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Can’t stay away forever.
Or I’ll hop a flight to Paree.
A wave of dizziness washes over me as I picture Sam striding through De Gaulle, clown mask in place, ready to hunt me down. I throw down the phone, but almost immediately pick it back up.
How ’bout a dip in the Seine?
Watch for me in the shadows.
I’ll find you when you least expect me.
I can play this game forever.
Why can’t he let this go? His amour propre must be in the stratosphere and totally tied up in getting me back at any cost.
I look through the peephole in the door, but all I see is Kurt in the otherwise empty hallway.
After a deep breath, I read the last few.
I’ll be waiting for you.
I can wait forever.
No escape. Never.
Disgust makes my stomach heave. My phone hits the plushly carpeted floor as I run for the toilet.
ChapterEleven
Secrets travel fast in Paris.—Napoleon Bonaparte
JL
The Eurostar is betterthan flying commercial. Instead of being crammed into a tiny seat in a narrow space, I pace, restless. The closer we come to Paris, the more I move up and down the aisle. I tell Max I need to stretch my legs, but he just snorts. Curious passengers watch me from behind newspapers and books or over their laptops as I plod back and forth.
When the food trolley comes through with Business Premier meals, Max growls, “Sit down, JL.”
I clench my jaw. “Can’t.” Then move away from the glare burning into the back of my neck and retreat to the other end of the wagon. Coming back, I push past the server to return to my seat. The meal looks more appetizing than I expected. Hoping to quiet the buzzing in my chest, I gobble it down. No such luck as we pull into the station in Calais. The brief stop seems interminable, and I must remain in my seat. Half the passengers disembark to shop at the hypermarkets and bring home cases of cheap alcohol and luxury items like marrons glacé and goose liver pâté.
I tap my fingers on my thighs until Cress reaches over and captures my hands in hers. “We’re all eager to see Micki,” she says. “It won’t be long now.”
The aisle clears and the tightness in my chest loosens as I switch the grip and squeeze her hands. After a few seconds, she pulls them away and waves them at me, her engagement ring catching sunlight filtering in through the window. “Go walk, at least for a few more minutes. Just ignore Max. Not sure why he’s so grumpy.”
Max grabs her around the waist and starts kissing her. “Not grumpy,” he says, coming up for air. “Just a little concerned about getting through the Gare du Nord without incident.”
“I have guys positioned there in case Nasim Faez comes out to play,” I tell him. Ever since Max started receiving threats from the escaped terrorist, GSU has been on high alert. Since his house in Clerkenwell was hit by a terrorist bomb while we were dining close by, everything has been stepped up. The racetrack fiasco in Scotland amped the level again. The fact Faez was able to follow us to Scotland and shoot at Max during a family celebration means heightened vigilance. Warnings of planned attacks in Paris in the next few days have us past red alert.
Police and Interpol have found no trace of Faez, but we’re sure he’s teamed up with some terrorist group. Ten years in a maximum-security prison with nothing to do but reflect on ways to avenge the death of his brother. He’s had plenty of time to make connections and refine his plan.
“Allan Mason is coming over and will liaise with the French. We don’t want to step on any toes and MI6 has already contacted their security service. If there’s an incident, Clay doesn’t want GSU directly involved.”
“Bien. Of course, if you are the target…” Then I get up and pace again. Worry about Micki takes all my concentration and energy. Reports from Case tell me no one has seen Sam since the attack on the Press house. He’s gone to ground. The police have an APB out, but they haven’t found him either.
For all we know, he’s lurking in Paris, ready to pounce. He seems to have sources of intel on her and may be staking out the hotel. Max says he hasn’t shown up on any flight manifests, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have a stolen passport and a flight booked under that name.
At least I’m not in charge of the security for Cress’ dinner, where we think Faez will target Max. I am no fan of Allan Mason, but to have someone else in charge of Max’s problems is a relief. A conductor announces Gare du Nord. I come back to the seat and grab my duffel and one belonging to Cress. Max takes her other bag plus his.
“Hey, guys, I can carry luggage.” We both exhibit selective hearing, ignoring her protest. As we stand, waiting for our turn to disembark, I say to Max, “We should do another background check on Sam. I have a feeling we may have missed something, and Micki might not know as much about him as she imagines.”
