Philippe slams his book shut. His hands are trembling. His face is red. Glaring up at me, he says, “That’s right. The man is untouchable.”
“Nobody’s untouchable.”
“Why do you care anyway?”
“I’m just curious.”
Philippe continues to glare back at me. A long moment passes. Finally he takes a breath, shakes his head, and opens his book.
I leave him and slip into the bedroom with the cots. Both Nova and Reed are asleep, their snoring loud. Fucking great.
I lie down anyway. I stare at the ceiling. I try not to think about anything. I try to clear my mind. But somehow Karen slips into that empty void.
And then I’m asleep and dreaming and back in Iraq. Karen has already killed herself. I’m left with what she told me. I’ve already talked to my father. I’ve made my decision. And then I’m waiting in the porta potty, just waiting, and when I open the door I suddenly stop because it’s not the monster I am expecting.
No, this is a completely different monster.
My father smiles and says, Surprise.
34
“She’s on the move.”
These are the very first words I’ve heard Boris speak, and as they come across the radio his heavy Russian accent is unmistakable.
Next is Philippe’s voice: “Reed, do you have a visual?”
“Affirmative.”
Nova is with Reed in a car parked two blocks down from Delano’s mansion. Boris is still on the top of the building across the street. I’m nowhere close but still I can visualize it in my mind: Boris peering over the roof with binoculars, keeping Alayna Gramont and her entourage of guards in sight as they get into a car. The car will be something flashy, just like the mansion, if not a limo than maybe a Bentley. Once she is inside the car with her guards, they will be on the move. It’s eleven-thirty and the buy is supposed to be in a half hour. Reed and Nova will follow in their car for at least three or four blocks, depending on Gramont’s direction, then they will pass it off to either Philippe or Boylan and myself.
Boris: “They’re getting into a black Mercedes SUV.”
Damn, I was somewhat close.
Boylan hasn’t spoken the entire hour we’ve been in the car. Just like his counterpart, he has broad shoulders and a strong face. In fact, they could be brothers if it wasn’t for Boylan’s reddish hair and green eyes.
Reed’s voice comes through the radio: “They’ve just turned onto Boulevard de Grenelle, headed southeast.”
“Keep on them,” Philippe says. “Boylan, get ready.”
Philippe is positioned ten blocks to the north, while we’re positioned ten blocks to the south. At Philippe’s word Boylan starts the engine, glances once over his shoulder, and shoots us out into traffic.
Philippe: “Reed, status.”
“They’re taking their time, definitely in no hurry. Right now we’re turning onto Boulevard Pasteur.”
“Boylan?”
“Almost there,” Boylan says beside me. His hands are tight around the steering wheel as he maneuvers us around a slower moving vehicle. Buildings and parked cars and pedestrians whip past us. I want to tell him to slow down but this isn’t my show; Nova and I are along for the ride, here just in case additional backup is needed.
Speeding past a hospital, Boylan says, “We’re coming up on the corner of Rue de Vaugirard and Boulevard Pasteur. Reed, your location?”
“Still headed down Pasteur. The target appears to be turning left onto Vaugirard.”
“When?”
“Less than ten seconds.”
Thankfully the light changes at the intersection and we’re forced to stop. As people cross in front of us we watch the cars turning left onto Vaugirard. We both make the black Mercedes SUV as it turns. Philippe and Nova continue down Pasteur. I see Nova in the passenger seat, making a furtive glance our way.
Reed: “They’re all yours.”
“Copy,” Boylan says, and once the light changes he presses down on the gas and we shoot through the intersection.
The SUV hasn’t gotten far in the time the light cost us. We catch up to it within seconds, then follow as it makes the turn onto Avenue du Maine.
Philippe: “Boylan, your location?”
“Headed south down du Maine.”
“Copy that.”
Right now Philippe is speeding through the city, headed in our direction. Reed and Nova have fallen back but are keeping pace a block or two away.
After a couple blocks Philippe has managed to catch up and he takes over the tail as we turn off. Philippe follows them the entire way down the Boulevard Saint-Jacques until they come to Place d’Italie.
“Shit,” Philippe mutters in all of our earpieces.
Place d’Italie is a traffic circle that interconnects eight streets. At least this is what Boylan quickly tells me.
Philippe: “The SUV’s stopping.”
By now our car and Reed and Nova’s car have converged on the location. We’re just within a block.
Philippe: “Gramont is exiting the vehicle with two bodyguards. They’re headed toward the fountain.”
Beside me, Boylan murmurs a curse. He shakes his head. When I give him a questioning look, he says, “They’re hiding in plain sight.”
35
Alayna Gramont stands with her back to the fountain, watching traffic. She wears one of her smart pantsuits today, something that probably costs half a year’s rent for me. Her blond hair is pulled up in a French braid, which I think is a little too cliché. Because it’s almost noon and it’s clear and sunny, she wears designer sunglasses, probably worth more than my car.
Beside her are two of her guards, both dressed in suits, both wearing shades. Even though I can’t see weapons on them, I know they’re packing.
Alayna stands completely straight with her hands clasped in front of her. She holds onto a briefcase. In that briefcase, presumably, is the code.
I’m positioned on the southern end of the circle, Nova on the northern end. Reed dropped him off just as Boylan dropped me off. After all, we couldn’t keep circling around the fountain until the buyer made his move. So here we are, each at separate spots, and trying our best to blend in with the rest of the people walking the streets.
Only it’s hard to blend in when you’re stationary.
Because Alayna might be on the look out for me, I’m wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Philippe’s voice sounds in my earpiece: “Anything yet?”
Nova responds. “Nothing.”
That’s right. For fifteen minutes now nothing has happened. She’s just been standing there, holding that briefcase, watching the traffic. If she was the target and all that was needed was her assassination, the job would already be done. Leaving herself out in the open like this, completely vulnerable, all someone would need to do is drive around the circle, lean out, place two in her head. Or take a position on one of the rooftops with a sniper rifle.
But Alayna knows she’s in no danger. The target is not her life, but rather the code she has inside the briefcase.
Another five minutes pass and still nothing. Philippe and Reed and Boylan have all parked somewhere close, or are circling around a nearby block. If something goes down, they’ll be here in less than thirty seconds. Which, when you think about it, is an eternity.
Nova clears his throat: “I’ve got movement.”
I step closer, squint my eyes. From my position a few trees by the fountain are in my way. But yes, I can see someone approaching Alayna Gramont and her pair of guards. Someone small, someone that looks like ...
“It’s a kid,” I say.
Philippe: “Repeat?”
Nova: “Holly’s right. A boy, no older than ten, is approaching the target.”
The kid is dressed in baggy jeans and an extra large T-shirt that drapes down to his knees. He has on a red baseball cap that’s tilted toward the side. He looks like a punk, like a poser, and it makes no sense why he’s approaching A
layna now, or why Alayna turns to him and slowly nods.
The two guards haven’t moved at all. They watch the boy who stands only a couple feet away, saying something.
Philippe: “What’s happening?”
Nova: “The target and the boy are talking.”
“Repeat?”
“It looks like they’re having a fucking conversation.”
The boy turns away slightly, jerks his thumb at something over his shoulder. Alayna nods. She speaks. She steps closer, extends her hand, and fuck me if the boy doesn’t take it and they shake like they’re finishing a business transaction. Then all of a sudden the briefcase is in the boy’s possession and he’s turning away and walking quickly toward the metro entrance.
“The briefcase has switched hands,” Nova says. “I repeat: the briefcase has switched hands.”
Alayna Gramont and her two guards have turned away. They now walk to the edge of the circle, where the black Mercedes SUV suddenly pulls up. One of the guards opens the back door. Alayna disappears inside. Then the two guards climb in and the door is closed and the SUV screeches away.
The boy has already disappeared down into the station entrance.
I’m moving before I even know it. Tires screech. Horns blare. People shout. I barely notice as I sprint across the street toward the circle, toward the metro entrance. I can see Nova on the other side, doing the very same thing.
“I’m headed after the second target,” I say to no one in particular, because I’m certain right now all three cars are speeding toward this location right this instant.
I have to fight past people coming up the steps. I reach into my pocket for the few Euros Philippe provided me. I feed them into the machine and get my ticket. I hurry through the turnstile without even glancing back to see if Nova is keeping up.
The platforms are packed. People everywhere, but I can’t see the boy in the red cap. I hurry as inconspicuously as I can, weaving in and out of people, looking for him.
In my ear Nova says, “Holly, do you see him?”
I don’t answer. I just keep walking, keep looking. Thinking that maybe he’s hiding somewhere. Thinking that maybe he’s passed the briefcase off to somebody else.
Then I spot him.
Standing thirty yards away, right on the edge of the platform for the M6 train. Holding the briefcase in his hand like it belongs to him. Just standing there, waiting along with everyone else. He’s tapping his shoe, bouncing his head, and it’s not until I get closer do I see he’s wearing earphones.
“I’ve got him,” I say, just as somewhere down the tunnel is the sound of the approaching train.
Philippe: “Do not lose him.”
No shit, I think but don’t say. Instead I turn toward the platform, waiting for the train. Keeping a visual of the boy from the corner of my eye.
The train arrives. The doors open and people pile out, then the crowd on the platform piles in. I pause to make sure the boy heads into this train—he’s two cars down—and he does. I consider heading in that direction, maybe slipping into his car in case there’s someone waiting there for him, but then there’s a ding and an electronic voice speaks in French and I hurry into the car in front of me.
The doors shut. The train starts to move.
A crackle sounds in my ear, probably Philippe, but because of the thick concrete all I hear is static.
The train makes a stop at Nationale. I get off along with everyone else, keeping an eye out in case the boy appears. He doesn’t, so I slip into the next car.
As the doors close and the train starts moving again, Nova speaks.
“You still have him?”
This car is full of people. I don’t want to look like a complete whack, so I turn away and say yes into my shoulder, hoping it’s enough for Nova to hear.
“Holly, do you still have him?”
I decide to ignore him and wait for the train to stop again. This time it’s at Chevaleret.
I get out along with a few other people, keeping an eye on the boy’s car. He doesn’t appear. A sinking feeling hits me and I start to take a step toward it when someone grabs my shoulder. I turn back around, already reaching for my weapon, but stop when I see it’s Nova.
“Where’s the boy?” he says.
I turn away from him and hurry to the next car. I make it in time before the doors close. Nova doesn’t. He smacks the glass as the train pulls away. I turn around and take a deep breath, like I just ran to catch it in time. Nobody looks at me. Not even the boy, sitting over in the corner of the car, the briefcase between his legs. He’s still bouncing his head to the music, completely oblivious. He doesn’t even seem to know anybody’s around him until the train starts to slow again and then he stands up and starts toward the door.
He leaves the briefcase.
This stop is the Quai de la Gare. Almost everyone gets off, including the boy. He just walks right past me, bouncing his head, lost in the music. I consider grabbing him but then realize it’s just me and that the main objective here is the briefcase.
I let him go untouched, then turn around. Stare at the briefcase. Maybe it’s left for someone else here on this train. Maybe someone will be coming on the next stop to pick it up. But that doesn’t make sense, because right now it’s open game and anybody can take it.
Shit, I think, I’m anybody, so I start over to where he was sitting. I sit down. I look around, see nobody watching me. I lean forward, pick up the briefcase.
Thinking good, finally, the code is secure.
Then thinking, shit, what if it’s a bomb?
What I should do is wait for the next stop, get off the train, go to the surface, and try to hail Philippe.
What I should do is leave the briefcase alone until everyone else is there.
I consider it, I really do, but then I set the briefcase down on my lap. I undo the clasps. Then, as the train streaks through the tunnel toward yet another station, I open the case to see what’s inside.
36
A flash drive.
This is what is inside the briefcase, protected by foam padding. Just like the one Roland Delano had hanging around his neck, only this is silver.
Philippe asks, “Shall we see what secrets this holds?”
We’re all standing in the main living area, everyone except Boris who is still on the rooftop watching the mansion. Apparently after leaving Place d’Italie Alayna Gramont returned home with her guards. She hasn’t left since.
Philippe takes the flash drive from the briefcase and carries it into the bedroom with the tables and computers. He sits down at one of the computers. He takes off the flash drive’s cap, reaches behind the computer. It takes him a couple seconds, but then he has the flash drive inserted.
And like that, the screen starts to flicker.
Nova steps forward. “What the hell?”
The flickering gets worse.
“Pull it out,” I say.
The flickering is a hodgepodge of a million scattered pixels swirling about.
“Pull it out!”
Philippe reaches behind the computer, jerks the flash drive out. But it’s already too late. Whatever virus installed on the flash drive has already stormed its way into the computer, conquering data boards and chips and whatever else, corrupting everything. And on the screen the flickering scattered pixels begin pausing in place, dots filling black, until an image starts to form.
Seconds later the image is complete.
A security camera shot taken from the Bellagio, showing me in my schoolgirl outfit. The image is a little fuzzy because of the angle and my body movement—I must have been running at that point—but still there is a good shot of my face.
A couple seconds of silence passes. Philippe still has the flash drive in his hand. He looks down at it. Looks at the screen. Looks up at me.
Suddenly my image fades away, replaced by another image: a gigantic mushroom cloud, frozen in time as it works to rise higher and higher into the sky.
St
ill more silence.
Then, materializing over the mushroom cloud, these four words:
THE CLOCK IS TICKING.
37
Because Nova and I are responsible for Roland Delano’s demise, Philippe, Reed, and Boylan take turns buying us drinks.
We sit in the back corner of some bar in the southern part of the city. It’s what Philippe calls a “safe place.”
When the fourth round comes, Philippe holds up his beer and says, “To Holly and Nova!”
Reed and Boylan repeat and we all clink glasses, take large gulps of the beer. I’m feeling a little toasty but that’s okay. The soonest Walter can get us out of Paris is at ten o’clock tonight. When he learned we’d gotten the runaround, he decided to stop wasting our time and bring us back home. Our flight is another cargo jet leaving from the same airstrip in which I entered the country. I’m not looking forward to it but at least now I know what to expect.
Nova had asked me earlier if I feel okay about what was on the flash drive—which did in fact destroy the entire hard drive of the computer. I had just shrugged and told him I felt fine. But it was a lie. I do feel uneasy. Not that my image appeared on the screen along with that frozen mushroom cloud and those words, but the fact that Alayna Gramont or whoever else made the virus knew that I would be involved and would see the message. After all, it was a message for me, wasn’t it?
Then again, maybe I’m over-thinking it. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Yes, they included my image, but that’s simply because I was responsible for eliminating Delano. There was no possible way Gramont or whoever knew I would be involved in the surveillance of the code buy. Right?
“Holly?”
I blink, look up to see Reed smiling back at me. Both he and Boylan have definitely relaxed over the past six or seven hours. No longer the uptight agents who never smile, now alcohol has done its magic and helped them loosen up.
No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Page 13
