Page 63 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“It’s possible.” But I didn’t believe it, and neither did he. “Or whoever was behind it all has simply gotten better at not being seen.”

“If there’s so much as a hint of danger, you get her out of there. Don’t wait for confirmation, just get her out.”

“I will.”

“I don’t want to—” He cut off, and when he started speaking again, it was the buttery smooth version of his voice he reserved for attractive women. “You’re the translator? Wonderful. I’m Lance Collins. Here, take my chair.”

He’d used that voice on an aide-de-camp in Kabul and nearly caused a diplomatic incident. He’d used it on a waitress in Monaco and left with her number and her roommate’s. Every time he used it, he got what he wanted. On the upside, if the translator could provide any information, he’d get it. And no doubt a lot more.

“I’ll let you go,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ll call you—” The line went dead before he finished the sentence.

He’d also used that voice on Gwen the other night in her hotel room, when I’d been busy ensuring she was safe, while he was busy calling her ‘Babe.’

The man has a gift. Not always a useful one, but a gift.

I pocketed the phone and stood in the corridor for another moment. Gwen hadn’t moved. The two other researchers were still at their tables: a young woman near the emergency doors, and a man at a corner table.

I pushed back into the reading room and walked to the windows. The green space stretched out behind the building, flat and open, with autumn trees along the edges and a bench near the far path.

And right on cue—blue fucking ballcap.

Coming from the east now. That was new.

Nobody walks a loop around a public building three times in one afternoon unless they have a reason. But what was his reason? Was he going back and forth on a short track to make up the mileage he wanted? Or was he waiting? Watching?

I left the windows and made a pass through the room. In person or on the security video, I was unmistakably a bodyguard. So if I did a detailed scan of the room, it wouldn’t seem out of place.

Like Gwen, the young woman and the man each had boxes of paperwork. They also appeared engrossed in their work. I walked along the display partition near the windows and the reading tables, reviewing the items on each desk.

I strolled past the bookshelves along the right side, five feet high and full of thick red and blue binders with French labels in white text.

Halfway along one shelf, I spotted a small black cube with a convex, glassy front. Tucked between two upright reference volumes at an angle that gave it a wide field of view across the reading area. I kept walking, my posture loose, my gaze tracking naturally past it.

How the fuck did you miss a camera?

It was certainly not part of the archive’s security system. This had been wedged in to stay hidden and aimed at the room. The whole room? If it had a fisheye lens, it might have been able to record all the tables.

I completed my pass and stopped near the window, my back to the shelves. Anyone monitoring the feed would have seen the bodyguard walk through the reading room and stop at a window. Nothing more.

Don’t look at the camera.

Was it on? The bookshelf sat against the wall, so I couldn’t get behind it to check for a power cable without drawing attention. If it was battery-powered, someone had placed it recently.

France had stringent laws about surveillance in public spaces—Gwen would have had to sign a waiver if this were any kind of study or research project. Nobody had asked her to sign anything. Other than when we registered our arrival?

Someone had put a camera on a bookshelf in a public archive, aimed at the reading tables. Outside, a man in a blue ballcap was walking his third loop around the building since we’d arrived. And neither Lance nor I had spotted a tail since Cornwall, which either meant there was nothing to see or whoever it was had fooled both of us.

The man at the corner table turned a page. The young woman near the emergency doors typed on her laptop. Gwen’s pen scratched against her notebook.

Three sightings. A camera. A silence I couldn’t explain. Each one had a reasonable answer on its own. Together, they sat wrong. Could I justify pulling her out of an archive in the middle of what she’d called a significant find?

More importantly, can you justify letting her stay?

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, smiled, and picked up. “Rachel! Thanks for getting back to me so soon.”

Chapter 21