Chapter 14 #2
She licked her lips. “Just twice?”
“Three times. Twenty. What’s the right answer?”
“Twenty is good.” She grinned. “Go wash up.”
Inside the bathroom, he stared at his clean-shaven face. “You’re in over your head.”
After he washed up, they gathered their meager belongings from the room.
“Should we drive?” Vivian asked as they left the hotel.
“No, it’s close enough to walk. Parking’s a pain near the consulate anyway.”
“I’ve never been to Marseille. Will you be my tour guide?” She gestured toward the monument in the middle of the traffic circle up ahead. “What’s that?”
The name came to him despite not walking these streets for sixteen years.
“The column of Place Castellane.”
“What’s its significance?”
“Fuck if I know. But Timothée and I liked the statues.”
She bumped shoulders with him. “The topless statues?”
“Hey, I appreciated the sculptors’ skill.” He steered them left again. “Why did you have to come to Marseille to make a secure call?”
“Probably because it’s the closest one to Monaco. Most embassies have secure lines. Diplomats and CIA officers need them fairly frequently.”
“Not a lot of CIA running around Marseille, though.”
“I wouldn’t be so confident,” she said. “CIA officers are often provided diplomat aliases, and they report to the office just like State Department staff.”
He believed her, but he couldn’t imagine any of his parents’ friends were CIA. They’d started a bowling league and exchanged cookies at Christmas. Across the street, the consulate’s American flag flapped in the warm French breeze.
Vivian pressed the consulate gate’s button.
A crackling voice answered, “How can I help you?”
“We’re here for a 9:00 a.m. appointment,” she said.
“Name?”
“Vivian Flint and John Seymour.”
After a brief pause, the speaker crackled again. “One of our staff will be out to escort you into the building.”
A small woman exited the front doors and greeted them at the gate. He didn’t recognize her, but he hadn’t expected to. Staff turned over routinely.
“Bienvenue.” She opened the gate for them. “I’m Helane Fry.”
After following her through the familiar wooden doors, John breathed deeply. The scent of this place was a time machine. Wood soap, linoleum wax and age.
At the security checkpoint, Vivian handed over her bag. Most of the items within were not permitted past security. John, however, was allowed to keep his Zippo.
“Please wait here.” Helane gestured to a window seat overlooking the consulate’s courtyard. “I’ll return momentarily.”
This was trippy—like what he was seeing was superimposed over his memories.
He rubbed his hands along his thighs.
“Everything okay?” Vivian asked.
“Yeah, it’s just…this was the last tour my family did as a whole. After this one, I was in college. We’ve never traveled together again.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Back then, I never stopped to enjoy being with them, and I can’t get that life back.”
She touched his wrist. “But remember—regret signals a change you can make.”
* * *
Heels on the parquet floor heralded Helane’s return. “Ms. Flint? It’s time for your call.”
Vivian bumped shoulders with John. “Be right back.”
“You’d better,” he said.
As Helane led her down a hall, professional jealousy pinballed through her. This was a century-old building with twelve-foot ceilings and barrels of natural light. HQ somehow managed to be both fluorescent-dim and blinding.
Helane opened a door. “We’re connected from our end. The other line will join soon. Knock twice when you’ve finished.”
She closed the door behind Vivian.
This was more like her home office. No windows, floor-to-ceiling foam sound absorption panels, and a camera affixed to the monitor dominating the wall opposite a small conference table. A sentence hovered on screen—Waiting for the host to join.
She sat and drummed her fingers. Four days on the run took a toll on her manicure.
The screen flared, then resolved on a larger-than-life MacColl.
“Jesus, Boss, are you okay?” He looked like ten miles of rough road. Below a butterfly bandage on his temple, a puce bruise mottled his cheek.
“Nothing a shit-ton of Advil can’t handle. How ’bout you? Besides the dye job.”
“Bruised and tired. Lawrence and Beverly okay?”
He nodded. “They sheltered in the panic room. I took the brunt before backup arrived. The threat had escaped by then.”
“Any clues on who they were? Motivation?”
“Still digging into that. They wouldn’t have gotten anything anyway. Why the fuck did you give me a flash drive full of wedding shit?”
Candor had always been the best policy with MacColl. “I mixed up the drives.”
“Mixed up the—” He wiped his hand down his face. “Is your head in this, Canvas? Say the word and I’ll send Winegrad. Matter of fact, I’ll send him anyway. You need backup.”
She folded her hands on the table. “Please don’t. Winegrad solves everything with his fists. This action requires delicacy. Tact.”
“Are you allergic to help?”
“Not at all. I’ve been calling in favors.” Favors from people she wouldn’t name. “Which is why we decrypted the London drive.”
“What’d you find?”
“Bioweapons. The drive contained BSL-4 lab staff info. Names, addresses, phone numbers. It indicates it’s one of three drives, all of which are embedded in artworks to be auctioned. The next one’s in Monte Carlo—a charity auction tonight. I plan to be there.”
MacColl nodded. “What do you need?”
She had a list ready to go. “Tickets to the event. A new ride—something comfortable. Clothes for me and Brawn. Casino d’Or blueprints, security shift change schedule and a housekeeping security badge. Oh, ceramic screwdrivers.”
They were her favorite handy item that would pass through metal detectors unnoticed.
MacColl chewed his cheek. “You don’t ask for much. Fiancé keeping up with you?”
She nodded. “Kept us from being nabbed in Casablanca. Twice.”
“Use him to your advantage. He’s a big guy, and Dilettante’s a coward.”
Dammit, this was what she was afraid of when MacColl told her to bring John to the consulate. Official involvement put him at risk.
“What if I think that’s a bad idea?”
“No lone-wolfing it. It’s your guy or Winegrad. You pick.”
Under the table, she dug her nails into her palm. She’d be damned if some other agent took down Jean-Michel. She had a hand in making him the problem he was today.
She’d unmake him, too.
“Fine, I’ll use Brawn,” she said. “But I’ll also need a phone connected to his alias’s accounts. And, Boss, one more thing. After the scuffle at the office, I contacted Big Boss. She didn’t recognize our code word. She wanted me to bring Brawn to HQ for debriefing.”
He wrinkled his brow. “Wanted, or ordered?”
“Ordered.”
“And you didn’t.” MacColl massaged his forehead. “Why’d I take a management job? ‘It’s time to give back,’ I told myself. ‘Mentor others.’”
“It felt off, Boss. Protocol dictates sending us to a safe house.”
“I’ll add it to the pile of shit I’m looking into. FYI, I’ve got a new emergency number. Emergency means you’re held at gunpoint or have been kidnapped by aliens. Ready?”
He rattled off digits.
“Got it,” she said.
“Good. Anything else?” MacColl asked.
Besides MacColl being right about John breaking up with her, and her attempts to win him back while thwarting bioweapons espionage?
“No, that’s it.”
“Cool your heels for an hour while the staff fulfills your shopping list.” MacColl leaned forward into the camera. “And Canvas? Watch your back.”
The screen went dark. She stood and knocked on the door twice.
Helane opened it. “Follow me, mademoiselle.”
She led Vivian back to John. He stood before an enormous Joseph Garibaldi painting of Marseille’s port. This artist deserved more renown. His work fell at the nexus of impressionism, cubism and realism, and evoked a dreamy romanticism of nineteenth-century Provence.
“Bonjour, Mr. Seymour,” Helane said. “You like the painting?”
“Yes, but it should hang about three inches higher.” He pointed to the empty space above the painting, and Vivian sucked in a breath. He’d rolled up his sleeves. “So it’s at eye level for the greatest percentage of people.”
From the start, they’d bonded over art. He was the most capable art handler she worked with. Humble, too. He had no idea how attractive competency, art appreciation and muscled forearms were.
“I’ll make a note of it, sir.” To both of them, Helane said, “In an hour, pick up your car from the hotel. Your new vehicle will contain your requests. May I escort you through the gate?”
“Please.” John squeezed Vivian’s hand three times.
Yes, indeed. She also wanted to go.
Their shoes scraped against the brick walkway as they followed Helane. After she closed the gate behind them and returned to the building, they strolled from the consulate.
A nice, even pace that wouldn’t draw attention.
“How was the call?” John asked.
“Fine.” Not many people nearby, but she’d be cautious. “He wants you in the mix in Monte Carlo, too. Nothing dangerous. I’m thinking you can snap photos of beautiful people at the charity soirée. Discreetly. Because Jason Jones is a subtle influencer.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“I’m serious.” She pulled up Jason Jones’s Instagram and handed John the phone. “They did a fantastic job with his digital footprint. He’s all about curated luxury with barely visible hints of himself. You see his hand, his hair, or a shot of his outfit, but never the whole package.”
John scrolled Instagram. “God, I hate this guy.”
“His followers love him.”
They turned a corner down a narrow road ribboning among apartment buildings.
In her periphery, she caught movement. A man rounded the corner onto the road as well.
A man who, in white New Balance sneakers, aviator sunglasses and a Gore-Tex windbreaker, didn’t blend.
Maybe in a tourist area of DC, but definitely not in Marseille.
“Lean in for a selfie.” She took her phone, snapped a photo of them, then enlarged it to inspect the background.
She’d bet a million dollars New Balance was a tail.
“We’ve got company. There’s a café over there. We’ll wait them out there. Plus, we haven’t eaten. Two birds, one croissant.”
“Okay, but not—”
The bell on the door tinkled. Obviously the best unintended pit stop ever because it smelled decadently of rich coffee and baked goods. A beautiful blonde pushed through the door to the kitchen. She blinked, then shifted her gaze from John, to Vivian, and back to John.
“Johnny?” the blonde said.
“Hey, Gen.”
Whoops.