Noah reached out and pressed his thumb to an engraving. Another scan, and the entire coffin wall retracted silently into the floor, a false front for the tomb's true contents.
They were now standing in a windowless room about ten feet square. Shelves along the left wall were packed with gear. On the right-hand side, a few stacked boxes leaned against a tarp-covered pile in the corner. Noah strode in, grabbed a black backpack off a hook, and tossed it to Sydney.
“Get what you need,” he said, “because we're not going back to the hotel.”
Turning his attention to the shelves, he began digging through the equipment, tossing the gear he wanted down to the floor.
“Well? Get busy,” he prodded when Sydney didn't move. “Here. I think these pants will fit you.” He threw some black stretch pants in her direction, followed by a matching turtleneck. “Better try on some of these shoes, too. The ones you're wearing are useless for running.”
Turning her back on Noah, Sydney changed clothes hurriedly, pulling the pants on beneath her dress before shucking that off in favor of the turtleneck. She folded her designer clothes and put them in her backpack with her sandals, in case she needed them later. When she turned around again, Noah was wearing black pants too, but that was as far as he'd gotten. His bare torso flexed as he reached for an upper shelf and pulled down a couple of small plastic cases. She averted her eyes, embarrassed, but he didn't seem to notice.
“Transmitters,” he explained, snapping each case open and checking its contents. When he was satisfied, he handed one to her. “Grab one of those utility belts and strap the power box on, then run this wire up to the mike and earpiece.”
Sydney did as Noah said while he found a shirt for himself. Unlike the tiny, disguised transmitters they had worn earlier, the new ones were heavy and quite visible. The power box hugged the small of her back, the earpiece clipped over the outside of her ear, and the attached microphone curved around her cheek toward her mouth.
“I feel like a rock star,” she joked. “Only without the fans.”
Noah smiled appreciatively. “You're in the right place for it. Jim Morrison's buried here somewhere.”
Sydney's return smile was weak. Being a rock star was one thing; being a dead rock star didn't seem quite as funny just then. Joining Noah at the shelves, she found a pair of black running shoes and some socks. She was still threading the laces when Noah bent into her line of sight.
“Which gun do you want?” he asked, a weapon held out in each hand.
“Gun?” she repeated. “For what?”
“For our trip back to Madame Monique's, of course. We've got to get in and search the place before K-Directorate has time to cover its tracks.”
“We're going in armed?”
Noah looked incredulous. “Well . . . yeah.”
Sydney blindly grabbed the nearest weapon. She'd been taught how to shoot them both, but hadn't worked with either one long enough to have an opinion. When she made full agent, she'd be issued a gun, but the only time trainees ever touched one was at the practice range. Until now.
Noah tossed her the holster that went with her choice. “Make sure you have plenty of ammunition. And hurry up—we're wasting time.”
Sydney strapped on the gun, praying she wouldn't have to use it. She'd been sent to Paris to shop for clothes, and soon she'd be breaking and entering. The way things were escalating, there was no telling where they'd end.
Looking through the shelves for the right ammunition, she found a locksmith's set, which she added to her backpack. She was already a whiz at picking locks, and they were sure to encounter locked doors at the couture house. Noah helped himself to a pair of night-vision binoculars, and they both took flashlights that hooked to their utility belts. Noah tucked a second gun into his waistband and a third into a leg holster. They finished their outfits with loose black windbreakers that covered most of their equipment.
“Are you ready?” Noah asked, pulling on his backpack over his jacket.
Sydney nodded.
“Good.”
Grabbing the tarp in the corner, he gave it a hard yank. The fabric fell to the floor, revealing a motorcycle and two helmets. He tossed her a helmet and put on the other before wheeling the vehicle into the open space near the center of the safe house. Swinging a leg over the seat, he motioned for Sydney to climb on behind him.
“Hang on tight,” he instructed. “Don't be shy.”
His voice came to her clearly through their transmitters, but she could no longer see his eyes to tell if he was teasing. Her arms closed tightly around him anyway, crushing his backpack between them.
“I hope you don't have any guns in there,” she muttered nervously.
“Just hand grenades.”
“What? Noah!”
“I'm kidding,” he said, trying to twist far enough to see her. “Ever hear of gallows humor?”
“The jokes people crack while they're marching to their executions? That's perfect. Thanks for the pep talk.”
“No! It's just . . . never mind. You're so high-strung.”
“I'm high-strung?” she repeated disbelievingly.
He turned back toward the front of the bike. “Are you ready to go, or what?”
“I said I was.”
“Fine.” Noah started the motorcycle. “Computer!” he called loudly. “Initiate exit procedure.”
The red light switched off overhead, the big tomb door swung open, and Sydney and Noah roared out into the night.
The second time Noah took a corner at top speed, Sydney knew to lean into it with him. She had almost fallen off the bike the first time, and her heart was still thumping from the experience.
I wish I knew when we were going to get there, she thought nervously. Aside from a split-second pause to unlock a cemetery gate, Noah hadn't slowed once since they'd left the safe house. They had to be nearing the couturier's shop by now.
I wish I knew what we'll find.
Would they have to use the guns they carried? Noah obviously took working with weapons for granted, but the thought of actually shooting someone made Sydney feel sick to her stomach. The only thing worse would be if somebody shot her.
This wasn't supposed to be dangerous! she wanted to wail. Wilson would have an aneurysm if he saw me right now.
Or would he?
After all, she had signed on to be a secret agent, and Wilson had trained her for the job. Maybe he already knew exactly what was happening.
The lights of Paris streaked past her, as out of focus as her own scattered mind. Sydney took a deep breath.
What I ought to concentrate on is what I'm going to do when we get there.
Except that she didn't know that. She wasn't in charge of that.
The important thing is not to panic. Noah's survived plenty of missions—he's not going to get anyone killed.
Probably.
Another deep breath. The night air was so cool and crisp, it tingled on every nerve. Sydney concentrated on her senses, trying to force the future from her mind. The whine of the motorcycle in her ears, the smell of old stone and exhaust fumes, the warmth of Noah's body against hers, the sharp edges of the lights up ahead . . .
This isn't working.
Every heightened sense only made her more aware that this could be the last night of her life.
“We're about a minute out,” Noah's voice said in her ear. “Expect to move fast when we get there.”
She nodded stiffly, forgetting that he couldn't see her.
The entrance to the familiar alley came into sight, and Noah took the turn at full throttle. The motorcycle's engine echoed loudly off the building walls as they zoomed up behind the fashion house. Sydney staggered off the bike as it stopped, barely feeling her feet hit the ground. Her legs moved automatically, as if they belonged to someone else. Dropping the motorcycle, Noah led the charge down the exterior stairs to the locked basement door.
They both shed their helmets in the stairway. Sydney reached for her
pack to retrieve the locksmith tools, but Noah pulled out a silenced gun and shot the doorknob off.
“It's not really about stealth at this point,” he said, kicking the door open. “Come on, Sydney. Let's go!”
They drew their flashlights as Sydney led the race along the downstairs hall, up the staircase, and onto the main floor.
“Which way to the dressing room?” he asked. “Let's move, before someone finds us.”
Up ahead, the curtain that had previously separated the back hallway from the rest of the store was now drawn halfway. Sydney blew past it and in a couple more steps entered the main hall, the one the dressing rooms opened onto. She swept her flashlight down its length, to make sure no one was there, then continued straight across it, through an open dressing room door.
“This is the one. This is the room I was in,” she told Noah, her voice low and urgent.
“Good. Start looking for things that could have made that noise.”
They both began searching, their flashlights playing over the mirrors and furniture. Sydney easily opened each drawer in the tall bureau, but found only sewing supplies. Noah tried rotating the standing mirrors on their hinges, also with no success.
“What could it have been?” he growled impatiently.
Sydney looked around; there weren't many more possibilities. She tried pushing one of the brocade chairs across the hardwood floor. The sound it made was similar to the scraping the bug had recorded, but not nearly loud enough. Taking her cue, Noah shoved the large bureau, only to find it attached to the floor.
“That's going nowhere,” he grunted.
“It did sound like something scraping on the wood, though. Could any of these floorboards be loose?”
They dropped to their knees, knocking and prodding. Every board in the floor remained stubbornly fixed. Then Sydney noticed something: At the edge of the floor on one side of the room, a strange, arcing groove was gouged into the wood, ending at the paneled wall.
“What do you think caused this?” she asked.
Noah's eyes lit up. “Bingo.”
Leaning into the wall, he ran his palms up and down the vertical boards of the wooden paneling. He had been working only a minute when one of the boards seemed to yield to his pressure.
“Prepare to be dazzled,” he said, giving the wall a hard shove. A three-foot-wide section of paneling rotated on an off-center vertical pivot, squealing as twenty-four inches of hidden doorway scraped forward over the hardwood floor.
“A secret passage!” Sydney gasped, rushing forward.
Grabbing her jacket, Noah yanked her back and shone his flashlight into the dark passageway. Two feet behind the paneling was the brick outer wall of the building. A narrow wooden staircase dove steeply to the left, disappearing into darkness.
“I'm going in,” he said. “You stay and cover me.”
“I'm going with you.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You're not.”
“I want to see what's down there,” she insisted, more afraid of being left alone than of anything they might face together.
“I understand. But I need you up here, to watch my back. Now turn off your flashlight, get out your gun, and do your job.”
He was gone before she could argue, hurrying out of sight down the rickety staircase. Sydney hesitated, every cell in her body straining to follow. Then she switched off her flashlight and drew her weapon, as Noah had instructed. Her gun shook in her hand.
I can do this, she told herself, fighting to stay calm.
But what if somebody came and she actually had to shoot him? She'd had plenty of weapons training; she knew she could make Swiss cheese of a target.
She just didn't know whether she could shoot a fellow human being.
“Noah!” she whispered into her transmitter. “Noah, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” he replied.
She relaxed a bit at the sound of his voice. “What's down there? Are you all right?”
“Yes. I'm just—”
His transmission was cut short by a sudden, sickening thud. Sydney's stomach jerked into her rib cage.
“Noah?” she whimpered, trembling. “Noah, are you okay?”
All she heard was silence.
11
“NOAH . . . NOAH . . . Noah!”
At the top of the secret staircase, Sydney whispered frantically into her transmitter, immobilized by fear. The way Noah's voice had cut out, it sounded like someone had hit him.
“Noah! Please answer me!”
Her earpiece remained silent. She wasn't even certain their transmitters were still working. Maybe Noah's equipment had malfunctioned. Or been broken.
Or maybe he was dead.
No! No, don't even think that, she told herself, in a desperate bid to stay calm. Her hands were already shaking; what if she had to shoot?
I need to help him. I need a plan.
But what? If someone had overpowered an experienced agent like Noah, what chance did a trainee have? Was she just supposed to run in shooting and hope for the best?
He'd do it for you, she thought, and somehow she knew she was right. Rescuing Noah might be suicide, but she still had to try.
Summoning up all her courage, Sydney stepped into the passageway. She was reaching for her flashlight when a sudden sound from below made her freeze where she was. Footsteps were rushing up the stairs, directly toward her. Sydney jerked back quickly. Something told her those footsteps weren't Noah's.
She looked frantically for a place to hide, but found no cover in the dressing room. The footsteps were growing louder. Running desperately into the hallway, she noticed the half-drawn dividing curtain ahead. In a few more steps she was behind it, her back pressed to the wall and her chest heaving to her tucked chin.
A beam of light emerged from the passageway and swept back and forth, searching the dressing room. Sydney watched it through the crack where the curtain met the wall. She couldn't see much, just enough to tell that the figure with the flashlight wasn't Noah. And while one of the enemy's hands held a light, the other pointed a gun.
This is bad, Sydney thought, on the verge of panic. Her hiding place wasn't hard to find, and it definitely wasn't bulletproof. One false move, one little noise . . .
She held her breath as the black-clad agent emerged from the dressing room. The flashlight shone down the back hall, past the curtain where she was hiding. A paralyzed Sydney closed her eyes, waiting for the bullet. . . .
Then the light turned and aimed down the main hall instead. Sydney dared to look again, just in time to catch a glimpse of her adversary. The agent was a woman, soaking wet and wearing a bulletproof vest. She swept her light toward the ceiling, illuminating her own pale face and dripping black hair, and Sydney choked back a gasp.
The woman was Monique Larousse!
Agent Larousse, if that was her real name, moved off down the main hallway, leaving Sydney shaking behind her. She listened gratefully as the enemy's squelching footsteps retreated. And suddenly, she had a plan.
Dashing silently across the hall behind Larousse, Sydney slipped into the secret passageway and raced down the narrow staircase to Noah. The beam of her flashlight bounced crazily off the passage walls as she took the stairs two at a time. There was no time to be careful. She had to get to Noah before Monique Larousse returned.
The staircase ended abruptly. Sydney tripped and fell to one knee on the irregular floor of a square, sloping tunnel. Regularly spaced wooden shoring braced the damp soil walls and ceiling, but the only light was the one in her hand. Recovering her footing, she rushed ahead, intent on finding Noah.
The tunnel stretched on until Sydney lost all sense of how far she had gone. Then suddenly she came to a fork. She hesitated, shining her light down each passageway in turn. Which one should she take?
A low groan from the left-hand tunnel decided her in an instant. Forgetting everything else, she hurtled toward the sound. A dim light appeared up ahead. Then, fifty feet from t
he fork, the passage ended and Sydney burst into a reinforced steel room. A single bare lightbulb hung from its ceiling, letting her see the whole place at one glance—tall shelving units attached to the walls and neat stacks of crates on the floor.
And there, sprawled on his belly in the middle of it all, was Noah.
“Noah!” she cried, rushing forward and falling to the wet metal floor beside him. Cold water soaked her knees, but Sydney barely noticed as she leaned over her fallen partner, bringing her face close to his.
He groaned again, just barely conscious. Blood trickled down his forehead from a cut on his scalp, and one of his wrists was handcuffed to a steel ring in the floor. She checked for his guns—all three were gone, along with his backpack and jacket. His transmitter lay broken nearby.
“I'm going to get you out of here,” she promised, speaking right next to his ear. “Just hang on, Noah. Give me a chance.”
Dropping her flashlight, she shrugged off her backpack, removed her locksmith tools, and got to work on his handcuffs. Her hands, which had been shaking ever since she'd entered the fashion house, suddenly became rock steady. She picked the lock in seconds flat, springing the cuff like a pro.
“Come on. Wake up, Noah,” she pleaded, dragging him into a sitting position. He slumped against her shoulder, his head lolling on his limp neck.
She shook him gently, then harder, panic rising again.
What if he can't walk?
She might be able to drag him through the tunnel, but not up those stairs.
“Noah, wake up. I'm not kidding!”
His glazed eyes finally opened. He blinked at her, confused.
“It's me. Sydney,” she said urgently. “Do you remember?”
He squinted a long time. Then something finally clicked in his gaze. He touched a hand to his injured head and stared at the blood on his fingers. When he looked at her again, he was smiling.
“Way to go, Bristow!” he said admiringly. “Your first real mission and you've already bagged an enemy agent.”
“Bagged?” she repeated uneasily, glancing toward the tunnel.
A Secret Life Page 9