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Eric’s voice held little emotion when he said, “Alicia might be working for them or with them. You two might be operating behind enemy lines.”
War. The Grand Master’s word. Not his.
Lancelot flexed the hand not holding the phone. “I understand, Fleet Admiral.”
“You need to have some escape routes planned and a cover story when you question this woman. For an escape, your best bet is international waters.”
“That’s one of three emergency contingencies,” Lancelot assured him.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Hugo swished one hand through the air, sounding and looking very Parisian for a moment. “You do not think that the Americans are working for the mastermind?”
“Maybe one of them is the mastermind.”
“But…but surely—”
“I hope I’m wrong.” Eric’s voice was low and serious. “I sent you because I thought you could handle it. Prove to me that was a smart decision.”
Hugo and Lancelot exchanged a glance. “What do you want us to do, Fleet Admiral?” Lancelot asked. “The Grand Master told us not to go near anyone connected to the Trinity Masters. Speaking to this former student might anger Juliette Adams.”
“If she asks, lie. Deny you know about the connection. If she’s smart, she won’t believe you, but it will buy time. That’s the backup plan. Plan one is to talk to this woman, get information, find Alicia, bring her back alive for questioning. Do it right, and the Trinity Masters never have to know you talked to Sylvia.”
Hugo grimaced, taking off his hat to run his hands through his hair. Lancelot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Fleet Admiral.”
“Good. Lorelei is sending you more information, encrypted. Lancelot, she’s setting you up a cover story to use on the poet. Don’t die.” With that encouraging sentiment, the fleet admiral hung up.
Lancelot stood and tucked his phone into his pocket. “So…Sylvia.”
He expected at least a little bit of remorse from Hugo, but the other man simply looked grave. “How much danger are we in?”
Lancelot wished he could lie, but Hugo deserved the truth. “Far more than we realized.”
Chapter Five
Hugo knocked again, but considering he’d already done the same thing five times before, he didn’t expect anyone to answer the door.
And no one did.
He sighed, and then watched as Lancelot crossed the porch and plopped down on a rocking chair. “Nothing else to do but wait.”
Hugo hadn’t slept well as he replayed the conversation with the fleet admiral over and over. If they were here, in Charleston, for any other reason, he might actually enjoy the historic port city with its cobblestone streets and antebellum houses.
He claimed a spot on the porch swing.
Sylvia Hayden, Alicia’s former student—and his—lived on a quiet side street that was reflective of his vision of small-town America. Kids rode bicycles up and down the sidewalks, large shade trees provided a pleasant respite from the warm sun, two women across the street were talking over the hedge that divided their lawns, laughing and sharing recipes while casting curious, suspicious glances at him and Lancelot, the way he’d always assumed nosy neighbors would.
According to the additional information Lorelei sent, Sylvia had moved in with an elderly grandmother after graduating from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop with an MFA in creative writing. He’d known that much, just as he’d known she was a brilliant student who’d completed her high school studies at sixteen, and college at twenty.
After completing her graduate studies, she’d been awarded a creative writing fellowship by the National Endowment of Arts, which allowed her to focus on her poetry. She already had three books of poetry and art published, which was unheard of for a poet, let alone such a young one. Sylvia specialized in “modern romanticism, a new take on the old South, with all the complexities therein”—a description Hugo had read in the editorial review for her first book of poetry. In addition to writing, she was a talented visual artist, specializing in charcoal sketches, which she published on social media for her millions of followers.
After reading her poems and scrolling through her social media, Hugo had expected her to live someplace more…cosmopolitan. Perhaps it was his own bias. After all, some of the best English language literature had been written while their creators were in Paris.
According to the report from Lorelei, Sylvia’s grandmother passed away last year, leaving the house to her.
“Nice place,” Lancelot mused. “Lots of space between neighbors. You don’t see that very much where I’m from. My family’s house was a row house.” He glanced toward the street. “Wide roads, too.”
Hugo rocked slowly on the swing, marveling at how comfortable and homey it was. He lived in an elegant two-bedroom flat that was walking distance to École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales and near the Seine. It would have been beyond the means of a professor, even one as highly paid as he was. He told colleagues he’d inherited the place from a wealthy relative.
In truth, Hugo was a billionaire, with a vast personal fortune, thanks to the investment guidance he’d received when he’d come into his large trust fund. He lived in the two-bedroom flat—which was an obscene amount of space for a single man in a place like Paris—but he owned the entire building and the one next to it.
