“What room are you—”
Rapp grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him into a half-speed elbow strike. He crumpled to the floor as his partner looked on wide-eyed. Instead of attacking, he turned and tried to run. Rapp kicked his back foot and followed him down. A careful blow to the back of his neck had the desired effect and a moment later Rapp was running down the hall.
“Mitch,” Claudia said over his earpiece, “are you all right?”
“Yeah. But I’m going out through the lobby. Security’s onto me, and I’ll be better off mixing with the crowd.”
“Understood. I’m on my way to pick you up.”
He dropped the coat and hat that he assumed security had a description of and hoped to hell that Nassar’s people had done a thorough job of sabotaging the hotel’s cameras.
He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. It stopped halfway down and a couple in their seventies got in. He asked them if they were familiar with any good restaurants in the area, starting a conversation that continued after the doors were open. Security would be looking for a lone man in a coat and hat, not a man in a gray sweater who was part of a group of three.
He thanked them for the advice when they exited into a covered driveway and walked to the curb as Claudia pulled up. The attendant opened the door and Rapp slipped him five euros before getting in the car. An average tip for a hotel of that quality—nothing he’d remember one way or another. Claudia gave him the expected kisses on both cheeks and then eased the car back onto the street.
CHAPTER 35
Paris
France
THE leafy street was empty of traffic this time of night, and Julien Moreau walked casually along it. Streetlights were widely spaced, and because the mansions that lined the avenue were set back behind walls, the environment was pleasantly shadowed. Normally that would have put him in danger of stepping in one of the piles of dog shit so common throughout the city, but the wealthy residents kept their avenues spotless. In truth, it probably wasn’t that arduous a task. Arabs were about the only people who could afford to live in this neighborhood, and they didn’t much care for dogs. A cultural quirk that made his job so much easier.
An ancient stone wall appeared to his right and he ran his hand along it, counting steps. It was well maintained but had been left rustic, with the jagged edges and receding mortar lines that thieves like him deeply appreciated. Cameras were also conspicuously absent except for over a gate more than fifty meters away. The obsession people had with looking at people arriving at their entrances never ceased to amaze him. If someone pulls up to your fucking gate and rings your buzzer, there’s a good chance they’re not coming to steal your daughters.
When Moreau counted his thirteenth stride, he turned and grabbed a protruding stone in the wall. The shoes he was wearing were favored by climbing guides—tight and sticky enough to scale cliffs but not so uncomfortable as to make it difficult to run. He moved quickly up handholds he’d memorized from a laser scan done the day before. In less than five seconds, he was at the top and looking for a way down.
The inside had been stuccoed in order to complement the modern house beyond, but it wasn’t a problem. The landscaper had placed trees in ideal positions for anyone trying to gain access. Moreau slithered down one and crouched behind its trunk, taking in his surroundings.
The house was basically a big glass box—one of those homes that looked very prestigious in architectural drawings but that no one in their right mind would want to live in. The lights were on, providing a view right through it. The kitchen was empty, with a similarly uninhabited pool area glowing behind. Ahmed el-Hashem, Saudi Arabia’s assistant ambassador to France, was sitting at a desk on the upper floor, writing in longhand. Apparently he could afford to live in this neighborhood but couldn’t afford a laptop.
Or a decent security system, as it turned out.
According to Moreau’s source—namely, the man who did the -install—it was all off-the-shelf crap. Even better, the owner had insisted that it not be obtrusive, which wasn’t easy in a fishbowl where everything was visible. So, basically, nothing that would come even close to challenging a man of Moreau’s talents. In fact, it was unlikely he would have even taken a mind-numbing job like this one if it hadn’t been for two irresistible factors. One, it had finally given him an excuse to use the 3-D laser scanner he’d stolen from the university. And two?
Claudia Gould.
What words were sufficient to describe the woman? Sublime? Brilliant? Stunning? Mysterious? He could go on all night and never even scratch the surface. Those eyes. That body. And, okay, the kid. But that’s what boarding schools were for.
Moreau had done a fair amount of work for her in the past but figured he’d never hear from her again after her husband died. Then, out of nowhere, the phone rang and the voice so indelibly imprinted on his heart flowed into his ear. A new job, a new relationship, and new possibilities.
He had no idea what she’d seen in Louis Gould. Sure, he’d been good-looking. Then there were the rippling muscles and wealth. He’d also had that whole international super spy thing going on. Some chicks were into that, Moreau supposed. But if you took all those things away, he was just a violent dick. Maybe she was ready for a change? Perhaps something with a cultured, intellectual thief? A man who could enjoy art and food and wine? Someone who could show her the world through a lens not smeared with blood?
He let out a quiet breath. But before he started planning his future with her, he needed to get this job done. He didn’t get to steal -anything—his instructions were just to set up some surveillance. Video was simple—the stupid glass house again—but audio would be a bit more interesting. He’d have to get in close enough to do some hand drilling, and as easy as it was to see into the building, it would be almost equally easy to see out.
Moreau crept forward a few meters and then stopped again for another quick scan of his surroundings. The landscaping was spread out and tasteful. Unlike most of his countrymen, el-Hashem had resisted installing gilt statues of cherubs peeing into fountains.
Moreau avoided increasingly bright splashes of light as he closed in on the structure. El-Hashem was still writing away and one of his guards was in the living room—a fit-looking man of the type who wore sunglasses at night. Where was the other? Likely somewhere in the house, but making an assumption like that would be an amateurish mistake. Could he be patrolling the exterior? Had he seen Moreau go over the wall, and was he now creeping up from behind?