ZAC FORCED HIMSELF to walk normally as the two police cars sped closer. He lowered his head slightly and hoped the rain would obscure his features. A moment later the two cars flew past in a shroud of mist and noise. His heart was pounding. He didn’t know if it was from exertion, fear, or his growing suspicion that Genevieve might be dead. He would never forgive himself if he’d led Arzaman straight to her. His imagination ran wild with the torture she’d suffered before her death.
He walked faster toward the Marseille waterfront, scanning the streets for a telephone. With his long hair and the open-necked suit he’d taken from the man at the hotel, Zac already resembled half of the men in the South of France, but he paid a street vendor ten euros for a pair of knockoff Prada sunglasses as he neared the densely populated Old Port neighborhood.
The port itself was dedicated to pleasure yachts now, and the area was filled with open-air cafés and restaurants. Even in the off-season, there were a fair number of tourists roaming around. Across the road were several upscale hotels where he could get off the street and find another phone.
The Hôtel de L’Opéra was the closest. Leaded windows and Corinthian columns adorned the five-story building, but the staid architecture was in stark contrast to the chaos unfolding out front. The harried staff was helping a long line of arriving guests unload and park their cars. The clientele looked older and well-heeled, arriving in big BMW and Mercedes sedans.
Zac spotted a telephone on the valet stand and walked over. He asked one of the valets in French if he could use the phone and the valet just shrugged, too busy to care. Zac dialed the last number he’d gotten for G. Marchand in Paris.
“Allo.”
He recognized her voice immediately.
“Thank God you’re OK,” Zac blurted out in English.
The line went dead. Zac stared at the phone.
Well, I can’t say I blame her.
A few seconds later the phone on the valet stand rang and Zac picked it up.
“Zac?” It was Genevieve.
“Yes,” was all he could manage.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “You were saying . . .”
“I just found out that something horrible happened, and I . . . I was afraid it happened to you.”
“That’s a strange comment,” she said.
“It’s been a strange few weeks. I’m sorry. I just had to call and make sure you’re all right.”
“I know what happened, Zac. It’s been on the news. The police are looking for you.”
“I thought when the line went dead just now, it was on purpose. I was surprised you called back.”
“I know we’ve just met, but I think I know you well. I also know that you were with me for lunch right before you left Paris. The timing strikes me as implausible.”
Zac hadn’t expected her to be so understanding. He’d called only to hear her voice and reassure himself that he hadn’t caused her death.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“I’m in Marseille, trying to figure out how to get back to London without any identification, although I couldn’t travel under my real name even if I had it.”
“I can be there in seven hours.”
“That’s incredibly generous, but I don’t want to put you in any danger. I can do this myself.”
“Let me help you. Don’t be such a cowboy.”
Zac smirked. It was the quintessential European stereotype of an American man. He thought about her offer as he watched the mayhem in front of the hotel worsen with the approach of the dinner hour.
“Genevieve, what if I could drive halfway? Where would that be?”
“Well . . . Mâcon is just about in the middle. Why?”
“Meet me there.”
Genevieve described the car she’d be driving and told him when and where to meet her before hanging up.
Zac had been watching the hotel staff and the guests while he’d been on the phone. The already busy valets were now backed up with more cars than they could handle. An older couple pulled up, unnoticed by the valets. A bellhop removed a pair of suitcases from the late-model Peugeot and accompanied its owners inside, leaving the running car unattended. Zac casually walked over and slid into the driver’s seat. As he pulled away, the scene in the rearview mirror was just as it had been a few minutes before, but he was one step closer to home.
He turned onto a main road and put some distance between himself and the hotel. After a few miles he pulled into a parking space and searched the car’s navigation system for the service area north of Mâcon where Genevieve had suggested they meet. It would be a three-and-a-half-hour drive. He pulled out of the space and was on the highway in less than five minutes. Traffic on the A7 Autoroute was moving smoothly at the 130 kph speed limit.
The Peugeot was a comfortable cruiser and, despite some nighttime construction, Zac made good time as he headed north. He tensed each time he drove through a toll plaza. If the car had already been reported stolen, the electronic toll collection system might flag his license plate and earn him an unwanted police escort.
After an hour on the road his exhaustion and the monotony of the highway miles caught up with him and he began to nod off. Lighted road signs beckoned tired drivers to rest, but Zac ignored them and kept pushing forward. He was early for their rendezvous when he finally pulled into the service area.
He parked in the busiest part of the lot and rubbed his hands together for warmth as he walked to the service bridge that spanned the north and southbound lanes. The smell overwhelmed him the moment he stepped inside, though it wasn’t the odor he usually associated with weary travelers and highway food. It was the aroma of pastries, grilled meats, and freshly brewed coffee. He went to the café and treated himself to a double-serving of crêpes and a cup of strong coffee. He could get used to life in France if he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of it in prison.
Though his appearance had changed dramatically, Zac decided to wait in the car on the off chance that someone recognized him from the news reports about the murder. He walked back through the half-empty rows of parked cars and was nearly to the Peugeot when two motorcycle cops atop faired BMWs turned in his direction. He hesitated for a second, then lowered his head and kept walking. The officers’ eyes were invisible behind their Plexiglas face masks, but one of them spoke into his radio as they passed by.
Seconds later, Zac heard the bikes make a U-turn and begin to accelerate. He walked faster. Flashing blue lights reflected off a nearby car. The cops were fifty feet behind him when they hit their sirens.
Zac darted behind a parked car and ran to the Peugeot. The motorcycles would have to take the long way around the end of the row of cars to catch him. The mounted duo raced toward the end of the parking lot as Zac fumbled with the car key.
But instead of turning left as he’d assumed, the motorcycles turned right, toward the A7. If they blocked the entrance to the highway, he was finished. He wasn’t going to run down two policemen with his car. But the lights kept flashing and the sirens kept blaring as the motorcycles crossed the median and turned onto the southbound side of the highway. Zac watched the cops disappear into the traffic, their sirens drowned out by the noise of the northbound lanes. It wasn’t Zac they were after.
At least not this time.
He decided that waiting in the stolen Peugeot wasn’t the greatest idea after all, so he wiped his fingerprints off the car and walked across the bridge to his meeting spot on the southbound side. He sat in the dark and digested his first decent meal since passing through the Suez Canal.
Ten minutes later a black Mercedes-AMG sedan downshifted and pulled to the curb. Genevieve lowered her window halfway and made eye contact with Zac. He climbed into the passenger seat and she immediately checked her mirrors.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable doing this?” he asked.
She glanced at him, her expression inscrutable, and accelerated quickly onto the southbound ramp. “There’s a jacket from the Paris Saint-Germain Football Club in the backseat. Put it on.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. He gazed at her as she drove. The dim light of the highway accentuated her dark eyes and the delicate curves of her face. Her long hair fell casually over her shoulders. He even studied her slender hand and fingers as she worked the gear shift.
“Were you in prison?”
“No,” Zac said as he checked the passenger-side mirror. “But that could change any second. Why?”
“You’re staring at me like a man who just got out of prison. Try talking to me . . .”
She smirked and Zac relaxed again. “I’m sorry. I’m just really happy to see you and I can barely believe that you trust me enough to help.”
“Zac, if I thought there was the remotest possibility that you were a murderer, I would not have come.”
“I appreciate that. Why are you so sure that I’m not a killer? We don’t know each other that well yet.”
“I think we know each other better than we let on. And I said I didn’t think that you’re a murderer,” she said as she wove the car through traffic.
Something beeped inside the car and Genevieve slowed.
“What was that?” Zac asked.
“Radar detector. There’s probably a speed camera up here.”
“I thought radar detectors were illegal in France.”
“So is speeding.”
“I’m just thinking you might not want to get stopped with me in the car.”
Genevieve looked at Zac, her full lips slightly pursed. She tilted her head to one side and her dark hair fell across her face. She spoke in a sultry voice.
“I am very sorry, Officer. The car is so powerful, I can barely control myself when I’m inside it.”
Zac smiled.
“I haven’t had a ticket in years,” she said with a laugh as she exited the highway and reentered on the northbound side.
“Maybe no tickets, but I’d frisk the hell out of you if I were a cop.”
“Mmm . . . maybe later. So where have you been the past few weeks?”
Zac weighed things over in his mind for a few seconds before answering. “I’m sorry. I can’t say. I know that makes me sound guilty, but I’m not going to lie to you.”
“I have an idea. Let’s stop with the games. I know what you do and you know what I do, so can we speak to each other like adults?”
Zac sat in silence.
Genevieve continued, “You’re not a technology consultant and I’m not with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Can you at least admit that? For heaven’s sake, we met at a NATO conference in Brussels and then again at the Jane’s defense and security conference in London. The only people at those meetings who are who they claim to be are the people in uniform. I work for DGSE and you work for one of the twenty U.S. intelligence agencies.”
Zac smiled. “CIA,” he said.
“Thank you for trusting me the way I trust you. I was almost sure before our lunch in Paris, but after it, I was convinced. You went from trying to seduce me to leaving for the Gare du Nord in ten minutes. That’s not how normal men operate.”
“Maybe I remembered that I had tickets for the Manchester United game that afternoon.”
“Nice try. It’s also the reason I didn’t go to the police about the murder in Paris. It would have led to too many questions about who we are and how we know each other. I also thought it was very likely that you were on company business and the victim wasn’t who they said she was.”
“I don’t know anything about her. I think I’m being framed to keep me underground. With this over my head I can’t go to the police.”
“That explains Singapore.”
“What happened in Singapore?” Zac looked over at Genevieve.
“You don’t know . . . I’m sorry. It was the same thing, another young prostitute and a great deal of evidence pointing to you. Whoever did this wanted you boxed in in both hemispheres.”
Zac slammed his fist against the dashboard. Over the next hour he told Genevieve in broad terms how he’d been in the Middle East and made his way back on his own. He explained how some “confusion” within CIA was causing him problems and how he needed to finish the last leg of his journey back to London on his own. They discussed putting him on a flight, or the Eurostar train, but decided that public transportation would be impossible without proper identification, and going to DGSE would probably land him in jail. Zac told her how he was planning to steal a boat to cross the English Channel. They discussed his plan and she approved, suggesting that he leave from the coastal town of Dieppe, which had a large marina without the heavy security of a major port city like Calais. They were silent for barely three minutes when Zac fell asleep in the passenger seat. When he awoke, they were pulling into a quiet alley.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“My parents’ town house. You need rest and a change of clothes. We’ll leave in the morning.”
“I need to get to the coast tonight. Please, let’s keep going. I can drive if you’re tired.”
“It’s already midnight, Zac. It’s two more hours to Dieppe, and you still have to find a boat and supplies. It’s a quiet city in the winter. Any activity in the middle of the night will attract attention. Come inside and get some sleep.”
She backed into a parking space and unlocked the doors. In a minute they were standing in the town house’s marble-tiled foyer. Zac admired the antiques and original works of art.
“Nice place, but why are we here?” he asked.
“Because my parents are traveling and I’m under surveillance.”
“What?!” Zac peered at the street through the sidelights. “Why didn’t you tell me . . .”
“Relax, Zac. This is the world I move in. At first I thought it was related to my work, but when I got your call it suddenly occurred to me that it might have to do with you. That’s why I hung up on you earlier when you called. I called you back on my secure DGSE phone. The police judiciare can’t break it. I’m sure your NSA can, but you’ll be long gone before they do.”
“What about your car?”
Genevieve gave him a patient smile.
“It’s my brother’s. We switched cars before I came to get you. He works in the family textile business, so he finds the intelligence world very exciting. I asked him to take the surveillance team for a little ride. Right now a white Peugeot van, a black Renault Clio, and a silver Audi A3 are following him back from Luxembourg.”
Zac nodded appreciatively. “I won’t underestimate you again.”
“See that you don’t!” She smiled, dropped her keys on a demilune table, and walked into the kitchen. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll make something to eat. My brother’s room is on the third floor, the second door on the left. He usually leaves some clothes here and you’re about the same size.”
Zac walked up behind her and put his hands on her waist. He smelled her hair, kissed her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go take a shower. You smell like a skunk.”
Zac laughed and headed upstairs. When Genevieve finished cooking, she walked into her brother’s room and found Zac dressed in her brother’s clothes, sound asleep on top of the covers. She lay down next to him and gently stroked his face.
FORTY-EIGHT
GENEVIEVE VENTURED OUT in the cold morning rain to buy some fresh food. She prepared a hearty breakfast of eggs, berries, and chocolate-filled croissants. Zac devoured it all. She’d even found one of her brother’s old ski jackets for Zac’s trip across the Channel.
At eleven sharp they were back in her brother’s Mercedes and on their way out of the eighth arrondissement. The route took them onto the Champs-Élysées and Genevieve drove slowly
up the scenic boulevard. The sun broke through the rain clouds, illuminating the Arc de Triomphe as they passed by.
“I remember being here with my parents when I was very young,” Zac said. “My father pointed out the Arc and told me the history behind it, but I only remember one thing he said. ‘You can lose a lot of battles and still win the war.’ He always said it to encourage me after a setback. It’s strange. I see the Arc almost every time I come to Paris, but this is the first time I’ve thought about that trip . . . They died a few years later.”
“I’m sorry.”
Zac was surprised that he’d opened up about his personal life, but he had dropped his guard around Genevieve and the story had just slipped out. He automatically turned the conversation back to the day ahead.
“So what do you know about Dieppe?” he asked. “Have you ever been there?”
“A few times. It’s a beach town with ferry service to the U.K. and a large marina, although I suspect it will be nearly empty today. Are you sure you want to go in this weather?”
The two of them had examined the forecast on her laptop during breakfast. Strong winds and rain had been lashing the coast for days, generating heavy seas up the Channel. Genevieve had tried to convince him to wait another day before returning, but he’d been adamant about leaving as soon as possible.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve sailed in worse than this.”
She dropped the subject and resumed her usual pace behind the wheel once the congestion of Paris was behind them. Endless gray clouds obscured the sun as they drove through mile after mile of farm country. They spoke about the murders, Zac’s trip back from the Middle East, and what he might be returning to at CIA/London. Though there was little traffic, and they hadn’t seen any police, Genevieve tapped the steering wheel nervously with her fingertips.
The wind and rain picked up as they neared the coast. A few seabirds soared overhead, buffeted by strong gusts. The farmland eventually gave way to commercial development and they reached the outskirts of the city at a little past one o’clock in the afternoon. Zac looked out the window and wiped the sweat from his palms as they drove through downtown Dieppe. If everything went according to plan, he would be in England before the next sunrise.
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