we stormed your hiding place last night.”
His eyes brightened. “So you found my little gift. And you are not dead, Madame Steele? Amazing. But then you are good at cheating death.”
How did he—? He must have seen her on TV and recognized her. Damn those British reporters. “An agent died in that blast,” she told him. “You’ll pay for that, Yanick.”
He looked at her as if she were a child. “Fools,” he said again. “All of you. You have no idea.”
He took a step toward her.
She raised her gun. “Hold it right there.”
“No idea at all.” He shook his head and took another step.
She could see the bulge under his coat. He still had the weapon he’d shot those two agents with on the street. He was a fast draw but she already had her gun out and aimed. In fact, she could shoot him in self defense right now. But that wouldn’t tell her anything about Becker’s whereabouts.
Where were those police that had chased them before? And Haubert should be along any minute with more of his men. And Parker. What had happened to him? Why wasn’t he right here with her?
That thought unnerved her, so she pushed it aside.
Keep him talking, she decided. Someone will show up sooner or later. “Okay, so they treated you unfairly at French Intelligence. But why involve Odette St. Fleur? And her uncle Chef Emile?”
“Odette St. Fleur. What a stupid, spoiled little girl. Someone else who does not deserve what she has.”
Miranda couldn’t disagree with that. But it didn’t answer the question. “Did you know her?”
Yanick studied her cautiously. He knew she was buying time but he didn’t seem concerned about it. She chalked that up to his ego. He wanted to talk about himself.
“I had a good friend once,” he began. “His name was George. We had been together since primary school. We were, what do you Americans call it? Ah, yes. ‘Best buds.”
She nearly winced. She’d called Becker that.
“I went into military service. I wanted to change the world. But George, he only wanted to be a chef. A pastry chef in particular.”
A friend who was a pastry chef? Now things were starting to click.
“George was an artist. He wrote poetry in his spare time. He used to read his poems to me. I thought they were quite good. But he said he could not make a living as a poet. Instead he would express his art in food.”
The music outside the window was getting louder. The parade was reaching the Place de la Concorde. She listened hard but couldn’t hear any sirens over it.
“George went to school. He studied so very hard. He was good. Very good. But not quite good enough. He decided if he could only learn from the best, he could become what he wanted to be. And so he went to work for Chef Emile at Chez Amando.”
Okay. Now the dots were really starting to connect.
“But Chef Emile ignored him. He put him in the kitchen chopping vegetables while he doted over his little niece. She got to do everything George wanted to do. Help create desserts, bake macarons, comment on the menu. When she made her first béchamel, Chef Emile claimed it was the best ever.”
It probably was. From what she knew, Chef Emile might have favorites, but they deserved it. “What happened?”
“George knew it was useless. He would never be able to advance. He would never become a pastry chef. Never fulfill his dream. He quit his job. He locked himself in his apartment and drank all day.”
He wasted his opportunity. He should have stuck it out. He should have talked to the chef. Easier said than done for someone young, though.
“I tried to talk to him on the phone, but I was training in Iceland then. I arranged to take a short leave, hoping to cheer him up. But when I arrived back in Paris I learned he was dead. He had hung himself in his apartment.”
“Oh, my God.” That
caught her off guard.
“I had heard of the Amando family fortune from George, from my father, from others. I decided if someone took it from that man, it would make things even. And so I decided to do that no matter how long it took. And I have waited a very long time to do just that.”
She didn’t need a psychological exam to decide this guy was crazy. He was eaten alive with the desire for revenge. For the loss of his old friend and for losing his own job.
She couldn’t waste time listening to any more stories from him. He could snap any second.
“Where’s Odette?” she demanded. “Where’s Dave Becker? What have you done with them?”
“They are dead. Just as you will be very soon.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I do.” Yanick glanced past her, smiled.
Miranda risked a quick look over her shoulder.
Kosomov, the big Russian, stood in the hotel room doorway. He was holding a gun twice as big as her own. Long and shiny silver. Looked like a Desert Eagle.
“Lower your weapon,” Yanick said.
She looked back at him. The bastard had drawn his gun. Surrounded.
Her pulse pounded in her temples. Where the hell was Turmel? Haubert? The police?
Parker?
She stole a quick glance behind Kosomov. Nowhere in sight.
She’d taken too long. His nut job prattling had been an act. That was why Yanick had told her about his friend George, why he’d drawn the story out. He was betting on the Russian. He was buying time until Kosomov could ditch Turmel and get up here.
And it had worked.
Slowly she bent to lay her Berretta on the floor.
Chapter Fifty
“I am afraid we might be going in circles, Monsieur Parker.”
Plodding along behind Fayette, letting the young agent take the lead, Parker felt his strength wane. They had seemed to be walking aimlessly for hours.
They’d passed too many bones to count. Tall piles of femurs, long separated from their bodies. A passage filled with craniums they had to pick their way through. Rocky shelves filled with skulls and tibias and tarsals arranged in a crosswise fashion, as if pirates had put them there.
Now they were in another grotto with three possible directions to go.
“Let’s rest a moment,” he told Fayette.
Feeling irreverent, he leaned against a wall of skulls and took out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Fayette did the same.
Parker licked his lips, feeling parched. He was certain Fayette was thirsty, too. He had been in too much of a hurry to stop for supplies. Not a smart move, but there had been no time.
And they were running out of it now. He glanced at his watch. If what Dave had told him was accurate, and he had no reason to doubt him, they had only minutes left to find him.
Surely they had to be close. But which direction?
Once more he took out his cell and attempted to call. Again there was no answer. Dave’s battery was dead. Parker wanted to smash the phone against the nearest cranium. But he shoved it into his pocket instead and forced himself to think. The Place de la Concorde had to be just above them or they were very near it. He was certain of it.
But perhaps he had gotten turned around in this endless labyrinth of death. And if he had…
Suddenly a sound pierced through the silence. He stood erect, listened hard. The sound of an orchestra and marching feet. Faint, as if coming from a distant fog.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called in a loud voice. “Dave? Dave Becker, are you there?”
Fayette did the same. “Monsieur Becker? Where are you? Are you nearby?”
Parker put a hand on Fayette’s arm to quiet him for a moment and they both listened hard. All he heard was the marching and orchestra sound above. It seemed to be growing softer.
He must be going insane. “Dave!” he shouted again.
Still no reply.
He started toward one of the openings, the one where the upper noise seemed to be coming from and put his head in it.
He inhaled hard and bellowed as loudly as he could. “Dave Becker! Are you there?”
Two seconds later there was an answer. It was so soft, Parker could barely hear it.
But it was loud enough to make out the fragile words.
“Mr. Parker? Is that you?”
###
After crawling through three more long passages and calling out to each other until they were all hoarse, Parker and Fayette turned a corner.
Two dark, human sized lumps lay huddled close to each other against the wall of the cave.
Parker made his way over, careful not to shine his light into anyone’s eyes. “Dave?”
The lump on the far side lifted his head and squinted up at him giddily. “Mr. Parker? Are you really here?”
“Yes, Dave. I am here.” He felt as if he had found a lost son.
“Oh, Mr. Parker I’m so sorry I got myself into this mess. I should have known better it was so stupid.” He started to turn around.
Parker saw a blood caked bandage on Dave’s finger and winced. Then he caught sight of the red numbers on his chest. “Don’t move.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dave’s body slumped.
“No, I am the one who is sorry.” The thick female French accent came from the other lump. “It is my fault we are all in this horrible situation.”
Parker moved his light. “Odette St. Fleur?”
“Oui.” She blinked up at him with hollow eyes.
Her face only barely resembled the beauty in the photo from her ex-fiancé. Her long black hair was snarled and matted, her face was swollen, her skin pale. She was all in wrinkled black clothing, bound head and foot in thick rope, the same as Dave.
Yanick had decided she’d outlived her usefulness.
“Let’s get you out of that.” Fayette drew a pocket knife from his belt. He knelt beside the women and began working at the knots.
Parker looked at the numbers ticking down on Dave’s chest. Six minutes, forty-seven seconds. His sense of time was off. He’d have thought they’d been searching for at least an hour. But that wouldn’t have been possible.
And now?
How in the world could they defuse this bomb in that amount of time? He didn’t even dare cut the ropes binding him for fear of setting it off.
“Fayette, you worked with Yanick, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Monsieur Parker. He trained me in explosives.” He finished cutting the last rope and Odette sat up rubbing her arms.
He gestured toward the vest. “Can you disarm this thing?”
Fayette looked at the devise wrapped around Dave’s chest as if he hadn’t seen it before. “I can try.” He came around and knelt down to get a better look.
“Who’s this, Mr. Parker?” Dave sounded unnerved.
“This is Agent Fayette. He’s with French Intelligence.”
“French Intelligence? Cool. Glad to meet you.”
“Same here.” Fayette gave him a salute then studied the vest.
Parker knelt down to examine it as well.
A brown mesh garment with six rectangular packets wired together and attached to the digital numbers. They now read Six minutes, three seconds.
Parker pointed to one of the packets. “Can you tell what it’s made of?”
Fayette leaned in closer, turned his head to one side, then the other. Parker saw beads of sweat forming on the young man’s forehead.
“Looks like TNT,” he said.
That was what Parker was afraid of. “The force of the shock waves from the blast would be significant then?”
Fayette nodded a confirmation of what Parker already knew. “Enough to take down the site over it and kill everyone up there.”
Where the French president, his entourage, and dignitaries and soldiers from all over the world would be standing. Yanick had known exactly when to coordinate it to go off.
And while those down here are buried alive. Or rather dead.
<
br /> He drew in a breath and forced calm into his tone. “What do you suggest?”
Parker had some knowledge of bomb defusing but he needed to double-check his conclusions.
“There does not seem to be a motion sensitive switch or we would already be with our friends here.” Fayette nodded toward the skulls in the wall.
Parker concurred.
“Can you not simply cut the wires and stop the clock?” Odette asked in a voice much higher than her own.
“It is not that easy,” Fayette told her. “Cutting a wire might break the circuit. Or it might close it and set off the bomb. It is difficult to tell which wire does what. Some of the wires could even be fake.”
Her black eyes went wide. “Fake? And there is no way to tell?”
Becker pressed his lips together tightly. Parker assumed it was to keep from shivering at the dismal facts Fayette was reciting.
“From what you know of Yanick,” he asked the agent, “could you figure out how he would have wired it?”
Fayette thought a moment, then shook his head. “He would have assumed someone would guess it and wired it another way.”
Exactly what Parker had feared.
He rose and strolled over to the hole he’d spotted in the far wall as soon as they’d entered this section of the tunnel. He put a foot on one of the skulls and hoisted himself up to peer through it. He used his flashlight to examine the area.
At the sight, he let out a breath of relief. There was a small ray of hope for them.
He turned back to Fayette. “As you know, there are deep drops scattered here and there throughout these catacombs.”
“So I have heard.”
“There is one right through there. I’d estimate it goes down at least a hundred feet, over thirty meters. There’s a pool at the bottom of it.”
Fayette’s lips turned up. “That could go down another thirty meters or more.”
“Would that be enough to soften the explosion?”
Fayette’s face turned grim as he considered the question. “Some of the blast would be absorbed by the water. Some of the charge would expand downward into the water. The shock waves would lose some power at the additional depth.”
“Can you think of another solution?”
Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5) Page 21