Flicka held out her hand. “Come on, Alina-honey. We’ll get you some milk. Let’s see what else they have.”
Alina bobbled over to her. “Cracker?”
“Let’s see if they have some crackers.”
In the small galley of the airplane, Flicka pulled open drawers and found some crackers, milk, grapes, and cheese for Alina and made herself a sandwich. They ate, cuddled together in her seat, while Dieter stared at the book.
He didn’t turn a page the whole hour until they descended. His gray eyes didn’t track across the book.
Flicka bit her lip, fretting about him, but she knew better than to ask. If he wasn’t talking, he must have a good reason.
Her head lightened for a moment, and she grabbed the seat arm as the plane began its descent toward Geneva in earnest.
Dieter didn’t so much as blink.
Flicka said, “Come on, Alina. Let’s get you strapped in for the landing, all right?”
The toddler allowed herself to be belted into the wide seat with the seat belts that had fallen between the cushions and arms of the seat.
The plane bumped down the dark runway, following the lights that stretched into the distance, and coasted to a halt in front of a low, dark building.
Valerian half-turned and called to the back of the plane, “Flicka, Raphael, it’s time.”
Why did everyone always say, It’s time, whenever there was some big, dramatic, ominous thing that was going to happen? It was ridiculous. Why didn’t people say something else, some other stupid thing, something like, Don’t screw this up, or There won’t be wine where we’re going.
Flicka could really use a glass of wine. She should have had a glass of cabernet instead of a chicken sandwich.
She sucked in a deep breath and told her mind to shut up. “Come on, Alina. Let’s get off the plane.”
The toddler reached up with her soft, baby hand and held Flicka’s fingers. “Okay?”
“Yes, it will be okay,” Flicka said.
Alina leaned and looked at Dieter, who was still staring at the book. “Daddy okay?”
“Yes. Daddy’s okay,” Flicka told her.
Alina’s dubious glance up at Flicka made her feel worse about lying to the child.
Everyone on the plane moved toward the exit near the nose. Dieter glanced backward at them, his eyes still blank and unreadable, and led the way toward the front.
Valerian and Bastien, along with two of the four mercenaries who had kept to themselves the whole flight, exited the door near the cockpit. They ducked through the low doorway of the private plane.
When they reached the door, Flicka held tightly to Alina’s hand as they prepared to descend the short stairway to the dark tarmac.
One of the burly mercenaries was waiting at the top of the stairs just outside the plane in the cool November night. “Your phone, please.”
He was already holding Dieter’s phone, the one that she had haggled and gotten for him from the Las Vegas pawn shop owner.
Flicka handed over her phone.
Great, now she really couldn’t contact anyone.
The airport’s private terminal was a tiny one and mostly dark. Long windows shone in the night.
Valerian and Bastien were walking away from the plane. She didn’t see where the mercenaries went, which was amazing considering all of them looked like they were addicted to anabolic steroids. They would be hard to hide.
Goosebumps prickled Flicka’s skin. The chilly Swiss air was much cooler than the Nevada desert. She glanced at Alina, but the child’s dress had a matching sweater. She should be all right.
Dieter walked down the stairs in front of them. His posture was straight and stiff, military, even more so than usual. When he reached the base of the staircase, he turned back and held his hand out, palm up, to steady Flicka as she reached the bottom, but he didn’t look at her. His gaze roamed the dark airfield, lingering on the darker shadows on the sides of the private terminal.
Flicka had flown into the Geneva airport dozens of times while organizing Wulfram’s wedding in Montreux. She’d never seen it so dark. Usually, when a private plane arrived at night, floodlights lit the runways and surrounding fields.
Tonight, only the runway’s pinprick white lights stretching into the distance broke the darkness. The night swallowed the light falling from the plane’s open door.
It was almost as if someone didn’t want their faces to be seen on the closed-circuit television cameras that must be bolted to the building. No customs officials had come on board the plane and inspected their documents before they disembarked, which was weird.
A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the terminal and flew at them.
Dieter pulled Flicka’s hand, drawing her behind him. His back widened as he settled and lifted his hands into fighting positions.
Flicka drew Alina closer, readying herself to scoop up the toddler and run if Dieter told her to.
When the figure got a little closer, however, the shadow seemed smaller and slimmer than a person you might think of as a threat.
A woman’s voice shrilled, “Raphael!”
In front of her, Dieter straightened. “Maman?”
Flicka jumped. Had Dieter just said, Mother?
When the shadow reached him, light spilling out of the airplane door behind Flicka touched the woman. She stopped in front of him and stared up at his face. Her head came up past Dieter’s shoulder, which meant she had to be relatively tall. Her hair shone silver and gold in the dim light. Her lips were parted, and her eyes were large with what might have been disbelief, vulnerability, or anger.
She asked, “Raphael, is it you?”
Dieter’s shoulders slumped, and his voice sounded almost sad as he said, “Oui,” and he continued speaking in French. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been more than ten years.” Her eyes were still huge on her face.
“I couldn’t call. You know why.”
“Is it you? Really, is it you?”
Dieter spread his arms apart, a huge, muscular wingspan. “Maman, you know it’s me.”
The woman launched herself and grabbed Dieter around the neck, sobbing. Her fists flailed uselessly against his shoulders, striking him as he held her and whispered something too low for Flicka to hear.
Flicka stood back and held Alina’s hand.
The blond toddler looked up at Flicka and then back to her father and the woman hanging around his neck and beating on him. The wariness in the toddler’s green eyes and the bend in her little lips suggested that she had not seen such a display by an adult before.
Flicka shrugged and waited, still standing on the steps leading up to the airplane.
The woman sobbed, holding onto Dieter’s shoulders. He murmured to her, stroking her back.
Flicka wondered if she should take Alina into the private terminal, though it was dark in there. The brisk air was chilling Flicka’s skin, and she was starting to shiver.
The woman looked over Dieter’s shoulder and saw Flicka standing there, holding Alina’s hand. “Raphael, is this Gretchen?”
Flicka snapped her mouth shut because she only then realized she had been staring at the two of them with her mouth hanging open nearly an inch.
And what was she going to say to that?
Dieter set his mother back from him and turned. “Non, Maman. This is Flicka,” his gray eyes met hers, “my fiancée.”
The woman looked at Dieter sharply. She might be overwhelmed with emotion at the moment, but shrewd intelligence snapped in the woman’s eyes. “Valerian said her name was Gretchen.”
“I have a lot to tell you, but this is Flicka.”
The woman detangled herself from Dieter and peered at her. “Flicka von Hannover? Of the Shooting Star Cotillion and the German Hannovers?”
Flicka glanced at Dieter, unsure of what to say.
Dieter said, “Yes.”
Sophie said to her, “We met, briefly, at the Shooting Star
Cotillion two years ago.”
“I remember.” Sophie Mirabaud had been briefly introduced to Flicka at the London cotillion, but she hadn’t attended any of the other events for her nieces’ debuts. “So nice to see you again.”
“Yes, you do have a lot to tell me, Raphael.” She turned back to Flicka, smiling. “I wish we had met again under calmer circumstances, but welcome to the family. I can’t wait to hear the story of how my Raphael landed Friederike von Hannover.”
Flicka shook the woman’s hand. Her skin was cool and dry, and her handshake, firm. Flicka said, “Well, it is quite a story, Madame Mirabaud.”
“Call me Sophie.” She looked at Alina. “And this is?”
Dieter stepped up beside her. “This is Alina, your granddaughter.”
The woman’s face lit up with wonder, and she crouched, keeping her knees pressed together to bend in her skirt suit.
A Dior skirt suit, Flicka noted. This year’s style.
The woman spoke in French to Alina, who stuck her finger in her mouth and looked up at Flicka.
“I think she only speaks English and Alemannic,” Flicka told her.
Sophie Mirabaud shot a dirty look at Dieter. “You aren’t speaking to her in French?”
“We thought we’d start with Alemannic and English,” he said, “then French.”
“No time like the present.” Sophie pointed to herself. “Grand-maman.”
Alina repeated it, looking between Sophie and Flicka for confirmation. Flicka smiled at her and nodded.
Sophie stood. “And she is how old?”
“A year and a half,” Dieter said.
“A year and a half,” Sophie repeated, her voice tightening.
Dieter looked over the airfield.
Sophie turned to Flicka. “A year and a half, and I haven’t met my own granddaughter. Well, she’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”
“Oh, well, about that—” Flicka considered clawing her way up the side of the airplane and clinging to the top of it to get out of this conversation.
Dieter spoke up. “Flicka isn’t her mother. Alina is from my first marriage.”
Sophie slowly turned toward him. “And there was a wedding that I wasn’t invited to, in addition to the birth of my granddaughter?”
Flicka opened her mouth and wondered whether she was inserting her foot. “But you’ll be invited to ours. And you can help me plan it.”
Yeah, she was trying Drachenfutter, that so-useful German word meaning a gift for the dragon, a present given to make amends for doing something particularly stupid.
Hey, it had worked for Dieter.
Sophie looked at Flicka, and then she looked back to Dieter. “You’re trading up, at any rate. I will allow myself to be bribed with this,” she said to Flicka. “I like you, dear. Have you thought about colors?”
God and all the saints in Heaven, was Flicka going to have to plan a fourth wedding in less than a calendar year?
She stammered, “I was thinking a formal, understated atmosphere. Perhaps dark blue, to begin with.”
From behind Sophie, Dieter was watching Flicka, and his blond eyebrows rose a half an inch.
Sophie pressed her lips together and smiled. “We will get along very well, you and I. Come. You and Alina will ride with me to the house.”
“Raphael?” Flicka asked. His other name felt odd on her lips.
Dieter said, “No, Maman. We will stay somewhere in town. A hotel for tonight, and then we’ll find a flat.”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said, and her gaze at Dieter was level and steady. “Your father won’t hear of it. We insist. The three of you can have the guest suite. After all, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. You’ll be safest with us.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Dieter said.
His mother’s voice was firm. “We absolutely must insist. Come along, Flicka, Alina.”
Sophie strolled toward the dark terminal, her head held high.
Dieter watched her go, frowning.
The four muscle-bound mercenaries materialized from the dark under the plane.
Flicka, an expert from years of examining the bodyguards who had surrounded her, noted that every one of them had acquired new bulges along their waistbands and legs, presumably from weapons bags retrieved from the cargo area in the belly of the plane.
Dieter also examined the mercenaries.
He held out his elbow to Flicka. “Shall we?”
“All right.” She took his arm, held Alina’s hand, and walked after Sophie into the darkness.
The mercenaries fanned out around them, but even Flicka could tell that their formation was designed to keep her and Dieter from disappearing into the night rather than to protect them from any threat that might appear out of it.
Yes, this was not a family visit.
This was an exceedingly polite, and thus very Swiss, kidnapping.
A Duel, Of Sorts
Flicka von Hannover
If she wanted to spar,
I could spar.
Flicka and Dieter latched Alina’s car seat into the rear of Sophie’s car and in the middle of the seat, against Flicka’s better judgment. She wanted to sit between Sophie and Alina, but surely everything would be all right.
Surely Sophie wouldn’t hurt her granddaughter, whom she was teaching to say “grandmother” in French.
As they bent over the seat, wrestling with the buckles from both sides, Dieter whispered to Flicka, “Don’t believe a word she says, but don’t argue with her. Pretend you believe her.”
Flicka was shoving her hand behind the seat, trying to find the latch by blindly poking the seat crack with the clip. “Is this dangerous? Should I stay with you?”
He braced himself on his arms and looked over the seat at her. “I think it’s less dangerous to humor them, at least for tonight.”
Flicka yanked the belt one last time and then shook the seat to make sure it was ratcheted down firmly enough. “What did you and your father talk about on the plane?”
“He was catching me up on my sisters’ and other peoples’ roles in the organization, plus family stuff. There’s history.”
Flicka blew a straggling hank of hair off of her nose. “Yeah, no kidding. Not that I know any of it.”
“I’ll tell you more when we’re alone.” He looked behind him. “They’re coming. Just don’t believe her, okay? Believe what you know about me. I’m not that man anymore.” He pushed off and walked toward where two of the burly men were standing by an SUV.
“Wow.” Flicka crawled backward out of the car and smiled brilliantly at Sophie Mirabaud.
Sophie had picked Alina up. The toddler had her chubby arms wrapped around Sophie’s neck and looked a little limp as she blinked her huge, green eyes sleepily.
Sophie smiled at Flicka and inclined her head toward Alina. “I think someone’s ready for bed.”
Flicka nodded. “I’ll belt her into her seat.”
Alina reached for Flicka as she took her from Sophie. The baby snuggled down in Flicka’s arms, and Flicka was pretty reluctant to strap her into the seat. If they’d been at home, she might have tucked the kid in beside her on the couch while the three of them watched the sports report, taped from the night before.
But, safety and all that, so she buckled Alina into the car seat and made sure the straps were snug, cooing to her about buckle this and buckle that.
Sophie settled into the other side of the car, behind the driver’s seat. Two tall and bulky men who were certainly not mere chauffeurs sat in the front.
Flicka forced her body language to be languid, just another princess being casual and elegant, as she buckled her seat belt.
Sophie looked over Alina, who was staring at the ceiling with that thousand-yard stare of exhaustion that babies get. “I’m surprised to see you with Raphael.”
There were a thousand interpretations of that phrase, everything from insinuating that Flicka wasn’t good enough for her son, to a referenc
e that the plan had been to hand Flicka to Pierre in Vegas or even to kill her over international waters. “Well, here I am, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You know about Raphael, don’t you?”
Flicka stretched her face into her most pleasant smile, the one that she reserved for princess duties such as visiting children with cancer in hospitals or touring the rubble of people’s homes in disaster zones. “I’ve known him since I was twelve years old.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon.”
Flicka wasn’t sure how much she should say. Anything she said might get Dieter into trouble or, considering what he’d said about his mother, might be used against them later. “He met my brother a long time ago. My brother brought him home on weekends sometimes, so that’s when I met him.”
Tiny lights in the car’s doors illuminated the interior just enough for Flicka to see Sophie over the toddler between them. “Oh, that’s right. Your brother raised you after his twin brother—well—” She trailed off.
“After Constantin was murdered,” Flicka supplied.
“Yes. That was tragic.”
“It certainly changed Wulfram’s life.”
“Yes—well—I hadn’t meant to bring that up.”
And now Flicka had Dieter’s mother on the ropes because Flicka was, after all, a princess with more social acumen than the vast majority of people. “It doesn’t matter, I’m sure. It was a long time ago, before I was born.”
Sophie’s teeth worried at her lower lip as they sped down the dark highway. The car’s headlights cut swaths out of the darkness, sometimes touching the SUV driving in front of them. The one trailing them occasionally shone white light through the rear window.
Sophie said, “I’d forgotten about that.”
“It’s rather an important event in the Hannover family. The ostensible heir to the throne—if there were a throne, of course—murdered in broad daylight, and the second son seriously wounded, too.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, Raphael—” and that still felt weird, “—took over Wulfram’s security quite a few years ago. He’s very talented.”
At Midnight (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 4) Page 2
