Guilty Wives

by Patterson, James; Ellis, David

  “Who was the guy at the U.S. Embassy during the trial?” Durand asked. “The pain in the ass who kept complaining that we were violating Abbie Elliot’s civil rights?”

  “Oh, right, right.” Rouche searched his memory. “Ingle… Inger—”

  “Ingersoll,” said Durand. “Daniel Ingersoll.”

  “That’s it, sir.”

  “Find him,” said Durand. “Get him on the phone right away.”

  CHAPTER 117

  DAWN. ONZAIN WAS just another tranquil Loire Valley village. The car drove slowly on the road that tracked the Loire River. It missed the turnoff for Le Domaine the first time, then doubled back and slowly drove into the entrance, over the gravel, which made more noise than was desirable.

  The sun was just emerging over the horizon. The trip had taken longer than expected. Darkness would have been preferable, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.

  He surveyed the surroundings. Highly doubtful that Abbie was in one of the cottages. That would require a passport and probably a credit card. Presumably, she had neither of those. But that conclusion was qualified by the cold fact that underestimating Abbie Elliot had been a hazardous practice indeed.

  Still, logic dictated that the cottages were a last option. Especially because there was a pretty obvious alternative—the large tract of forest covering one end of the grounds. There would be any number of places to stow away in there.

  He sighed. The forest was sizable. This could take a while. And with each passing moment the damn sun peeked higher over the horizon and lit up more of the countryside. For obvious reasons, he preferred to find Abbie asleep.

  He reflexively patted his belt, reassuring himself that his gun was still there. Then he started walking. He found a stone path that wound around a pond and disappeared into the trees. A nature walk, or something like that. He took the steps lightly, on the balls of his feet, holding a Maglite flashlight but not turning it on. He didn’t want to signal his arrival any more than necessary.

  He stopped, turned on the flashlight, and swept it quickly over a patch of trees. Nothing. He turned it back off. Kept walking.

  The path began to curve, tapering away from a large swath of forest. He stopped and tried to get his bearings. The path covered a lot of ground, but not all of it. Part of the natural forest was preserved.

  There were a couple of acres of forest to his left, where no hotel resident was invited or expected to tread.

  If it were me, he thought to himself, that’s where I’d hide.

  He drew his gun, crouched down, and listened. Then he left the path and walked into the thick trees. He moved slowly, reluctant to bring his body weight down on the crunchy leaves. He used the flashlight sparingly, just enough to wave light over an area to see if anything warranted a second look before clicking it back off. He repeated the procedure many times—gentle steps forward, wave the flashlight, click off.

  His hand jumped as the circle of yellow light hit something. He took a breath. Paused. Flashed the light again over the same area.

  It was mostly hidden behind a tree trunk. But he could make out a small portion of it.

  Hair. A woman’s hair. A sleeping bag.

  Abbie.

  He shuffled forward, keeping the flashlight trained on the sleeping bag, not her head. The light on her head might awaken her, and he didn’t know how she might react. But the sleeping bag didn’t have eyes. It allowed him to monitor her movements without alerting her. Or so he hoped.

  He got within ten yards. Abbie hadn’t stirred. Eight yards. Five yards. Close enough now so that it didn’t really matter if she reacted—he’d be on top of her.

  He moved right, to get a better angle, to see the rest of what was obscured by the tree. He shined the light again. The entire sleeping bag. She was asleep.

  He crouched down, moved toward her.

  But something about the hair—it wasn’t—

  A wig. It was a wig, lying atop a gym bag, stuffed inside the sleeping bag. A nice diversion, he thought, as his instincts kicked in and told him to move, but it was too late.

  “Don’t move,” came a voice from behind him. “I have a gun and I’ll use it.”

  He froze in place, like an action-figure doll, his legs spread apart, his arms out and poised for movement. Well played, Abbie, he thought.

  “Turn your head, and only your head, around toward me.”

  He turned and squinted as the beam of a flashlight blinded him.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Christien,” Abbie said.

  CHAPTER 118

  IF THERE WAS one thing that I learned to do well during my fun-filled stay at JRF, it was to sleep very, very lightly.

  Christien was good, though. He’d figured out my misdirection with the sleeping bag before he’d even touched it. Another second, tops, and he would have spun around, and who knows what might have happened?

  I trained the gun and the flashlight on him from a distance of about ten yards. I took one step toward him.

  “Drop the gun,” I said.

  “You said not to move.” The cool baritone, the thick British accent.

  “That’s very humorous, Christien.” I threw down the flashlight. I could make him out well enough and I wanted two hands on my Glock. My hands and forearms were trembling and my heart was pumping at full throttle. “Drop the gun.”

  “Think a moment, love.” He looked back at me again. “If I drop this gun from five feet, you have decent odds it goes off. Do you want a firearm discharging? Do you want to draw that kind of attention?”

  I tried to steady the gun. “Okay, Christien, point made. I want you to slowly—”

  In one fell swoop, Christien’s right leg swept forward and he did a one-eighty, spinning around into a crouch, training his firearm on me. In the time it took me to get a handful of words out of my mouth, he had made a move and turned the tables on me.

  For one beat of my pulse, I thought I was a dead woman.

  His gun aimed squarely at me, he slowly rose.

  “Now be a sport, love, and do put down that bloody gun.”

  My pulse was pounding so violently my whole body shook. It was James Bond versus a terrified amateur.

  “How…the hell…did you find me?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  He grunted. “How many times did you go on about this vacation spot to Winnie and me? All you knew of France was Paris and this place. I played the odds.” He moved the gun ever so slightly, like a nod of the head. “Now put the gun down, Abbie, before I grow impatient.”

  “I’ll die first,” I said, and I meant it.

  He paused a beat, as if this very outcome were on the table. “I don’t want that.”

  “No?” I asked. “You just stopped by to wish me well?”

  He looked over the sight of the gun at me. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “With a gun.”

  “I knew you had one,” he said. “I couldn’t predict how you might react.”

  My eyes were weak from lack of sleep. And sunlight was now streaking through the trees, playing tricks on my eyes. It was hard to focus. This wasn’t a fair fight.

  “Who did it, Christien?” I spat. “Which one of you? Or was it all of you?”

  He didn’t answer for a long moment. I wasn’t doing myself any favors here. But my frustration and anger were beginning to overtake my terror.

  Christien moved a step forward. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Abbie.”

  “I’m figuring out who killed the president,” I said. “And framed us.”

  Christien took another step in my direction. Three more strides and our guns would be touching, barrel to barrel.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” he said.

  “Sure about that?”

  Another step toward me. “Yes, I am.”

  “Careful, Christien. I’m a girl with nothing to lose.” My finger braced against the trigger. The gun felt heavy in my hands, in more ways than one. I’d never
held a firearm in my life before yesterday. I’d never fired one. I’d never killed a spider, much less a human being.

  But there was a first time for everything. One step closer and I wouldn’t have a choice. I’d either shoot him or lose my weapon.

  “I didn’t come here to kill you,” Christien said.

  “Then why?”

  He watched me a moment. “Put the gun down and find out,” he said.

  CHAPTER 119

  “NO DEAL, CHRISTIEN.” I braced myself. “Take another step and I pull the trigger.”

  Christien blinked. Then his expression eased.

  “Right, then,” he said. “I’m going to reach into my back pocket.” His right hand was still raised with the gun. He showed me the palm of his other hand before it disappeared behind him. If he had some trick in store, I was probably at his mercy.

  Because the truth was, if he wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead. I may have tricked him initially with my diversion, the sleeping bag, but he’d managed to even things up in no time, and he seemed pretty comfortable with a handgun. It was still aimed at my face, and his hand hadn’t budged an inch.

  His left hand reappeared, holding a thick envelope. “This is for you,” he said.

  I stepped back, keeping my gun aimed at him, just as his was aimed at me. “Drop it on the ground,” I said.

  “Fair enough.” He tossed it lightly into a pile of leaves.

  “What is it?”

  “A ticket,” he said. “A flight departing this afternoon from Bordeaux-Mérignac to Brasília. There’s also a passport, a credit card, and five hundred euros. You’re an American named Allison Larson. Though I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d become a blonde. It suits you, by the way.”

  “I’m flying to Brazil?”

  He nodded. “Extradition is tricky from there. Assuming they ever found you. We might have to move you to Argentina or Venezuela eventually. But Brazil is best for a start. Someone will meet you there and make sure you sail through customs. I still have some friends around the globe.”

  Brazil. Freedom, he was saying. I didn’t know anything about extradition from Brazil to France. I surely couldn’t take Christien’s word for it. Could I?

  “By nightfall tomorrow,” Christien said, “you’ll be sipping caipirinhas at Praia de Pipa.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Becau—” Christien’s voice choked off. It was a simple question, but he was struggling with it. My eyes had adjusted enough for me to get a pretty good bead on his face, and I could see his eyes filling.

  “I don’t want anyone else to die,” he said.

  His emotion ignited something in me. I felt rage and frustration rise like a fist inside my chest.

  “Who did this?” I asked again. “And why? Tell me, Christien! Tell me why this all had to happen!”

  Christien backpedaled effortlessly, keeping the gun on me as he retreated.

  “I’ve figured out most of it,” I said.

  “Even if you think you have,” he answered, “you’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “Then tell me everything or I swear to God, Christien, I’ll shoot you.”

  Christien paused, then lowered his gun. “No, you won’t,” he replied. “You’re not a killer, Abbie.”

  “Damn you,” I hissed, the tears falling now, every ounce of my being filled with poisonous rage. “Damn all of you!”

  “Go to Brazil and give yourself a chance,” he said. “Or stay in France and die.”

  “Christien. Christien! ” I screamed, but it was to no avail.

  Just like that, he had fled into the shadows.

  CHAPTER 120

  I FOUND THE A10 easily enough and started following the signs to Tours and Bordeaux. I was hedging my bets here. I hadn’t made a decision yet on what I would do, but it was clear that my brilliant plan to hide out in Onzain hadn’t been so brilliant, after all. If Christien could figure it out, then so could my old friend Square Jaw—Colonel Durand—who no doubt was leading the search for me. So I had to move.

  My mind was racing, trying to connect as many dots as I could, trying to figure out what exactly had happened during those two days in Monte Carlo. And, more immediately, trying to unravel Christien’s motives. Was he being straight with me? Was there a trap awaiting me at the Bordeaux airport? Anything, at this point, was possible.

  Brazil. I’d never been there. I’d heard it was an up-and-comer, but, frankly, any place where I tasted freedom would be paradise. It really wasn’t a question of evaluating the choice of destinations. It was just a simple question of priorities.

  Should I escape and buy myself some semblance of a life?

  Or stay here and risk my life for some long-shot hope that I could figure this all out and get my friends out of prison?

  I put my foot down hard on the Audi’s accelerator. I had almost four hours in the car before I’d reach the airport.

  CHAPTER 121

  JEFFREY ELLIOT AND Simon Schofield approached the gates of the U.S. Embassy in Paris a few minutes shy of 10:00 a.m. They’d come from different routes. Jeffrey had flown a charter jet, courtesy of the French government, from Washington, D.C., to Paris overnight. Simon had simply taken one of his own private jets and traveled from Switzerland, arriving an hour ago.

  They showed their passports to the U.S. Marines at the gates. Then they stopped in the front entry station, apart from the main building. “Please turn your cell phones on and off, and then check them here,” said one of the guards. Each of the men complied, leaving the phones in a black basket and getting a receipt for them, which they would show when they returned. Standard routine at the U.S. Embassy, and Jeffrey and Simon had been here before.

  They passed through a metal detector and walked with an escort into the building and up to the office of the Justice Department attaché, Daniel Ingersoll. They waited outside the door with a marine for ten minutes before they entered.

  Ingersoll was wearing a crisp white shirt and a dark purple tie. He was talking into a headset while taking notes. He motioned for the two men to have a seat.

  When he was off the phone, he removed the headset and looked at the two men. “Thanks for coming, gentlemen.”

  “You said it was important,” said Simon.

  “It is, yes.” Ingersoll folded his hands and took a moment. “I consider it my duty to watch out for Americans who come to this country. I can’t be their lawyer, but I can certainly be their advocate in other ways. I tried to perform that role for your wives. I don’t know how well I did, but I tried.”

  “And?” Jeffrey rolled his hand, as though he were eager for the punch line.

  “I think I owe you two the same courtesy,” said Ingersoll. “I’ve just been made aware that the day before Ms. Elliot escaped from prison, her lawyer—you remember Jules Laurent?—had filed some documents with the court.”

  Ingersoll slid two copies of the documents across his desk, one each for Jeffrey and Simon.

  “I thought you should see them right away,” he told them.

  Jeffrey and Simon read the documents thoroughly, stopping on certain items, scratching their heads, rubbing their eyes. They looked at each other in disbelief. They looked back at Ingersoll, as if he had any further information.

  “When I find out more,” said Ingersoll, “I’ll be sure to call.”

  Each man nodded, still stunned. They trudged out in silence with the marine escort through the embassy and out into the open air. They handed the receipts to the marines at the entry station and got their cell phones back.

  They got into a cab and drove to a bar about a mile west of the U.S. Embassy, still on the right bank of the Seine and within sight of the Eiffel Tower. The air was crisp and the sun was high; it was really a beautiful day, but the weather was lost on the two Americans at the moment.

  Colton Gordon was already in the bar, nursing a glass of Belvedere.

  “Sawubona, gents,” he said, using an old Zu
lu greeting from his native South Africa.

  “I’ll have what he’s drinking,” Jeffrey said to the waitress. “Make it a double.”

  CHAPTER 122

  MORE THAN FOUR hours after I’d left my hideout in Onzain, I made it to the airport. I almost missed the turnoff, a mistake that would have taken me into the town of Mérignac instead of to the airport itself. The route to the airport circled around the town of Bordeaux. I followed the signs for guest parking and pulled into the lot. It was an easy walk through the rental-car lots to the terminal. There was a row of manicured grapevines leading to the entrance. But there was not, as far as I could see, a row of manicured law enforcement officials waiting to take me into custody.

  Then again, every minute, at this point, was another adventure.

  My passport said that my name was Allison Larson, that I lived in a town in Illinois called Downers Grove, that I was forty-one, and that I had arrived in France six days ago. Christien had written a note that outlined my story: I was a recently divorced mother of two (that part was soon to be true); I had stayed at the Hôtel Burdigala on the Rue Georges Bonnac in Bordeaux; I went on a wine tour; and I visited three friends here, whose names and addresses and bios Christien had provided. Now I was headed to Brasília to meet some women I’d known since high school—at Downers Grove North, in case I was grilled—whose names, ages, and bios were also provided.

  Oh, and now I’d have to explain that I dyed my hair blond in Bordeaux just for the fun of it, which is why I looked different from my brunette passport photo.

  I stood at the door to the terminal and paused. I let a couple with a small child pass me, watching them stroll in with the carefree whimsy of people on holiday, about to embark on an adventure.

  Christien had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure I was able to make it through customs with a good cover story, if I were asked. He’d given me a convincing passport and a credit card and cash. Why would he do all that, if he weren’t trying to help me?