René reflected on meeting the blonde. A toxic experience. Maybe next time he’d concentrate on the beach, if there ever was a next time.
“I’m crashing with a friend,” Bob continued, “using his computer until this thing passes over.” His eyes were hooded. For the first time, René saw his nervousness. A programming director like Bob couldn’t take extended leave on the spur of the moment. “It will pass over, right, René?”
René showed him the backup drive and clone he’d made. Managed a small grin. “Once I hook this to my tools in Paris.…”
“You’ll make their front running history, right?”
“Count on it, Bob.” He prayed he could close the greedy bastards’ back door. God knew what they’d aim to manipulate if he couldn’t stop them. Why stop at Wall Street? He shuddered at the global implications—markets in Brussels, London, Hong Kong.
If he ever wanted to come back to this country, he had to make it right. And he had to make it up to Bob.
FOUR HOURS AND fifteen bumpy minutes later at the San Lucia Airport, René handed the van driver, a mustached grandfather with white hair, the Glock.
“Buen viaje,” the driver said and slammed the door.
“Any bags to check, Monsieur Friant?”
René looked at his duty-free bag, then up at the smiling blue-uniformed Air France woman at the counter.
“Only carry-on, Mademoiselle,” he said.
“Good, because they wouldn’t make this flight. We’re pre-boarding.”
“This is nonstop?”
“Bien s?r.” She passed his boarding pass across the counter. He tiptoed to reach and palmed it in his sweaty hand.
“What’s the flight time?”
“With a good tail wind, the flight’s expected to take ten hours and twenty minutes.”
And then he’d be home. Almost six hours since Andy kicked him out of Tradelert.
She glanced back at her computer. “You’ve got the last ticket. I’ve alerted the boarding gate, but you’ll have to hurry, Monsieur Friant.”
At Immigration, the official thumbed René’s passport. “I see the US arrival stamp but none for Mexico.”
René’s heart dropped. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
If the official detained him, he’d never make it to Paris in time.
“Monsieur, we entered through Mexicali. My friend drove, I didn’t pay attention. Should I have insisted.…” René shrugged. “It’s my first visit to your beautiful country. Sadly, a family emergency cut short my visit.…”
A loud thump as his passport was stamped.
“Come back again, Se?or, stay a bit longer.”
René could have sworn the immigration official winked.
As he ran down the long terminal to the far gate, he heard the announcement. “Final boarding call for Flight 813 to Charles de Gaulle.”
René pumped his legs, clutching the duty-free bag to his chest and ignoring the pain in his straining thighs. “Courtesy alert to passenger René Friant, last call to Paris.…”
Panting, he ran into the deserted waiting area as the attendant was about to close the gate.
“Please hold that plane,” René yelled, waving his boarding pass.
“Thirty more seconds and you’d have been out of luck, Monsieur Friant.” She swiped his pass and reached for the interphone all in one movement.
“Ground crew, keep the door open,” she said, her voice terse, “the last passenger’s boarding in the jetway now.”
Exhausted, his legs trembling, René stumbled in the jetway. His hip seized up and he collapsed in pain. Alarm crossed the flight attendant’s face at the plane door. “I’ll alert the medical crew, have you taken to the airport clinic.”
“Not while I can crawl,” he said.
“Monsieur? But you’re ill and aviation regulations.…”
With the last ounce of his strength, every muscle cramping, René pulled himself up the jetway wall. Sweat streamed down his face. He gritted his teeth.
“Just an old sports injury. Flares up once in a while.” He made a rictus of a smile. Limped forward and took her arm. “Champagne, the extended leg room, adaptors for laptops and Bose headsets,” he said. “First class in Air France never disappoints, am I correct?”
Wednesday Morning, Paris
BELLS CHIMED. SOMETHING soft and wet pressed Aimée’s cheek. She cracked open her eyes and squinted at the sunlight streaming in her office. Morning. It was morning.
Nearby rang the bells of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. She’d slept on Leduc Detective’s recamier and drooled on the silk duvet.
Groggy, she sat up and rubbed her sore wrists. Beside her lay the concierge’s blue wash bucket, half full of water. A grim reminder. But the rest of the office looked untouched.
Last night floated back to her—that voice, those large hands ripping her hair, plunging her head in the bucket. Her roots tingled. She remembered the deadline, passing out, then coming to, alone, her hands untied, wet and shivering on the floor. The office in darkness. Her head throbbing, knees weak. Remembered phoning her concierge to keep Miles Davis for the night. What else? Beside her, on the silk duvet, a page of notes she’d jotted down last night before she’d passed out again.
She heard footsteps on the landing outside. They were coming back. Controlling her panic, she crawled across the office floor to her desk.
A stab of nausea hit her as she grabbed the desk drawer. Her hand slipped. Tried again, yanked it open and felt her Beretta.
Leduc Detective’s frosted-pane door opened, bringing a gust of lemon-polish-tinged air. Saj entered wearing a neck brace, dreads twisted in a ponytail, army jacket over his stained muslin shirt. His habitual grin faded when he saw her.
“I’m all in one piece, Aimée,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like you are. Mind putting the gun down?”
She wanted to run to Saj and hug him. Instead she laid the Beretta in the drawer by her mascara. “You’re all right, Saj?”
“Apart from a strained tendon. I’ll live,” Saj nodded. Winced. “Zut! Whatever magic happened at the Serb’s autopsy made my day.”
Serge had come through.
“Ready for more good news?” she said through a wave of dizziness.