“That double agent? It’s supposed to be Griffin’s wife.”
“Please say she was working for us.”
“Afraid not, Pollyanna. According to her boss at the CIA, she’s working against us. Allegedly she stole the virus and sent it to Faas, using him as a way to lure Griffin into the open.”
“Faas was in on it?”
“Hard to say, since he’s conveniently dead. Which is the long way of saying watch your back.”
Chapter 45
Predawn
December 12
Paris, France
Sydney stood there shivering in her pajamas on the narrow snow-covered balcony. The damned thing wasn’t more than twelve inches wide, meant for decorative potted plants rather than people, and she wondered if the wrought-iron balustrade would hold her weight if she fell against it. She’d moved there the moment Carillo started talking about Griffin’s wife, then told her everything Thorndike had to say, and as cold as it was, she could only stare out at the darkened buildings across the street, the brasseries and cafés that were now closed, the dim streetlight shining down on the trodden snow on the ground below.
She had to figure out a way to break it to Griffin. But how?
Hey, that wife you thought was dead, but isn’t? It gets even better. Looks like she’s working for the Network as a double agent . . .
An icy blast of wind brought her to her senses, and she opened the balcony door, returned inside. She glanced at the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door, heard the water running. Griffin was in there showering, and she could well imagine that his thoughts were also on his wife. But Sydney doubted they were running in the same direction as her own.
She considered what Carillo said, that Pearson wanted her to return to the States, and right now she was more than ready.
The water shut off, and Griffin, dressed only in his sweatpants, exited the bathroom a couple of minutes later, drying his face with a towel. She tossed the phone on her bed, and he said, “Who was that?”
“Carillo.”
“What’d he want?”
“Besides finding out about our operation? Update on the Grogan investigation among other things . . . You know, I could really use a drink,” she said, grabbing her toothbrush from her bag, then returning to the bathroom.
“Same here,” he replied, walking to the bar.
Even though she’d rinsed her mouth out in the shower, she felt as if there was still a film of bone grit and limestone on her teeth and she brushed longer than normal. She didn’t notice that he’d walked up to the bathroom door, stood there watching her, until she dropped her brush into the glass on the sink, then turned around. He held a drink out for her, and she took it, sipping, thinking the brandy tasted odd after the toothpaste. What she didn’t expect was for him to step in even closer, so that she had nowhere to turn. Setting the glass down, she looked at him, wanting to tell him that there were things they needed to discuss. But when she opened her mouth to speak, no words came. They’d narrowly escaped death this night and she had a feeling that he needed the same thing she did, to feel close to someone, safe, alive. She looked up at him, the questioning in his eyes, and she took a breath, reached up, drew him to her, tasted the brandy on his lips.
His kiss was swift, sure, much more intense than that one they shared outside the museum. And when she felt him slip his hand inside the shoulder of her pajama top, felt his mouth on her neck, trailing kisses on her bare skin, lower and lower, she took a deep breath, saying, “We have to talk.”
He hesitated, his mouth lingering on her chest, his lips burning a hole right through to her heart, fittingly, she thought, considering what she was about to do. Slowly he straightened, looked at her, stroking her face with his thumb. “This is not a good conversation, is it?”
She shook her head.
“Is it about the case or us?”
“Both?”
“Are either one of us in danger at the moment?”
“No.”
“Then it can wait.”
He kissed her again, and she let him, knowing it was entirely selfish on her part. She wanted him. Now. His hands swept beneath her flannel top, across her back, his skin smooth against hers, and just when her knees felt as though they were about to give out, he lifted her, carried her to the bed. He laid her upon it, then lowered himself on top of her, kissing her neck, leaving her helpless, unable to move.
And then her phone rang. She wanted to ignore it, but it was there on the bed beside her, ringing in her ear. Griffin raised up on one elbow as she reached blindly for the phone, answered it.
“Whoever it is, make them go away,” he whispered in her ear.
It was Carillo. “Forgot one thing, Pollyanna,” he said.
“What’s that?” she asked as Griffin traced a finger down her neckline, then started working at the buttons.
“You okay? You sound a little out of breath.”
“Only because I had to run to answer the phone.”
“It’s about Miles Cavanaugh.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.” He told her his suspicions about the murders and the significance to Griffin.
“Oh God,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah,” Carillo said. “Figured you should know. Call me when you have some definitive plans or plausible lies so I can figure out what I’m going to tell Pearson.”
“I will.” She disconnected, then dropped the phone, only vaguely aware that Griffin had moved to the side, was watching her closely. “Cavanaugh’s dead,” she said.
“I never liked the guy.”
“Carillo thinks he’s the one who outed your wife to the newspaper.”
“What are you talking about? What does Cavanaugh know about my wife?”
“The newspaper article. The reporter who ran it was killed, and so was Cavanaugh.” She stopped, realizing she couldn’t go on, couldn’t tell him what Carillo had said. Not after everything they’d been through tonight. Pure selfishness on her part, she knew, but she wanted him, and informing him would ruin everything.
“That’s it? That’s what was so important that he had to call you in the middle of the night? ”
“He thought you should know,” she finished lamely.
“Damn it, Sydney. What aren’t you telling me?”
There was no good way to continue, and waiting until tomorrow would only make it worse. “Thorndike thinks Becca is working for the Network and that she was the one who lured you out here.”
He said nothing for the longest time, and then he got up out of bed, pulled on his pants, then his shirt.
“Griffin. We need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to say,” he said, putting on his shoes, then grabbing his coat. “Carillo’s wrong. They’re all wrong. And whoever killed Cavanaugh saved me the trouble.”
He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Great. She stared at the ceiling, then took a deep breath, thinking that all too often, it seemed, doing the right thing sucked. Big time.
Sydney sat up, wanting to hurl her phone across the room. And she might have, except that it was her only lifeline to Carillo and she needed it and him. Instead, phone gripped in her hand, she got out of bed, walked to the balcony window, pulled the curtain aside, wondering if Griffin was really going to drive off and leave her, or just go for a walk and cool down.
She eyed the snow-covered street, looking for their car parked about a half block down on the opposite side, figuring that Griffin would be walking out the front doors any moment. And sure enough, there he was. He didn’t even look up. His hands shoved in the pockets of his overcoat, he strode with purpose across the street, then stopped suddenly when he reached the other side. He changed his mind, she thought. Changed his mind and he was coming back.
&nbs
p; But he stood there, not moving, and she knew something was wrong.
Her heart thudded when she saw him slowly hold his hands out to his sides, away from his body. A man walked up, holding a gun on Griffin. He reached beneath Griffin’s overcoat, and took his weapon from him.
A second of indecision, then she dropped the curtain, ran to her suitcase, pulled out pants and a sweater, threw them on, and then her socks and shoes. Her hand was shaking as she dug through Griffin’s backpack, searching for his backup weapon. She found a knife, but no gun. Where the hell was it? They’d taken two pistols from the guards.
In the car. Griffin had put the extra gun in his glove box.
She took the knife, turned her phone to vibrate mode, shoved it in her pocket, then grabbed her coat, bag, and gloves, then the car keys, and ran to the door, opened it. The hallway was clear in both directions. But then she heard the ping of the elevator, and she had no idea if Griffin and the gunman would be on it or if it was someone else. And what if they took the stairs? Left with no choice, she stepped back in, closed the door, looked around.
She needed an escape route and fast.
Chapter 46
Predawn
December 12
Paris, France
Griffin balked at the open elevator door, angry that he’d let his emotions get the better of him. And because of it, he’d walked right into an ambush with the goddamned son of a bitch who’d been chasing them since Amsterdam. “How’d you find me?”
“Easy. I followed the priest from the lab. Figured it was only a matter of time before he hooked back up with you.”
“Which begs the question of how you found out we’d be there?” Griffin asked, since he knew damned well they hadn’t been followed after they’d shot out his tires when they’d fled to Winterswijk.
“Shut up and get on the elevator,” the man said, shoving the nose of his gun in Griffin’s side. “Talk to anyone without my okay, they die first, and then you.”
“To where?”
“Your room.”
The last place Griffin wanted to go. Not with Sydney up there. But he had no choice except to continue on, his only hope that opportunity would present itself before he got there.
Fate decided otherwise.
The man holding him at gunpoint was a pro, making sure he kept just to the back and side of Griffin, his gun hidden in the pocket of his overcoat when they’d entered the hotel lobby a minute ago. And when they arrived at the desk the clerk hadn’t even bothered to look at Griffin when he had asked for the spare key, having left the other one in the room with Sydney. The clerk barely glanced up from his book, grabbed the key from the slot, then shoved it across the counter, before turning his attention back to whatever riveting page he’d been on.
If only they’d taken the stairs, Griffin might have been able to get to the knife in his boot. A pretend stumble, then draw. But his captor had directed him to the elevator.
And now, here they were. Griffin pressed the third floor button, dismayed to see that he was too close to the wall to get to the knife. As the door slid shut, he started formulating a plan to take the gun. One sidestep, a strike with his elbow—
A sharp jab of a needle in his thigh told him he’d underestimated this man. The injection, intramuscular, meant Griffin had about a minute, maybe two, before he started feeling the effects—and that was assuming it was a drug, not a poison. A fight would send it through his system faster. He needed to remain calm. Formulate a backup plan . . .
There was a knife in his backpack, just inside the hotel room door at the bar. All he had to do was take one step to the side, pretend to stumble, grab it, then turn and kill him.
The elevator door opened, and he had no choice but to step off, start down the hallway, his heart thudding with each step, every pump sending the drug into his veins. He started to feel lightheaded, woozy. He thought of Sydney. On the bed. Vulnerable. And now he was bringing danger her way.
Had to warn her . . .
“Open the door.”
“So you can kill me?” He tried to speak loud enough for her to hear. His tongue felt thick, heavy, and he was having trouble fitting the key in the lock, turning it. Fine motor skills failing fast. He was running out of time. The door swung open. He looked over. Attempted to focus. Felt a rush running through him.
Backpack . . . on the bed . . . too far . . .
Sydney . . .
Chapter 47
Predawn
December 12
Paris, France
Sydney peered through the window from the balcony outside. The slit in the curtains was just enough to make out the interior of her hotel room, the door as it opened. She saw Griffin standing there, the suspect behind him. Griffin took a step in, stumbled. He caught himself on the wall, stood there a moment, then took three more faltering steps and fell to the ground.
Sydney clamped her mouth shut. Her pulse raced. The suspect closed the door, walked over, nudged Griffin with his foot. Please let Griffin be faking it. Reach out, grab the guy, pull him down.
But Griffin never moved.
A million thoughts raced through her head, but the one she kept coming back to was that he’d been shot. With her limited view, she couldn’t see any blood, but what other explanation was there?
Any doubts that he might recover faded when she saw the suspect holster his gun, step over Griffin’s body, pick up the bottle of brandy from the bar, pull off the top, then take a swig. He moved to the edge of the bed, sat, drank some more, looking around the room. And then he took out his phone, pressed a button, and held it to his ear.
Syd tried to listen, heard nothing but the pounding of her pulse. When she looked again, he’d set his phone on the bedside stand, put the brandy bottle next to it, then walked over to Griffin, dragging his body between the two beds so that he was no longer in sight. When he’d finished, he sat back on the bed, picked up the TV remote and the brandy bottle, then settled against the headboard, flicking through the TV channels as though he had all the time in the world.
She needed that gun from the car. Stepping away from the window to the side of the balcony, she pressed herself against a potted topiary, which stood between her and the balcony next door. In order to get to the other side, she was going to have to scale the building from the outside of the balcony, hanging over the street. She gripped the wrought iron with her gloved hands, tested it against her weight, swung one leg over, then the other. Foot by foot, hand by hand, she started moving to her left, hoping that the iron was firmly attached. She glanced down. Three stories seemed a hell of a lot higher from this side of the balustrade, she thought, and she sent up a prayer that she’d find a balcony window unlocked.
Chapter 48
December 11
Washington, D.C.
Carillo and Tex, having finished the bottle of Scotch, had fallen asleep on their respective beds. And so it was that when Carillo heard a faint beep, he didn’t immediately stir. But there it was again. “You hear that?”
“What?” Tex asked.
It suddenly occurred to Carillo where the noise came from. He pulled out Miles Cavanaugh’s cell phone from his pocket, looked at the screen. “Looks like someone didn’t realize Cavanaugh’s dead.” And Carillo smiled in the dark. “He’s got mail.”
Chapter 49
Predawn
December 12
Paris, France
Sydney used the knife to jimmy open the third balcony window, and found the room empty. Putting her ear to the hallway door, she listened, heard nothing, then stepped out. She was going to have to walk by her own room to get to the stairs, because there was no way she was chancing the elevator, and as she passed by her door, she slowed, heard the drone of the TV but nothing else. By the time she made it to the stairwell, her hands were shaking, her knees weak.
She gripped the railing
, descended as quickly and quietly as she could. At the bottom of the stairs she hesitated, saw the clerk buried in a novel, prayed he wouldn’t notice her and ask for her key. She didn’t want any attention brought to herself, and as she exited to the lobby, she looked straight ahead.
The clerk turned a page in his book, and Syd hurried out the door into the night. Instead of crossing the street in front of the hotel and chancing that the suspect might be watching from the window, she kept close to the building, until she was certain she wouldn’t be noticed. The car was where they’d left it, and she looked around, tried to see if there might be someone else keeping it under surveillance. If there was, they weren’t close enough for her to spot them, and she unlocked it, got in, locked the door, then sat there, momentary relief flooding through her as she realized just how narrow her escape had been.
Shaking herself, she reached over, unlocked the glove box, pulled out the gun and placed it in her lap. If she’d had the weapon with her, she would have shot the bastard from where she stood on the balcony. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case, and she looked over toward the hotel, wishing she’d thought to somehow prop open the door to the room she’d climbed into to escape.
Her cell phone vibrated against her pocket, and she nearly jumped, not expecting to feel it. She wanted to cry when she heard Carillo’s voice. “Griffin,” she said. “I think he’s dead.”
“He’s fine.”
“What do you mean he’s fine?” she said, too worried to keep her voice down. “I saw him fall. He didn’t move, not even when—”
“What do you mean you saw? Where are you?”
“In the car outside the hotel. I got out through the balcony.”
“Okay. Look. The guy who’s got Griffin is called Bose. He just left a voice mail on Cavanaugh’s phone, letting him know he’s got Griffin drugged and handcuffed—”
The Dark Hour Page 24
