“I’m a man of my word.”
“I want to talk to her.”
Brunwald hummed. “After you tell me what you’ve found.”
“Diamonds.”
“Excellent. And where did you found the diamonds.”
“Abandoned at a building site.”
Brunwald hummed. “My men must be loosing their touch. How much do these diamonds weigh?”
Piers sweated. He wasn’t good at guessing weight. “Ten pounds, or thereabouts. They’re sealed in a thick plastic pouch.”
“And where are you now?”
“Put Sidney on.”
Brunwald sighed. There was a long silence finally broken by Sidney’s voice. “Piers?”
“You okay?”
There was a long pause. “Kind of.”
“You’re going to be all right.”
“I’m really sorry, I really am. Don’t do anything stupid. Go to—”
The phone was wrenched away from her, but Piers heard the word “police” before Brunwald came back on.
“Very sweet, but we need to get down to business. Where are you?”
“You know Petit Quai?”
“No.”
“Then get a map and meet me there at 9am.”
“No. We meet now.”
“I need to sleep. Be there at nine. Bring Sidney and have your phone with you.”
“One hint of a problem—”
“Just be there.” Piers hung up. He was sure they had been tracking his calls, and hoped they had got a good fix on his direction. He turned around and sprinted for Terry’s All Time.
Twenty minutes later, sweaty and panting, he arrived at the sad sight of Terry’s twenty-four hour restaurant. The windows were thick with grime and the door had come from a different building and been fitted badly. There was no sign of a blue Citroën parked on the street. Perhaps they had gotten something different. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of someone being deprived of the car, but it was a necessary evil. Perhaps he could make it up to the owners afterward.
Inside, the café was as dark as its windows. At the rear of the room, swing doors led into a kitchen where he could see steam rising from pots on a cooker.
To Piers’ surprise, the café was full. Men talked in muted voices in groups huddled around small tables. Some were dressed in dirty jeans, some were dressed in suits, but none of them looked like hygiene was a top priority in their daily routine. The voices stopped when the badly-fitted door slammed behind him. He gave an uncertain smile to the faces that turned to look over the stranger in their midst, and headed for the counter at the rear of the room. The men drifted back to their conversations, their voices lower and heads closer.
“Over here,” called Large.
Piers turned to see the pair seated behind a pillar, invisible from the door.
He sat down. “Do you have the stuff?”
Little screwed up his face and hissed Piers quiet. “What you trying to do? Make us look like criminals?”
Large nodded. “Need to order first.”
The swing doors crashed and an obese man in a not-recently-washed T-shirt walked out. He pounded straight to their table, pointed at Piers, and looked at Large. “You know?”
Large nodded. “He’s a friend.”
The obese man slapped Piers on the back. “That good.”
Piers coughed as he tried to regain his breath.
The man grunted. “This no charity. You eat?”
Piers nodded and looked vainly for the menu.
The man slapped Piers on the back. “I bring food. You eat. You pay, yes?”
Piers nodded. “Of course.”
“Good.” The man addressed the restaurant. “It is not always that customers pay so easy.” With that he stamped back through the double doors and Piers heard pots and pans clanking.
“Let me guess: Terry?”
“No. Yakof Something-or-other. He’s Russian. Everyone calls him Terry, but Terry was the previous owner. He just hasn’t got round to changing the sign over the door.”
Little raised his eyebrows. “He’s had a busy eighteen years.”
“Charming guy.”
Large shrugged. “Family came here before the wall came down. He refuses to learn the language, but he cooks a good breakfast.”
“Do you have the car?”
Large nodded toward Little. “His car. Parked out back. Blue Citroën. Old, beat-up. I filled it with gas, in case you have to run far.”
“Your car?” Piers said to Little.
Little grunted. “And don’t you forget it. I want it back without a scratch.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You better, Romeo. It’s paid for and I’m not buying another one.”
“What about the other stuff?”
Large leaned forward. “Scuba gear’s in the back. It’s on loan from a friend. Don’t know what you have in mind, but the tank’s full.”
The swing doors crashed and Yakof Something-or-other thumped down a plate and mug of tea in front of Piers. “You English, yes?”
Piers nodded.
The man gestured to the plate. “I make English breakfast. You eat.”
With that, the man started working his way around the other tables, arguing with his customers and demanding payment for meals. How much the meals cost and how many bills were paid seemed to be something of a sport between the man and his patrons.
Piers ate his breakfast. Bacon, eggs, sausages, and toast, all washed down with hot, sweet tea. It was comforting after the stress of the previous twenty-four hours. The grease settled his stomach.
“You do have a plan, don’t you?” Large said.
“Get Brunwald to hand over Sidney before he gets the money.”
Large frowned. “You’ll be expendable once he has the diamonds.”
“I know. I’m going to be on a bridge. When he spots me, I expect he’ll have his men block off the bridge. Once he’s let Sidney go—”
“You’re going to jump in the Seine,” said Large.
“It’s the only way.”
“The Seine stinks,” Little said.
Piers shrugged. “Nothing much I can do about that.”
“The smell isn’t the only thing,” Large said. “The currents can be wicked.”
“I’m going to float downstream. Pont Saint-Michel has a good ladder out of the water.”
“Wait a minute,” Little said. “You’re going to be dressed in scuba gear and hoping that Brunwald doesn’t notice? You’re nuts.”
Piers flapped his coat. “I’ll cover it with this.”
“And the flippers?”
Piers shrugged.
“You’ve got guts, kid.” Large said.
“Let’s just hope we don’t have to wash them off the sidewalk,” muttered Little.
Large glowered at him before turning back to Piers “What can we do?”
Piers gave a flat smile. “Call the police.”
“That’s all?”
Piers raised his eyebrows. “Well …”
Chapter 29
Brunwald stared at the map while Kuznik stood at attention beside him. Petit Quai was just as its name suggested. If Piers wanted to meet there, he clearly intended to pick up the girl by boat. It was an exposed position, lots of on lookers. It didn’t make it any more difficult to take the snit out, but the getaway would be more complex. He briefly considered a boat, but discounted it as he ran his fingers over the many bridges between the banks and the island Notre Dame was built on.
He tapped his finger on the map. “Here and here. Either side of the river. You’ll have a good view of the handover point.”
“Want me to put one in him to start?”
Brunwald smiled. “You read my mind. Nothing life-threatening until after the handover. Just make sure he knows we mean business.”
“No problem.”
“Once we have the diamonds, take him out.”
“And the girl?”
“Her t
oo. We don’t want anyone left knowing we were here.”
Kuznik gave a mirthless smile. “Trust me, it’ll be my pleasure after listening to that bitch all night.”
Brunwald straightened up. “And when we have the diamonds?”
“Straight to the airfield.”
“And the men?”
“They take the first plane. We take the second.”
Brunwald raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Kuznik tapped his phone. “Twenty pounds of C4. Already in the hold of their aircraft. One call is all it takes. All we have to do is decide when to get rid of them.”
Brunwald smiled and nodded. “You’re a good man. This time tomorrow you and I will be rich Argentineans. Just make sure things go by the book.”
Chapter 30
At four-thirty, Piers parked the blue Citroën on Petit Quai. He reversed it into the narrow space, ready for a quick getaway, and took a large duffel from the trunk. He rapped on the windows and heard a rat-a-tat reply. Satisfied, he locked the car, placed the keys under a rock beside the driver’s side door, and walked along the embankment road to Pont au Double.
He looked over the bridge. The narrow ledge looked even smaller as he contemplated jumping onto it with the heavy bag. He waited until a man with a dog left the bridge, then rolled over the wall. He gripped hard as he lowered his feet to the ledge, but it was still a six-foot drop. He shuffled the bag tighter onto his shoulder, held his breath, and let go.
His heart made one single, colossal beat, and his hands scraped the centuries-old stone before his feet smacked on the ledge. He grabbed at the support, and shoved his face against the stone, forcing his center of gravity inward to stop him from toppling into the water. The bag rocked on his back until he stretched his shoulders and dampened its motion.
He shuffled underneath the arch of the bridge where the ledge widened. Holding onto an iron pipe that stuck out from the wall, he lowered the duffel to the ground and slipped off his coat. With frequent curses, he managed to get the oxygen tank onto his back. He tucked the mouthpiece over his shoulder and into his shirt, out of sight but within easy reach. His coat barely covered the tank, but as he pulled it around he convinced himself that it would look like a badly-fitting jacket. He shuffled out of his shoes with ease, but lost one of the flippers in the water as he tried to put them on. Satisfied he was ready, he huddled down on the ledge and waited.
As dawn broke, the chatter of pedestrians joined the rumble of cars and lorries. He checked his phone and used the GPS coordinates to create a list of commands for the cranes. At eight o’clock, he saw Kuznik on the left bank, studying the bridge with binoculars. Piers buried his face between his knees. He knew his coat looked like crap and he probably did, too. With luck, the man would assume he was a tramp sleeping off a night’s drinking. He didn’t dare check for several minutes, and when he did glance back in the man’s direction, he’d gone.
At five minutes to nine, a man walked down onto Petit Quai. He checked over the blue Citroën and tried the doors before making a phone call. Thirty seconds later, Brunwald’s black Mercedes swept onto Petit Quai.
Piers heart raced. A wave of heat swept over him. His shirt stuck to his skin. He wiped his hands on his coat. It was show time. All he had to do was follow his plan. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. If this went wrong, Sidney would pay with her life. The air seemed to leave his body and leave his legs weak.
He took a deep breath and checked his phone one last time. A button labeled “Collect Payloads” glowed. He pressed it. The button flashed “Collecting (2) Payloads … Stand By,” and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed movement high above.
His heart thumped and he took deep breaths, oxygenating his body and trying to calm his nerves. If he could get Sidney away from Brunwald and his men, then things would be all right. But it was a big if.
He took one last deep breath and stood up. A man on the opposite bank turned toward him. A moment later the man on Petit Quai turned in his direction, too. Piers swallowed. Obviously, they had radios.
Piers dialed Brunwald. He answered on the first ring. “Don’t do anything stupid, my friend. I still have your girl.”
“Don’t you do anything stupid either.” Piers took the bag of diamonds from his inside pocket and held it at arm’s length, out over the Seine. “Tell your goons to back off. You shoot me and the diamonds disappear forever.”
Piers saw the man on Petit Quai cover his mouth and talk into a microphone. The man on the opposite bank held his hands up, then laid them on the embankment wall.
“Good,” Piers said. “Now let her go.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you have a man on either side of this bridge. Let her go and they can walk over here and take the diamonds, easy as that.”
Piers waited thirty seconds and was about to speak again, when the rear door of the Mercedes opened. Sidney got out along with a man holding her by the arm.
“Tell her to take the car. The key’s under a rock by the door.” Piers said.
Piers heard Brunwald’s curt orders drift over the water. The man marched Sidney to the car and let her go. She picked up the key and unlocked the door.
Piers hit the second button on his phone’s screen. The words “Delivering (1) Payload … Stand By” flashed. He forced himself not to look over to the giant cranes, but in his peripheral vision he caught something large and yellow, moving fast.
Sidney started the car with a lot of grinding noises from the starter motor. The man on Petit Quai pointed a gun into the car.
Piers swallowed. “Don’t do anything stupid or I drop them.”
“You wouldn’t make it off that bridge alive,” Brunwald said.
“And you wouldn’t have the diamonds.” Piers shook the bag at arms length over the water.
There was a long silence, then the man lowered his gun. Sidney revved the car. The engine screamed and screamed. Piers eyes fixated on the Citroën. Why wasn’t it moving? Shit. It’d been fine when he drove it. The engine revs dropped. “Just get out and walk,” he whispered. “Just go, go.” He wiped his forehead. The engine revs started again, this time the car shot forward, up the slope, and screeched to a halt at the embankment road. The man on the quay ran after her, pulling out his gun. Piers willed her on as he saw more yellow filling the sky. To his horror, the car raced backward. The man barely moved before the Citroën hit him. He tumbled over the trunk, rolled off, and down the slope. Then with a squealing of tires and a blaring of horns, Sidney lurched out into the traffic on the embankment road.
Yes! Piers bounced on his toes. Yes, yes! She’d made it. She was free from Brunwald and his goons. They might try to go after her, but he was prepared for that. He wanted to punch the air, but instead he pushed the third button on his phone, and the words “Delivering (1) Payload … Stand By” flashed in red.
He heard scrabbling noises from the top of the bridge.
Pain erupted in his leg. He collapsed to his knees, grunting. A storm of stone chips exploded around him.
He dropped his phone to grab his leg. There was blood on his pants and his thigh burned like hell. He bit down on his cheek. From the corner of his eye, he saw a yellow blur moving fast. Above him he saw boots dangling over the bridge.
He had to go. His leg howled in protest, but he shuffled to the water’s edge.
There was yelling from Petit Quai. He glimpsed the crane holding the giant yellow dumpster twenty feet above Brunwald’s Mercedes. The crane executed the last of his instructions, and released its payload. There was a yellow blur and the dumpster smashed into the engine compartment of Brunwald’s Mercedes. The car twisted around under the weight. One of the front wheels sheared off and bounced into the Seine.
In front of him, a very black suit followed the boots, and Kuznik dropped onto the ledge in front of Piers. The man’s massive shoulders filled the narrow walkway. Piers shoved the bag of diamonds into his coat, and rolled into the Seine as Kuznik
leapt forward, his arms outstretched.
Piers felt the ice-cold water grip him like a metal band around his lungs. The burning pain in his leg was blotted out by the paralyzing cold. He snatched for the mouthpiece to his oxygen tank. His knees scraped against the stone bridge. He kicked with his legs, but couldn’t move them. Pain seared through his wound and he felt himself being lifted out of the water. He grabbed at the slippery rocks under the waterline, but in a moment he was crashing onto the narrow ledge.
Kuznik swung his boot into Piers’ stomach. He felt as if a spear had been driven right through him. He doubled up, choking and gasping for breath. Bright lights danced in his vision and he squeezed his stomach with his arms to numb the pain.
He felt himself being lifted up by the lapels of his coat. He dodged left in time to blunt a blow to the face. He grabbed Kuznik’s arm, but the man wrenched it back, throwing Piers to the ground. Kuznik pulled a knife and Piers scrabbled backward, deeper under the bridge. His coat caught under his hands, and he fought to stop falling onto his back. Kuznik reversed the knife in his hands and stepped forward. Piers heard the water lapping under the bridge. He was right beside it, but if he jumped, Kuznik would surely come after him. If he was going to escape the man, he had to stop him first.
Piers wrenched off his coat and whipped it around across the front of the Kuznik. The man stepped forward, slashing the coat into jagged halves with one sweep of his knife. Piers slid one arm out of the oxygen bottle’s harness and flipped the bottle around his front. Kuznik lunged forward. Piers brought his knee up, lifting the bottle into the man’s face. The impact felt like part slap, part crunch, but the man’s long arms stretched around it. Piers felt a light flick that built to a fire raging across his chest.
Kuznik grunted, rammed the bottle back at Piers, and slashed again. Piers dodged the blade by inches. His chest hurt like hell, but he swung the bottle from his other shoulder, freeing himself from the harness. Kuznik smashed his fists down on the bottle, ripping it from Piers’ hands, and drove it, top-first, into the centuries-old stone of the bridge. There was a tearing of metal and a brief hiss, followed by a screaming roar. Kuznik didn’t even move. Jet propelled by the gas pressure, the bottle smashed into his groin, doubling him over in an instant. He roared and slashed out. Piers grabbed the bottle’s harness, sweeping it behind him, over his head, and down onto the giant’s back. Kuznik grunted hard and dropped to his knees. He slashed at Piers’ ankles. Piers leapt backward and swung the bottle again, aiming for the man’s side. Kuznik brought his arm up to protect himself, but the momentum was too much. The bottle hammered into his forearm with a sickening crack. Kuznik roared and sank to the floor, his forearm unnaturally bent. Piers threw the bottle down on the man’s groin, grabbed the bag of diamonds, and leapt from the ledge.
Paris Love Match Page 18
