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“If we can find a stream where we can clean up. We’re too noticeable the way we are.”
She looked down at her bare feet and tattered gown, then at his bloodstained tuxedo, and shrugged. “So we’re a little overdressed. I don’t think washing our faces and hands is going to help much.”
She was right about that. They needed a change of clothes before they were seen in public; they were too noticeable. And he’d forgotten about the black strip tied around his head, but he couldn’t remove it until they found some water, because the dried blood had stuck the material to the cut and if he pulled it off he’d start the damn thing bleeding again.
On the other hand, if the next car he stole had a full tank of gas, he could also steal some food and water and they wouldn’t need to stop again until they reached Nice. They could shower on the yacht and have clothing delivered.
“We also need to find a secluded area for other reasons,” she pointed out.
“Understood and obeyed.”
He left the Renault parked behind a shop and removed its plates. The next car they came to, he removed those plates, replaced them with the Renault’s, then they went back to the
Renault and put the other car’s plates on it. When the local police found the car and compared the plates to the ones on the car reported stolen, they would think it was a different car. They would eventually figure it out, but at least this would slow them down a little.
“Where to now?” Niema asked. She was tired, but at least John had found a bush behind which she had relieved herself, so she wasn’t in any physical discomfort, other than her sore feet.
“We walk until we find another car.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that. Why didn’t we just take the car we put the Renault’s plates on?”
“They were too close together. We would automatically be suspected. We need a car on the other side of town.”
She sighed. The last thing she wanted to do right now was walk to the other side of town. No—the last thing she wanted to do was get caught. She bit her tongue to hold back any complaints that might slip out.
They walked for forty-five minutes before he spotted the car he wanted. It was a Fiat, parked at the top of a small slope, and it was unlocked. “Get in,” he said, and she thankfully crawled in. Instead of hotwiring it, he put it in neutral, braced his hands on the frame, and started it rolling. He hopped in and they rolled silently down the slope, away from the owner’s house. He let it roll as far as it would and then did the hot-wiring thing. The engine was another sewing machine, but it ran smoothly, and that was all they required.
Ronsard paced quietly. He didn’t like leaving everything to his men. He understood Temple, he thought, at least he didn’t underestimate him. His guests were gone; there was no reason for him to remain here.
The phone rang with another update. The Renault had been found in Valence, but there was no report of Temple or Madame Jamieson. The plates on the Renault had been switched with those from a Volvo, but the Volvo hadn’t been stolen.
“What other cars have been reported stolen within the past twenty-four hours?”
“A Peugeot was taken from behind a house a kilometer from the Renault. A Fiat was also stolen, but that was some distance away. And a Mercedes was reported stolen, but the owner has been out of town and does not know how long the car has been gone.”
The Peugeot was the most likely, Ronsard thought. It was the closest. And yet . . . perhaps that was what Temple wished him to think. “Concentrate on the Mercedes and Fiat,” he said. “I will be joining you by helicopter in two hours. Find those two cars.”
“Yes, sir,” came the brisk answer.
It was noon when they reached Nice. Niema was so tired she could barely think, but somehow her body kept moving. They were met at the dock by a man in a small outboard, to take them out to the yacht that was moored in the harbor. He had to be Company, Niema thought. He was American, and he didn’t ask any questions, just competently steered the boat across the harbor and brought it alongside a gleaming white sixty-footer.
She wasn’t too tired to be amazed. She stared up at the yacht, with an impressive array of antennas bristling from its top. When John had said “yacht,” she had expected something about twenty-five or thirty feet, with a tiny galley, a tinier head, and bunk beds in a cramped cabin. This thing was in an entirely different category.
John spoke quietly with the other man, giving him instructions on the disposition of the stolen Fiat. It was to disappear, immediately. There were other instructions as well. “Keep us under surveillance. Don’t let anyone approach us without warning.”
“Got it.”
He turned to look at Niema. “Can you make it up the ladder?”
“Do I get to take a shower and go to bed if I do?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I can make it up the ladder.” She suited action to words, setting her bare feet on the rungs and using the last of her energy to climb to the deck. John made it as easily as if he had just woke from a good night’s sleep and started fresh. He looked terrible, but she couldn’t see any sign of fatigue in him.
He opened the hatch door and led her inside. The interior was surprisingly spacious, with everything built in that could be built in, the design both sophisticated and luxurious. They were in the middle of the boat, in a large salon outfitted with pale golden wood and dark blue trim; a full galley lay beyond. John ushered her past the galley, into a narrow hallway, or whatever it was called on board a ship. If a kitchen was a galley, a bathroom was a head, and a bedroom was a cabin, then a hallway had to be something else too.
“Here’s the head,” he said, opening a door. “Everything you’ll need is there. When you’re finished, take either of these cabins.” He indicated two doors in the hallway past the head.
