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“I think that’s called a bull’s-eye,” Remi said, then dropped to her belly and let out an exhausted sigh. Sam did the same. Above their heads black smoke spewed from the tunnel and began drifting away through the bridge.
“Well,” Sam said, “I’d say we’ve thoroughly worn out our welcome. Shall we call it a night?”
“Yes, please.”
CHAPTER 43
MONACO
Yvette Fournier-Desmarais’s hazel eyes stared over the rim of her poised coffee cup as she listened intently to Sam recount their adventure on Elba. He’d left out any mention of Umberto’s near betrayal of them to Kholkov.
“After that,” Sam finished, “we drove to Nisporto, then made our way back to the mainland.”
“Amazing,” Yvette said. “You two certainly know how to live up to your reputations.”
It was early morning and the
three of them sat on the patio of Yvette’s villa overlooking Point de la Veille. The sun sparkled off the flat calm waters of the Mediterranean.
After watching Bondaruk’s patrol boat sink into the depths below the erosion bridge Sam and Remi had climbed down the spike ladder and slipped into the water. They found a pair of orange kapok life jackets that had escaped the boat’s demise, latched on to them, and let the current carry them south along the coast. As the sun rose over the horizon they drifted along, watching plumes of black smoke gather over Bondaruk’s estate and listening as the sirens of the fire engines grew louder. Several times to the north they saw more Bondaruk patrol boats, but the crews focused their attention on the cliffs beneath the estate.
An hour after they went into the water they found themselves off the beaches north of Balaclava and they paddled ashore and made their way into town, and two hours after their phone call to Selma they were sitting in the back of a limousine and on their way to Kerch, a hundred miles up the coast on the Sea of Azov. Waiting there was a courier who upon Selma’s orders had gathered their passports, credit cards, and luggage from their hotel in Yevpatoria. An hour after that they were aboard a private charter headed for Istanbul.
Knowing they were in a holding pattern until Selma could decipher the printout they’d stolen from Bondaruk’s lab, and knowing they needed a safe place to regroup, they’d called Yvette, who’d happily and immediately dispatched Langdon, her ex-SAS bodyguard, aboard her Gulfstream to collect them.
“Well, in all fairness I have to tell you: Umberto confessed everything,” Yvette now said. “He was quite ashamed of himself.”
“He redeemed himself,” Remi said. “In spades.”
“I agree. I told him that if the Fargos forgave, so did I.”
Sam asked, “I’m curious: What happened to Carmine Bianco?”
“Who?”
“The Corsican mobster-slash-Elban cop.”
“Ah, him . . . I believe he’s now the guest of the Italian government. Something about attempted murder.”
Sam and Remi laughed.
“So,” Yvette said, “Laurent’s diary is proving helpful?”
“And a challenge,” Remi replied. “The code he used is complex and layered, but if anyone can puzzle it out, it’s Selma.” As soon as they’d arrived at the villa they faxed the printout to Selma.
Langdon appeared with a fresh carafe of coffee and refilled everyone’s cups. Sam asked, “So, Langdon, what’s the answer?”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Did she have the good sense to say yes?”
Langdon cleared his throat and pursed his lips.
Yvette said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Langdon . . .” To Sam and Remi: “He’s so reserved, so proper. Langdon, you’re allowed to share good news, you know. Go on, tell them.”
Langdon allowed his mouth to form the barest of smiles and said, “Yes, sir, she agreed to marry me.”
“Congratulations.”
