Mona Lisa's Room

by Vonnie Davis

  Alyson stood also. “Wait, this is Thursday. You mean to tell me I’ll have to hide until Monday morning?”

  Macho Male pushed away from the wall. “Ms. Moore, shall we go? I’ll explain our plan on the way to your hotel. I believe you’re staying at the Madison on Boulevard Saint Germain.”

  “Yes, but…” She watched the door close behind the field supervisor and then turned to stare at the man assigned as her protector. “I’ve read about terrorists. Watched shows about them. I just never thought I’d come within a hundred feet of one. Now I’m being told…” She shook her head and exhaled a slow breath. Someone wanted her dead. She was being put into protective custody. She cleared her throat, a nervous habit. “This is bizarre. So utterly bizarre. I’m so…” She shrugged and lifted upturned palms in a helpless gesture.

  He stepped closer. The scent of his cologne, understated yet powerful, made her body respond. Her stomach fluttered and her breathing hitched.

  “So…what?” His head tilted to the side as if he were truly interested in her response. That one little movement touched her, temporarily putting her at ease.

  “Insignificant. I’m an insignificant tourist, Monsieur…? Sorry, I’m not retaining names very well at this moment.”

  “Niko is fine.”

  “Niko.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and looked away. “Look, all I saw was the terrorist’s face. I didn’t see any secret plans or overhear anything confidential. Just a face. Maybe he wore a disguise.” She thought of the sketch she drew shortly after arriving at police headquarters. “Maybe he really doesn’t look anything like my sketch.” Maybe I’m trying to discount the obvious. I’m in very real danger here.

  “Based on your sketch, Interpol made a match. Believe me, he’s lethal. Very lethal. Until today we thought him dead. You’ve exposed him. He’ll be out for revenge.”

  Alyson swallowed. “Revenge. Just for seeing his face. Look, how extreme is that?”

  The young man sat on the corner of the table and crossed his arms. “That’s what terrorists are, Ms. Moore: Extreme. Unreasonably extreme. Ziyad Dembri, the man you saw today, went to great lengths to fake his death two years ago. A burned body and phony dental records were involved. He evidently had plastic surgery on his nose to further complete his new identity. Because no one at Interpol was on the lookout for him, he was able to fly under their radar.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Until I identified him today.”

  “You got it. Now Interpol believes Dembri was the mastermind and perpetrator of several attacks here in Europe and in the Middle East. Those attacks carried his MO, but with his reported death, authorities didn’t know who to blame. Now, with your sketch, they do.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” She’d stuck her nose in it now.

  “Many innocents have died because of him. Now he’s been identified, his ability to move about undetected has been removed. He’ll be very angry with you and, yes, out for revenge.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Leave it to me to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. To be the one to see his face.”

  “The French have an expression. ‘Vengeance est un plat mieux carne froid.’ Revenge is a dish best savored cold. As with all terrorists, Ziyad Dembri is a very coldhearted, vengeful executioner. He’s part of a larger terrorist ring called The Red Hand. The red in their name has multiple meanings. Not only does it pertain to their communist leanings but also to the large quantity of blood on their hands. No member of their group hesitates to murder. Their leader, whoever the shadowy figure is, goes by the nickname ‘the Architect,’ as in the Architect of Death.” He stood and walked toward the door.

  Alyson followed, stopped as he opened the door and glanced up at him. “Red Hand? The Architect of Death?” She gave an involuntary shudder. “What nationality are they? I’ve never heard of them.”

  Niko cupped her elbow and escorted her from the room. “Algerian, Syrian and Iranian. Radical, as all these types of groups are. The difference is they shun publicity. No interviews, no video tapes sent to television stations and no YouTube videos. Instead they leave a macabre calling card.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They leave a handprint of the victim’s blood.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Her hand flew to her mouth and then dropped to her stomach. She was going to be sick. “Don’t they leave fingerprints when they do that?”

  “Latex gloves.”

  What manner of hornets’ nest had she stirred up? A terrorist faking his death. Bloody handprints left at the scenes of crimes. Could this day get any worse?

  Niko stopped to glare at a male coworker; disheveled, early thirties with a massive neck and shaved head. A weary expression on his face, he was slouched in his chair with his feet crossed on top of a cluttered desk.

  Niko shoved the man’s feet down. “Any updates I should be aware of?”

  The man, intimidating with a scar running the length of his cheek, handed Niko a sheaf of papers. “These faxes just came in. Most important ones are on the top.” He ran his hands over his face in a scrubbing motion. “Man, I need sleep.”

  Niko nodded as he scanned the pages. “Ms. Moore, this slovenly person is Jean-Luc LeFevre, one of our unit’s field agents. Surprisingly, one of our best.”

  Jean-Luc tucked in his blue shirt as he stood. “Enchantẻ, Madame. Please, forgive my appearance.” He extended his hand, and she shook it. “I had a night flight from China and made the mistake of answering my phone once my plane landed.” He jerked his head in Niko’s direction. “Seems this little twerp can’t make a move without me. So, of course, I came straight from the airport to offer my assistance.”

  “Kiss my ass.” Niko shuffled through the papers. “Ms. Moore is interested in neither your life’s history nor your inflated opinion of yourself.”

  Jean-Luc laughed, obviously pleased he irritated his superior. The beam of affection in his eyes for Niko, along with the smile, softened his hardened features.

  Niko looked up from the papers he studied. “Did Giselle give you Ms. Moore’s bag?”

  “She locked it in the bottom drawer of your desk. I’m surprised she had a key.” Jean-Luc crossed his arms and glared at Niko. “Still.”

  “Tell her I want it returned.”

  “Do your own dirty work, buddy.” Jean-Luc sat again and turned to his computer.

  Well, now, what was all this about? An office romance gone bad, perhaps? She glanced at Niko, wondering how he’d treat a woman. She pegged him for a user and a leaver. Granted, she could be wrong; she had been wrong about her ex-husband.

  Niko led Alyson to his orderly desk and signed a form on a clipboard before extending it to her. “Sign please for the return of your shoulder bag. It was searched, of course.”

  “Of course.” Alyson signed and placed the clipboard back on the desk. “Seems my whole life was searched. I’d hate to see how French authorities would have handled me if I’d done something wrong.”

  Niko unplugged his laptop and slipped it into his briefcase along with the papers Jean-Luc gave him. Then he shrugged into a charcoal suit coat and retrieved his revolver from a drawer, slipping it into a holster at the back waist of his pants. “Precautions are necessary when terrorists are involved.” After removing her yellow leather shoulder bag from a locked drawer, he grabbed his briefcase. “This way please.” He led her to the elevator.

  “Interrogations, bombs, terrorists out for revenge, bloody handprints. This is a nightmare.”

  He punched the button labeled “le Garage Couvert” and ran a hand down his necktie. “Our world is manipulated by terrorists, Ms. Moore. It’s our job to hunt them down, kick the rock they’re hiding under, and kill them when they scatter like the cockroaches they are.”

  She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He sounded cold and menacing. She gave an involuntary shudder.

  “Do I frighten you, Ms. Moore?” She nodded just as the elevator doors opened. He took her arm and
led her to the cars parked on the right. “Good.” His eyes scanned the parking area. “Stay afraid. Maybe that will keep you alive.”

  Chapter Two

  The woman was going to be trouble.

  Ms. Moore was obviously clueless as to the impetus she’d set in motion. Terrorists’ activities would no doubt increase in response to her identifying Ziyad Dembri and preventing the bomb from going off. The Red Hand was ruthless when provoked.

  He shot her a sideways glance. Imagine, coming to Paris and unwittingly foiling a terrorist’s attack. What were the chances of doing that? For that matter, what were his chances of getting stuck with the ice queen here? He sighed in irritation.

  Niko resented the hell out of this assignment—babysitting an uptight American woman. He did his fair share of this type of work early on in his career with Interpol. When he was handpicked and recruited for the revamped French counterterrorism unit, he hoped his resignation from Interpol would be a move up. Now he had his doubts. His job title, second in command, should have precluded this mundane type of assignment.

  He’d rather be in the control room at headquarters, in the thick of things, pounding computer keys, analyzing data and shouting out commands. Just his freaking luck to be saddled with Ms. Uptight American.

  This was undoubtedly his superior’s way of showing displeasure. He sensed his boss resented something about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His age, perhaps? His fierce ambition? His past employment with Interpol? Or was it Henri Moreau felt threatened by his uncanny ability to zero in on how terrorists thought and planned their next move. He walked a fine line between aggressively advancing his career and making sure he credited his supervisor with every solved case. This babysitting assignment indicated Moreau was not impressed with his efforts.

  His hand pressed to the small of the American’s back, Niko led her to his Porsche 911 Carrera. The car of his dreams chirped when he pressed his key fob, opening his trunk. After placing his briefcase inside, he opened the passenger door and helped her into the tan leather-wrapped interior. He lovingly wiped a speck of dust off the roof of the Carrera’s high-gloss black exterior.

  “I’m a little old to be babysat, Niko.”

  Hell, had the woman read his mind? She swung her feet from his car onto the concrete garage floor as if she were going to get back out.

  “I’m used to taking care of myself. Have since I was in grad school. Look, this is silly, really. I’ll just hail a taxi back to my hotel, pack up and get a hotel room somewhere else. I’ll lay low until Monday when I can get my passport.”

  Niko rested one arm on the roof of the car and leaned toward her, taking in her blue eyes tensed with worry and fatigue. She was treated rudely by his superior who had a strong dislike for Americans. He was sorry for the manner in which Henri flaunted her personal information. For his superior, it was a power strategy. For her, it, no doubt, had been damned humiliating.

  “My job is to take care of you.” He flashed a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “You wouldn’t want to get me in trouble for dereliction of duty, would you? My superior can be difficult to handle when he’s provoked.”

  She heaved a sigh, shook her head and placed her feet back in the car. He closed the door before she changed her mind.

  Settling into his bucket seat, Niko clicked his seat belt and focused on not noticing Ms. Moore’s perfume which enveloped him in the elevator. Everything about the woman was soft—her fragrance, her voice with its southern drawl, and most certainly her eyes. He had a job to do. He needed to ignore her appeal. Every assignment he performed garnered one hundred and thirty percent of his wide-ranging skills; this one would be no different.

  “Give me your cell.” He gave a beckoning motion with his hand. She turned those big eyes on him in obvious question. “Give me your cell, please.” Once she removed it from an outside pocket of that ugly yellow shoulder bag, she pressed it into his open palm. “I’m programming my number on speed dial. Who do you have at number one? I’m taking that spot.”

  “No one. My ex-husband was in that spot.” She cleared her throat, her lips formed a gentle smile. “I’d be glad to have you replace him.” Her eyes widened, evidently realizing what her words implied. A blush kissed her cheeks and long, slender neck.

  His gaze locked on hers, those soft eyes drawing him in. Oh yeah, for damn sure, this woman was going to be freaking trouble. He touched the save pad and then programmed her number into his cell. For reasons he didn’t want to entertain, he placed her on speed dial one, too. After all, recalling number one in an emergency would be no mental strain.

  “If we get separated, we need to be able to reach each other in an instant. Is that clear? I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are at all times.”

  She nodded and nervously turned her phone over and over in her hands. “I feel like I’m in the middle of some outlandish movie. When I came to Paris to have a bit of an adventure, believe me, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “No, I guess not.” Niko turned the ignition key and the powerful engine purred.

  Her stomach grumbled, and she covered it with her hand, her face blushing again.

  “Hungry?” He slipped on his Ray Ban Wayfarers before backing the car out of the tight parking spot.

  She nodded. “Very. The croissant and cappuccino I had for breakfast was hours ago.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

  “How quickly can you pack your clothes?” He nosed the Carrera out onto the busy street, shifting gears smoothly as he zipped from lane to lane. “Once we’ve settled things at the hotel, we’ll have a late lunch.”

  “Half an hour, maybe. I’m here for two weeks so I packed a lot of clothes. My dream vacation. A segment in the turning point of my life.” She sighed and rubbed her temple with her fingertips as if rubbing away a headache. “I planned on going to the Notre Dame Cathedral later. I also wanted to buy a book at Shakespeare and Company.” Her voice sounded wistful, almost dreamy. She folded her hands primly on her lap, a movement he found rather charming. “Today was supposed to be such a special day. First the Louvre with Mona, then Shakespeare, and finally time with God. Now it’s just a nightmare.”

  “I can drive along the Seine, if you like, so you can see the Notre Dame. The Prefecture de Police where you were questioned is on the Ỉle de la Citẻ, as is the cathedral.”

  “Would you please? I’d at least like to see it before I leave, even if I can’t go inside. I suppose you’ve been inside many times. Or aren’t you a religious man?”

  “My faith is often the only thing that keeps me going, Ms. Moore.”

  After passing the cathedral, Niko made two trips around the section of Boulevard Saint Germain that housed the Madison and the famed Saint Germain-des-Prés Church. The stone chapel, the oldest in Paris, was located directly across from the nineteenth century building that was now her hotel. He looked for suspicious vehicles before he settled on a parking spot a block beyond their destination. Nothing struck him as being out of the ordinary, nor had he detected a tail, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched.

  Ms. Moore shifted in her seat. “Back home, one can park the car along the front of the hotel on its parking lot. Here the buildings begin at sidewalk’s edge, making that impossible. I couldn’t believe how close cars were parked when I first arrived. Some are nearly touching each other. How does one get their car out when bumpers are a couple inches apart?”

  “Practice.”

  The Madison had an impeccable reputation. It was a small hotel, well-run with a very friendly staff, or so Ms. Moore told him as they walked toward the building. Once inside, he held onto her arm, keeping her by his side as he quickly flashed his badge to the concierge on duty.

  He slipped off his Ray Bans and, with a sweeping experienced glance, took in the light and airy lobby. Vases of fresh flowers, a fireplace and a stylish blend of antique and modern furniture added to the ambience of the Madison. One man, dress
ed in a brown suit, sat in a red plush chair, nursing a drink, a laptop perched on his lap. He was one of Niko’s agents, Jacques Laurant, assigned to keep an eye on things at the hotel until the American by his side was safely checked out. The two exchanged imperceptible nods, a signal all was well.

  Still, he’d rather Laurant stationed himself inside Ms. Moore’s room. A question briefly niggled at his gut. Was Laurant doing work on that laptop or was he playing games or engrossed in porn sites? They needed to talk, later, when this babysitting chore was over.

  Niko instructed the concierge to send Ms. Moore’s hotel bill to the counterterrorism department of the French government. He also asked that any clothing left in her room be packed and shipped to her home address at the department’s expense. The hotel employee gave Niko a substitute keycard to replace the one stolen by Dembri.

  His hand still wrapped around her slender arm, he escorted her onto the elevator. She pointedly looked at his hand and then gazed up at him. “There’s no need for you to keep your hands on me. I’m quite capable of walking by myself.”

  This woman was so uptight he bet her ass squeaked when she walked. “The French pride themselves on their good manners. My maman would disown me if I didn’t show you proper courtesies.”

  “Point taken. Now, I want to know why I can’t take all of my things with me? You asked me how quickly I could pack.”

  “My trunk’s small. Pack enough for three days.” He closed the wire door on the lift cage.

  Her chin jutted out in a pugnacious manner. “You’re being dictatorial. I want to keep my things with me.”

  “I’m being protective.” He scanned the hallway of the third floor when the elevator screeched and shuddered to a halt. “Stay behind me.”

  “Yes, boss man.”

  Damn fool woman. Once he had her safely inside her hotel room, he’d give her hell. For now, he had to stay focused. Two men came down the hall and Niko stepped back, pinning Ms. Moore between his back and the wall. The gentlemen smiled and stepped onto the elevator, engrossed in conversation as they closed the cage door.