Chapter 20
Twenty
John felt like an anchor from one of those yachts in the marina had thumped him in the chest. He could tell that confession had cost Vivian.
One trait she and “Jane” shared—they shied away from vulnerability.
Both versions of her preferred for the world to see her as a strong, independent person who needed nothing from anyone.
It might be the most successful of her lies.
And one he’d never believed.
“While I’m trying,” John said, “I need to do a better job of making you feel like you belong with me and Ruckus.”
“No,” she said. “I love you, but fixing me is not your job. This is a me thing. I filled my self-esteem hole with my career for years, but it’s not working anymore. I would, however, love you to stick with me while I figure it out.”
“And how will you do that?”
She shrugged. “Probably therapy, yoga, meditation. After running from this for so long, I’m scared the solution is to sit with it for a long time in the woods.”
“I like sitting in the woods,” he said. “Can I come with you?”
She bumped shoulders with him. “You’d better. Hey, I think that’s the youth hostel.”
Plate glass walls revealed the lobby’s exposed brick-and-neon decor.
“Hang on.” John opened the door for her. The yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread greeted them. A mohawked man sitting at the minuscule check-in station at the bar, however, did not. Above him, a menu listed alcohol and snacks.
“Let’s get something,” Vivian said. “Six appetizers is not enough to tide me over.”
“This is the best order you’ve given me this week.” To Mr. Mohawk, he said, “Bonjour, monsieur. Could we order the focaccia and…crispy panisses?”
He’d loved chickpea flour fritters as a kid.
“Ouais.” The man entered logged their order. “Forty-three euros. What’s your name?”
“Jason,” he answered without hesitation.
Vivian paid the bill in cash. “You have a business center, yes?”
“Around the corner.” The man gestured in a vaguely left direction.
Vivian departed almost before the man finished speaking. Rudeness was another sign of her exhaustion. John followed her to a nook dominated by an enormous Warhol-esque screen print of Prince Albert. His scratchy eyes did not appreciate the visual assault.
Vivian dropped into the seat in front of the computer.
She stifled a yawn. “I can’t muster the energy to show how exciting this is. But it is.”
He caught her yawn. “I get it.”
She disconnected the computer from the internet. When she inserted the drive, the screen showed the same code entry prompt that had flashed at Anjali’s house. Vivian flipped through her index cards until she landed on the one with the code, then gave it to John.
“Read that to me?” she said.
As he read the digits, Vivian typed them in. Before hitting Enter, she read them back, and he confirmed the sequence was correct. The screen resolved into two neat files.
“Hot damn,” Vivian said as she double-clicked the README file. “It worked.”
The simple text file revealed their next destination—Maison Moreau in Paris.
Vivian groaned. “Maison Moreau is a hotel-slash-museum-slash night club. I curated a show there with Jean-Michel. The owner, Serge Moreau, is an asshole. I swore I’d throw a baby out a window before I returned to that viper’s nest.”
“Should I go get a baby?” John asked.
She giggled, then palmed her eyes with a groan. “The shit I’ll need to eat to be permitted within those walls is incalculable. But I suppose global security is worth my dignity. And if my instincts are on point, I know where they’ve stashed the drive. Let’s see what’s on this file.”
As she removed her hands, the man at the front called, “Jason?”
“Be right back.” He pushed back from the table.
Outside, some tourists had gathered. Good thing they’d gotten here first or they might’ve had to wait longer for their food. The warm, fried scent of thyme, rosemary and olives wafted from the panisses, just like he remembered.
He rounded the corner. “These smell incredi— What’s wrong?”
The color had drained from Vivian’s face.
She gestured to the screen. “Security details for the same places as the other drive.”
He handed her a hunk of focaccia. Even if she’d lost her appetite, fresh baked bread should never go to waste.
“How far is Paris from here?” he asked.
“Ten hours by car?” She munched the focaccia. “And eight by train.”
“What about flights?” he asked.
She sipped her water. “About ninety minutes, but it’s a no-go. The thing I said the other day about cameras, IDs and scanners is still true.”
An hour and a half would be easier on their exhausted bodies than the other options.
He picked up a panisse and dipped it in the garlic aioli. “Can your pilot friend help?”
“I can’t go back to the well too often or they’ll block my number.”
“What about your boss? Any love there?”
“He offered me backup, but I turned him down. I need to see this through, not hand the baton to someone else.”
“Why not take him up on it? You don’t need to do this alone.”
She winked. “I’m not alone.”
He tucked a curl behind her ear. “No, you aren’t.”
He’d still try to talk her around to getting more official help, though.
“We’d better get going.” She withdrew the drive, then cleared the system’s recent history.
A sound outside caught Vivian’s attention.
“Shit.” She squinted at the tourists he’d seen earlier. “Goons. Six, at least.”
“Goons?”
“It’s what I call hired muscle. Once you’ve been in the game long enough, you can pick them out of a crowd.” She withdrew a tampon from her purse, removed the tampon from its wrapper and hid both BSL-4 drives in the packaging, then resealed it.
He’d purchased that brand for her back home. I like the kind with the resealable packaging. He hadn’t questioned the preferences of a woman suffering through menstrual cramps, even though he’d had to go to a second store to find them.
She pushed back from the table.
He followed, no hesitation.
Inside the lobby’s bathroom, she flipped the lock, then knocked over the metal trash can and scooted it under the lone clerestory window. As she climbed onto the can, he braced it with his foot.
“Damn, no latches. We’re trapped.” She hopped down from the can.
“Should we hide in the stalls?”
“We’d be sitting ducks.” She dug through her purse. “And our arsenal is…lacking. I’ve got a nail file, the ceramic screwdrivers, one propofol EpiPen, and…” She looked around the room. “There’s a plunger in the corner.”
“I could bash people with the trash can?” he suggested.
She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Do that. If they force their way in here, hit them, then run if you can.”
He lifted the trash can. “I’m not leaving you.”
The door thunked as someone tried to push their way inside.
* * *
Vivian’s heart beat faster than a speedbag at the Langley Field House. John, standing with her, ready to tackle the world by her side, felt good. For years, she’d hungered for a loved one to know, really know, what she did for a living.
They might both be obliterated in a minute, but at least she got to taste that feeling.
Another thump at the door.
“Somebody’s in here,” she squeaked.
Christ, what was that tone of voice?
“Flint, I’d like to speak with you.”
Vivian lowered her hands.
“Who’s that?” John still clutched the trash can.
“My boss’s boss.”
Her gut still insisted something was off with Vandenburg. MacColl hadn’t agreed—merely said he’d look into her. Now that Vandenberg had apparently saved them from a losing battle with goons…her gut said to play along.
“Put the can down,” she said. “This might be okay.”
“Might be?”
“It’s better than being outnumbered in a fight.”
She flipped the lock and opened the door. Vandenberg was stunning. Silvery hair cut into a loose-waved bob, perfectly applied makeup, and a blue slim-cut Italian suit. Versus Vivian, in wrinkled clothes and too-tight flip flops that had blistered her feet.
“Ma’am,” Vivian said.
“Flint. And the fiancé.” Vandenberg crossed her arms. “Come outside. We don’t talk business in a shitter that hasn’t been swept.”
Warily, Vivian followed. They passed two agents inspecting the computer she’d been using and the food they left behind. Her stomach grumbled. She should’ve eaten more focaccia and panisses.
Outside, Vandenberg pointed to a van. “That’s our ride.”
They walked past four police motorcycles and a patrol wagon. The goons, Winegrad among them, were cuffed and kneeling on the ground. Winegrad winked. Typical. When agents ran into each other in the field, they weren’t supposed to acknowledge each other, but he treated protocols like suggestions.
Vandenberg gestured to the seats that faced the back of the van. “Sit there.”
Oof. Riding backward might trigger her motion sickness.
John followed her, then Vandenberg. The door slid shut. As the van growled to life and departed the plaza, Vandenberg dragged her gaze between them.
“Someday—” Vandenberg crossed her legs “—you’ll have to explain how you left the States after I put you on the no-fly list.”
Vivian raised a shoulder. “I know a trick with palette knives.”
Vandenberg pinched the bridge of her nose.
“That sentence doesn’t even make sense. You can’t jam ‘palette knife’ into a normal conversation and keep a low profile.
You know MacColl’s code words aren’t official agency protocol, right?
His whole career, he’s overcomplicated things with his spy-versus-spy bullshit. ”
She did know the code word. Maybe Vivian could trust her?
“Once we get to a secure location, I’ll share more of his…peculiarities.” She gestured for Vivian’s bag. “First we need to find the tracker that led your friends straight to you.”
Insulting. She’d taken great care to avoid detection. Unless she meant John’s remaining cuff link? But that was buried under a tea service at the Casino d’Or.
“There’s no tracker,” Vivian said.
Shit. She hadn’t checked the drive for one. But she wouldn’t admit to having the drives to Vandenberg. Not yet.
“Uh, there might be,” John said.