by Linda Gerber
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
epilogue
NO ESCAPE
Hand in hand we sprinted for the station, arriving out of breath just moments before the train was supposed to leave. The ticket windows were closed so we had to buy our tickets from the machines. It felt like forever that Mom was feeding coins into the slot and another eternity for the machine to print and spit out our tickets. We grabbed them and raced through the turnstile, reaching the train car just as the warning chimes sounded, signaling that the doors were about to close.
The train had already started to move by the time we settled into our seats. I leaned back against the upholstery, silently saying my good-byes to Lyon. Then I noticed Mom’s grip on the armrest tighten and I followed her gaze out the window.
Marlboro Man was running onto the platform. Late. Too late. I smiled at his failure … until it hit me. My ticket. I flipped it over and my heart dropped. Ours was an express train. No stops between Lyon and Paris. He may have missed us, but he would know exactly where we were headed. And when we would get there.
One glance at Mom and I knew she was thinking the same thing.
We were in trouble.
LINDA GERBER’S DEATH BY SERIES
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Death by Latte
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SLEUTH / SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © Linda Gerber, 2009
eISBN : 978-1-101-05263-1
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Acknowledgments
The writing of this book was made possible by the encouragement and support of my family who continue to be my number-one cheerleaders. Thanks, guys!
Also, special thanks to my CPs, Jen, Ginger, Barb, Nicole, Julie, Kate, Karen, and Marsha for their wisdom and patience, and to Davide and Natalie Lorenzi, Jonathan Neve, and Ammi-Joan Paquette for their generous language and translation help.
As always, I am indebted to the fantastic team at Puffin for bringing the book to life. Heartfelt thanks to Angelle Pilkington (welcome to the new addition!), Grace Lee (best of luck with nursing!), and Kristin Gilson (I appreciate the 11th hour save!) for their editorial genius, and to designers Theresa Evangelista and Linda McCarthy for their brilliant cover designs. It’s been my sincere pleasure to work with the best people in the business!
CHAPTER 1
I knew it was just a matter of time before they caught up with us. Knew it every morning as I kissed my mother good-bye and walked out the door. Knew it every afternoon as I rode my bike home from the school in Lyon, France, where I had enrolled under a counterfeit name. Knew it every minute of every day, so it shouldn’t have hit me with such a jolt when I noticed the man following me. But it did.
Part of the shock, I suppose, was the realization that I’d seen him before. Despite all the rules and techniques my mom had tried to drill into my head since we’d slipped underground, his presence hadn’t more than grazed my consciousness before. Looking back, I recognized how often he’d been in shadows or hovering around the periphery of my attention. It wasn’t until he grew bold and walked right past me, though, that all the other sightings registered in my head. Then everything fell into place—thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk—like bars in a cage locking tight.
We’d been out to dinner, my mom and I. It was a beautiful evening with the first promise of summer riding on the breeze, and a sky so clear above us that the stars shone like a million tiny lanterns. We strolled along the Rhône River on our way home, watching the barges glide past, the reflection of their lights stretching across the inky water like shimmering tentacles.
I let my mind wander; I imagined those barges following the river until eventually it emptied into the open sea. How long would it take them to sail from ocean to ocean and finally reach the island I used to call home?
Like before, I was so preoccupied that the man’s presence barely registered. He’d been leaning against the stone retaining wall, smoking. Watching us, I know now. As we neared, he pushed away from the wall and dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with the toe of a snakeskin boot. I’m not sure if it was the movement or the boot that drew my attention. All I know is that I was suddenly very aware of him striding toward us.
As I’d been taught, I made a quick catalog of his features without letting my eyes fully rest on his face. He stood a full head taller than me, broad-shouldered but thin almost to the point of being lanky. Even in the darkness, I could see the leathery texture of his skin, like he’d spent a lot of time in the wind and sun. He reminded me of the kind of rugged outdoorsy types they featured in those old Marlboro cigarette ads.
Mom must have felt me stiffen next to her as he neared because she slipped her arm through mine to propel me forward. “Keep walking,” she whispered. She didn’t have to remind me, though; I knew the drill. Head up, no eye contact. Just. Act. Casual.
I patted her hand and laughed as if she’d said something really clever. Okay, so maybe the pat and the laugh were overkill, but I had to do something to mask the pounding in my chest and the weird catch in my throat as I drew each breath.
The man brushed past me, so close that the sleeve of his denim shirt touched my arm and I could smell the sharp burnt-roofing-tar stench on his breath. The vibration of his snakeskin boots striking the stones so close to my feet seemed to echo run, run, RUN! But even then, I didn’t know exactly why.
It took several steps for the dark, smoky stink to register in my head as familiar. And the boots. I’d seen them before. That’s when it all came flooding back. That’s when I knew.
We’d been found.
To be honest, I was surprised we lasted as long as we did. Despite my very real-looking fake passport and student visa, I
had been sure from the moment my mom and I arrived in France that everyone we met must know we were imposters. We kept to ourselves at home and I didn’t make friends at school, but no one seemed to notice. I was one of the few students who wasn’t boarding there as well and, from the talk I heard in the hallways, they just thought I was a stuck-up American.
By the time we passed the half year mark without incident, I had dared to believe that we might be safe after all. We lived a quiet expat life, me going to a real school instead of taking online classes, and my mom acting like a normal mother instead of a CIA agent. I think we both liked the role-playing reality so much that we wanted it to be true. Little by little, despite the constant training to be vigilant, we began to slip into our faux identities. We began to relax.
Maybe that’s why they waited so long to hunt for us. They must have known that once our guard was down, we’d be easier to catch. Exactly who “they” were, I couldn’t say, except that they worked for a man called The Mole. He was the leader of a sleeper cell who had turned to organized crime to fund his operation. Both my mom and I had gotten in his way at one point or another, and the man held a grudge.
The Mole and his minions remained faceless to me, which made them all the more terrifying; I never knew who to trust. Plus, I had seen what those minions could do. Twice I had watched people die because of them—first a woman named Bianca on our island back home and then Joe, my mom’s CIA partner, in Seattle.
All I could think as the man’s footsteps echoed behind me was that the past had caught up with us. It was starting all over again. And I could be next.
Mom’s fingers pressed into my skin. “Up,” she whispered, steering me toward the stairs that led to street level. We climbed slowly, casually, even as panic swelled in my chest, urging me to move faster.
As we reached the top of the stairs, I could see a night-club about half a block to the left, music and patrons filling the street in front of it. I grabbed my mom and tried to drag her toward the safety of lights and people. It was all I could do not to break into a run, but she held me back.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in a low voice. “Who was that man?”
“I don’t know who he is but I think he—” My throat constricted, pinching off the words. I had to take a breath and start again. “I think he’s following us.”
Her brows shot up. “You’ve seen him before?”
She didn’t have to voice the reprimand behind her words; I knew I should have been more aware. I nodded miserably.
She pressed her lips together and nodded. That was enough for the moment, but I knew I would have to explain once it was over. “Let’s go.”
Even in the balmy night air, my stomach had turned to ice. I focused on the lights of the club and tried not to think about the man behind us. I could feel Mom close behind me and that gave me some comfort, but I still felt as if I had a huge bull’s-eye painted between my shoulders.
As we got closer to the club, the music thrummed so loud that I could literally feel the beat. I had to yell to be heard as I pushed my way through the crowd to the open door. “Pardon. Pardon. Excuse-moi.”
Once inside, I paused to get my bearings. It was one of the rules Mom had drilled into me: Know where the exits are at all times. The problem was, the inside of the club was darker than the night outside, with a confusion of colored lights flashing, twirling, pulsing to the music. I could barely make out the silhouette of chairs and tables and people, let alone the layout of the building. A stairway just inside the door led up to a balcony that overlooked the main room of the club, but I knew better than to take the stairs. Don’t escape up. It wouldn’t do us any good to get trapped on a roof with no way down.
Mom pressed close against my back and pointed toward the rear of the club. I squinted through the darkness and relief flooded over me as I spotted a door beyond the bar. An exit. We wound our way around tables and past a crowded dance floor, the dancers jerking like silent film actors underneath the strobe lights.
Suddenly, a man’s hand grabbed mine and twirled me onto the floor. I reacted on instinct, all those months of self-defense training with my mom switching into autopilot. I yanked my arm up and out, breaking the hold, while at the same time stomping with my heel as hard as I could. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized the man before me was not my pursuer at all, but a much younger guy with brown eyes that widened in surprise—and then pain—as my foot slammed down onto his insole.
“Oh!” I cried. “Je suis désolée!” But I didn’t have time for much more of an apology than that. My mom whisked me away before I could do anything else to draw unwanted attention.
I could hear the dancer guy behind us swearing loudly in French, telling anyone who would listen that I was crazy and that all he had wanted to do was dance with me. I didn’t have time to feel bad about it. Besides, it was his own fault. He should have asked first.
Still, Mom couldn’t resist pressing her cheek close to mine and whispering, “Assess the situation before you act!”
“I know,” I muttered. “I know.”
We reached the back door without further incident and pushed out into a dark alley behind the club. Dirt and age had yellowed the bare bulb above the door so that its weak light barely managed to reach the bottom of the stoop. Shadows swallowed the empty crates and garbage cans beyond. Carefully, we picked our way down the alley to where it intersected the street.
“Now,” Mom said, “why don’t you tell me what—”
“Shh!” I grabbed her arm and pulled her deeper into the shadows, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. My nose filled with the same raw, burning odor I had noticed when the Marlboro Man passed us by the river. “Do you smell that?”
She frowned. “What?” For a moment I wondered if I had been imagining things, but then her lips parted for a quick intake of breath and her eyes grew wide. “French cigarettes,” she whispered. “Cheap ones. Perhaps even hand rolled. Those can be more pungent.”
Side by side, we peered around the corner of the building. Sure enough, Marlboro Man stood not more than three feet away from us, sucking on his cheap cigarette, watching the entrance. I was right; he had been following us.
“Come on,” Mom whispered, and pulled me back down the alley. We slipped down a side street and broke into a full-on run. Looking back, I’m pretty sure my mom had a destination in mind, but all I was thinking about was getting away.
We had gone maybe three or four blocks when Mom slowed to a brisk walk. She scanned the street and then stooped to pick up a loose rock. I thought maybe she was going to try to use it to clobber the Marlboro Man if he came after us, but then we came to a chrome-and-glass phone booth, its flickering fluorescent light casting reverse shadows along the brick sidewalk.
“Keep an eye out,” Mom said, and opened the door to the booth. She stepped inside and swung the rock upward, shattering the light.
I jumped at the sound, but I have to admit I was grateful for the resulting cover of darkness.
Inside the booth, Mom picked up the receiver and punched in a number. I inched forward and nudged the edge of the door with my toe so that it wasn’t closed all the way. The call connected and I could hear the burr of the phone ringing on the other end of the line. A man’s voice answered.
“C’est moi,” Mom said softly. It’s me.
All I heard from the receiver for a long moment was silence, and then the man spoke again. I couldn’t make out the words, but there was no mistaking the tone of the voice—low and urgent.
Mom listened quietly and then nodded, as if the man—whoever he was—could see her head move. “Oui.” She paused again. “Je comprends.” And then she hung up.
I jumped back as she replaced the receiver, even though I was pretty sure she knew I’d been listening. Before turning to face me, she straightened her sagging posture, and then pushed through the door and started walking. “We have to go.”
It took half a second for her words to register. She didn
’t mean go, as in get away from the phone booth; she meant go, as in clear out. Leave town. Immediately. And, though we had been prepared all along for that eventual probability, I suddenly felt lost.
“Our bags …”
“We can’t go back for them,” Mom said, already walking away. I had to run to keep up with her.
A weight settled on my chest as I realized we were going to abandon the Lyon apartment we had lived in for the past seven months. It’s not like we had a lot of memories there, just trappings of our fake lives, but since we’d left everything else behind when we slipped underground, those trappings were all I had. Leaving everything behind was like losing myself all over again.
I started making a mental list of the things I would miss. There wasn’t much; we had made a point of not gathering things that could be used to identify us. We kept no journals, took no photos, we didn’t have an answering machine because we had no phone. But … my heart sank. We had each kept a small bag with a change of clothes, a little bit of cash and extra copies of our fake identification next to the door in the apartment, in case we needed to leave in a hurry. Even those would be lost. Not that our fake IDs would do us any good now that we’d been found, but it felt like the last thread tying me to the past had been severed.
“What now?” I asked. I hated how small and lost my voice sounded.
Mom didn’t even slow her step. “That man on the phone was my contact with the Paris Station. He’ll make new arrangements for us.”
The CIA’s Paris office? I tried not to let my surprise—and concern—show. When we left the States, my mom had taken care of all the details herself because The Mole’s minions had infiltrated the Agency and she wasn’t sure who she could trust.
My silence must have given away my thoughts, because she nudged me with her shoulder. “Hey. Don’t worry.” She tried to sound light and upbeat. “Lévêque will take care of us. We’ll meet with him first thing in the morning. Everything will be fine.” She gave me a smile that I’m sure was supposed to convey confidence, but after so much time together I was getting to know her too well. I’d come to recognize the little twitch at the corner of her mouth as a sign that she was worried.
