The Lion's Den

by Katherine St. John

  Had he been trying to manipulate me? He’d made no false promises, told no lies. He’d answered all my questions honestly and was nothing but gracious and open with me.

  So he flirted with me; that wasn’t a crime. He was just a flirt. He was French, after all; it was probably how he dealt with everyone. I was the one who had read into it, thought there’d been more between us than there was, because I’d wanted there to be. And to be fair, he probably did want to sleep with me, even if he didn’t want anything further.

  God, I was so glad I hadn’t slept with him last night. I’d be far more mortified than I was right now.

  I should go back, apologize. But there was nowhere to turn the car around in this clusterfuck.

  I took out my phone and thumbed through my contacts, landing on the number for the Mexican burner he’d purchased this morning. I steeled my nerves and hit dial. The phone rang and rang, and finally a message in Spanish came on saying what I could only imagine was that the user had not yet set up voice mail. I sent a text:

  I’m sorry. I want to help you. Tell me what I can do.

  When I still hadn’t heard from Eric a week after I returned from Rosarito, I figured it was over. I’d managed to fuck it up and I’d never see him again. I worried about him; I considered driving back down there—I lay awake nights staring at the ceiling, going over the different possible scenarios for our reunion (he loved me, he hated me, he was gone, he was dead)—but in the end I decided that if he wasn’t returning my texts or calls, he probably didn’t want to see me. And I desperately needed to work to pay my rent.

  I did speak to Dylan a few days after I left Mexico. He didn’t call me; I called him, maintaining the charade that I was simply a concerned friend. I inquired as to whether he or his father had found anything further about Eric’s disappearance, hoping against hope that he’d come clean with me and admit that John was their father, who was only looking into Eric’s disappearance so that he could make it permanent. For Eric’s sake, I wanted Dylan to turn out to be a good brother after all, for Eric to be wrong about him. But Dylan shut me down, telling me they’d found no signs of foul play. I should let it go, he said. When I reminded him there was still no body, he gave me a rather cryptic “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Has anyone been to his loft?” I’d asked, knowing it would still be the mess he’d found after it had been ransacked, as Eric hadn’t had time to clean it before Summer pushed him off the cliff. “Maybe there would be some clue there.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Everything was in order.”

  So he was lying to me. “Summer has a key,” I fibbed. “Maybe I’ll go by and––”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “Belle—the kind of people Eric was involved with—even if they had nothing to do with it, trust me, you don’t want to draw their attention. Promise me you won’t.”

  He sounded genuinely worried enough that I promised, realizing that just maybe he was lying to me in order to protect me. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Maybe he was a coward, or maybe he was biding his time to bring his father down on his own terms (though from what Eric had told me, it was doubtful). Only time would tell.

  The following Tuesday night at the dimly lit swanky joint where I tended bar was slow. I was taking my time to craft the perfect Southside for one of my favorite regulars—an older actor who reminded me of my late grandfather—when I heard my name, spoken by a woman with a soft lilt to her voice. I looked up to see George. Her hair was piled atop her head in the same stylishly messy updo as the last time I’d seen her and she was wearing the same red lipstick and black-framed glasses, leaning on the bar with her gaze fixed on me. When our eyes met, she smiled.

  “Fancy seeing you here!” I said, perhaps too brightly. I slid the Southside in front of my regular and made my way over to her. “What can I get you?”

  “Macallan on the rocks,” she said.

  Of course that was her drink. I poured her glass fuller than management would be happy with and set it in front of her. She tipped it to me and took a sip. “Can we talk?”

  I nodded. “Ed,” I called to the other bartender, “I’m taking my break.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up and cast a glance around the empty bar. “Think I can handle it.”

  George followed me to a corner table, where we sat facing each other. I extracted a matchbook from my pocket and relit the votive in the center of the table. “What’s up?”

  She leaned in, her features distorted in the candlelight. “Raphael sent me.”

  My heart fluttered. “Oh?”

  “He got your texts before he changed his number, but he was afraid to reach out to you himself. He didn’t want to put you in danger.”

  A ray of hope. Perhaps he didn’t hate me, after all. “What did he say?”

  “He could use your help, if you’re still up for it.”

  I resisted the urge to smile. “What does that mean?”

  “He wants to stop his father doing any more damage to the world,” she whispered earnestly. “He’s trying to gather enough incriminating information on him to blackmail him into handing over the reins of the company.”

  I raised my brows.

  “He realizes if he wants change he is going to have to create it himself,” she went on. “His father knows so many powerful people, he has escaped accusations with hard evidence so many times. Even if Raphael were successful in exposing his crimes, he might still never go to prison, and Raphael and others would likely suffer, or die, in the crossfire. It would be a waste. Instead he has to beat his father at his own game.”

  “How is he planning to do that?”

  She leaned in, her dark eyes gleaming in the flickering light. “He’s hired someone trustworthy to build a secure server where he can store evidence against his father—evidence that if it is ever exposed, would send him to jail—which he’ll keep locked away as long as his father stays in line.”

  “What evidence?”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  I frowned. “I don’t know how much help I’m going to be in that department. I don’t have unrestricted access to Jo––his father, and he certainly doesn’t tell me his secrets.”

  “You’re going on a trip aboard his yacht in a few weeks, no?”

  I shook my head. I’d been using my job and a faked illness as an excuse to avoid Summer since I returned from Mexico, but hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to cancel my trip with her. “No way.”

  “Hear me out,” she said. “You may change your mind.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m listening.”

  She removed a gold box from her bag and set it on the table between us. “Open it.”

  I removed the lid. Inside the box was a gold watch with a large round digital face. I took it out and slipped it around my wrist. “What’s this?”

  She set a user manual an inch thick on the table next to the box. “Think of it like a security camera on your wrist. It wirelessly records all audio and video to a remote server without you ever having to do a thing.”

  I was dubious. “So you want me to wear this on the trip? And what, try to get John to talk about illegal stuff?”

  “Shhhhh…” She stiffened at the mention of his name and looked around, but none of the few patrons in the bar appeared to be paying us any mind. “This trip is really about visiting a town on the Ligurian coast that he plans to raze and turn into a resort. You girls are just decoration. He’ll be taking meetings along the way, and though he’s always careful, he won’t suspect that one of Summer’s girlfriends might be anything more than a pretty face. So you’ll have a better chance than anyone of getting close to the source. You’re an actress, right? All you need to do is play the part of glamorous guest––relax and take advantage of his hospitality, drink his champagne, eat his caviar, and get a tan.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be doing much relaxing.” But she did make my role sound easy, for the amount of good it would do. Almost
too easy. The hardest part would be pretending to be Summer’s friend for a week.

  “The other thing—in fact, the main thing—you need to do is log in to the computer on the boat and access the link Raphael sends you. It will allow his guys to hack into the server and cameras on the boat.”

  “Ah,” I said, the wheels of my brain spinning. “Will they know the servers have been hacked? What if they catch me? I’m not exactly James Bond.”

  “They’ll never know. The malware doesn’t make any changes. It only allows remote access and download. And from what I understand, guests are allowed to use the desktops on board.”

  “How will I communicate with him while I’m on the trip? I assume we can’t email or talk. How will I know it’s working, or if something’s going wrong?”

  “He’ll set up an email in another name. A friend of yours, someone you would be emailing anyway to tell about your trip. You’ll send each other coded messages this way, messages that appear to be about the weather or food.”

  That sounded complicated. “We can’t just use apps?”

  “No. And you’ll need to wipe your phone of anything personal. We can’t be sure he won’t have trackers installed on your phones once on board.”

  “Jesus.” I bit my lip, turning over the idea. “So I just go on the trip like everything is normal. Wear this watch and click on some link. No one will ever be the wiser.”

  She nodded. “Simple.”

  But it wasn’t simple. I’d have to spend a week cooped up on a boat in a foreign country with Summer. Granted, it wouldn’t be just any boat––it would be a luxury megayacht, likely with plenty of room to get away from her. Wendy and Claire would be there as well, and surely Summer would be on her best behavior in front of John, her mother, and all her friends? It certainly wouldn’t be the fun girls’ trip I’d imagined when she’d first extended the invitation, but perhaps the week could be…doable. “Then what? When is he planning to blackmail his father with all this?”

  “Once Raphael feels he’s gathered enough material, he’ll meet with his father and force the turnover of the company.” She looked into my eyes. “Belle, don’t worry. He’ll do his best to make sure your friend never knows you were involved. The confrontation will be after you return, and he won’t make a move until he knows he has enough to make it stick. This isn’t all on you. If he doesn’t get enough evidence from the boat trip, he’ll find other ins, other ways to get more information.”

  “So I’m not totally necessary.”

  “You’re his best bet,” she said. “He can’t play dead forever. Time is of the essence, and you’ll be in a place to give him access to the information on all his father’s servers. It’s unlikely there won’t be enough evidence to follow through with the plan.”

  It was true I had a personal stake in Eric coming back from the dead before the authorities suspected foul play and Summer pinned his disappearance on me, so agreeing to this plan could be beneficial for my interests as well. “How will I be safe, afterward? Once John sees the feed from the watch, he’ll know it was me.”

  “That’s the whole point of the blackmail,” she assured me. “He won’t dare touch you because if anything ever happens to you, all the videos and other information will be released.”

  I nodded slowly. I knew that John was a horrible person doing damage to the world on a daily basis; I believed in Eric’s cause and knew that in addition to it benefiting me personally, I’d be doing my part to actually make lasting, positive change—a chance I might never have again. But this was my life, the only one I had. Did I want to stake it on this? “It’s a big risk.” I exhaled.

  “There will be money in it for you. You just need to name your price.”

  Oh. “Can I talk to…Raphael?”

  She took out her cell phone, hit dial, and put it to her ear. “I’m here with Belle. She has some questions for you.” She passed me the phone.

  “Hi,” I said, my heart in my throat.

  “Hi.” I thought I detected a smile in his voice. “She told you everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you help me?”

  I sighed. Would I be able to live with myself if I didn’t? “It’s a lot.”

  “I know. But I also know you can handle it. You’re strong, and you’re a damn good actress. If you can manage to put everything that’s happened out of your mind for just one week, pretend you’re still her friend––the watch and the link will do all the rest.”

  His voice was so close, I could almost imagine his breath in my ear. “Can I see you?” He was silent for a moment. “Hello?”

  “I’m here. I…I’m not in Mexico anymore. I’m…a lot farther away. Probably better if you don’t know where. George doesn’t, either. But after it’s over, I won’t have to hide anymore.”

  “I talked to your brother a few days ago,” I said. “He told me nothing was out of order at your apartment.”

  “So either he’s lying or John cleaned it up,” he said.

  I hadn’t thought about the possibility of John cleaning it up. “He said there was no reason to suspect foul play, but that I should stay out of it for my own safety. I got the feeling he knew a lot more than he was letting on.”

  “Of course he does,” Eric said. “He’s in France now, staying with our grandmother near Saint-Tropez. If you have a chance to see him while you’re there, take it. See if you can find out what he knows and where his loyalties lie.”

  “What about your grandmother? Whose side is she on?”

  “I’ve left her out of everything until now because I didn’t want to upset her, but I’m nearly certain she’ll be on our side once she learns the truth.”

  “What if something goes wrong? What if they find me out?”

  “Remember, I’ll be able to see the feed from the watch every time it connects to Wi-Fi and uploads what it’s shot since the last time it was connected. If anything goes wrong, we change plans. I’ll get you out of there. I promise.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Lemme think about it. But I think, okay.”

  Day 7

  Friday evening—Italian to French Riviera

  The train careens along the lip of the cliff on rails cut into the side of the mountain, high above the glittering sea. My heart beats in sync with every rotation of the wheels as we skate along the razor’s edge. It’s breathtaking; one wrong move and we plunge to the rocks below.

  I’ve failed on my mission and I’m a million miles from home. What a terrible spy I’d make. Staring out at the horizon, I catalog my mistakes: I should have taken the money Eric offered; I should have been more careful––more obsequious with Summer, firmer with Amythest; I should never have given Amythest my watch. When was the last time it had uploaded––in the port yesterday before my meeting with John? At least I’d downloaded the link. If the cameras on the boat caught Summer pushing Amythest, was Eric able to capture the recording off John’s servers before the feed was inevitably wiped?

  The train hurtles into a tunnel. Your sister is headed to your grandmother’s. A threat? Or a reference to my code with Eric, a validation that Vinny’s on my side? In the pitch black, I wish more than anything that I could email Lauren_Carter812 somehow, and find out who to trust.

  Please, God, don’t let it be a trap.

  Hoping to avoid passport control, I visit the restroom as we cross the French border, taking as much time as possible to clean myself up in the small steel space. It feels immensely good to wash my face and rinse the blood, sweat, and dirt from my weary limbs, but nothing is to be done about my tangled hair or ripped dress. Thankfully, when I emerge, I find no agents have boarded the train.

  When the train pulls into Gare de Saint-Raphaël Valescure just after eight, the sun has just dropped beneath the sea, leaving the sky lavender in its wake. I scramble off the train and hasten through the modern station, skidding to a stop in front of the rectangular glass information booth. “Taxi?”

  “Sortir les portes à gauc
he,” the unsmiling attendant informs me, pointing toward the sliding glass doors.

  Outside to the left, I find a couple of taxis idling at the curb in a dedicated lane just off the busy local street. I lean into the open passenger-side window of the first one in line. “La Quessine?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Local seulement.”

  I move to the second taxi in line and repeat the question, only to be given another refusal. Discouraged, I move to the third and last taxi. The driver adjusts her hot-pink hijab and sighs. “Deux cent. En especes.”

  My jaw drops. Two hundred euros? After the low cost of the train ticket, I’d been hopeful a taxi would at least be affordable. I only have eighty in cash, and I don’t know whether I even have a hundred in my bank account. Regardless, I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Je vais au…” I don’t know the word for ATM. “ATM? Cash point?”

  She nods and holds up three fingers. “Je vous attendre trois minutes.”

  I cast a glance around for an ATM, relieved to spot one not twenty feet from where I stand, on the front of the boxlike train station. I insert my debit card and hit the balance button, hoping against hope that I have enough. Finally the spinning wheel disappears and my balance flashes up on the screen: €108.20. So I’m twenty short. Okay, clearly I’m just gonna have to make do.

  Again kicking myself for being too proud to take the money Eric offered me before the trip, I withdraw the hundred the ATM will allow me and return to the car sporting my most pitiful smile. “J’ai cent quatre-vingts,” I say. Then, remembering the three left over from my train ticket. “Cent quatre-vingt trois. S’il vous plaît? C’est très important.” She looks me up and down, considering. “S’il vous plaît,” I again plead with prayer hands.

  She nods and waves me into the cab. “Merci beaucoup,” I cry, climbing into the backseat with a sigh of relief. “Allez au 12 Chemin de la Pommière dans La Quessine.” She searches in her navigation. “Combien de temps?”

  “Une heure,” she says as she pulls away from the curb.