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“You should reconsider,” Kholkov said. “Have a look around.”
Sam and Remi did so. Standing on the far side of the patio were three of Kholkov’s men—all familiar faces from the Rum Cay cave.
“The gang’s all here,” Sam said.
“No, they’re not. I have more. Wherever you go, we’ll be there. One way or another, we’ll get what we want. What you need to decide is whether you wish to live through this.”
“We’ll manage,” Remi said.
Kholkov shrugged. “Your choice. I don’t suppose you’re stupid enough to have brought the codebook along with you, are you?”
“No,” Sam replied. “And we’re not stupid enough to have left it at the hotel, either, but you’re welcome to have a look around.”
“We already did. I assume it’s already in Mrs. Wondrash’s hands.”
“Either that or it’s in a safe-deposit box,” Remi said.
“No, I don’t think so. I think you have your people trying to decode it right now. Perhaps we’ll pay them a visit. I’ve heard San Diego is beautiful this time of year.”
“Good luck with that,” Sam said lightly, fighting to keep his face impassive.
“You’re talking about your security system?” Kholkov waved his hand dismissively. “That won’t be any trouble.”
“Clearly you’re not familiar with my résumé,” Sam said.
Kholkov hesitated. “Ah, yes, an engineer. Tinkered with the alarm system, have you?”
Remi added, “And even if you get past that, who knows what you’ll find once you’re inside? You said it yourself: We’re not stupid.”
Kholkov’s brows furrowed, a flicker of uncertainty, but it was gone in a second. “We’ll see. Last chance, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. After this, the gloves come off.”
“You have our answer,” Sam replied.
CHAPTER 30
CHTEAU D’IF
A drizzle had begun to fall shortly before they left the hotel and now, as midnight approached, it had given way to a steady rain that pattered through the trees and gurgled down the rain gutters. The streets glistened under the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights. Here and there late-night pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks under umbrellas or folded newspaper or waited in clusters beneath bus shelters.
In the alley across from their hotel, Sam and Remi stood in the shadows and watched the lobby doors.
Down the block a gray Citroën Xsara sat at the curb, a pair of figures just visible in the dimmed interior. Earlier from the window of their hotel room Remi had gotten a look at the driver’s face: he’d been with Kholkov at the Malmousque café. Whether there were more watchers around they couldn’t tell, but they knew it was best to assume so.
After parting company with Kholkov at the café earlier that afternoon, they’d roamed the Malmousque, shopping and taking in the sights for a few hours. They saw neither Kholkov nor his men until they started back to the hotel, when two men on motorcycles fell in behind their taxi.
Despite their nonplussed reaction to Kholkov’s threats, Sam and Remi had taken them seriously. Fearing their room was bugged, they found a quiet corner in the mostly deserted hotel bar and called Rube Haywood on the Iridium; he wasn’t at CIA headquarters in Langley, but they reached him at home.
Sam put him on speakerphone and quickly explained the situation and their worries.
Rube said, “I know a guy in Long Beach—used to work for the Diplomatic Security Service. He runs his own shop now. Want me to have him send a couple guys to the house?”
“We’d be grateful.”
“Give me ten minutes.” He called back in five: “Done. They’ll be there in two hours. Tell Selma they’ll have IDs—Kozal Security Group. They’ll ask for Mrs. French.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to call it a day?” Rube asked. “You’ve seen how far these guys will go. Nothing’s worth this.”
