by Ritter Ames
"Think about the implications for gathering both intel and evidence and the ease of documenting it for later use," Nico waxed poetic. "And with the modifications I've added, well, be prepared to be dazzled."
"More so than I already am to use nerdy spy glasses for every occasion?" I laughed at the affronted look he shot at my remark.
"When you need a heat or radiation detector, you're going to be glad you have Nico in your corner."
"I'm always glad you're in my corner. I just wish you could give me some snazzier looking glasses."
He threw up his hands, the Italian in him overrunning his emotions as he burst into a tirade. I couldn't understand half of what he said, it was a bit more colloquial than the social Italian I was used to using, but the gist was that I was ungrateful and should be happy people care enough to give me tools to help me. I didn't punctuate his comment with the fact they still looked a little too nerdy to wear with any of my Vera Wang's.
"Give me the case and the glasses, Nico. I promise to use them anytime I need their special powers." I held out a hand. "But I can still use our patented method of my calling you and leaving the line open so you can hear what's going on if I feel I need backup, right? I don't have to just count on my Buzz Lightyear glasses alone?"
Again with the Italian that I probably shouldn't repeat, followed by, "Yes, you can still do the open line." He let out a really long sigh then, so I knew I needed to switch the subject.
"Well, Christmas is early for you, too," I said, slipping the glasses into my Prada, and pulling Simon's laptop from the nearest shopping bag. The fake coral was the second item I grabbed.
Before I could tell him what I had, however, he pulled on the Prada and made another disparaging sound. "What is this? Did you drag this bag out the back of the Eurostar?"
"I'm afraid it's soon due for a hero's funeral. Maybe a Viking funeral, so we can set it ablaze to float out to sea." I rubbed the side of the Prada, much like one would a genie bottle. "The poor thing has truly done its duty in the last twelve hours. It faithfully bungeed along with me while we've been nearly abducted in the subway, kidnapped by the person I hurt to get me away from the abductors, chased several times while in taxis, shot at while in another cab, rescued by motorcycle after I hit the pavement during gunfire, and—"
"I get it. The purse should be retired with honors."
"Yes." I brushed the leather again. "But not today. It still has miles to go before it sleeps."
Nico gave me one of those glorious Gallic shrugs, and pulled the laptop close. "Is this Simon's?"
"Got it in one." I opened the coral and slid the USB drive his way. "And so is this. Has a few corrupted files on it, but it could be interesting. Cassie copied what she could onto her personal computer, and she's researching the art objects that are in the photo array. What she recognized at first glance, however, is detailed in a file she added to the drive."
"Looking for ringers or MIAs?"
"Both. Anything else she can come up with as well."
"Good idea."
"Have some more information that may be related." I went into detail on the tale Hawkes told me about the micro drive and the snuffbox, and the possibilities created when the courier was found dumped in an Italian alley.
Nico rubbed the thumb drive between his fingers like one would a comforting icon. I knew from past experience it was his way to engage his brain. I kept silent and waited. A sudden horn blast shook him out of his reverie.
"Have you told Max about any of this?"
"No."
"Does he know yet that Simon is missing?"
"No."
"Does he know about Hawkes?"
"No."
He gave me a long look. "I understand your reasoning, but this is becoming quite a bit more than going in and scooping up some art object to take back to the foundation."
My cup had one more swallow of Americano tinting the bottom, and I took a second to drain that last drop. "You're probably right." I returned the cup to the table. "I recently had a variation of this discussion with Cassie. But I think you better understand why I hesitate. You know what happened in Italy, and what we're now concerned it means. You saw the bogus phone message that made me late for the rendezvous, and likely would have been my undoing if Jack hadn't made my warning radar go up before and after I found the dead Greek. The talk about counterfeit art treasures tying to the snuffbox, something we had no need to believe is fake, is especially worrisome. And since the item came through Max's connections, it could be embarrassing as well. Last, this common logic we speak of flies in the face of what I know Simon would want me to do." I stopped and held up a finger. "One more thing. Did you know he has a new girlfriend named Jane?"
He blew out a breath. "You know I knew about the two of you, correct?"
"I would have been worried if you hadn't, Nico. Nothing gets past you."
"You have no idea," he said, then gave a shaky kind of laugh. I almost asked what he meant, but he spoke before I had the chance. "I will see what I can discover. Do you have a last name?"
"No, I didn't ask. Just Jane."
He waved a hand. "No matter. I'll find out what we need to know." When he finished, he stood, and motioned for me to go with him. "We will go pick up our car. If we pass a store selling purses or luggage, we should go in and pick up something nice for you to use."
"What, you don't like my bag lady look?" I asked, holding the handles of the shopping bags to shoulder height.
"Paris is a good location to make a change to current styles. Milan would be better, naturally, but we haven't time for the side trip."
I shrugged. "Well, since I have some extra room on my credit card now . . ."
"Then let us go." Nico swept an arm over his head and pointed toward the rental car cubbies. He gave me a broad smile. "We have places to go, a volcano to climb, and bad guys to beat."
"Is it me, or does that sound slightly ominous?"
Nico laughed and pushed me toward the shops. "Go find a new purse and luggage. I'll go get the rental car and meet you out front. I have to leave you on your own at Puy, but I can be sure you get there."
"Thanks, Nico."
I watched his gorgeous dark curls disappear in the crowd, then turned to follow orders.
While renting a car is never a quick and easy experience, after a half hour of waiting out front for Nico I was sick of watching the Paris street life. I called Cassie, who didn't answer. I didn't have much to say, but Nico wasn't answering his cell, and I needed a distraction. Antsy didn't describe the way I felt. I wanted to get to the Puy de Dôme region, and I wanted to get there sooner rather than later.
No way I wanted to use this down time to process; still too much to do and too many unanswered questions to check in with my inner self. I glanced at my watch for the hundredth time. What the hell took this long to rent a damn car?
I walked outside again, and set down my new Louis Vuitton duffle. Nico was right, the shopping bags had to go, and since Max was footing the bill, and the designer bag was available, I really had no choice but to buy. I patted my Prada. The purse stayed for now. Something told me it was my lucky charm. Call me superstitious, but this job kept going sideways too often to take any risks.
Clouds had moved in over the brief sunshine at breakfast, and the weather turned miserable. I shivered in misty rain. I watched the street, busy with early workers going about their business, not paying them much attention because my eyes returned again and again to an Aston Martin DB5 Silver Fox parked illegally at the curb. No street patrol in the world would give this baby a ticket, much less a tow job.
Bond's favorite car. I looked around almost expecting to see a 1960's era Sean Connery heading my way, but secretly knowing I'd probably end up with Pierce Brosnan or Daniel Craig instead. Not that I thought Brosnan or Craig were slackers or anything, but Connery's slightly manufactured accent could wring a sexual response from a dead woman. Definitely the 007 man.
I walked to the car and
ran my hand over the perfect paint job, greedily cataloguing every remarkable feature. All worldly concerns fell away as I indulged my addiction for the pleasures of heavy metal in the flesh, not over the airwaves. I swear I had goose bumps.
"Need a ride?"
I froze.
Of course. My favorite Southern Brit-Wit. Why was I not surprised? Lose concentration for a moment, and a girl could be stabbed, shot or stalked. All thoughts of the car of my dreams faded into the mist. I slowly turned.
Wearing a pair of jeans and a thin leather jacket, he leaned against the building as though he'd been posing there for hours. I could see the job description in my mind. Male model wanted. Strong, silent type. Photo shoot, streets of Paris, early morning. Only black-haired men with a penchant for stalking blondes need apply. Ability to appear and disappear out of nowhere preferred.
Did the man have nothing better to do than to torment me? How? Why?
"I'm waiting for someone," I said.
"I sent him on his way."
"Excuse me? Nico would never leave without notifying me first." I gave him my back. "Get away from me, Hawkes."
"Not happening. We've got work to do, and there's no time like the present." He clicked a fob and the car beeped an inviting entry.
"If I know your shoe size, I definitely know you're a car nut, this particular model being in your top five," he leaned over to whisper mockingly in my ear. I hadn't heard him move.
"It is my top five," I admitted. "What are you doing here, Jack?"
"We need to talk, and there's no time like the present. I'll see you get where you need to go. Trust me."
There's that word. Such a tiny word for such a tall task. "It would be quicker for you to take a train."
"Like you, I want to have my own car when I get to where we're going. It's not that much longer to drive yourself."
"Nico knows I'm leaving?"
"I've taken care of everything, including Nico." He opened the car door and the lovely smell of new car mingled with exhaust and freshly baked baguettes. I couldn't wait to get inside but—
"I'm damp from standing out here. I can't bear the thought of messing up this beauty."
Jack's laugh indicated he understood my reluctance and made me like him just a teeny bit. "No worries, there. The seats are specially designed leather, able to manage one slightly wet American woman."
Gripping the Prada tightly, I slid into the decadent luxury of the well-designed interior and let myself indulge the fantasy. "Do I have to hold my duffle in my lap, or will it go in the trunk?"
His smile couldn't get more Connery. He grabbed the bag's handles and said, "I'll find room for it in the boot."
As he stepped around the car my phone buzzed with a text from Nico. Don't worry. I have electronic eyes and ears on you.
I wasn't sure what he meant exactly, but trusting Nico and his gizmos had long become second nature to me. The phone went back in the Prada as Jack opened the driver side door, turned on the engine, and music floated from the speakers.
We hadn't been on the road for more than an hour, with a few more to go, when he turned off the emotionally intense, deeply romantic Rachmaninoff Concerto No. 2. I groaned in protest. It was getting to the best part.
"Sorry about that. There's something you need to know."
Immediately the comfort zone I'd been enjoying disappeared, and every muscle in my body tensed. How I hated the word need. Its use never preceded anything good. Laurel, you need to eat your peas. Laurel, you need to finish your homework. And Laurel, you need to be a good girl was my all-time favorite. How did being a good girl help anyone? Men are taught, "Nice guys finish last," and we're told, "You'd better be a good girl." The whole thing reeked of centuries of male manipulation to keep the little woman pregnant and barefoot.
The windshield wipers silently moved back and forth as I concentrated on the damp countryside. "What's up?"
"Someone messed up, and information got twisted." His voice was grim.
I pushed forward on the seat and turned to him. "You mean the intel is wrong? Exactly which part got twisted? Is anything ever going to go right about this mission?"
He wisely ignored the rhetorical question. "Someone spread the wrong info deliberately. It's being investigated, but we'll probably never know what happened."
Code for "someone high up deliberately put out the wrong word." What the hell was going on?
"Are you going to tell me or do we have to play twenty questions?" I slumped back in my seat and felt like I'd let the car down with my bad posture.
"Point taken, Ms. Beacham. Moran's place isn't at Puy de Dôme. It's located at Le Puy-en-Velay."
"Le Puy-en-Velay?" I struggled and spoke slowly, but of course I butchered the pronunciation.
"A not so big town in the area of Massif Central."
He might as well have been speaking French. Massive Central? What was that? I wasn't going to ask. "So that's where we're headed."
"Yes. There's more. Do you want it now or later?"
I seriously considered waiting till we were closer, to go back to the relaxing music instead. It was the 'one more thing scenario' where you know you're going to scream if one more item is added to your mile-long task list. Of course, curiosity and the drive to solve led me to say, "Now."
"As you can imagine, the intel has been flying fast and furious in all directions. Two items have appeared again and again."
Another dramatic pause. Was he trying to drive me out of my mind?
"This girl hasn't got all day, Jack." Well, I did, but who dealt in actual reality anymore? "Spit it out."
"Le Puy has a cathedral—"
"I can't imagine a French town without one or two. Get to the point."
Jack ignored me. "Contained in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy are the Black Virgin and within its Chappelle des Reliques is a painting called The Seven Liberal Arts. They've been indicated as containing possible clues pointing to whatever Moran is up to now."
And Moran led to Simon and Simon led to the sword and so on and so on.
"Did the information say how—?"
"No. The chat is scanty at best but it's all we've got to go on."
My mind tripped into gear. From the Prada, I dug out my old-fashioned guidebook, its pages marked with notes and torn with use. I could always depend on it not to let me down, unlike most everything else in my life. Gadgets and the 'Net were great, but poring over a guidebook and reading recommendations and information from someone who had been there and noted exactly what I wanted to know in brief form, took me exactly where I wanted to go every time. I also took the opportunity to text Nico a few extras I was going to need at the other end. Just because he farmed me out to Jack so he could start on his next adventure, it didn't mean he was off-duty as far as I was concerned.
If Jack said anything more, I didn't hear him. I eventually noted Rachmaninoff had been switched to Rammstein, a heavy metal German band that fitted my mood perfectly. No time for romantic moodiness, it was back to business as usual. Before returning to my book, my head full of pictures of ancient pilgrimages and religious icons, I noted indifferently the rain had increased. I also wondered how the hell the historic items on the pages were connected to murder and the mythical sword of King Arthur.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The hotel in the Auvergne region of France was tiny, tucked away in a valley under the arm of one of the surrounding mountains, a charming place to lose oneself and let time drift away on a tide of croissants, plentiful farm butter and strong creamy coffee.
Morning had disappeared already in the Paris arrival and the drive to our target area. Now checked in and trying to get comfortable in our allotted space, I followed Jack and the concierge, Madame Sorya.
"But please, call me Rosie," she told us, beautifully rolling her r's.
Rosie, sixty if she was a day, appeared as practical as her no nonsense straight woolen skirt and cardigan twinset, but she showed her true personality with the brillian
t lapis lazuli around her throat and at her ears. She kept up a running dialogue as we climbed the winding stairs to a room, with her promise of bouillabaisse for dinner, one of the few words she said in her nasally French that I could truly understand the first time I heard it. She unlocked the door before handing Jack the key and stepped back, murmuring something about enjoying our stay, I think. No promises on that front until I saw how well the détente between Jack and I held.
Jack, sensing my silent simmer, politely pushed me into the room and closed the door. "This is a great place. Food and sleep, the perfect prescription for a lovely vacation."
"I should never have let you shanghai me at Gare du Nord." I walked over to the window and took in the blue skies and rolling mountainside. "Nico reserved a car for me, and I should have made sure I got it. Now you have control of the steering wheel and my free will while we're here. Don't think I'm going to ever get happy about a practice like that, Jack."
He slid the room key into the pocket I knew also held the car key. "We're going to the same places. What's the harm?"
"The harm is you've taken control. Left to my own devices I'd probably be at Le Puy by now. We need to push on. We've got to find Moran."
"Don't get concerned—"
"Then give me the keys." I held out my hand.
"What?"
"Those little metal things in your pocket." I snapped my fingers. "Let me be keeper of the keys, then I won't be concerned."
"But I'm the driver of record. And it's an Aston Martin."
I scooped up my phone. "One phone call, and I can get another rental delivered to this hotel."
It was a stalemate, and he knew it. I held up the phone, and he shoved hands into both pockets of his slacks.
"Aaarrgghh!" I blinked first and turned away, hurled my phone on the bed, then tossed the rest of my gear onto the folded afghan at the foot of the blue chenille bedcover.