Chapter 46
LIKE A LOT of young women who move to Manhattan, Katherine Sanborne couldn’t afford to live in a building with a doorman. So she invested in three heavy-duty locks for her front door. And none for her windows. As she had said to her concerned parents, “Who’s going to climb five stories up the side of the building? Spider-Man?”
Marta Krall didn’t have to climb up. She took the elevator to the roof, rappelled ten feet down, and went through the unlocked window. It took less than thirty seconds.
The apartment looked like it had been hit by Hurricane Katherine. Dresser drawers were open, and there were piles of clean clothes on the bed and the floor. Katherine had obviously packed and left in a hurry.
Marta was familiar with the scenario. Her target was on the run and he had invited his girlfriend to run with him.
But where were they going?
The first clue lay on Katherine’s four-by-five-foot dining room table: a red ribbon and a handful of postcards with pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and other Paris landmarks.
There was also a bottle of French wine on the table.
Instinctively, Marta opened the refrigerator. It was single-girl-in-the-city sparse. But there, alongside the nonfat yogurt and the Coke Zero, were two baguettes and a chunk of creamy-rich 60-percent-butterfat Brie.
All part of Bannon’s romantic invitation, Marta decided.
Katherine’s computer was sitting on her desk. Marta booted it up. No password required, because, once again, the prevailing thought process was I don’t have anything worth stealing, and even if I did, how could anyone get into my apartment?
Marta opened Katherine’s e-mail in-box. The last message was from Beth Sanborne. Kat,Can’t believe you and Matthew are going to Paris on the spur of the moment. Oh, to be young and in love. Send us the flight number and the name of the hotel. I don’t care how old you are. Mothers need to know.Love,Mom and Dad
Marta checked the sent mail. Katherine’s response had the flight details, and she’d followed up with Don’t know the hotel yet. Will text you from Paris.
She shut down the computer and called Etienne Gravois at Interpol.
“This Matthew Bannon you found for me is on his way to Paris,” she said. “He’s traveling with another American, Katherine Sanborne. They should have landed at Orly the day before yesterday. I need a confirmation.”
“Hold on,” Gravois said. Twenty seconds later he was back. “They cleared passport control Saturday, no problem. He’s a student. Should they have flagged him?”
“No, he’s not a terrorist,” Marta said. “Just a small nuisance I have to deal with.”
“Yes,” Gravois said. “I know how efficient you can be with nuisances.”
“And don’t ever forget it,” Krall said. “Where are they staying?”
“The Bac Saint-Germain.”
“Is that a decent hotel?”
“It’s not the George Cinq, but it’s clean and it’s in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which is very vibrant, very artsy. It’s quite nice.”
“Good,” Marta said. “I’d hate to stay in a dump.”
Chapter 47
Marta was hungry. She softened the bread and cheese in Katherine’s microwave, found a corkscrew for the wine, and ate a late lunch. While she was eating, she called Chukov.
“I know who has your diamonds and where they are,” she said.
“Who? Where?” Chukov made no attempt to hide his anxiety.
“A man named Matthew Bannon has them. He’s in Paris.”
“Paris?”
“Yes, he and his girlfriend are on the run,” Marta said. “But he has no idea I’m running after him. I’ll get a flight tonight and be there tomorrow.”
“Fly coach,” Chukov said.
“Marta Krall doesn’t travel in coach.”
“All right, all right, but don’t stay at some thousand-dollar-a-night hotel. This whole thing has cost us a fortune already.”
“Relax,” she said, enjoying listening to him whine about a few dollars when there were millions at stake. “I’ll be staying in the same hotel as Bannon and his lady friend, in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And despite the fact that I’ve been told it’s very vibrant and very artsy, I won’t be staying long.”
“What’s the name of the hotel?” Chukov said.
“Why do you ask? Are you going to send champagne to my room? Or are you planning to call your friend the Ghost to back me up?”
“I am not calling the Ghost,” Chukov said, trying to sound indignant at the suggestion. “I told you I want you to kill the Ghost. As far as I’m concerned, we still have an agreement. Unless you’ve decided to back out.”
“Not at all,” Marta said. “But information has a way of leaking, and if I tell you where I’m staying, the Ghost might find me before I find him. I’ll call you from Paris,” she said and ended the call.
Marta left Katherine’s apartment through the front door.
Chukov immediately called the Ghost. “The man you’re looking for is named Matthew Bannon. He and his girlfriend are in Paris. Their hotel is somewhere in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Can you find him?”
“Yes.”
“I hope so,” Chukov said. “So far it looks like I’m the one doing all the work.”
He hung up. The noose was tightening around the neck of the young man who had his diamonds. And now Chukov had two assassins competing to track him down. Once he had the diamonds back, he’d be happy to pay Marta Krall for killing the Ghost.
He smiled to himself. In an ideal world, he thought, they would kill each other.
Chapter 48
KATHERINE WAS SITTING up in bed when I got back to the room.
“Bonjour, sleepyhead,” I said as I sat down beside her.
She was wearing a pale pink nightshirt made of the softest, silkiest cotton I ever touched. The neckline had a tiny little bow in the center, totally nonfunctional but definitely adorable.
I gave her a quick kiss.
“Bonjour yourself,” she said. “It’s way too early in the morning to be this chipper. What have you been up to?”
“I woke up at six, went for a walk, grabbed some coffee, and then had a long, serious talk with the concierge.”
“About what?”
“Dinner. I had him make us a reservation at a nice little restaurant he recommended. It’s called Antico Martini.”
“It sounds Italian.”
“It should,” I said. “It’s in Venice.”
“Venice? Italy? We’re going to Venice for dinner?”
“That would be crazy,” I said. “So I had the concierge book us a hotel for a couple of nights.”
“But…but…” She was dumbfounded, and I hated to admit it, but I was having fun dumbfounding her. “But we just got here.”
“Hey, I’m feeling adventurous. We’ve already made love in one romantic city. Let’s do it again in another.”
“Just like that?” she said.
“Why not?” I said. “Didn’t we leave New York just like that? Come on, our flight leaves at ten fifteen.”
I got up, took my bag out of the closet, and started packing.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. “You are not only drop-dead amazing to look at, fantastic in bed, and wildly spontaneous, but you are also ridiculously romantic. Who cares if you’re going to be a poor struggling artist all your life?”