A Secret Life

by Laura Peyton Roberts

  She drifted down the river, her eyes scanning for anything unusual. At night on the Seine it wasn't hard to see why Paris was called the City of Light. The buildings onshore were giddy with light, and tourist boats carried floodlights to illuminate anything that wasn't already blazing like a Christmas tree. Red and green running lights twinkled on smaller boats like Sydney's, and every bit of brilliance was reflected by the smooth black water. It felt peaceful, just drifting, breathing in the cool night air.

  Until Sydney came to an unexpected fork in the river.

  “Noah!” she called, not sure what to do.

  He jerked upright so fast he bumped his head on the cabin's low ceiling. “What's happening?”

  “There's a fork coming up. Which way should I go?”

  He was ready to run to the rescue, but when he heard the problem he groaned with annoyance. “You gave me a heart attack for that?” he complained. “I don't care. Make an executive decision.”

  She nodded and steered to the right. Noah returned to his monitor.

  “Finding anything good?” she asked before he could put the headphones back on.

  “Not yet. I pulled down the shots off your earring cam—the salespeople and Monique Larousse—and sent them to SD-6 to see if they can match anyone up with our file of known agents.”

  “Monique Larousse? But I never saw her.”

  “Black-haired babe? Night of the Living Dead skin?”

  “That's who that was?” she asked, remembering the scowling woman she had spotted so briefly.

  “A couple of the stationary cameras you planted aren't working,” Noah continued.

  “What do you mean they aren't working?” she cried. “I put them up the right way!”

  “You probably did. But this technology isn't bullet-proof. You get a camera that small . . .” He shrugged. “Sometimes they break. Sometimes they get knocked down. And sometimes there's inter-ference.”

  “What kind of interference?”

  “Just let me get this done, all right? And then I'll tell you everything.” The headphones went back over his ears and Noah was lost in his mission again.

  A large tourist boat had begun to overtake them. Sydney steered closer to shore to let it pass. The boat was a good distance out in front of her when all of a sudden it swept its floodlight up and to the left, over the spires of a grand cathedral. Sydney caught her breath in awe.

  “Notre-Dame,” drifted back to her from the boat's P.A. system, but she didn't need to be told. The ancient cathedral was an incredible sight in the floodlight's ghostly round beam, looming larger as she drifted nearer. She imagined the countless poor laborers working with their crude tools, devoting their lives to a dream they would never see finished. That generations of faith and backbreaking toil could accomplish such staggering beauty was inspiring beyond belief.

  “Hey, what do you make of this?” Noah asked, snapping her back to the present. “I think I found your mysterious package.”

  “The one from the van?” she asked excitedly.

  “Take a look.”

  He carried the monitoring device over to the hatch, turning the screen her way. He pressed a key and a short segment of video began playing.

  The deserted downstairs hall at Monique Larousse popped into view. Suddenly one of the side doors opened and a big bald man walked into the hall, a long, plastic-wrapped parcel in his arms.

  “That's Arnaud, and that's the package!” Sydney cried, no doubt in her mind.

  “Keep watching,” Noah advised.

  Arnaud headed for the indoor staircase, then hesitated. A moment later, he dropped the package on the floor and began tearing off its black plastic. Sydney strained forward over the steering wheel, catching a thrilling glimpse of crimson before Arnaud unwound the remaining wrapping in one long piece, revealing a long, heavy bolt of red fabric.

  “Great,” she groaned, disappointed. “Better report straight to headquarters with that exciting intel.”

  “He comes back later and takes the plastic out the back door. I think he was just trying to save himself a mess upstairs—which is lucky for us, because none of the upstairs cameras are working.”

  “None of them?”

  “Nope. Only the one you're looking at and the one inside the stairwell. And neither one caught a thing.”

  “Don't you think that's kind of weird?” she asked. “I mean, that all three upstairs cameras are broken when the two that aren't on that floor work?”

  Noah nodded slowly. “Yes. I think it's pretty weird. There are ways of knocking out camera signals . . . types of interference devices. SD-6 has a few, but only for small areas and only for minutes at a time. We don't have anything that could take out a whole floor and keep it dark this many hours.” He paused, then added ruefully, “At least, nothing that I know of.”

  “If we had it, I'm sure you'd know.”

  Noah laughed with disbelief. “You are so innocent. Try to remember that the CIA is in the business of collecting information, not giving it out—even to us. Sometimes it feels like the deeper I get, the less I know.”

  “So what do we do now?” Sydney asked. “Go back with more cameras?”

  “Maybe. Here, put these on,” he said, holding out the headphones. “We picked up one weird thing, anyway.”

  Sydney took her hands off the wheel long enough to slip the headphones on over the back of her neck, tilting the pads up to her ears while leaving her hat on.

  “This came off the bug in your dressing room,” Noah told her, cueing up a sound. “To tell you the truth, I thought it was a waste to drop a bug in there—too public—but this is the only interesting thing we recorded off any of them.”

  He pressed a key and the playback began.

  For a moment, there was only silence. Then Sydney heard faint footsteps. Hinges squeaked; a door closed quietly. The footsteps resumed, more loudly—someone had entered the dressing room. A few more steps, a strange prolonged scraping sound . . . then nothing. Sydney listened a full minute longer, but couldn't hear a thing.

  “What do you think that noise was?” she asked Noah.

  He shook his head. “And it's silent like that to the end of the playback. It's as if someone has just disappeared.”

  Sydney started. “That K-Directorate agent,” she remembered. “The one they saw go in and never come out . . .”

  “Intriguing, isn't it?”

  Noah recued the playback so Sydney could hear it again. “You saw that dressing room and I didn't,” he said. “Can you think of anything in there that might make that noise?”

  “Not really.” Her mind was still roaming back over the items in the dressing room, testing each one against the strange sound, when all of a sudden she noticed something that made her forget everything else.

  “Noah!” she whispered urgently. “A boat!”

  Behind them and to their left, a small boat had crept to within fifty feet of their stern. And unlike every other vessel on the river, this one had no lights on, not even the mandatory safety lights. Its hull was barely more than a shadow against the dark water.

  “Hit it!” Noah cried, tossing the monitoring device into the cabin. The attached headphones yanked off Sydney's ears and clattered down the gangway. Lunging up to the deck, Noah grabbed the throttle and pushed it all the way forward.

  The engine belched smoke as it roared to full speed. Sydney gripped the wheel, thrown backward by the unexpected change in velocity. Her hat flew overboard, taking the sunglasses perched on its brim along with it. Recovering her balance, she did her best to steer as they rocketed down the Seine.

  “Isn't this a little conspicuous?” she shouted to Noah over the engine.

  “Not if they're not . . . Yep. Here they come!”

  Sydney glanced anxiously over her shoulder. The small boat had turned on its lights and was now pursuing at top speed. The distance Sydney had opened between them was already closing.

  “You have to weave,” Noah yelled, kneeling at the bac
k of the boat and drawing his gun. “We can't outrun them, so you have to lose them.”

  “How am I going to lose them on a straight river?” she demanded, panicking.

  Noah's elbows were already braced on the back rail, his gun trained on the approaching boat. “You're the driver. Figure it out.”

  Sydney held the wheel tightly as the boats raced down the river. Between the noise of their engines and the V-shaped wakes behind them, it seemed impossible that the police wouldn't join the chase any minute.

  Which might not be a bad thing, Sydney thought. At least the French police wouldn't kill them; she wasn't sure the same was true of whoever was driving the other boat.

  “They're catching up. Do something!” Noah barked.

  Sydney cranked the wheel hard to the left, spinning it hand over hand as far as it would go. The back end of the boat slipped wildly over the water, fishtailing out of control. Desperate, she began steering in the opposite direction, but the boat had already made a 270-degree turn and was now speeding straight toward the bank. She corrected her steering barely in time to get the bow pointed back upriver, retracing their earlier path.

  “Yes! Good!” Noah shouted encouragement.

  Sydney's pulse pounded in her throat, and given five spare seconds, she was certain she'd throw up. Fear and adrenaline mixed like a cocktail in her blood, leaving her barely able to stand.

  She glanced behind her. The other boat had made the turn as well, but had lost ground in the process. In front of her, the river forked again. Cranking the wheel, Sydney veered to the right, leaving a small island on her left. The other boat, with more time to react, had no problem following.

  “This is Île Saint-Louis,” Noah yelled over his shoulder at her. “The island with Notre Dame is right in front of this one. Duck down the passage between them, and maybe we can lose these guys.”

  No sooner had he spoken than Sydney saw the narrow waterway coming up on her left. The pursuing boat was back up to full speed and had already closed to within yards. Holding her breath, she spun the wheel to the left. The stern started to slide again. . . .

  “We're not going to make it!” she cried to Noah.

  The short, narrow stretch of river between the two islands lay at an angle that required almost a full U-turn. Sydney's boat was going to clear ninety degrees, at best, then crash into the bank.

  “Keep turning!” Noah shouted.

  Every bit of her strength went into turning the wheel a little harder, a little farther. The bank of the island rushed toward her, not the soft gradual slope of a natural riverbed, but a concrete wall a few feet high. The bow was still coming around . . . but would it be enough?

  Sydney barely avoided a head-on collision with the island, only to have the stern of her boat swing around and hit the wall, knocking her off her feet. She sprawled on the rough-textured deck, scraping her hands and legs, as the boat continued forward on its own.

  Noah sprang up and grabbed the wheel. “Are you okay?” he shouted.

  Sydney struggled to her knees and looked behind them. The pursuing boat was having the same trouble trying to make the turn, but at its faster speed, it wasn't as lucky. It slammed into the bank sideways, bounced back toward the center of the river, and burst into flames.

  Noah killed their engine and turned to look at the flaming wreck. “Nice driving,” he said calmly.

  Sydney tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her. Every part of her body was shaking. From her knees on the deck, she watched the fire on the other boat grow, its flames licking skyward.

  That could have been us, she thought.

  And then she saw something else. Silhouetted against the blaze, a single dark figure dove into the water and began swimming away.

  Noah saw it too and immediately started their engine, but by the time he'd turned their boat around, the swimmer was lost in the darkness.

  He turned to Sydney, his expression grim.

  “Well, it's official,” he told her. “This isn't a recon anymore.”

  10

  “CAN YOU TAKE THE wheel again?” Noah asked.

  He had steered their boat away from the islands to the center of the Seine, and they had been chugging west for some time now, keeping their speed slow to avoid attracting attention. Sydney could hear sirens behind them, but their wails were gradually receding, and her body had finally stopped trembling, leaving her numb and drained. None of it seemed real anymore—not SD-6, not K-Directorate, and certainly not the insane boat chase she'd just been involved in. Nodding, she reclaimed her position at the wheel.

  Noah immediately disappeared down the hatch, reappearing moments later with the laptop monitoring device and headphones.

  “Take us right out there, where it's deepest,” he told her, pointing. When Sydney reached the spot, he dropped the equipment overboard.

  “Aren't we going to need that?” she asked as it hit the water.

  Noah shrugged. “Can't carry it with us, and sure can't leave it on the boat.”

  She nodded, suddenly glad that he was in charge. In her current state, she felt incapable of making the smallest decision; it was all she could do to keep standing.

  As they reapproached the dock from which they'd departed, Noah took over the wheel. Sydney jumped off and tied the bowline to a cleat.

  “How badly do you think I wrecked it?” she asked, pointing to the stern as Noah joined her on the dock. The side that had crashed into the island was turned toward the water, making it impossible to assess the damage.

  “It still floats, and it still runs,” he said, unconcerned. “Believe me, that guy's not going to complain. Come on.”

  He ran off down the dock, leaving Sydney no choice but to follow.

  Up on the street, Noah succeeded in hailing a taxi almost immediately.

  “Nous allons au Cimetière du Père Lachaise,” he fired at the driver as he yanked the door open. “Dépêchez-vous! Je vous payerai le double si vous y arrivez rapidement.”

  Sydney was barely inside before the cab screeched off, rocking them backward against the upholstered seat.

  “Noah!” she exclaimed with wonder.

  “What?”

  “You speak French!”

  He grimaced. “I've been speaking it the whole time.”

  “Yeah, badly. But just now—”

  He cut her off with a shake of his head and a worried glance at the driver. “Tell me later.”

  Sydney stopped asking questions, but her eyes didn't leave his face.

  He was faking that lousy accent as part of his cover, she realized. His true accent, the one she'd heard just now, was perfect. The discovery only added to her growing respect for him. Whatever she'd imagined about Noah, he was proving to be even more.

  The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence, the driver concentrating on maintaining maximum speed while Noah leaned forward and peered through the windshield, clearly willing the man to go faster still. Sydney slumped wearily in the backseat, letting the streets slip past without attempting to figure out where they were headed. Noah obviously had a plan, and she'd learn what it was soon enough.

  She felt less confident a few minutes later, when the taxi turned down a deserted side street and stopped in the middle of nowhere.

  “Nous voici!” the driver announced, turning expectantly to Noah.

  In contrast to the bright lights of the city, the land in front of the cab had been swallowed up by darkness. Sydney cleared the condensation from inside her window, but still couldn't see anything.

  Noah threw some money at the driver, grabbed her hand, and yanked her out of the car. They were at a cemetery.

  “You've got to be kidding,” she said as the cab disappeared. “What are we doing here?”

  “You'll see,” Noah told her, hurrying toward the fence.

  “Not to burst your bubble, but I don't think these are visiting hours.”

  Noah turned just long enough to give her his in-command look. Sydney sighed and climbed u
p the fence behind him, dropping silently to the other side.

  The Cimetière du Père Lachaise was enormous, shrouded in night, and filled with ornate tombs—creepy in the extreme. The scattering of stars overhead did nothing to light their way, and a slice of yellow moon only made the shadows darker. Sydney stuck close to Noah as he darted stealthily from tomb to tomb, keeping a lookout for guards.

  They were deep in the cemetery when Noah stopped under the overhanging entrance of an especially large family tomb. He glanced around to make sure they were still unobserved, then turned to face the iron entry door. Massive, black, and flaking with rust, it appeared to have been shut for a hundred years. A heavy knocker hung at its center. Noah lifted the knocker's iron ring, but instead of dropping it, he pushed it up and propped it against the door. Then, kneeling swiftly, he pressed his hand to the door's bottom panel.

  To Sydney's amazement, the panel began to glow. She watched as a horizontal beam swept from top to bottom, scanning Noah's palm. A loud click broke the silence, and the door swung open on its own.

  “Hurry,” Noah urged, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the pitch-black tomb. The door closed heavily behind them with an unmistakable latching sound.

  “What is this place?” Sydney whispered, shocked.

  “SD-6 safe house,” Noah answered in his normal voice. “Totally soundproof, bulletproof, and full of stuff we need.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone had become more formal. “Computer, voice recognition, Agent Noah Hicks.”

  A red light switched on overhead, revealing a small rectangular space. Behind them was the wall of the closed entrance door, and directly in front of them another wall was patchworked with memorial stones covering individual coffin cells. Sydney started at the eerie, unexpected sight.

  “This is a safe house?” she said uncertainly. She had heard of such places—secret refuges scattered throughout the world—but she hadn't imagined they'd look like this.