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When Moreau counted his thirteenth stride, he turned and grabbed a protruding stone in the wall. The shoes he was wearing were favored by climbing guides—tight and sticky enough to scale cliffs but not so uncomfortable as to make it difficult to run. He moved quickly up handholds he’d memorized from a laser scan done the day before. In less than five seconds, he was at the top and looking for a way down.
The inside had been stuccoed in order to complement the modern house beyond, but it wasn’t a problem. The landscaper had placed trees in ideal positions for anyone trying to gain access. Moreau slithered down one and crouched behind its trunk, taking in his surroundings.
The house was basically a big glass box—one of those homes that looked very prestigious in architectural drawings but that no one in their right mind would want to live in. The lights were on, providing a view right through it. The kitchen was empty, with a similarly uninhabited pool area glowing behind. Ahmed el-Hashem, Saudi Arabia’s assistant ambassador to France, was sitting at a desk on the upper floor, writing in longhand. Apparently he could afford to live in this neighborhood but couldn’t afford a laptop.
Or a decent security system, as it turned out.
According to Moreau’s source—namely, the man who did the install—it was all off-the-shelf crap. Even better, the owner had insisted that it not be obtrusive, which wasn’t easy in a fishbowl where everything was visible. So, basically, nothing that would come even close to challenging a man of Moreau’s talents. In fact, it was unlikely he would have even taken a mind-numbing job like this one if it hadn’t been for two irresistible factors. One, it had finally given him an excuse to use the 3-D laser scanner he’d stolen from the university. And two?
Claudia Gould.
What words were sufficient to describe the woman? Sublime? Brilliant? Stunning? Mysterious? He could go on all night and never even scratch the surface. Those eyes. That body. And, okay, the kid. But that’s what boarding schools were for.
Moreau had done a fair amount of work for her in the past but figured he’d never hear from her again after her husband died. Then, out of nowhere, the phone rang and the voice so indelibly imprinted on his heart flowed into his ear. A new job, a new relationship, and new possibilities.
He had no idea what she’d seen in Louis Gould. Sure, he’d been good-looking. Then there were the rippling muscles and wealth. He’d also had that whole international super spy thing going on. Some chicks were into that, Moreau supposed. But if you took all those things away, he was just a violent dick. Maybe she was ready for a change? Perhaps something with a cultured, intellectual thief? A man who could enjoy art and food and wine? Someone who could show her the world through a lens not smeared with blood?
He let out a quiet breath. But before he started planning his future with her, he needed to get this job done. He didn’t get to steal anything—his instructions were just to set up some surveillance. Video was simple—the stupid glass house again—but audio would be a bit more interesting. He’d have to get in close enough to do some hand drilling, and as easy as it was to see into the building, it would be almost equally easy to see out.
Moreau crept forward a few meters and then stopped again for another quick scan of his surroundings. The landscaping was spread out and tasteful. Unlike most of his countrymen, el-Hashem had resisted installing gilt statues of cherubs peeing into fountains.
Moreau avoided increasingly bright splashes of light as he closed in on the structure. El-Hashem was still writing away and one of his guards was in the living room—a fit-looking man of the type who wore sunglasses at night. Where was the other? Likely somewhere in the house, but making an assumption like that would be an amateurish mistake. Could he be patrolling the exterior? Had he seen Moreau go over the wall, and was he now creeping up from behind?
Unlikely, but still his absence added a little spice to the drudgery of this gig.
The Frenchman followed a deep shadow to a tree he’d found with a drone flyover. It was one of four surveillance angles he’d need, and the branches looked sturdy enough to support his sixty-five kilos. Six or seven meters would be high enough to make the camera invisible from the ground and to keep the solar panel in the light.
He began fishing a unit out of his backpack but then stopped when he saw the security man inside head toward the stairs. A changing of the guard? Would he finally discover the location of the other man? Confirmation that he was inside would allow Moreau to move much more quickly and remove all danger of being late for his dinner reservation.
The guard went up the steps, walking with a level of caution that seemed a bit odd. Maybe el-Hashem was one of those rich assholes who didn’t like to see or hear his staff. Moreau himself had once worked in a similar environment. He’d left that job with his employer’s Bentley and the contents of his safe.
The guard stopped in the doorway of the room occupied by el-Hashem, raised his gun, and fired a single round. It hit the Arab in the head and pitched him forward onto his desk.
Moreau froze. Had that really just happened? Was he having a flashback from the drugs he’d been so enamored with at university? Were flashbacks really even a thing?
The guard walked calmly over and yanked what was left of the dead man’s head back. It was enough to break Moreau from his trance and he panicked. Scooping up his pack, he began sprinting toward the perimeter wall. Coming around the thick stump of an ancient tree, he suddenly found himself skidding face-first through the dirt. When he glanced back to see what had tripped him, he vomited into the dry leaves. The guard he’d been looking for was lying on his back, staring up at the sky with part of his head missing.
Moreau forced himself to his feet and stumbled to the tree he’d used to access the compound. He shot up it, pausing reluctantly on top of the wall to ensure that the street was still empty. A moment later he was walking with an awkward, hurried gait toward his vehicle. It was the longest six minutes and twelve seconds he’d ever spent, but finally he slid behind the wheel and pulled out.
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His breath was coming too fast, making him light-headed. But not so much that he couldn’t dial Claudia. She picked up on the first ring.
“Julien! Where—”
“They killed him!” he screamed. “You screwed me! You didn’t say anything about anyone getting murdered.”
Her voice carried its normal sensual calm. “Do you ever check your messages?”
He glanced at the phone’s screen. Three from her.
“Fuck!” he said, unable to come up with anything more relevant.
“I need you to calm down, Julien. Tell me what happened.”
“Are you deaf? They killed him!”
“Who killed whom?”
