by Ritter Ames
The phone vibrated in my hand. It was like ESP.
"Nico! Where are you?"
"I'm hiding out in a Tesco."
Not my idea of a safe place, but crowded, and easy to spot someone paying too much attention to you, I guessed. "Okay, but did you learn anything?"
"Nothing on dear Simon. Did learn the house's owner has flown the coop. Couldn't find out where exactly, but I did find an Air France timetable still open on a desk tablet."
"They left a computer behind?"
"No, a real tablet. Old school. Paper. Sorry. Should have been more specific. It's just that I haven't seen a paper timetable in so long, it surprised me to see one open to today's flights."
"Anything marked?"
"A squiggle near a Paris flight. Couldn't read it, but no great surprise since Paris has always been tied to Moran's escape routes."
No, not a surprise at all. "Look, Nico, I'm on my way to St. Pancras International now. Can you get online and book me on a Chunnel crossing for sometime today? The earlier the better. Then I need transport to the Puy de Dôme region."
"From Paris? And do you want a car or train?"
I massaged my right temple. Train would be the easiest, since I had no idea where I was going, but a car offered its own special perks. No, between the Chunnel train and a train to Puy, I had opportunities for catnaps that a car didn't offer. The problem is that I likely needed convenience over sleep. Well, let's just say convenience trumped sleep at this point. "Get me a car that will have no difficulty in the mountains."
"Got it. I'll check things out and email your codes and data."
"I don't have any room on my credit card, so—"
"Laurel, if you had been able to do it yourself, you wouldn't have asked me. Don't worry. I'll get the passage booked."
"Thanks, Nico. Oh, and the motorcycle was left at a murder scene."
"I know. I sent someone to check on it when the GPS said it sat idle for so long. I was concerned you needed help. Last I heard, my friend is waiting for proof of ownership from the rental company before Scotland Yard will let him leave the scene—with or without the bike."
"Sorry."
"I know. Not like you do any of these things on purpose."
"Hey!"
He laughed and hung up. That's when I realized he was teasing. Running on nerves was truly affecting my sense of humor. Between getting drizzled on, tossed around, and pretty much scared out of my mind throughout the day, my body was having difficulty staying at anything resembling the right temperature. I rubbed my arms, suddenly feeling how chilled I was, and wished I still had the trench coat I'd put under the Welshman's unconscious head. The day's events had already given the trench a pretty distressed look, despite its purchase only that morning. Ending as a pillow under the victim's head gave it the hero's ending it deserved.
A change of clothes would definitely include a jacket. I racked my mind, trying to remember if a jacket was part of my shopping bag stash. Yep, one leather jacket. I was covered.
Doubly important, a clothing change might slow down Jack, too. When I considered how angry he likely was with me right then, and his ease of using national security methods to track me, I needed to do everything possible to make identification more difficult. I turned off my phone. No sense making it any easier. One possible disruption down, more to go.
Next, I grabbed up my hair and twisted it high on my head, securing the 'do with a small tortoise shell clip I found in the Prada. The clip was too small, but I only needed it to hold until I could cover my head with either Cassie's scarf or her brother's cap. In the meantime, I needed to look as different as possible from the last time Jack saw me. If he had access to face recognition software I wouldn't be able to fool the cameras. I may not be able to change my jaw line or the distance between my eyes, to fool the computers, but I could use every means possible to avoid human recognition.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cassie and I hurried to the toilet so I could make my quick change. In a train station in the middle of the night, we expected to find a homeless person or two camped in the stalls, but the facilities were surprisingly empty. As I pulled on a traveling ensemble of dark jeans and a tee, I spilled a bit of my day's news, mostly about tangling with Jack. The risk of porcelain echoes reminded me to speak quietly despite the privacy, but before I finished her hazel eyes looked ready to pop.
"You mean there's even more?" she asked.
I pulled on the leather jacket, and hugged my torso. Finally warm once again. "I'm here to give you your money's worth of entertainment." I frowned when the mirrors showed how pale my face looked under the fluorescent glare.
"Or the script for a month's worth of nightmares." Her sigh said it all, but my words goaded her into finding the only blind spot for us to hide in the space as we added the cap and a pair of low prescription reading glasses. Finally, she offered me a gorgeous vintage Hermes orange swirl scarf.
"Oh, I can't." I stroked the silk when she held it my way. I saw the gold coins patterned into the fabric, and knew it also showed gold chokers within the print. I couldn't in good conscience take something that beautiful and classic unless I had a chance of getting it returned in one piece.
She shook her head. "No arguments. Even if you don't use it right now, you may need it later for camouflage. I'd just feel better to know you had it at hand if need be."
"I'll find a kerchief or something to use instead. I promise."
"Laurel—"
"Besides," I argued. "I need to blend in. This fabulous scarf screams money."
Her chin crumpled a bit, and I appreciated her desire to help at any cost. "Okay, no tears. If you really want me to carry it along."
Cassie brightened immediately. "Think of it as a responsibility to help you stay safe. So you can return it to me."
Why did everything have to get harder before it got easier? At least, I hope things would get easier. "Come on. Let's go find some caffeine." Then I reached out and gave her a quick hug. "And thank you."
We had already traded back cell phones, and as we merged again into the crowd I texted Nico regarding the change in phone number. We found the coffee bar, placed our order, and grabbed a table. Before long, I'd finished my double shot espresso and the tale of the day's adventures. The combination of alcoholic drinks I'd consumed that day, added to the caffeine in the coffee, kept my paranoia slightly at bay but made me feel I could run a Roger Bannister four-minute-mile.
"Why don't you go to the police?" Cassie asked. "Your ex is missing and you can't get the sword you came for anyway. If I were on the run or kidnapped because of an art object, I'd want every possible law enforcement agency on the job. And didn't you say his secretary was missing, too?"
"The operative word there is was." I'd kept my voice low while telling the story, letting the sounds of the crowd and the grinders work as white noise to shield us, but now I leaned a bit closer over the table to try for a non-verbal way of communicating the urgency of secrecy. "Nico texted me a while ago that Martha is at her sister's house in Newcastle. I spoke to her, and without giving her enough information to create alarm, beyond waking her in the middle of the night, of course, I learned Simon urged her to take a month-long sabbatical starting yesterday. Her sister is widowed and has health problems, so the offer wasn't out of line. However, I have to imagine now that he did so because he was concerned things might heat up soon."
"Making the idea of going to the police sound even better." Cassie took my hand as she spoke. I gave it a squeeze in return.
If it were anyone but Simon, I would have agreed with her. Those trusting hazel eyes showed the worry my friend felt, and her expression telegraphed something else, too. Maybe hesitancy? Was she starting to not trust me?
I caught the inside of my lower lip between my teeth, training my thoughts on the pressure against the skin as I contemplated my next words. The crowd streamed around us, still heavy despite the late hour because of all the international connections St. Pancr
as offered. Everything looked benign, just uncomfortably busy. Yet, I let my vision probe every shadowy niche and double-check every profile to try to spot all the males playing a role in this little drama. Cassie wanted to be reassured no one else would be hurt. She knew about the docklands murder, but I hadn't even told her about the guy in Italy yesterday. Would learning about that make her understand my position more? Or increase her wariness because she thought I should go to the police?
And was I even right? Would it be so bad to countermand the order I knew Simon would give if he were able, and take the next Tube train to Scotland Yard?
"The first thing I learned in training for my job was that a priceless work of art can tempt people to do crazy and dangerous things for specific reasons," I said. My eyes felt gritty from fatigue and the station's over-conditioned air. "The crooks do dangerous and crazy things to steal priceless objects, and people like me do crazy and dangerous things to make sure priceless objects are available for the world to share. And if they are taken, we do crazy and dangerous things to recover them. That pattern is broken if everyone else in the world knows what we're doing at all times. We simply can't administer our jobs under those circumstances. There are times where we work with authorities, sure, but too often we find the press learns about the operation prematurely. Especially in cases like this one where we don't yet have a handle on the scope of the operation."
I pulled the coral cache from the shopping bag Cassie returned. "Simon used this item for a very particular purpose. If security hadn't been necessary, he undoubtedly would have loaded his files into an email for me and sent them along, or put them into the Beacham Foundation's cloud server and told me what to access. He didn't do either of those things. Yesterday, he sent away his secretary. He told me to meet him this afternoon at his office. He didn't tip off either of us, the most trusted women he worked with, about this flash drive. Instead, he put one person in a safe place, and trusted the other, me, to find the hidden object I knew nothing about. Someone went through his office ahead of me, but I was the one who found Simon's secret. He counted on that."
"If he knew something was up, why didn't he warn you?"
"I've been asking myself the exact same question ever since I learned he moved Martha. The only time I spoke with him was in the middle of Heathrow on an unsecured cell line. Between the crowds and the capabilities of electronic eavesdropping, that's not the best of conditions for sharing sensitive information. I assume he'd hoped to contact me later, but didn't have the chance."
"And you've been dodging bad guys ever since."
"And one Amazon." I grinned. I couldn't help it. "I just wish I'd taken a picture of her. Jack knew who Weasel and Werewolf worked for, I now know too, but he didn't recognize my description of the redhead. I imagine the Amazon is in Moran's employ as well, but it would be nice to be able to email her photo to one of my contacts at Interpol or the CIA and see if she's in someone's system already."
Cassie grinned. "Maybe you should start carrying a fingerprint kit with all those gizmos in your bag. Could come in handy."
"You peeked!" I laughed when Cassie sent a horrified look in response. I'd put all the really secret gizmos in the Prada. Good thing. She'd have never recovered. "It's okay. Never agree to hold someone else's stuff unless you know it's not going to get you a jail sentence."
She waggled a slim finger as she said, "I've seen some of the things you pull out when you think I'm not looking. I'm sure a few of those would definitely interest those detectives who talked to you tonight."
"Good thing they didn't ask to search my bag then, right?" I still worried Jack had done precisely that. But her comment jogged my memory about how chummy Hawkes was with the DCI. Why weren't we searched? It was a murder scene, after all. It had to be due to Jack's connections. I worried if I'd made the best decision. Well, decisions. I felt more in control on the run alone, but he obviously had friends in the right places. Friends who could help or hurt my chances at reaching my objective.
My phone suddenly danced along the tabletop, and Nico's face appeared on the screen.
"I'm hitting send to transmit all your train information now," he said, when I answered. "I'm providing some breathing room to your Visa card balance, so you have the ability to buy more than a matchbook once you get to France. Also, I topped off your Oyster card because it was dangerously low, and I don't want you getting trapped in the London underground system, and you're prone to forgetting those types of details."
"Nico—"
"You're welcome."
"That wasn't what I was going to say."
"We will say, for argument's sake, that it is. Returning to the task at hand, I was able to secure passage on a Eurostar going from London to Paris. There will be a couple of stops to board more passengers, but you shouldn't have to leave the train. I've reserved a car for the trip from Paris, and you'll drive to the small hotel in the region where I have a room reserved for one night. I'll pass on all the directions by email. Tomorrow night's stay is the best I can do, nothing more. There is an annual celebration in the region. If you need additional time in the area, you'll have to find someone's couch, or the car, or a hayloft to crash for a bed. Good luck and keep your itinerary handy."
"No change in procedures, right? All paperwork is still handled in London?"
"Absolutely. You can just walk off the train in Paris."
"Thanks, Nico. I'd be lost without you."
"You may stay lost with me. Your itinerary is pretty full, but I had to do some fancy hacking to get you anywhere near Puy de Dôme. Very popular place at the moment."
"Probably why Moran is going there," I mused. "Get himself and every thing and every person he's stolen lost in the crowd. But I will get there tomorrow, right?"
"Right. Late afternoon, early evening. You need to catch the next train out of St. Pancras to start this little adventure. I'll meet you on the train to Paris."
"You'll share this Chunnel ride with me?"
"I'm going to try. Finding a way into Moran's compound is more difficult than I expected. I hope to brief you en route. Got a new toy I want to give you, too. Besides, I think you need a babysitter, and I need to head east. And I'm really getting sick of helicopters."
"Poor baby." I laughed. I couldn't help it. Cassie gave me a questioning look, and I waved a hand to tell her I'd explain in a minute. "Okay. Who's paying for our little junket, by the way?"
Nico chuckled. "Found that Max's AMEX Black credit card had loads of room for a few extra expenses."
"Max has a Black card?" My fingers tightened around the phone. A Black! That sucker had no limit.
"When you're the cheapest man alive, credit card companies clamor for your business," Nico said, breaking my reverie.
The rat bastard. Max could have already reimbursed me for the outlay I'd lost prepaying the Tahoe vacation. Oh, I know what he would say—all those admonitions about mixing up personal and business money accounts. Like I wasn't having to do exactly that because he wouldn't let me have a corporate card. And now I learn he has his own personal Black?
"Nico, keep that account number handy."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was surprising how many people were still up and moving through London by subway in the wee hours of the morning. Homeless with their possessions stacked beside them, looking for a bit of shadow to sleep, as well as backpacking students who carried all their possessions in duffles and checked timetables to see if their needed train lines were still running at the late hour. Or, rather, the early hours. I was surprised at the number of families with bags, obviously transferring at St. Pancras from other lines or coming from Heathrow, and still moving through the city via the underground rails. I watched one small tot rub his eyes and scrunch his nose in frustration, before turning to his mother for comfort in the confusion of jet lag and time changes. Pods of people merged and separated as they neared their destination point in the station. There were even a few business folks with briefcases, workin
g late and finally trekking home for a few precious winks of sleep before the pattern began once more. I really related to their plight. Finally, cleaning crews who worked in pairs and singly, readying the station for brief hours of train shutdown before the hordes descended again for the next start of business day.
I checked the departure screens for the train number scheduled to ultimately get me on to Paris. While the initial entrance to the terminal normally looked contemporary in the bleak morning hours lit by only the teeming bars of fluorescents, I felt almost transported back to an earlier time, like in a 1960s movie. Darkness filled the entrance wall that by day offered outside light from the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors. We walked through the undercroft. The piano player had already gone home for the day, and not all shops remained open, but many, like the coffee bar, catered to the night owls as well as the daily masses.
"Remember the ski trip a few years ago?" I asked, seeing all the surrounding open space, but recalling an earlier time when such was not the case.
"Gosh that was awful." Cassie rolled her eyes. "Everyone had to get everything they needed on the train, but nothing could be checked because Eurostar doesn't do checked baggage. I never even thought about that when we made our plans initially."
"I'm sure our fellow passengers hadn't considered it either." Everyone on the train fought for overhead space, floor space, and every space in between. I vowed then if I ever took another European ski trip it would be via air, or I would ship my gear ahead.
But claustrophobic memories aside, I always looked forward to seeing the Eurostar platform at St. Pancras. The station is a work of art on an architectural level, and I silently thanked Sir John Betjeman for doing his good public best that eventually meant the landmark was saved for London and all future travelers. Eurostar's departure venue was a glorious mix of glass, steel and historical accouterments, a brilliant compilation of Victoriana and victorious twenty-first century that made the art historian in me want to sing every time I arrived on its doorstep. Luckily for those around me, I always refrain from breaking into song.