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They crossed the street, and Roy seemed to know where he was going when he led them back to the métro. They got on the eight, rode it back one stop to the C line, got on, and then rode that to the Eiffel Tower station.
The monument rose, tall and imposing, as they crossed the bridge and headed down the sidewalk.
Suddenly, Roy stopped in front of a door next to a patisserie, entered a code, and the door opened.
They passed through a lobby, another secure door, then up a flight of stairs, and Roy used a key to open the door to an apartment.
He dropped his bag on a chair near the door, then held it open as they entered. Closed it. Entered a code by the door.
“Is this your home?” Ned said, taking in the small but tidy kitchen, the main room with the black leather furniture, the flat-screen, the four-person table. He couldn’t see beyond that, but it looked like a couple bedrooms, a bathroom.
“Nope,” Roy said.
No photographs, nothing personal, so it might be yet another safe house. Roy pulled a laptop out of his backpack and set it on the table.
Opened it, put in his code, then the laptop lit up.
He put in the jump drive and entered more passwords.
The drive opened to a file with photographs, maps, and a note.
Fraser had gone to the kitchen to raid the fridge and came back with a malt drink.
Ned sank down into a chair. “What is it?” he said, reading Roy’s grim look.
“She’s alive.” He clicked on something and turned the computer.
Shae. She sat in a car, looking out the window at some airport tarmac, her eyes wide, so much fear in them it made him ache. He shook his head and looked away.
“At least, she was when this was taken, shortly after your phone call. According to our source, she was put on a plane and flown…here.” He clicked on another picture, this time a map.
Ned stared at it as Fraser leaned over his shoulder.
“Is that Kamchatka?” Fraser said.
“Yeah.” Roy scrolled in on the picture and pointed to what looked like a ship. “The source says she’s here. It’s a gulag ship owned and operated by the Petrov Bratva.”
“A private mafia gulag?”
“Yes. They use the labor to repair and replace their gas pipeline that runs through Siberia. The gulag travels.”
“And, it’s virtually inescapable,” Fraser said, “floating out there in the icy water.”
“Yes,” Roy said.
Fraser sat down and pulled up his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ahold of Coco. Ben and Jeremy Smith need flights to Russia, pronto.”
Yes, they did.
Please, God, keep her alive.
* * *
If Shae hadn’t been sohungry, she might have not fought for a slice of stale brown bread, a piece of raw bacon, and cold noodles.
