Chapter 20 #2
She swiveled toward him. “What?”
He lifted his hips and dug into his tiny shorts. Shorts she regretted not replacing since Vandenberg got an eyeful of what he was packing.
“I kept the poker chip your ex lost to us at blackjack.”
He handed the black chip to Vivian, who passed it to Vandenberg.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I like it when he loses to me.”
Aw, that was sweet. A huge mistake, but a sweet one.
“Blunders from civilians are expected.” Vandenberg opened her rugged plastic briefcase and unfolded a black cloth. “Which is why we don’t involve them in actions, Flint.”
From the briefcase, Vandenberg withdrew a radio frequency detector. It lit up as she passed it over the chip. With brutal efficiency, she crushed the chip in the jaws of a stainless steel nutcracker, then lowered the window and tossed the pieces into Monte Carlo’s night hills.
“There,” she said. “While I’m at it—phones?”
Not much choice here. Vivian handed them over. Vandenberg swept the radio frequency detector over them. Nothing. Vandenberg nodded and returned them to Vivian.
“Rodriguez? We’re good to go to the airport.”
The driver U-turned, then twisted under, over and through the mountainous Monegasque streets. Between his driving style and sitting backward, queasiness overtook Vivian.
New rule—never leave the Dramamine behind.
After a nauseating eternity, they arrived at a nondescript location.
Well, nondescript for Monte Carlo. The elegant buttercream building with lush flower boxes in its arched windows would attract attention in any other city, maybe serve as the setting for a Nora Ephron movie.
The driver cut the engine, and the van door opened.
Two officers escorted them to the second-floor apartment.
“Sit.” Vandenberg gestured to the couch. “Can we get you something? Coffee? Wine?”
“Water, thanks,” John said.
Vivian nodded. “Same for me.”
“Want something stronger, kiddo?” Vandenberg asked. “You won’t like this briefing.”
Not with this woozy stomach. “Ginger ale?”
Vandenberg smiled. “Hall, check for ginger ale, please?”
A pantsuited woman left the room.
Vandenberg sat across the coffee table from them. “I’ll get straight to it. MacColl is a European organized crime asset.”
Hot bile rose in Vivian’s throat. “Impossible.”
Vandenberg folded her hands. “I get it. This is a bitter pill to swallow. He and I have known each other for thirty years, and I didn’t see this coming.
But I didn’t like his answers during his debrief of the office attack, and his notes on the drive you found in London were incomplete. So I started digging.”
“Here, Flint.” Hall handed her a freezing can of ginger ale.
“What did you find?” She popped the top and guzzled the spicy bubbles, determined to settle her storming stomach.
Vandenberg leaned forward. “It boils down to this. MacColl lost his shirt in his divorce. His career stalled at GS-14, and he felt unappreciated and underutilized by the agency. The operation he works for—that you work for—isn’t the apple of the directorate’s eye.
From what we can discern, he’s working with Dilettante. ”
As Vivian slumped backward, John rested his hand on hers. A week ago, she would’ve shaken him off, mortified at any hint of her inner softness in front of her coworkers. Now? If John made a move to cradle her like Michelangelo’s Pietà, she’d let him.
“Between them, they cooked up the scheme to use auctions to pass intelligence to the highest bidder. But MacColl didn’t expect Dilettante to use an unauthenticated Rocksy piece for the dead drop. That, of course, required your alias’s expertise. And here we are.”
Vivian rolled the cold can against her pounding forehead. “MacColl’s grumpy. Sometimes an asshole. But treasonous? No.”
“I get it. It’s a shock when one of us turns. But I have proof.”
Vandenberg opened her briefcase and tossed glossy photos on Vivian’s lap.
MacColl, half in shadow, and Jean-Michel.
“Ever wonder why MacColl squashed your recommendation to turn Dilettante over to local police? This is why. MacColl skipped town two days ago, and intel shows he’s on his way here.
That’s why I’m here. To catch him and clean up this mess.
” Vandenberg clapped a hand to Vivian’s shoulder. “He fooled all of us.”
Vivian turned the intel over in her head. Everything Vandenberg said was plausible.
Except… After they broke up, Jean-Michel swore off running jobs with Americans.
“I need your help to fix this.” She smiled at Vivian. “You know, you remind me of myself at your age. Doing whatever it takes to complete a mission. Using your wits to leverage the tools and people you have at hand. I applaud your hustle.”
Ew. Full-body cringe. Hustle?
“Thanks,” she said diplomatically.
Vandenberg leaned forward again. “All this cat-and-mouse, I bet you don’t trust anyone.”
Not true. She turned her hand over to lace her fingers with John’s.
“I promise,” Vandenberg said. “I’m not the bad guy here. Since there was a security incident at the gallery tonight and you used the computer at the hostel, I’ll go out on a limb and guess you found the second drive. So tell me—where are we headed next?”
“Paris,” John said.
Cold anger burst through Vivian.
She yanked her hand from his. That information was not his to share. She needed time to assess Vandenberg’s motivations before blabbing everything. Photographic—or possibly Photoshopped—evidence be damned. Plain and simple, Vandenberg gave her the ick.
Always trust the ick.
Vandenberg clapped her hands. “So. Who’s ready to go to Paris?”