by Ben Coes
“Send a unit as well as an ambulance,” he said into the walkie-talkie.
The man who called himself Stearns stood up and faced the woman. “Who are you?”
“Margita,” she whispered. She started to move toward the body.
“I’m sorry, Margita. Until forensics gets here, please don’t touch anything.”
“What happened?”
“She had a heart attack. I’m very sorry. Were you friends?”
“Yes. I’ve been Dr. Bartholomew’s housekeeper for twenty-seven years.”
“I’m very sorry. May I ask you a question or two, Margita?”
She nodded.
“During her nine-one-one call, Dr. Bartholomew referred to something a friend had told her. Some sort of plot.”
“Yes,” said Margita. “She told me. I said her friend was loco.”
“Did you happen to tell anyone about it, Margita?”
Margita shook her head.
He grabbed the front of the housekeeper’s jacket, pulling her close. He removed a silenced Beretta 9mm handgun as she struggled to push his other hand away. The killer slammed the tip of the silencer into her mouth, then levered it up and pulled the trigger. A dull spit came as a bullet fired, killing her. He let her drop to the ground, then walked to Bartholomew’s corpse and shot her once in the chest. He unscrewed the silencer and pocketed it, then placed the gun in Margita’s hand.
As he passed through the kitchen, he hung up the phone.
22
HOTEL PROVISIONAIRES
PARIS
Romy relaxed for the first time in days, sitting on the small bed in a dusty hotel room, the TV on. She had it tuned to the local Paris news. On the screen, the story was about the U.S. secretary of state, in Paris for talks with Iran. Romy stared at the screen as they showed the American diplomat climbing into a limousine.
When the commercial came on, she went into the bathroom and took a quick shower. She knew she had to keep moving. She knew what they were capable of. It was only a matter of time until they found her.
She needed to call Hillary. She picked up the cell phone and dialed. After more than a minute, it started ringing.
“Hello?” came a man’s voice.
“I’m calling for Professor Bartholomew.”
In the background, Romy could hear voices.
“Who is this?” asked the man on the phone.
Pause.
“I just spoke to her—” said Romy.
“Who are you?” asked the man.
“Her daughter,” lied Romy.
“I’m afraid I have very bad news for you,” he said.
“What did you do to her?” she whispered.
“Ma’am, this is Sergeant Callahan from the Cambridge Police Department. I’m afraid that your mother is dead. I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you. Are you nearby?”
Romy hung up the phone. She walked slowly to the bed and lay down, putting her head in her hands, trying to remain composed. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to.
They killed her! I know they did!
Had Professor Bartholomew reached out to the wrong person? God forbid, had Romy gotten her killed?
Romy sobbed, remembering the kind woman who’d befriended her.
“Make it stop,” she whispered, her eyes closed.
23
CAFÉ LES DEUX MAGOTS
PARIS
Kyrie’s cell beeped. He looked at the number; it was Kopitar.
“What is it?”
“She made a call with the doctor’s cell phone a few minutes ago.”
“Is she in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“Who did she call?”
“A woman in Cambridge, a professor.”
Kyrie paused. “Hillary. Our neighbor in Ruswil.”
“Romy might know, Kyrie,” Kopitar continued.
“Know what?”
“That we killed the woman. That we’re searching for her. Someone answered, I assume the police. They must have told her.”
“Of course she knows, you fucking idiot,” said Kyrie scathingly. “Where is she?”
“Hotel Provisionaires. It’s in the fourteenth arrondissement.”
“I want to know if she leaves, Hans. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
24
HOTEL PROVISIONAIRES
PARIS
Romy forced herself to stop sobbing. She got up from the bed. It was like standing in quicksand, she thought. The world was surrounding her and trying to destroy her.
It’s not the world. You must keep fighting.
Romy didn’t have children, and yet she felt, in that moment, like she did. A warm maternal feeling came over her. She imagined that she had a child—a boy—and she needed to fight for him, to show him what it meant to fight, to do what was right, to struggle when no one else was looking. For him. The feeling lasted only a few seconds, but it steeled her. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat and looked around the dirty hotel room. She had to leave, to move, even though she had nowhere to go. Something inside her told her to move.
Outside the hotel, she hailed a cab.
“Ou allez-vous, madame?”
“L’Hotel George Cinq,” she said. “À côté.”
She knew it was a long shot. But it was the only shot. It was a crazy gamble. What if he wasn’t there? Or what if he was and they shot her before she could tell him?
He won’t shoot you. He’ll listen. There’s no other way.
She was dropped off less than a block from the George V. It was dark and pouring rain. The street in front of the hotel was cordoned off by security personnel and wooden barriers. Guests had to enter through a security screening point just inside the door. She cursed herself for being so naïve.
“Did you honestly think you could just walk inside and take the elevator to his floor and knock on his door?” she muttered to herself.
Keep fighting.
She looked up at the front façade of the George V, trying to think. Here eyes drifted along the roofline to the building next door. A sign above the entrance read PRINCE DE GALLES.
She entered the lobby, her heart beating rapidly.
The Prince de Galles was a boutique hotel, not quite as nice as the George V, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the two hotels were next door to each another.
What if he’s on a different floor? What if he’s already left?
She couldn’t think about that now. She had to try. She was desperate. It was the only word she could think of. Desperate. She had nobody. All she had was … Kyrie … a monster! A monster who right now was hunting her …
“Madame, nous avons une suite disponible à l’étage penthouse. Il est assez cher.”
Madame, we have one suite available on the penthouse floor. It is pretty expensive.
“Bien. Le coût est sans souci.”
Good. The cost doesn’t matter.
* * *
Kyrie ransacked the small, shabby room at the Hotel Provisonaires, finding nothing. He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to think. The TV was on. He stared at it for a few moments.
He looked to his left. The pillow was out of place, as if she had been lying on it at some point. He reached for it and lifted it to his face, hoping to get a whiff of her, perhaps just the faintest aroma of perfume, of her body. He held it there for several moments.
His cell phone vibrated. He looked at the number. It was Kopitar.
“She’s not here,” seethed Kyrie.
“She changed hotels,” said Kopitar. “She used his credit card. It’s called the Prince de Galles, near the Champs-Élysées.”
* * *
Romy entered the suite. It was luxurious, with cool yellow lighting on a pair of large suede sofas that looked inviting. Soft music came from speakers in the ceiling. The bedroom was visible through a door to the right. Straight ahead was the terrace, accessed through French doors. The patter of rain against the glass mingled with the music.
It was the first glimpse of comfort she’d seen in weeks, and she wanted nothing more than to have a glass of wine, a warm meal, a bath, and then sit on one of the sofas and forget about it all, forget about everything that had happened.
The bathroom was large and brightly lit, walls and floors of tannish marble, a big freestanding copper bathtub, a glass-enclosed shower big enough for two. She paused as she took it all in. She knew she needed to move, to try to reach the American secretary of state, and yet she was momentarily frozen in thought. If he was there right now, certainly he would be there in thirty minutes? She knew they would be looking for her, Kyrie or someone like him, sent by the man named Charles, but surely she had a few minutes. She needed it, she realized, needed to feel human again, to renew her strength so that she could keep going …
She went to the bathtub and turned on both taps, adjusting until the water was almost scalding. Smiling, her eyes closed, she unbuttoned her trench coat and let it fall to the floor.
* * *
“Hurry,” said Kyrie from the backseat of the Citroën taxicab, hitting the back of the driver’s seat.
“I’m going as fast as I can, monsieur.”
“Go faster.”
Kyrie knew precisely why Romy had gotten a room at the Prince de Galles. He knew it the moment his car pulled up in front and he saw the George V just a stone’s throw down the block, walled off with armed security personnel and several limousines in front with American flags.
Lindsay.
Kyrie put his hand in his pocket, feeling his weapon, a silenced Glock .45. He thought about Romy as he unconsciously squeezed the butt of the gun. She was certainly tenacious. Escaping from the sanitarium had been no easy feat. Now she was attempting to contact the U.S. secretary of state.
The taxi pulled up in front of the Prince de Galles. Kyrie had the door open before it came to a full stop, throwing down a hundred-euro note and moving into the rain.
“Votre monnaie, monsieur!”
Your change, sir!
But Kyrie was already at the entrance. A doorman had the door open, and he walked quickly to the front desk.
“Good evening, sir,” said a woman behind the counter.
“Good evening,” he said calmly, a smile on his face. He removed a Swiss license, hastily made by a contact in Paris that afternoon.
“Welcome to the Prince de Galles, Dr. Courtemanche,” said the clerk. “Your wife has already checked in.”
“Wonderful. When did she arrive?”
“Mrs. Courtemanche arrived half an hour ago. Is this a business trip, or pleasure? A second honeymoon, perhaps?”
“How did you know?” said Kyrie. “Would you be so kind as to tell me our room number?”
“Room nine oh two, a suite on the top floor. May I send up a bottle of champagne, considering the special occasion?”
Kyrie held up his hand politely.
“That’s quite all right. An extra key would be all that I need. If I know her, she is taking a bath. I would rather not disturb her.”
* * *
Romy stared at the coat on the ground, then glanced at the bathtub.
“Merde,” she said. She had to do what she needed to do.
She put the damp coat back on and moved to the terrace door, not even bothering to turn off the faucets. The wind was driving the rain in sideways swirls against the glass. She tightened her coat and opened the door. She stepped onto the terrace and looked right to the George V. There were two terraces between hers and the tall security fence that separated the hotels. She shut her eyes, feeling a sense of dread and self-doubt. She’d never make it. Yet she had to.
She climbed onto the brick parapet that separated her terrace from the one immediately next to it, lifting her head just enough to peek into the window of her neighbor. The lights were off. She hoisted herself up and over the parapet, carefully dropping onto the terrace, then crouched low. Though the wind and rain were loud enough to cloak any sounds, she crawled silently across the terrace. At the next parapet, she looked into the window. Several people were seated with their backs to her, watching TV.
Romy climbed over the parapet without making a noise, then crawled across the terrace. The tall security fence stood at least six feet above the parapet itself. Iron prongs stuck up into the air, their ends curved slightly toward her.
Romy stood. She lifted herself onto the parapet and grabbed one of the iron prongs.
A sudden noise came from behind her.
* * *
Kyrie took the elevator to the ninth floor and moved quickly to the suite. He paused outside the door, removing the gun from his coat pocket and then inserted the card key in the door. When the green light came on, he turned the knob, but the door didn’t budge. Romy had dead-bolted it.
Without hesitating, Kyrie put the gun back in his pocket and took his cell phone out. He brought up a specialized application that allowed him to visualize—like an X-ray machine—the internal mechanics of the lock.
Kyrie glanced around, making sure nobody was coming down the hallway. He pressed the cell against the door, above the steel lock plate, looking at the dead bolt’s internal machinery. Once he had it, he carefully scratched two small x’s on the door approximately three inches apart. He then removed an unusual-looking object from his coat. It was black, rectangular, the size of a pack of cigarettes. Two pointed steel rods were folded against the sides. Kyrie unfolded the rods, transforming the device into something resembling two short screwdrivers that had been soldered together. He placed the sharp tips against the x marks and looked around again, then moved a sliding switch on the side of the tool and pressed in hard. The sharp tips bore into the thick wood as they spun, cutting quickly through the wood. A half minute later, he felt steel and heard the dull click of the dead bolt moving. He removed the device and put it back in his pocket. He inserted the key card at the same moment he pulled out the silenced Glock, then turned the latch.
* * *
A noise. Romy turned her head. It was the sound of a door lock moving, of a door opening. A tall man in a raincoat was standing in the doorway to the terrace, holding a cigarette, trying to light it, cupping it so that it wouldn’t get wet. Romy remained still, hoping, praying that her dark trench coat would blend with the night. Rain dripped down her hands to her wrists and down her arms, soaking her shirt, making the cold feel even more acute.
After nearly a minute, the man turned and stepped back inside, shutting the doors behind him.
Romy glanced down at the street. Orange-and-yellow car lights were obscured by the driving rain. She was so high … a shiver made her entire body tremor for a brief moment. She shut her eyes again, finding strength and stability in the cold iron that she gripped as tightly as she could.
Kyrie.
She pictured his face. In that moment, powerful emotions were driving her. She felt strength and purpose, hatred, anger, self-doubt, and regret. She wanted to kill the monster who’d sent her to a mental institution to rot away. All that mattered was stopping him.
* * *
With his weapon in his right hand, Kyrie scanned the room, listening for noise. Suddenly, he was drawn to the bedroom.
His eyes went to the open door of the bathroom. He heard water running in the bathtub.
I was only kidding, he thought, recalling what he told the front desk clerk.
He inched to the door, which was half open, the tub behind it. Then he moved. He stepped into the bathroom and swept the weapon to the tub, but Romy wasn’t there.
Had she heard him? Had she heard the dead bolt? The drill?
And was she now hiding?
Kyrie did a rapid recon of the suite—searching closets, corners, spaces behind the sofas, behind curtains—but she wasn’t there.
He ran to the terrace and out into the driving rain. His eyes shot right—to the roof of the George V. The rain and darkness made it difficult to see, but he saw the small silhouette of a figure, clinging to the security fence that separated the hotels.
He stepped closer, to the edge of the terrace, staring at her. She was trying to reach the top of the fence. For several moments, Kyrie watched as she struggled to climb. When she slipped, something inside him moved, as if he were going to catch her, and then her other hand grabbed hold. Again she was slowly moving up the fence as rain and wind pelted her, and him. He gripped the gun in both hands and raised it into the wind, training it on her. He knew it had to be done. As much as he didn’t want to, he knew it was over. He had to kill her. It would be an easy shot. He held his finger against the trigger as her legs pushed against the iron grating, struggling to reach the top of the fence. He stood with Romy in the crosshairs for more than a minute, his hands trembling. Yet he couldn’t shoot.
* * *
Each of Romy’s hands grabbed hold of a prong. She clenched her teeth and lifted herself up, using her feet to push against the fence below. Struggling, she pulled her head even with the top. Her arms ached, but she kept pulling with every ounce of strength she had, until she felt like she would scream. Desperately, she held herself up and then swung her left leg up. Her foot made it over the top so that she was now hanging sideways, dangling, as rain soaked her. She paused in that position, resting for a few precious moments. She used her leg to help raise the rest of her to the top of the fence. Romy inched over the edge, holding the iron, then let her feet slip down the other side. There was no parapet on this side to fall to, so she crabbed down the fence until finally she felt the ground.
She settled onto her knees, breathing rapidly, trying to catch her breath. The roof level of the George V had only two suites, both magnificent glass-and-limestone structures that occupied the two front-facing wings of the hotel. She was on one of the terraces. If the secretary of state was in the suite on the far wing, she would have no way of getting there.
Romy walked to the closer door. The curtain was partially drawn. She could see inside the suite. A man was seated on one of the sofas, alone. He had gray hair and appeared to be just sitting there, doing nothing, and then she saw him lift a book. Romy brushed her sopping-wet hair back out of her eyes, trying to neaten it even though she knew it was an absurd waste of time. She knocked on the glass. The man’s head turned, but he didn’t get up. She knocked again.
