“By now, even a man of your limited imagination should have been able to figure out that it’s not only me you’re working for. I’m just a functionary, if you will. The organization is more extensive than you know. And frankly, I’m the best protection you’ve got.”
“That’s funny,” Escher replied, reflecting on the two most recent attempts on his life, “but I’m not feeling particularly well protected these days.”
“Why, did something happen?” Schillinger asked, and Escher couldn’t decide whether to believe him or not. More and more, he’d come to suspect that he was caught in the middle of a cross-continental rivalry—a bitter and deadly contest that Schillinger, an old fool marooned in Chicago, would surely lose.
And Escher didn’t like being on the losing side of anything.
In the rearview mirror, he spotted a sleek, silver Maserati pulling up to the side door of the house. A tough-looking guy in a black windbreaker—he looked like a tradesman, Italian or maybe a Greek—tossed some duffels and backpacks into the open boot. Then the girl, Olivia, came out of the house—wearing a black coat, different from the day before—and slid into the backseat. David followed, and got in the front on the passenger side. He was dressed all in black, too. They looked like a troupe of mimes, or second-story men.
“Ernst? Are you still there?”
“No,” Escher replied, snapping the phone shut and turning on the ignition. He felt like a falcon that had just flown free.
The boot was slammed shut, and the driver stopped to exchange a few words with a formidable-looking man, well dressed, leaning on a black walking stick. The lord of the manor, Escher assumed.
The Maserati—a car that Escher knew cost no less than ninety thousand euros—purred out of the driveway, and as it passed the stubby Peugeot, Escher slumped down in his seat, waited for a delivery van to get between them, then promptly pulled out. The street was quiet and serene, with the park on one side and the row of elegant town houses on the other, but soon the Maserati had entered the thick, late-morning traffic of the city. The congestion actually made it easier for Escher to follow unnoticed; for all its horsepower, the Maserati couldn’t get through the honking horns and red lights and stop signs any faster than anyone else.
Still, he wished he’d had the chance to attach a transponder under its bumper. Technology always helped in situations like this.
He especially regretted it when the car rounded a busy traffic circle and signaled a turn onto the ramp leading to the A 10, a major motor route heading southwest into the Loire Valley. Once they got out onto the highway, where the speed limits were 130 kph and enforcement, even of that speed, was virtually nil, it was going to be a struggle for his little Peugeot—which wasn’t exactly a new model to begin with—to keep pace, much less without being spotted.
And Escher didn’t doubt that David and Olivia had wised up enough to check if they were being followed. They might be na?ve, but they weren’t stupid.
Schillinger’s crack about his limited imagination came back to him, and before focusing again on his driving, Escher entertained a brief fantasy of retribution, stuffing the old man’s mouth with whatever precious papers were in that valise. The Maserati had flown down the entry ramp and merged seamlessly with the swifter highway flow. Fortunately, this close to Paris, there were still plenty of other cars and lorries and tour buses—dozens of the buses, in fact, packed with tourists setting out on the chateau circuit—to impede its progress. But that wouldn’t last long.
Escher checked his gas, and at least he was still running on a virtually full tank.
Within a half hour, however, the buses had all moved to one lane, and the other traffic had sufficiently thinned that the driver of the Maserati could start to step on it. And he did. The silver car zoomed ahead, and Escher had to put his foot to the floor of the Peugeot just to keep it in sight. The cabin whined with the sound of the engine and the doors rattled, as, on both sides of the road, fallow fields and barren vineyards flashed past. The car was going so fast that Escher, who had to keep one eye on the Maserati at all times, barely had a chance to read the little blue-and-white signs marking each town and tourist site they passed. Several times, one bus or another would peel off, but the silver car stayed in the passing lane and barreled straight ahead like a bullet.
Escher adjusted himself in his seat, and kept both hands tightly on the wheel. But he was afraid that if he kept up this speed much longer, the motor might die, or something else might go wrong. He berated himself for not having gone to some other rental agency and getting a better, more powerful car.