“No, you don’t.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Oh my god. He almost laughed again. “His father owns an international defense contractor, so he’s going to hire on a couple of local guys in Prague as additional security.”
“You think it’s that dangerous?”
“Honestly? Before I heard Richter was in Zurich asking questions, I would have said no. But now? I don’t know what we’ll be facing, so it’s best to be prepared.” He turned his wrist over to check his watch. “I assume you want to spend some time with Henri?”
I nodded.
“Don’t trust everything he says.” He dipped his chin, as though cutting off any argument I might have made to defend Henri—which I probably would have. “Ask him questions that test what he knows. Don’t fill in gaps for him. Stay quiet and let him answer.”
“Yeah, not talking. Not my strength.”
His mouth twitch turned into an almost-smile, and oh my wow, it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. “I have a feeling you can do anything you put your mind to.”
The words were innocent, no doubt meant to encourage me, but all they did was make me suddenly aware of the two of us standing in this cramped space. We were only feet apart, and every inch of my body demanded I close the distance between us. He was still wearing the black shirt and jeans, under a light jacket for the cool evening. My brain clicked over into that place that wanted to see him without his shirt again.
Calm down, girl.
I pushed it all down because Ididwant to know about Didi’s story. I wanted every story Henri could tell me. This was my opportunity, and I’d regret it if I didn’t take it. “I’ll do my best. Can we go now?”
He nodded and opened the door for me, following close behind.
We navigated through the doors between cars, past Garrett’s compartment, and finally reached Henri’s. I knocked, and he opened, revealing a room nearly identical to mine. He settled onto one end of the L-shaped sofa, and I took the other end, my back against the window. Garrett leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder in the corridor to monitor traffic, one inside to monitor how well I wasnotspilling every bean.
Henri picked up one of the small complimentary bottles of sparkling wine. “May I offer you a glass?”
“No, thank you,” I said, “I’m?—”
“Please.” He twisted the cage off the cork. “I insist. It helps settle the nerves, and I suspect we could all use that tonight.”
He poured into the two plastic cups and held one out to me. I accepted, but Garrett shook his head when Henri offered the other to him.
I took a small sip from the plastic cup. It was passable, and it probably would help my nerves. I just had to refrain from having as much as I had last night at Jean’s. “Can you tell me more about your father?”
Henri set the bottle down. “I never knew him. He was killed in 1944, three months before I was born.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve had many years to make peace with it.” He tasted his own wine and grimaced. “What I know about him—and about Delphine—comes from my mother. The stories were told so many times they feel like memories, even though they aren’t mine.”
Dmitry appeared in the corridor behind Garrett, holding a bottle of red wine and a small brown bag. Garrett stepped aside to let him squeeze past, then resumed his sentry position.
“Ah, perfect.” Henri accepted the bottle and stood to rummage in the suitcase on his bed. He gestured for Dmitry to take his seat, and continued his story. “You see, my mother’s family fled to Prague during the Revolution. Her grandfather had been a guard at the Kremlin—a minor position, but enough to see what was coming. He smuggled out what he could. Some items he sold to survive. Others he kept hidden.”
While Henri spoke, Dmitry withdrew a wrapped sandwich from his bag and ate. I probably should have gotten some more food, myself.
Henri produced a corkscrew. “The egg was one of those. Passed down through the family. Given to my parents as a wedding gift, with strict instructions to keep it secret.”
I played it forward like a scene from a movie. A priceless treasure, hidden for decades, carried across borders during a revolution, then tucked away somewhere, waiting. Didi had done the same thing. Kept it in her costume jewelry box as though it was nothing special.
“He was from Marseille originally, and they lived there after they married. However, when my mother became pregnant with me, my father sent her back to Prague. He told her it was too dangerous for her to remain in France.” Henri withdrew two more plastic glasses from the brown bag, uncorked the bottle, and poured glasses for himself and Dmitry. “He sent her letters and photographs once she was home, including one that confessed he should have sent the egg with her. It was too late to ship it safely, but when Delphine was preparing to head home to London?—”
‘Home to London.’So shewasBritish. At least that much was true. “He gave it to her?”
“He did.” Henri nodded. “He planned to come for it after the liberation. For the egg, and—” He stopped. Shook his head. “He never had the chance.”
Nineteen years old, working with the French Resistance, carrying a Fabergé egg out of occupied territory. Did sheknowwhat it was? “What was she like? What did your mother say about Delphine?”
Henri’s expression softened. “Stubborn. That was the word my mother used most often. My father argued with her constantly about strategy, timing, risk. But she always backed him when it counted. He trusted her completely, and she had a network of women who followed her every move.”
