Uzi dialed DeSantos again, and again it went to voicemail. “C’mon, Santa …”
His phone vibrated almost immediately: a text from Hoshi Koh.
“DeSantos?” Fahad asked.
“My colleague. She got an address for Doka Michel.”
“How the hell did she get that?”
Uzi smiled. “She’s been paying attention to my hacking lessons. And she’s really, really good.”
“Hacking lessons?”
“Start the car. Until or unless we get something better from Santa, this is our priority.”
56
The voice came from behind them: the unmistakable bark of a law enforcement officer ordering them to stop.
And like most criminals who did not want to be caught, Vail and DeSantos did like all the perps they despised: they ran.
“Split up,” DeSantos said, pushing her away from him. “I’ll call you,” he yelled, holding his hand up to his ear, mimicking a phone call, as he headed away from her.
Vail ran left and DeSantos right. She did not know how many cops were behind her, but she was not going to look. She needed to escape — without landing a bullet between the shoulder blades.
The drizzle had stopped, but she took extra care not to take a header on the slick pavement. She slowed to a brisk walk, ducking in between cars that were stopped in traffic and around tourists and locals who were out for an early dinner.
She thought of the foot pursuits she had engaged in during her career. In each case it became a race in which she or her partner outflanked the perp. She was in unknown territory now, where the next turn she took could mean coming face-to-face with armed officers.
Vail crossed the street and headed back toward the cathedral, into a lush greenbelt with small trees, tall hedges, and dense shrubbery. It would give her some cover where she could change direction outside the view of the police.
Except that when she reached the bushes she nearly ran into the retaining wall — beyond which lay the Seine, the five-hundred-mile river that coursed through the heart of Paris.
Vail flashed on her escapades with London’s River Thames. I don’t have good luck with these.
Still, she was out of options — and, apparently, out of room. She turned right and ran along the Premenade Maurice Carême, which paralleled the Seine, using the wall of greenery as cover. She shed her jacket and pulled it inside out as she ran. The charcoal gray coat became azure. She pulled off her hat and glasses and fluffed her red mane as she emerged from the promenade.
Up ahead was a narrow span that crossed the Seine, the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger, or “Cardinal Lustiger’s small bridge.” Several people were seated on a stone wall along the adjacent roadway, a few chatting, some reading, one on her phone.
Vail hopped on top, pulled out a Métro map from her 5.11 cargo pocket and quickly unfolded it. She dropped her chin and pretended to study it.
“Avez-vous besoin d’aide?”
Vail reluctantly turned to the man beside her. He was in his thirties, square jaw, pleasing Parisian face. She laughed, disarming and warm. Playful even. Robby flashed through her thoughts and she felt dirty. “English?”
“I do,” he said, displaying a broad white smile. “Do you need help?”
Another time, another place. Five years ago would’ve worked. Stop it, Karen. Focus.
“I’m trying to get to the Eiffel Tower,” she said, picking the first thing that came to her mind. Can I sound more inept?
“I’m Jean-Claude. Where are you from?”
“I’m … Roxxann,” she said, shaking his hand, holding it a second longer than normal. “From Canada.”
“And you don’t speak French?” He put his index and thumb together. “Not even a little?” He squinted, friendly disbelief.
“I live on the west coast.”
She was suddenly aware of the police officers no more than fifteen feet away — she saw their boots and navy pants. But she did not dare look their way. Her goal was to hide in plain sight. And it didn’t get much plainer than fifteen feet away.
She lifted the Métro map. “Which line do I get on?” she said, flirting a bit with her eyes. “It’s all so confusing.”
“Here, let me show you.” He leaned in closer, no doubt noticing that she did not have a ring on her finger. “Are you in Paris alone?”
“I’m here with a friend. But we went our own way today. And it’s been a challenge getting around. I had no idea. I didn’t know big cities could be so confusing.”
“Well. Here we are,” Jean-Claude said, pushing slightly into her left shoulder. “And this is Tour Eiffel. You want to take this line, right here, the—”
“You know, Jean-Claude, would you mind walking me to the right station?”
He sat up straight — as if this conversation might lead to something more than just a chance encounter on a bridge by the Seine.
“Of course. I could take you to the tower, if you would like.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little after six. Have you eaten dinner?”
Vail lifted her brow — as if the thought had not occurred to her. Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food. “I haven’t. Do you know a good restaurant?”
“I know many.” He slid off the retaining wall and held out a bent elbow, helping her off. They turned right, and Jean-Claude, who was a good six foot two, gave her some cover as he led her in the direction of the Métro.
They had just crossed the street when her phone rang. It was DeSantos. “Excuse me, Jean-Claude. My friend.” She put the handset to her face. “Maggie, hi.”
DeSantos hesitated. “You in trouble?”
“I should be able to manage. Where are you?”
“On the edge of the Seine, the Quai du Marché Neuf, right below the Pont Saint-Michel, alongside a dinner boat. Cross street Boulevard du Palais. Meet me there now. Boat’s leaving in five minutes and we need to be on it.”
“A dinner—” She stopped herself, realizing Jean-Claude was listening. “Okay, no, I understand. I’ll be right there.” She looked up — and realized she did not know which way to go.
“So sorry, Jean-Claude. My friend — she’s, she’s booked us a place for dinner and it’s our last night, I didn’t want to say no. Can you point me to the Pont Saint-Michel? That’s a bridge, right?”
Jean-Claude smiled — disappointment evident on his face, but ever the gentleman, he was going to help her. “You’re very close, five minutes at most.”
Five minutes? How can I run without running?
He pointed her in the right direction and she gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Again, I’m sorry. I was looking forward to dinner.”
He handed her his card. “Call me next time you’re in town.”
She smiled. “I will.” Over his shoulder, she saw a cop — so she turned abruptly, headed toward DeSantos.
Vail walked briskly, trying to appear casual while attempting to figure out how she was going to get there before the boat sailed. A dinner boat? What’s he thinking?
She passed the line of cars that were parked at the curb, staying as close to the vehicles as possible. After a cluster of motorcycles she came upon a shop called Souvenir’s Factory; if she had more time she would’ve bought a cheap Parisian pullover sweatshirt and a different hat. But she could now see the bridge up ahead on her left, which she was certain was Pont Saint-Michel.
As she approached, she saw two officers — and whipped her head to the side, trying not to make eye contact as she crossed the street and approached the sign that displayed both English and French:
Diners — Croisière