“Where to?”
“Good question,” DeSantos said. “I screwed up.”
“What?”
“Too open here. I’d wanted to get us into an area with alleys and narrow streets. That’s our main advantage on these things.”
“So far so good. No one’s chasing us. No cops, no sirens.”
As soon as she said that, a police car appeared, a blue striped white Citroën Jumper minivan that bore a red crest labeled “Police Nationale.” Its two blue lights were swirling as the vehicle slowed half a block away.
“So much for ‘no one’s chasing us.’”
“They’re turning right. Keep going, don’t panic. We’re just tourists taking a glide on a Segway.”
On cue, another cruiser’s siren wound up and the vehicle started moving in their direction.
“We need to get off these things.”
“Not yet.”
“No,” Vail said, “Now. Someone probably put out a stolen vehicle code, and the police put it together with what they’ve now realized was a ruse at the Louvre. Not hard to add it up to a man and a woman on a couple of stolen Segways.”
“Fine. There’s a Métro station up ahead.” He slowed and nodded at a red sign mounted on an antique light post. “Oh, shit. Métro Champs Elysées Clemenceau.”
“Why’s that bad?”
DeSantos glanced around. “Because on your left is the Grand Palais. And down that street to your right is the Élysée Palace, where the president of France lives.”
“Nice work, Hector.” White police cars were stationed up and down the streets in all directions. “It’s like we rode right into a hornet’s nest.”
“Let’s not get stung. We’re already on the cameras. Let’s ditch these and split up, head into the station and catch the next train. Wherever it goes doesn’t matter. As long as it’s away from here.”
Vail leaned back to slow the vehicle and brought it to a stop in front of a parked car, partially hidden from view of many of the police vehicles and about thirty feet from the Métro entrance. She yanked off the helmet and set it on the Segway’s foot pads and crossed the street. Keeping her head down, she approached the station and descended the steps. As if she had any doubt where she was, the word METRO was literally set in stone, carved into the decorative concrete bannister that faced commuters as they headed down toward the subterranean platform.
She purchased a ticket, trying to appear calm and casual in case she was under surveillance, keeping her chin down as much as possible while she waited for the train to arrive.
Where’s Hector?
There were two dozen or so people in the area chattering with one another or reading iPads. A few sat on white chairs that were shaped like shallow ice cream cones.
As the seconds ticked by, she grew concerned. Had the police arrested him before he had a chance to get down into the station?
She heard a whistle, which sounded like a bird call. She glanced left and saw DeSantos standing about thirty or forty feet away, pretending to type on his smartphone.
The train pulled in and stopped and they got into different cars. As Vail took a seat, two men walked on carrying an accordion and a portable speaker. The taller one began playing an upbeat French tune while the younger musician shifted the amplifier to his left hand, pulled off his hat, and held it out for commuters to toss in euros. Several obliged.
DeSantos worked his way toward her, walking through the long train that lacked doors between cars but instead had rubberized connectors that bent, contracting and expanding when the Métro negotiated curves in the track. He came up beside her, facing the opposite direction. He said, gazing forward, “Our eavesdropping plan just paid off. The guy made a call.”
“To who?”
“Arabic. Don’t know. Well, I know a little but not enough to stake lives on it. But Uzi built the app so it records all tapped calls. I emailed the audio file to him.”
“Hopefully it’s a lead.” After a moment, she realized DeSantos was distracted by something. “What’s up?”
He tilted his head slightly to the right.
Far down, approximately two car lengths away, were three police-types dressed in SWAT-style riot gear with articulated shoulder pads extending down to their elbows. Their dark-colored, rain-slick jackets bore large white alphanumerical designations: 1A, 4C, 2B.
“Apparently there are several teams out looking for us,” DeSantos said.
Several teams with submachine guns slung across their bulletproof vests. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but this is not good.”
DeSantos turned back toward the window ahead of her. “As our friend Clive Reid is fond of saying, shite.”
53
Uzi was tapping his foot as Fahad drove toward the terrorists’ flat. He did not know what to expect — if there would be Paris counterterrorism officers combing the building and neighborhood — or if the tangos had booby-trapped the apartment, fully expecting the two of them to return to exact revenge or to finish what they had started when the bogus email came through.
As he pondered those questions, his Lumia vibrated. He read DeSantos’s email and then put the handset on speaker. “Listen to this. Hacked call from a forger, a known associate of al Humat. Santa tapped his smartphone.”
The recording started — a conversation in Arabic between a man DeSantos identified as Borz Ramadazov and an unknown accomplice:
“We’ve got a problem.”
“You didn’t lose the codex—”
“It’s safe. I showed them a different book from a few hundred years later and insisted it was the codex. Their expert knew it wasn’t but they didn’t think to search the safe.”
“So you got lucky.”
“I got lucky. But we need to get it out of the country. They said they were French intelligence, but they weren’t government people, I could tell. All I know is that they were Americans. No idea who they work for.”
“Where are you now?”
“They tied me up and were going to tell the police who I am but I cut myself free and I took the codex with me.”
“Listen to me. Sit tight and await instructions. I’ll talk with—”
“Can’t. The museum’s on lockdown so I had to get out. If those people figure out what I did, they’ll come after me. Can’t take a chance.”
“So you’re no longer in the museum?”
“I needed to get out of there, to a safe place. I had to assume my cover’s blown so I couldn’t stay. And I can’t go home. The police will be looking for me, if they’re not already. And I have a feeling those Americans will be too.”
“He’s not going to be happy if this is going to cause problems with your ability to—”
“I’ll get it done.”
“Who were these Americans?”
“Woman said her name was Katherine Vega, but that’s bullshit. No idea about the male. But there was something about him. Not sure what it was. But he’s dangerous.”
“Bring the document to the safe house. Not the one on Rue Muller. It’s been compromised. Go to the one in Montparnasse. Be there at seven.”
Uzi disconnected the call and shared a look with Fahad, who pulled the car over to the nearest available parking spot.
“So forget about Rue Muller. How the hell are we gonna find a flat somewhere in Montparnasse?”
“How far is that from here?”
“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Depends on lights, traffic.”
The rain picked up and began pelting the windshield in a rhythmic patter.