by Kim Foster
“Think it’s a coincidence?” Ethan asked.
I frowned. “It has to be. People die of anaphylactic shock, right?” In itself, it wasn’t that weird. It was a tragic set of circumstances, to be sure, but nothing that couldn’t have happened to anyone. No, there was no curse. It was not the sort of thing grown-ups believed in.
Right?
Ethan took the newspaper from my hands and stared at it closely. “Curse, maybe not. Suspicious death? Definitely.”
I narrowed my eyes at the page as I gazed at it over his shoulder. He was right. But why would anyone want to kill an off-duty guard? Had he known something?
There was no making sense of it. And a few minutes later we boarded the train. I decided to put the incident out of my mind for now.
We stepped from the romantic, belle epoque aesthetic of the station onto a thoroughly modern train. It was all sleek lines and had a clean, updated interior, complete with huge picture windows and a new train smell. My feet made soft, muffled footfalls on the carpeted interior. My ears vibrated with the sound of air circulating through ventilation fans.
We trundled our way out of Paris and soon began flying through the French countryside. The city views of town houses and monuments gave way to rolling green pastures and old stone farmhouses. Now and then we zoomed past tiny villages, mere clusters of buildings, little more than a market, a tobacco shop, and a bakery.
Ethan gazed out the window. “They’d be beautiful villages to explore,” he said. “A little wine tasting. A few nights in a charming bed-and-breakfast . . .”
I nodded, sighing. “Another lifetime maybe.” I got an immediate visual of taking that kind of trip. With a companion . . . who turned, in my imagination, to gaze at me—and his face looked an awful lot like Ethan’s. Wait. Shouldn’t that be Jack?
I frowned, turning my face to the window to hide my distress.
And then a reminder to pay my Visa bill bleeped on my phone. I was thankful for the distraction. I smiled at this little system I’d developed. I was pretty good these days at staying on top of these things—not traditionally a forte of mine. But I’d made some changes after a disaster last year with the IRS—several years of unpaid back taxes—that almost landed me, à la Capone, in prison.
I pulled up the statement on my iPhone and scanned through it before paying.
Hold up.
Three hundred ninety-eight dollars at Coach? I drew a total blank. I had no memory of buying anything at Coach, certainly not for that amount. I looked at the date, April 13. And the location, Baltimore.
Huh? That didn’t make sense. I hadn’t been to Baltimore anytime recently.
I scanned down. There were several charges made in Baltimore. Including a gas station charge. And . . . a car rental?
Obviously, my card had been compromised. It happened all the time. I fished out my wallet from my purse. The card was still there, exactly where I’d left it. So it hadn’t been stolen, just compromised electronically. Which—believe me—was quite easy to do.
The irony of a professional thief being robbed was not lost on me.
But it would be easily fixed. I made a quick call to Visa, informed them of what had happened, and after much waiting and repeating myself, they were satisfied the charges weren’t mine.
Good. Problem solved.
We soon arrived in Geneva. On the cab drive from the station to the Freeport—located at the airport—I caught glimpses of the city, elegant and cosmopolitan, clustered around a shining lake with the Alps looming spectacularly in the background.
We checked into a sleek hotel by the airport and got ourselves cleaned up. Well, a bit more than that, because we needed to step up our game beyond merely clean. We dressed in Tory Burch and Ralph Lauren and Gucci. We adorned ourselves with a Tiffany necklace for me, a Rolex for him.
We were in disguise, too, of course. I wore a glossy dark brown wig and makeup that granted me an exotic olive-toned appearance. Ethan instant-colored his hair to a distinguished salt and pepper and inserted dark brown contact lenses to cover those striking green eyes of his.
We needed to look every inch the jet-setting couple, and I had to admit, we did a pretty good job. Ethan came to stand beside me in the mirror to straighten his cuff links, and I applied a final layer of lipstick. I caught a glimpse of the two of us in the bathroom mirror. We cut a good image. Today we were Michael and Veronica Channing.
I thought about the task at hand. Psychotic butterflies were flinging themselves around in my stomach like they were in a mosh pit. I really needed my nerves to hold out. This was not the time for a panic attack. Besides, there was no real danger here. I wasn’t trying to steal anything, after all. This was a recon mission only. We needed to get in, tour around, take some surreptitious photographs, observe the locks and security systems, then walk out, all smiles and handshakes.
It’s just . . . well, I wondered how they dealt with people who faked their identities, lied, and gained unauthorized access to the Freeport. Likely, the Swiss did not look upon such activity favorably.
I peeked into my clutch purse, catching a glimpse of the tarot card, which I had tucked inside. I snapped it shut and took a deep breath.
We arrived at the Freeport in time for our appointment. Ethan had called ahead to make arrangements, and our passports and documentation had been faxed ahead. Forged passports, I should say.
When we arrived, the security guard seated in the small hut at the front gate checked our passports, comparing them to the ones in his database. He scrutinized us with a serious, blank expression and then pushed a button. The gate lifted with a buzz, and we drove through in our rented black Mercedes.
We walked into the main office through a slick foyer of concrete, glass, and steel.
A man came out to the waiting room to meet us. He was short but had broader shoulders and a stronger build than typical Swiss men, who—like most Europeans—tended toward lean. He wore a gray flannel Oscar de la Renta suit with lapels so sharp you could shave a man’s face with them.
“Monsieur et Madame Channing,” he said. “Bienvenue.” He introduced himself as Monsieur Claude Gurtmann, and he spoke in French, the predominant language of this part of Switzerland.
He wore a smile that did not reach his eyes; his gaze was formal, searching. His hair was combed so precisely, I suspected he accounted for each and every strand.
This was not going to be quite the cakewalk we were hoping for.
His employers would have hired him specifically to screen out undesirables and allow only the most appropriate clients into the Freeport.
Still, all we needed was a bit of a tour. To see the facility, specifically the vaults. And then we could be gone. We didn’t need him to deem us appropriate clients, just to let us have a little peek.
After introductions were made, he led us through to his private office. The austere space appeared as though it had barely been used. Not a paper clip was out of place.
“So what brings you to the Geneva Freeport, Mr. Channing?” he asked in clipped French, his Swiss accent barely perceptible.
“We like the model of the others, like the Singapore Freeport,” Ethan said, “but we believe the Geneva Freeport is the superior choice. Your facility is the best. And we like the best.” He turned to me and put a hand on my knee. “Don’t we, darling?”
I smiled at Ethan and turned to look at Monsieur Gurtmann. “We settle for nothing less,” I said.
“What is it, exactly, that you are looking to store in the Geneva Freeport?” he asked.
I blinked. This was not a question I had expected—the whole idea of the Freeport was to have complete privacy.
He smiled and bowed his head. “It is not my intention to pry into your affairs, but what I mean is, do you have particular storage needs? For instance, we have climate-controlled cellars specifically designed for wine storage. And areas optimized for automobiles.”
“Art storage,” Ethan said, “is what we’re interested in.”
>
After interviewing us for a few minutes, Monsieur Gurtmann was apparently satisfied and asked us if we were interested in a tour.
We most definitely were.
Monsieur Gurtmann rose. “Please, I must ask that you leave any electronics here. Phones and the like. They will be quite safe, I assure you.”
My stomach pinched. I’d hoped he wouldn’t say this, but it wasn’t unanticipated. We had made contingency plans.
As we stood, I retrieved my lipstick, applied a quick touch-up, and tucked the lipstick back in my purse. The fact that this is perfectly acceptable behavior in public, particularly in Europe, is a great advantage for women. Especially for those women whose lipstick tubes happen to contain tiny audio recorders that can be surreptitiously turned on while twisting the tube.
Now our conversation would be recorded, so I could capture all the tidbits I might miss the first time around. It was all part of doing good recon.
The instant we walked through the door, I had begun taking mental notes on the windows, doors, and other escape options. On the guards, the CCTV.
The three of us walked through the first layers of security.
“Do you mind if I take a few notes?” I asked, withdrawing my pen and a tiny notepad. The pen, of course, was a very special Montblanc, fitted with a micro-camera. I hoped this request wasn’t odd. I hoped it synced with the Swiss ideal of precision and attention to detail.
“Of course not.”
As we approached the vault doors, I snapped pictures with the Montblanc. I took photographs of the steel bar doors, the keys, the biometric entry pads.
As we walked, Monsieur Gurtmann pointed out the various security features, which was supremely helpful. We punctuated his monologue with various sounds of approval and pleasure—thrilled that our valuables would be well cared for. With each flattering noise and murmur, Monsieur Gurtmann appeared to relax. Infinitesimally.
We approached the secure viewing rooms and the private access floors. I knew behind these walls were untold treasures—billions of dollars of art and valuables. My fingers twitched. I glanced sidelong at Ethan. From the glint in his eye, I could tell he was thinking the exact same thing.
We made it to the foyer outside the inner vault. I knew this was the part that was replicated in the Louvre. This was what Lafayette had been talking about.
I tried to memorize everything. I looked carefully at the locking system. It was one I’d never seen before. I took several surreptitious photographs and looked at it as closely as I dared without seeming unreasonably interested.
Monsieur Gurtmann was quite proud of it. “This vault is what truly elevates our Freeport above the average storage facility. It is our pride and joy.” He gazed at it like a father at a graduation ceremony. “But this is as far as we can go. This vault door stays closed for visitors.”
I had no idea if it was crackable. Frankly, it looked impossible. But all I could do was record as much information as possible, and we’d study everything later.
As we turned, making our way back to our starting point, I felt almost light-headed with success—we’d accomplished what we’d come here for. I could tell Ethan was feeling the same; he was working hard at suppressing a grin.
When Monsieur Gurtmann walked ahead a couple of paces, Ethan dropped back and said to me in a low voice, “Have I mentioned how utterly fabulous you look today?”
Heat prickled up my neck. Ethan stared into my eyes, and for just a moment, I felt momentarily dazed. High-tech secure vault? What high-tech secure vault?
Monsieur Gurtmann cleared his throat discreetly. “So, Mr. Channing, you might be interested to note our electronic door locks at all entry points. Virtually impenetrable.”
“Virtually, yes,” Ethan said. His gaze was still on mine, his focus a little softer than usual. “It takes the lightest touch. Only a few people have quite the right touch, know to use just the right twist—”
Ethan broke off when he realized what he was saying.
It was like all the air got sucked out of the room. I froze, wondering if Monsieur Gurtmann had heard what Ethan had said. Ethan was not supposed to know that. And was certainly not supposed to sound like a burglar when he said it.
Monsieur Gurtmann’s face twitched. Just slightly. He blinked and stared more closely at Ethan and then at me. His mouth went into a thin line, and he kept walking.
My heart was in my throat. He suspected. He had to. He suspected we were lying, and now he would test us.
We walked a little farther in silence. I would have been surprised if Monsieur Gurtmann could not hear my heart thumping. We grew inexorably closer to the exit, but I knew we were still very deep within the facility.
“So where did you say your collection is stored currently?” Monsieur Gurtmann asked.
“A private security facility in Paris,” Ethan answered smoothly. He was back on the job now, professional as ever. But was it too late?
“Really?” Monsieur Gurtmann asked. “Which one? I know most of the facilities in Paris. I did an extensive tour there last year.”
“It’s Granville-Beaufort Fine Art Storage.”
“Ah yes, of course. I know that one. Is Damien Favre still in charge over there? I remember Damien was always very personally involved with all of Granville-Beaufort’s clients.”
“Yes, of course. We met Damien once or twice. Didn’t we, my dear?” he said, looking at me. “Very nice gentleman.”
Monsieur Gurtmann stopped. “Damien Favre is a woman.”
Shit.
I jumped in. “Oh, darling, you must be thinking of Denis, one of her assistants,” I said quickly and turned to Monsieur Gurtmann. “You’ll have to forgive my husband. He’s terrible with names.” I tried for a smile.
Monsieur Gurtmann’s mouth went into an even thinner line.
We passed through a locked, barred doorway, which he opened with a key. But at the last moment, Monsieur Gurtmann stepped back through the doorway. “Oh dear,” he said, slipping back. “I appear to have forgotten a set of keys. Please wait here a moment. I will return right away.” The bars closed behind him.
With that, he disappeared around a corner, leaving us trapped in a locked corridor.
Oh, crap.
Chapter 32
Well, that did it. He knew, absolutely. Next would come the security officers, the police, and a jaunt in a Swiss prison. Swiss prisons held a reputation for being quite clean and civilized. Surprisingly, that didn’t sway me one bit. The prospect held zero appeal for me.
I looked at Ethan. He was clearly thinking the exact same thing.
There was only one thing to do, and it certainly wasn’t going to include waiting here. I gritted my teeth. We were going to have to escape.
Problem the first: we had little equipment. Our phones and Ethan’s briefcase, with our most useful pieces of technology—glass cutters and jam shots to blow the locks off doors—were back at the front office. I had my purse, and our passports were inside. Much good they were to us now. Those images would likely be splashed on TV even if we did make it out of here.
Problem the second: we were inside an extremely high-tech secure facility. Their entire existence was to stop people exactly like us.
Although, to be fair, their emphasis was on stopping people like us from getting in. We didn’t want to get in. We wanted to get out.
Problem the third: this place was drowning in security cameras. The instant we started to make a move, we would be seen. And then the artifice would be over, and they would simply send in a team to retrieve us. We needed to maintain the charade as long as we could.
And then get the hell out as fast as possible.
I assessed the situation while trying to slow my breathing. Three security cameras pointed at our exact location. The corridor was solid concrete, and the barred door was secured with a steel lock. How sensitive were the microphones on the security cameras? Would they pick up every word? We had to assume so. That was good; I could use that.
“Darling, I have to pee,” I said in a stage whisper to Ethan. I clamped my knees together and did a ladylike impression of someone desperate to go to the washroom. “Do you think there’s a restroom around here somewhere?”
I glanced at the CCTV and estimated the blind spot. I saw Ethan doing the same. Simultaneously, we made our way to the same location.
And then Ethan glanced at his Rolex. He pushed a couple of buttons, and I saw the briefest flash of red in the CCTV cameras and knew they were jammed. The feed would now show just an empty corridor.
I knew this would quickly become suspicious in itself, and that it was just a matter of time before we would hear alarms wailing. So we needed to move fast. But we also needed to move smart.
We had to get back through the locked door in front of us. I whipped off my four-inch black patent Louboutins and pulled a lock pick out of the left heel. In a matter of seconds we were through that door. As we moved through the building, Ethan scanned for CCTVs and jammed them just before we came into view. The longer we could keep up the charade, the closer we could get to the exit. And freedom.
Throughout this, images of Swiss prisons keep flashing in my brain. We made it through the next layers of lockdown. Hope burned in my chest—we just might get out of here.
And then the alarm sounded.
It blared, piercing and ripping through the air. For a thief, there is no sound quite so horror inducing as the sound of a burglar alarm puncturing the silence.
I froze. Suddenly, I didn’t know what I needed to do next.
It was Ethan who basically dragged me into a run. There was nothing else we could do—we had to get out of there, and sprinting was the only way.
The siren continued to scream as we ran at top speed through the stark corridors. I knew the guards were armed, and I knew they would not hesitate to use those weapons. We could hear them shouting. They were close, hunting us down like a pack of dogs.
We tucked into an alcove, hiding from the guards. “How are we going to get out of here?” I whispered. My heart was beating like a subwoofer in a teenager’s pimped-out Honda.
