“Introductions another time.”
In the background, she heard the whooshing of tires on wet pavement, footsteps. A call from a public pay phone?
“What do you want?”
How could she stop them? Or the flashes of dizziness from whatever they’d drugged her with?
“Tell the fixer we’ll meet her price.”
Fixer … price? “I don’t understand.”
“Yuri told us your connection.”
The hair on her arm tingled. A Parisian accent, but she couldn’t place the voice. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “or why you’re playing games, but—”
“Your mother and Yuri have had certain dealings recently,” the voice interrupted.
She broke out in a cold sweat. The bile rose again.
“Then he’s seen her more recently than I have,” she said, catching her breath. Saliva dripped from her chin. Her damp sweater was plastered to her back. “What kind of dealings?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Up to you, Mademoiselle.”
Her heart thumped in her chest. “What do you want?”
“What I’m paying for. So tell us before—”
A ringing interrupted the voice. Another call coming in on her office console. Grunting noises. Her wrists and ankles were untied. Before she could reach out for the drawer, she was dragged away across the floor by her hair. Her knees hit something hard and strong arms plunged her head into a bucket of water. She swallowed a huge mouthful of water, tried to hold her breath and choked, her lungs exploding.
And then she was yanked back up by her hair.
She sputtered, her throat and lungs burning. The phone was ringing again. She heard the speakerphone voice saying something in a language she didn’t know.
“He’ll do that again,” the voice said. “Unless you contact the fixer and furnish the Modigliani.”
She had to deflect them, stop this.
She coughed. “You’re off base. Don’t you—”
The hands gripped her hair, plunged her head again in the cold water. She gulped another lungful. The hands pulled her up again, coughing and shivering. A sob escaped her.
She couldn’t take any more. “Please stop.” She trembled with intense cold. “My mother left when I was eight years old.” She gulped. “Walked out. I never saw her again. Ever. Don’t you understand?”
Pause.
“Then I suggest you find her,” the voice said. “Before we do to her what she did to Yuri.”
Her mother?
“You’re lying.” Prickles of ice cold ran up her spine.
Another voice was leaving a message on the answering machine.
“Going to thank me, Leduc?” said Morbier. “What’s so important that we need to talk?” Pause. “Answer if you’re there. I’m working late at the commissariat.”
Morbier? Her mind clicked into gear.
“That’s my godfather,” she said. “If I don’t call him back, he’ll come over.”
“Then we’ll make it a party.” Her hair was grabbed again; she felt those thick, strong fingers push her face toward the bucket. “My boy will take care of him.” Her nose touched the water’s surface. “Play host.”
Her breath came in spurts, gasps, fear constricting her lungs. She couldn’t take another dipping. Couldn’t hold her breath long enough.
“So you’ve got a death wish?” she shouted, struggling as the finger pushed her down. Her forehead touching the water. Her hair clinging to her neck. Quick, she had to come up with something. “Morbier’s with RAID, the antiterrorist unit.”
“Tell me another one.”
“Want to find out? Call that number back. He’ll answer at the commissariat.” She had to get them to stop. “Hurt me.…” she gasped, spitting water, “and Morbier’s team will be on you like hair clogging the drain.”
A bark of words in that other language. All she could make out was “Morbier” and “RAID.”
The hands pulled her head out of the bucket.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
Tuesday, Silicon Valley
RENé DRAGGED THE huge armchair to the motel door, propped it in front of the handle like he’d seen in films. Should buy him a few minutes. If the two giants outside didn’t smash the door like a twig.
He was a black belt, but no Jackie Chan. He had one option and it was dimming by the second. Perspiration beaded his forehead. He hooked the duty-free bag containing his laptop and backup drive over his wrist and climbed onto the toilet seat lid. One hand on the tile wall, he stretched a wobbling foot to the edge of the Jacuzzi tub. Merde. The curse of short legs.
He reached it, balanced on the slippery chrome faucets. A splintering sound came from the motel room. Beads of sweat dripped into his eyes as he slid open the panel of the double aluminum-framed window.
Over the sharp ledge he draped a pink towel, wishing his arms were longer. He hoisted himself through the narrow window. A tight squeeze, but wiggling himself sideways, one leg then the other, he scraped through. The duty-free bag dug into his wrist, cutting off his circulation, but nothing compared to what a baseball bat would do.
Thank God the room was on the ground floor, he thought, as he fell sideways, landing on a wooden crate of green chilies. The screened back door to the Mexican restaurant’s kitchen was his way out.
Every second mattered. He punched in Bob’s number, pulled the pink towel over his head, and made his way into the steaming kitchen. All he could see were concrete floors, bins of tomatoes, and the flanged struts of a stove. The sizzle of frying and blaring Spanish-language music made it difficult to hear the phone ringing. He hurried through the kitchen, sweat drenching his shirt. They’d remember the pink towel but not the little man inside. He hoped.
“Bob, I’m in a Mexican restaurant. Tell me you’re—”
“El Toro, right? No time for tacos, René.”