Chapter 12 #2
Vivian palmed her neck. Of all the dumb fucking luck. Hours and hours of internet and dark web research, and they’d ended up on the same ferry as Lola Vorlicek.
“She looks pissed,” John said.
He was correct, but they’d never know why. Eavesdropping wasn’t possible. Among the ferry’s motors, the Straits of Gibraltar crashing against the hull, and the wind, she’d be lucky if she picked up Lola’s tone, let alone words.
“We have to follow her,” she said to John. “We’ll learn more before heading to Monaco. Forewarned is forearmed. Total win.”
“You have a strange definition of winning.”
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
The ferry slowed, crawling toward the British colony’s pier. Lola descended the stairs. Vivian reached back for John’s hand and squeezed.
It was go time.
Thankfully Lola’s bleached blond pixie cut was like a neon sign. She must like attention. Unlike herself, who did her best work when people didn’t see her coming.
She tugged John to the left.
The ferry docked at a pier where British flags proudly waved.
A crew quickly moored the ship and attached a gangplank.
Travelers thickened around them, clogging the exit as everyone pushed toward the ramp.
Alone, she could slither and slide through the crowd, but this was harder with a partner in tow.
Lola’s blond head bobbed through the crowd.
Inside the port building, everyone waited to have their bags scanned and their passports checked. Lola wove through everyone like a ballerina, goddammit, and joined a line.
Vivian chucked her bag in a bin on the conveyor belt.
The security guard waved Vivian through the metal detector. On the other side, she collected her bag and waited for John. Come on, come on, come on. Lola’s line was slower than theirs, but Vivian couldn’t move until John was through, and…
Fuck. He triggered a loud beep.
The security guard directed him to a separate area. John executed a perfect imitation of the Vitruvian Man. The guard’s metal-detecting wand squealed over his pocket.
His Zippo.
The security guard pitched the lighter into a bin of confiscated items and waved John forward. Except John didn’t move. Nope, he was now arguing with the security guard.
Lola cleared security. Time was of the essence.
“Excuse me?” Vivian used her damsel-in-distress voice, which worked best with security guards. “I’m sorry my husband forgot about his lighter, but it’s a precious family heirloom. Is there a fine we can pay to keep it? Would five hundred euros be enough?”
Yes, she was attempting to bribe an official.
But she was trying to make this go as fast as possible, and money was a lubricant. There was no way John was leaving this building without his lighter. She was as certain of that as she was of Rocksy’s true identity.
“Ma’am?” the guard asked.
“I’m sorry. The fine must be six hundred euros?”
The guard shifted his eyes between them. “It’s actually seven hundred euros.”
“Of course it is.” She reached into her bag, then handed seven green notes to the guard.
He pocketed the cash. “Next time, don’t bring it, or run it through the scanner in a bag.”
“Next time?” John murmured. “I’m never doing this again.”
Where had Lola—ooh, there—at the taxi stand.
Vivian grabbed John’s hand and tugged. “Come on.”
Two people stood between them and Lola. Closer than she’d like. They hadn’t met, but Lola was bound to recognize her. Her ego wasn’t inflated—any protégée of Jean-Michel’s would perform due diligence.
Please let the red hair and sunglasses be disguise enough.
A line of taxis rumbled as they waited to scoop up passengers. If Vivian wasn’t mistaken, Lola’s cream polo sweater and asymmetric satin skirt were both from Givenchy’s spring line from last year.
Lola had money.
The taxi stand operator opened the door to a yellow cab. Lola ducked inside.
Soon the operator opened the rear door of a cab for her and John.
After John and she scooted inside, she addressed the driver. “Hi. What’s your name?”
“Nico,” he said with a mostly British accent.
“See that cab, Nico?” She pointed at Lola’s taxi. “Two ahead of us and on the left? We met a woman on the ferry, and she forgot her scarf.”
“You want me to chase her around Gibraltar for a scarf?”
“I’m a giver,” Vivian said.
The taxi driver shrugged. “It’s your dime.”
As they left the port and merged into the traffic, boldly colored high-rises stood in the distance. A red double-decker bus passed them, and people on scooters buzzed between the traffic lanes. Beyond the high-rises, the Rock of Gibraltar dominated the vista.
“Have you been to Gibraltar before?” John asked.
The agency periodically used it as a midpoint meeting location for officers active in North Africa and Europe.
“Once.” She held the handle above her door as the taxi sped around a roundabout. Good thing she’d dosed herself with Dramamine on the ferry earlier.
Nico followed Lola’s cab toward the airport, but traffic ground to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
“An arriving flight,” Nico said.
A huge passenger airplane rolled across the four-lane highway that wound through Gibraltar. As its tail disappeared, the lights turned green.
John craned his neck out the window. “Does that happen whenever a flight arrives?”
“Departures as well, but there are only eight flights per day. The inconvenience is worth living in paradise.”
Lola’s taxi stopped in front of the small airport’s main entrance.
“Can you let us out here?” Vivian asked.
Their taxi driver complied and shared his price.
“You were amazing, Nico.” Vivian added a hundred percent tip, then thrust the bills through the window.
“Thanks, love.” He handed her his card. “If you need another ride, be sure to call.”
Out on the curb, John asked, “Was the cabbie hitting on you?”
“Possibly, but he mostly wants repeat business from a good tipper.” Vivian slipped her backpack onto her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
Among the gleam of polished floors and chrome inside the airport, she spotted Lola in the security line for British Airways.
“Take a selfie?” Vivian slung her arm around John’s waist, then pivoted them until Lola was in her view.
She snapped a few in burst mode, then pivoted again to document the departures display. Hmm… All flights went to England or Spain.
“So we’re not bulldozing through security to interrogate her?” John asked.
“We can if you want,” she said. “I’d like to avoid international security incidents, personally. But if you prefer…”
“Nope, I’m good,” he said.
They pushed back through the doors to the warm Gibraltar air.
“You said something about renting a car?” John asked.
“Yes.” She paused and withdrew her tablet from her bag, then patted the seat next to her. “We’re here, and this is Monte Carlo. The charity auction’s tomorrow night, so we have enough time to drive. It’s the best way to get there.”
The route between here and there lit up on the map.
“Eighteen hours?” John peered at the tablet. “In a car? In one day?”
“There are too many cameras and passport checks in airports. And a road trip’ll be fun. I’ll get us the most luxurious car on the lot and irresponsible snacks.”
“I can always be persuaded with snacks.” John tipped his head back as they walked toward the rental car facility. “I think I’ve been here before. Oh, monkeys.”
She snapped her gaze to him. “What?”
“Monkeys.” He pointed to a poster featuring the pensive face of a Barbary macaque. “I was obsessed with monkeys when I was five, and I’m pretty sure my parents brought me here.”
She squeezed his hand. “That’s adorable.”
Sometimes, playing the besotted honeymooner was easier than she liked to admit.