"You may change your mind when you realize we have to stuff a suitcase load of electronics into this little number," she told him, dangling her Prada handbag by its strap.
Her group of experts instantly focused on the envelope-size bag. There was nothing they loved more than a challenge like this one.
"Good thing we've acquired those new, miniaturized circuit boards," John murmured. "What are you thinking you'll need, chief?"
Mackenzie had worked the list in her mind while Field Dress attacked her body. She had no idea what she and Lightning might run into in France, but she intended to be prepared for just about anything.
"I want secure satellite voice transmitters for both me and Lightning, NAVSAT directional finders, biochemical sensors, a sound amplifier that will let me listen to conversations up to fifty meters away and the sharpest high-resolution surveillance cameras in our inventory. Plus the new Taser we've been testing."
John gave another whistle. The Taser was the latest CIA version of a stun gun. No larger than an ordinary ballpoint pen, it packed a powerful punch. A quarter-second contact caused instantaneous muscle contraction. One to two seconds short-circuited an attacker's neuro-centers and brought him down. Three would leave him staring at the ceiling in a daze.
Given that an agent's life could well depend on the equipment he or she took into the field, Mackenzie and her people thoroughly tested every device they added to their electronic grab bag. She and John had both endured only a half-second zap. That was more than enough to convince both of them of the effectiveness of this particular device.
"Hope you don't have to use that baby in an operational mode," John commented, remembering how he'd snarled like a bear with a sore paw for days after the test.
"Not to worry," Mackenzie returned with a shrug. "I'll save it for the bad guys."
Chapter 4
Mackenzie and Nick left for the Riviera early the next morning. She'd never flown aboard the Concorde before and firmly squelched memories of its horrible crash outside Paris some years ago. The sleek, needle-nosed jet represented the ultimate in luxury and speed. A three-and-a-half hour transatlantic flight took them into Paris, where a short connecting flight ferried them to the south of France.
Given the five-hour time difference, Mackenzie and Nick stepped out of the Nice airport into a late afternoon drenched with the scent of honeysuckle and bougainvillea. She pushed her Chanel sunglasses up the top of her head and breathed in the perfumed air. With it came a pungent tang that mariners the world over immediately recognized.
The sea was close, so close she could almost taste its salt. She was still savoring the familiar scent when Nick slid a hand under her arm and guided her toward the mile-long limo idling at the curb. Its short, stocky uniformed chauffeur jumped to attention at their approach.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Jensen. I am Jean-Claude Broussard, your driver. Welcome to Nice."
"Merci. Je suis tres heureux d'etre de retour."
The reply earned Nick a look of respect from the chauffeur and a curious glance from Mackenzie. She knew Lightning had been born somewhere in France, but that's all she or anyone else at OMEGA knew about his life before he was adopted by Paige and Doc Jensen and brought to the States. He'd grown up in California, graduated from Stanford and joined OMEGA not long after a tour in the military. In all the time Mackenzie had worked with him, he'd never used any gestures or slang that would mark him as anything but American.
Yet she'd sensed the change in him almost from the moment the Concorde had touched down in Paris. He seemed more casual, yet somehow more cosmopolitan. As if he were changing his spots to suit his environment. A leopard blending into the dry, brown African veld.
Only this veld wasn't dry or brown. As the limo rolled out of the airport and sped past the more industrial areas, a landscape filled with brilliant color began to unfold. Red-tile-roofed villas stair-stepped down sheer cliffs. Palm trees waved lacy fronds against the early evening sky. Orange and pink and purple blossoms climbed walls, spilled from flower boxes, twined along wrought iron balconies.
And the Mediterranean! She'd forgotten how beautiful—and changeable—it was. At its deepest, the waters were a dark, unfathomable navy. Here, closer to land, waves of alternating shades of turquoise, lapis and aquamarine teased the shore. Sighing at the sight, Mackenzie used the drive in from the airport to reset her mental clock and run through the data she'd pulled up about Nice.
Native Ligurians had occupied the steep hills above the sea for thousands of years before conquering Greeks established the "modern" city of Nikaia on the site. The Romans followed the Greeks, constructing a forum, extensive baths and an amphitheater. In medieval times, rival armies from Provence, Tuscany, Savoy and Turkey all battled over the city at various times, until the French finally took permanent possession.
The next invasion occurred during the Belle Epoque of the late 1800s, when Nice became a fashionable winter retreat for aristocrats from all over Europe. Queen Victoria visited regularly. So did the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia. The onion-shaped domes of the cathedral they'd built in honor of their oldest son, who died suddenly of an illness while vacationing in Nice, were just visible over the sea of red-tiled roofs.
Along with the rich and titled came the artists and actors. Matisse lived and painted here until his death in 1954. Picasso, Dali, Chagall were all seduced by the dazzling light and shimmering colors of the coast. F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda held court at their favorite table in the Negresco. Rudolph Valentino, Maurice Chevalier, Marlene Dietrich, and Gary Cooper, to name just a few, strolled the Promenade des Anglais, named for the English visitors whose wealth brought such prosperity to the little seaside resort.
Nice was just as popular today as it had been at the turn of the century. With neighboring Cannes only a few miles to the east and the principality of Monaco just around the bay to the west, new royalty in the form of rock stars and sports figures now patronized its very exclusive and very expensive boutiques.
No computer-generated report could prepare Mackenzie for the actual impact of the famous resort, however. Lowering the shaded window, she gawked like any tourist as the limo swept down the Promenade des Anglais. Hotels and palaces bordered one side of the broad, palm-lined thoroughfare, the Mediterranean the other.
This was the famous boulevard where aristocrats once paraded beneath straw boaters and lacy parasols. Where the eccentric American dancer, Isadora Duncan, choked to death in 1927, when her long scarf caught under the wheel of her automobile as it sped along the promenade. Where lovers of all ages still strolled hand in hand.
The sun worshippers were out in full force on the pebbled beaches, soaking up the slanting rays in blue-painted wooden beach chairs. A good many of the women, Mackenzie noted, had opted for bottomless as well as topless. Heads tipped back, legs outstretched, hands clasped over their bare middles, they indulged in the serious business of doing nothing.
Sunbathers weren't the only ones enjoying the golden glow cast over the sea. Yachts and cabin cruisers of every size bobbed in the exclusive marinas sprinkled along the promenade. Bikini-clad nymphs and paunchy boat owners in Zorba the Greek hats lounged on the aft decks, sipping aperitifs. Larger craft drifted at the ends of their anchor chains farther out on the bay.
Halfway down the Promenade des Anglais the marble statue of a large woman in what looked like peasant dress sat perched atop a tall column. Leaning forward, Mackenzie squinted up at the curious figure.
"Who's that?" she asked the driver through the Plexiglas divider.
"Ahhh, that one." Jean-Claude kissed his fingertips to the statue. "She is the patron saint of our city. A laundress who saves Nice from the Turks many, many years ago." He grinned at his passengers via the rearview mirror. "She is fat, no?"
"Well..."
"And ugly. So very ugly."
Mackenzie had to admit the woman wouldn't win any beauty contests. With her
fleshy jowls, overlapping chins and great, humped nose, she scared off even the pigeons. Jean-Claude seemed to take great pride in her repulsiveness.
"When the Turks come," he explained, "this laundress climbs to the city wall. She bends over, lifts her skirt, and wiggles her so fat, so bare... Uh... How do you say...?"
"Derriere," Nick supplied dryly.
"Mais oui! Her derriere. The Turks, they take one look and retreat immediately. The laundress, she becomes our patron saint."
Laughing, Mackenzie snuggled back against the leather. She wasn't sure whether to believe the outrageous tale, but the idea that the citizens of Nice would erect a monument to the woman who mooned an invading army gave her a whole different perspective on the city and its people. The Nicois, it appeared, had a lively sense of humor.
She was still chuckling as the limo glided to a stop at their hotel. When the driver handed her out, she couldn't hold back a gasp at its turn-of-the-century splendor.
"C'est magnifique, oui?" Jean-Claude asked, beaming with proprietary pride.
"And then some."
A monstrous copper-topped dome crowned the hotel's corner entrance. Elaborate mansards decorated the wings that swept out to either side. The gleaming white marble structure had to take up a full city block! The interior beckoned through revolving brass-and-glass doors, as plush and Victorian as the exterior.
Leaving the chauffeur and bellman to attend to the luggage, Nick slid a hand under Mackenzie's elbow and escorted her inside. His touch was light and just casual enough to raise little goose bumps all up and down her arm.
For Pete's sake! She had to get a grip here.
She was the one who'd argued her way into this mission. She'd insisted the little interlude between her and Nick a few nights ago didn't mean anything, that they were both professional enough to separate business from pleasure. Still, she couldn't help remembering his cynical remark that the French didn't differentiate between the business associate and the mistress of a virile and very wealthy executive. As if to prove his point, the hotel manager gave her an admiring once-over before turning to Nick with a look that conveyed approval, deference and just a touch of envy.
‘‘Welcome back to the Negresco, Monsieur Jensen. I hope your drive in from the airport was pleasant."
"Very."
In his old-fashioned cutaway jacket and ascot of gray striped silk, the manager carried himself with a dignity worthy of an establishment that ranked among the world's most exclusive hotels. He accepted Nick and Mackenzie's passports with a small bow and snapped his fingers. The clerk behind the counter rushed forward with an envelope containing electronic key cards.
"Your suite is ready," the manager informed them. "Will you wish to have dinner at the hotel this evening? If so, I'll reserve a table for you. We're past high season, you understand, but still..."
He lifted his shoulders in the universal Gallic shrug that could convey anything from sympathetic understanding to utter contempt.
"We'll dine out tonight," Nick replied. "Mademoiselle Blair wishes to stretch her legs and explore the city a bit."
What Mademoiselle Blair wished was to get the lay of the land. She'd studied satellite images and detailed maps, but the maze of narrow alleys and winding streets in the old part of the city defied any rational layout. Until she walked them and got a feel for their twists and turns, she'd be as lost as any tourist.
They were shown to a penthouse suite filled with antiques that might have graced a duke's palace. Most were from what Nick described as Napoleon's Imperial era. A portrait of the emperor and Josephine in full court regalia stared down from above a marble fireplace that could have easily roasted a buffalo. Gold candelabra inlaid with lapis lazuli framed the portrait.
The central sitting room opened directly onto a terraced balcony that offered a panoramic view of the wide, curving bay. Awed by the glorious spectacle, Mackenzie followed Nick back into the suite to explore the two bedrooms.
He gave her first choice. She didn't hesitate. Greedily, she staked a claim to the one on the left, furnished with a massive sleigh bed crowned by rose-colored brocade bed-hangings. The bed's majesty was impressive enough, but it was the claw-foot bathtub that had her salivating. The thing looked like it could sleep three comfortably.
Shooting the tub a look of intense longing, Mackenzie changed into more casual clothes and rejoined Nick. He'd changed, too, and looked right at home in tan slacks, a pale blue open-necked shirt and a navy blazer with gold monogrammed buttons.
"Give me twenty minutes," Mackenzie said as she unpacked her electronic grab bag. "I want to secure the suite before we go out. Just to make sure we don't come home to any uninvited, gun-toting guests."
Nick had spent enough years in the field to be intimately familiar with most of the equipment she installed. With his assistance, she inserted scramblers into each of the suite's phones to defeat any outside eavesdropping. She then set up active and passive intrusion detection devices and mounted hidden surveillance cameras both in the suite and in the private elevator that accessed it. That done, she suggested a voice check.
"I know we checked the transmitters out before we left Washington, but one more time won't hurt."
Nodding, Nick extracted a solid silver business card case from his blazer's breast pocket. The transmitter embedded in the case was programmed to recognize his voice and activated only when he spoke the code words he himself reprogrammed at will.
"Huckleberry Finn."
Mackenzie's brows rose. Nick grinned and looked like he was going to offer an explanation when a voice floated out of his card case.
"Control here, Lightning. Go ahead."
"Just doing a voice check, Control."
"We read you loud and clear."
"Comm's going to call in next."
"Roger that."
Mackenzie's communications device operated the same way. She murmured two words just loud enough to be picked up by the transmitter fitted into a thin silver bangle bracelet.
"Comm here. How's it going, John?"
"It's going," her second in command replied laconically. "You all settled in Nice?"
"Pretty much. We're going out to get a feel for the streets."
"Roger, Comm. Set your transmitter to track mode and we'll follow you."
With a press of the bracelet's clasp, Mackenzie switched the signal to silent transmit. Then she and Nick left the hotel to stroll through the narrow, cobbled lanes of Vieille Ville, the Old Town. Nick said little, allowing her to record her own impressions.
After three turns, she gave up any idea of navigating these streets on her own. The whole area was a rabbit warren of medieval structures crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, many leaning crookedly, all topped with red tile roofs. Every alley was steeped in the scents of garlic and dank stone.
Only the squares and parks bursting with fountains and flowers allowed her to take a fix on the fold-out map she'd tucked in her purse. At the far end of a long, narrow park, Nick checked the street signs and nodded to a kiosk covered with colorful posters advertising Martini & Rossi vermouth.
"That's the phone."
Mackenzie's stomach tightened. According to Europol, the gunmen who had assaulted her and Nick in Washington had placed a call to this particular pay phone the morning of the attack. The international police agency had e-mailed digitized photos of the kiosk along with its exact location. They'd also mounted a surveillance camera on the two-story brick building facing the kiosk. Mackenzie searched the elaborate facade until she caught the glint of metal, then swept her glance up and down the street to fix the location in her mind.
Not that it would do her much good. Europol had been monitoring the kiosk ever since the attack, photographing every user and running them through their databases. So far, none had turned up any connection, however remote, to Nick.
"What do we do now?"
He tucked her arm in his. "Just what we are doing.
Stroll the streets. Watch the sunset from the Promenade des Anglais. Word will get around soon enough that I'm here."
The arrogance of that casual statement would have made Mackenzie blink if she didn't suspect it was true. Although Nice was the fifth largest city in France, it didn't have the frantic beat of a major metropolitan center. As the September evening deepened to a balmy purple dusk, the camera-laden tourists returned to their buses, metallic shutters rolled down over the shop windows and the Nicois themselves took to the sidewalks. Like Nick and Mackenzie, they strolled arm in arm, nodding to acquaintances, exchanging pleasantries, filling the corner bakeries, boulangiers and bars. Patrons gathered at tiny tables to sip aperitifs and punctuate their lively conversation with lively gestures.
By the time Nick and Mackenzie returned to the broad promenade fronting the sea, the sun had dropped below the horizon and it was impossible to tell where the Mediterranean stopped and the night sky began. Out on the bay, strings of lights winked from the yachts riding at anchor.
“I thought we would eat at one of the local bistros tonight. Give you a sample of basic Nicois fare before trying their haute cuisine."
"As long as the sauce doesn't have rubbery little blobs floating around in it, I'm game. Lead the way, skipper."
Nick chose a narrow, two-story restaurant facing the sea. Downstairs, smoke from unfiltered cigarettes blued the air around locals hunched over glasses of wine and anisette, a potent aperitif with the tang of licorice and the wallop of a spooked mule. Upstairs, tall windows opened onto the night. Blue-checkered cloths covered the tables, and an accordion player squeezed out a haunting rendition of "La Vie En Rose."
A waiter with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a stubby pencil behind the other showed them to a table wedged onto the narrow balcony. Nick translated the day's specials, which turned out to be fish, fish and more fish. Mackenzie ordered grilled sea bass and salad Nicoise. Nick chose a ratatouille, which was some kind of a vegetable medley, and fried squid. While they dipped chunks of crusty bread in a paste made of oil, garlic, capers and chopped olives, she forced herself to shut out the haunting music, the seductive breeze and the lights twinkling out in the bay.
To Love a Thief Page 4
