Chapter 21
Twenty-One
John shifted in his seat in the van. The leather stuck to his legs. Vivian hadn’t spoken to him since they’d left the safe house with Vandenberg. Who, for the record, struck him as a grounded and dedicated civil servant.
“ETA is zero-three-hundred to NCE,” the driver said.
NCE—Nice C?te d’Azur Airport.
“You okay?” he asked Vivian.
Her cheeks were pale in the early morning light. She clutched the handle above the door and breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. Since Monte Carlo, the streets, tunnels and highways to France twisted with sharp climbs and steep drops in elevation.
Vivian must be dying.
Through clenched teeth, she said, “I’ve been better.”
The car peeled off the highway. The driver slowed to follow the speed limit despite being alone on the road. Signs indicated they were at the airport, but the driver diverted from the main passenger drop-off and circled toward the business aviation terminal.
Rodriguez flashed his credentials. “Premier Executive Transport Services. We have a flight scheduled in thirty minutes.”
After a cursory inspection of his ID, the guard waved him through.
In the fading dark, their van parked next to a Gulfstream jet.
“Does the government often fly private?” he asked.
“When we need to minimize touch points, yes.” Vandenberg unbuckled. “Flying commercial requires seven hundred microinteractions. It’s easier to keep a low profile this way.”
“Told you,” Vivian said.
As they entered the private jet, her color returned. It’s plush interior featured creamy leather recliners, glossy caramel wood and flattering lighting that helped them all look more sophisticated. Except for him and his tiny shorts, of course.
“Everyone on board?” Vandenberg asked.
An officer—she’d said her name was Hall—confirmed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then we’re wheels-up.” To him and Vivian, she said, “Sit at the table for the debrief.”
Minutes later, they were in the air.
Vandenberg positioned a voice recorder between them.
“This is Deputy Director Janna Vandenberg debriefing Officer Vivian Flint and her fiancé, John Seymour, on the events that have taken place since 20 June. We are speaking at oh-two hundred on 26 June. Flint, confirm or clarify the following, please. Jean-Michel de Gramont hired your alias, Jane Davis, to authenticate a Rocksy painting. You conducted said authentication in London on 19 June.”
Vivian’s color was returning. “Correct.”
For the next thirty minutes, they volleyed questions and answers.
John stilled his face like he was playing Clue Conspiracy and didn’t want to give away his identity. After the way she reacted after he let Paris slip, he wouldn’t open his mouth unless Vivian told him to speak.
Forget Taboo, Cards against Humanity, Settlers of Catan… These two were playing four-dimensional chess. Trying to evaluate what the other knew, how much to give to persuade the other to do the same. He had no read on Vandenberg, but Vivian? She was coolly out for blood.
Never thought he’d find an interrogation hot, but here he was.
“After the video teleconference in Marseille, Rodriguez followed you from the consulate.” Vandenberg sipped the water Hall had delivered to her. “How’d you evade him?”
That was him? John glanced at Rodriguez.
Never would have connected the Gore-Tex man to the one sitting over there in a suit.
“The café had roof access. Easy to hop over to the next building and use their fire escape.”
Easy? She was selling herself short. But he kept his lips zipped. For all he knew, she’d never told them she had a fear of heights.
“Clever.” Vandenberg nodded.
“We drove to Monte Carlo and encountered Jean-Michel and Lola Vorlicek. We learned he donated the Rocksy, and she donated the Amina Hassan.”
Vandenberg said, “Any other persons of interest there?”
John sipped his water. Up to Vivian if she wanted to mention Mystery Vampire.
“No one of note,” Vivian said.
“Hall, can we pull security footage?” Vandenberg leaned back in her seat. “Since I don’t like to assume anything—you two broke into the gallery and triggered the fog?”
Vivian nodded.
John drank more water. If he kept this up, he’d commandeer the private jet’s bathroom.
“And you obtained the second drive?” Vandenberg’s gaze was like an ice cube.
Vivian said nothing. Therefore, John said nothing.
“Flint. Easy way or hard way?” Vandenberg cast her gaze in John’s direction.
What the fuck was that about?
“Easy.” She sighed, withdrew the tampon wrapper from her bag and tossed it on the table. “They’re in there.”
Vandenberg opened the wrapper and shook out the mini-drives. After turning them over in her hand, she pocketed them.
“Good work here, Flint. But I’m surprised you gave them up without a fight. It’s a bitch to hand the work up the line and get no glory for yourself.”
Vivian folded her hands on the table. “With all due respect, ma’am, I’m happy to serve the United States’ best interests. No spotlight needed. But I’m not sure that’s true for everyone.”
Vandenberg inspected Vivian’s face.
His fiancée didn’t flinch.
No wonder he’d never beaten her at poker.
“Glad to hear it.” Vandenberg clapped three times. “Gather round, team. Officer Flint will brief us on Maison Moreau, where we’ll carry out an action tonight. Flint, the floor’s yours.”
Something had happened.
He was shit at figuring out what that was, but between these two women, the balance of power was shifting. To whom and to what end, he couldn’t say. But it raised the hair on his nape.
“Maison Moreau is a renovated mansion in Montmartre. First floor is the gift shop and event space, second floor comprises the galleries, and the third is offices and special exhibits.”
Vivian tucked her curls behind her ears.
He hoped she’d keep the red when this was over.
“That’s where the Meghan Shimek exhibit you curated is hung, isn’t it?” John asked.
When they first started dating she’d enthused about the artist’s textile pieces.
“Yes.” Under the table, she gently stepped on his foot.
Message received. Shutting up.
“This deviates from the placement of the other drives,” Vandenberg said. “None of the art is for sale this evening. Any thoughts on where it might be hidden?”
Vivian lifted a shoulder. “Could be anywhere. It’s an odd museum. It’s a gallery and an homage to Serge Moreau, the French pop star. Some rooms are preserved as a time capsule to the day he moved out.”
“Sounds like we’ll figure it out as we go.” Vandenberg sighed. “Hall, can we confer on logistics? We’ll need more space than usual at our Paris safe house.”
After they left the table, John asked, “Should I not have mentioned the exhibit?”
She rested her warm hand on his leg. For once, he was glad he was in the shorts.
“Just keep in mind that information is currency. We need to be careful how we spend it.”
He tucked his fingers around hers. “Sorry. I wanted to be helpful.”
“And I love you for it.” She hugged him, then whispered, “You’re the only person I trust, okay? Follow my lead, and don’t share info unless I ask you to.”
He nodded.
Easy enough. He didn’t like talking to most people anyway.
* * *
Tangerine pink crested the horizon as they landed in Paris.
Vivian stretched on the tarmac of Le Bourget airport, then climbed into another nondescript SUV. As they merged onto the highway, graffiti covered the sound barriers dividing the road from neighborhoods.
Traffic thickened as they got closer to the city.
Rodriguez kept a car length between them and the car in front at all times in this godforsaken stop-and-go traffic. The defensive driving technique was somewhat undercut by motorcyclists zipping around them and filling those gaps.
Complicated Parisian traffic greeted them as they exited the highway. A single traffic signal post was spiked in the multilane intersection’s center. Rodriguez’s quick moves jerked them away from the stalled traffic, but her stomach did not appreciate his skill.
Her fortune for freedom from this van.
“Here we are,” Vandenberg said as they arrived at the unassuming H?tel Chevalier.
Thank Christ.
Maison Moreau was two blocks away, so the proximity was stellar. The other feature of this hotel that made it popular with the agency was its fire escape. Rare in Paris, but vital for officers looking for a hasty exit.
On their way inside, the group feigned work colleague chatter.
The concierge nodded at Vandenberg as the group headed to the elevators.
Vivian’s chest tightened. Something was off.
Their interactions with Vandenberg, this trip…
The events did not fit her expected pattern.
Vandenberg was way too casual about John’s presence.
Also, the agency maintained a handful of safe houses around Paris.
This was not one of them.
At least, not one she’d been to before. As they entered the gleaming Parisian penthouse suite, a bulbous bottle with a flattened bottom waited on the coffee table.
“What’s that?” Vandenberg asked.
“For your birthday tomorrow, ma’am,” Hall said. “The hotel was kind enough to find it.”
Bottles that shape and size contained one thing—plum lighter fluid.
And there were no such things as coincidences.
“Flint, Seymour.” Hall pointed to an interior door. “Changes of clothes, toothbrushes etc. are in there. Go clean up. But make it snappy.”
Finally, a chance to strategize with John.
“Roger that,” she said.
Inside the room, John closed the door. “I want to burn these shorts.”
Vivian pressed her finger to his lips and pulled him into the bathroom. The old hotel’s pipes groaned when she twisted the shower handle. Once the mirror steamed, she scrawled, V b-day drink—same as Vampire.
“Coincidence?” he murmured.
Nope. She shook her head. Guard up. K?
After he nodded, she wiped the mirror, then opened the bathroom window to allow steam to unfurl over the fire escape.
“You shower first,” she said, then slipped from the room.