Chapter 4 Paul Fatherthe Girl
FOUR
Paul: Father or the Girl
I don't have super strength or laser eyes. I can't read minds or move objects with my thoughts, but I have something Nicholas didn't count on.
Unlike Nicholas, hatred doesn't drive me. My power comes from something stronger.
My determination to save two lives sings in my blood, and the best thief and tactician trained me. I count on Merlin to help now—which begins with ignoring his hastily scratched code.
I also have Urakov's men behind me. Not FSB soldiers, but his mob contacts. Already, those men are mobilizing. In a few hours, I'll have a small army to take Nicholas down.
All I have to do is not lose Vivianne or Merlin.
That begins by finding where Nicholas took them, except there's no way to track Vivianne. Her phone and mine were locked in the box. Only two real options exist.
Either he sequestered her someplace near Lac Léman or brought her to the chalet where he captured Merlin. The second option means Vivianne and Merlin would be close to each other.
But if Nicholas left Vivianne behind in Lac Léman, I'm two hours away from her rescue. There simply hasn't been enough time for Nicholas to kidnap Vivianne and then drive up the mountain to grab Merlin.
The only thing I can count on is that Merlin and Vivianne are being held close to each other.
Too many variables.
Except Nicholas already made his first mistake, and I count on him making a few more. Not that I underestimate my brother, but taking Vivianne lit a firestorm within me. That blaze burns bright, and I'm willing to sacrifice much to ensure her safety.
First, I secure Dr. Gachet in a secondary vault in my chalet. Urakov isn't pleased with the plan, but the Russian has little say in the matter.
He could take it by force at any point, but I hold an unspoken threat over his head, and the FSB officer will do nothing that might threaten his government.
Besides, somewhere along the way, Vivianne slipped between the cracks of the blocky man's hardened exterior.
He's somehow smitten by her, and Urakov lives by a chivalrous code.
I intend to make use of that.
For now, we secure the chalet. Two of Urakov's men guard the vault in the cellar. The other two patrol outside to ensure no other entrances have been breached. Meanwhile, Urakov and I plot in the study.
"So, who is this man?" Urakov settles into one of the leather chairs.
We're discussing my brother, a difficult conversation without revealing too many secrets. Urakov intimates he knows I'm the Starling but is unaware of Nicholas's identity as the Crow.
Too much is at risk to let Urakov connect all the dots of my family tree. Any choice I make will have deadly effects on the two people I care most about. All because Nicholas blames me for sweet Catherine's death.
"You must have the supplies on hand to separate the painting from the anthrax." Urakov's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"If you're asking if I can pull off the frame and separate the painting from the backing, then you're correct."
"Then why don't we do that?" He scratches his head.
"Because, if I know Nicholas—and I do—he has something in play that will reveal such tampering. The only way through this is to make the exchange. I get Vivianne to safety while your men take back the painting."
"A bold plan. And what of your father?"
I don't have an answer to that.
I turn to the cold hearth and stare at the ashes. Not long ago, Vivianne posed naked before this fire.
Now?
The thought of her cold and afraid, terrified of her future, twists something in my chest. It's time to call in reinforcements.
"How closely has your government been working with Interpol?"
"Minimally." Urakov arches a brow. "Why?"
"The extra men you have coming are still a day away—"
"Hours, my friend."
"Okay, hours, but I can have Interpol here within the hour. My task is to locate and secure Dr. Gachet. They won't want it turned back over to Nicholas's hands. Perhaps it's time for some deeper discussions between your government and that of France?"
"Few are aware of the terrorist attack. We've been handling this quietly."
"What about guards from your consulate in Lac Léman?"
"Tricky to pull them in. The FSB likes to take care of things quietly."
"And your other contacts?" I need Urakov to know I'm aware of his secrets. We both have damaging information on the other.
"Of course, those are the ones I called. I'm not eager to involve official channels, and as charming as your Vivianne is..." He trails off. His assistance will be limited.
"I understand."
"And I think calling Interpol is at odds with truths you must keep hidden. Their involvement would result in your identity as the Starling coming to light. I wonder how that would look?"
Interpol has already used my identity against me. I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for them. Having an international art thief and counterfeiter working to solve art crimes across Europe enhances their efforts, but Urakov doesn't need that knowledge.
"Fine, I won't call the Art Crime Team, but what are we to do?"
"We wait." Urakov leans back and pulls out a cigar. "Do you mind?"
A dismissive wave. Not a fan of cigars myself, but I don't find them irritating like most people.
"I suppose we simply wait."
"Or we can uncrate that painting and see if this Nicholas has marked it as you say." Urakov lights up, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"I know that anthrax is important—"
“Recovering the weapon is my mission. But even if we separate it from this painting, I will still help you recover your sweet Vivianne."
"I appreciate that." Despite any chivalrous code Urakov might have, not for a minute do I misunderstand why he's here to help. I glance at my phone, checking for a message or missed call. The battery indicates less than half a charge.
"I need to plug in my phone. Is there anything you need?"
"Only to take a closer look at that painting." Urakov puffs on his cigar.
"Okay. Let me grab a charging cord, and we'll head down to the vault." I can charge my phone there and wait for Nicholas to make his next move.
A few minutes later, I retrieve the painting from the vault. With Urakov's help, I carry it to a nearby table and set it down.
We left it crated for ease of future transport. Given more time, I would replace the painting with the copy stored in the cave. Except I know my brother.
Nicholas hid something in that painting that will reveal evidence of tampering.
While Urakov pries off the top of the crate, I plug my phone in to charge. Less than a second later, it buzzes with a text from my brother.
Father or the girl? Only one will survive this night.
You would kill your father?
What I choose is not the issue.
There is no reason to harm either of them.
My knuckles blanch around the phone, and I bite back a string of curse words. A glance at Urakov confirms the Russian isn't tampering with the painting. One wrong move could liberate the deadly spores.
We discussed the possibility that Nicholas might have booby-trapped the painting. Hopefully, Urakov's intelligence will win over his eagerness. To be so close has to be driving him insane.
The timer has been set, dear brother. Choose.
Do not do this.
It is already done. Choose!
And then?
Nicholas's head games demand something more sadistic than a simple exchange. I struggle to decipher his intent, but nothing comes to mind.
I'll tell you where to bring the painting.
I face a terrible dilemma, one made worse by my father's hastily scratched note. During WWII, Merlin faced a similar decision. I grew up with the stories of a great love won, lost, found again, and fiercely fought over—only to be ripped away by one wrong choice.
Brigitte was Merlin's first and only love.
They courted and were promised to one another, but then the Nazis occupied France. While Merlin joined the resistance, Brigitte's family became Nazi sympathizers. A love won by fate and lost by circumstance.
The war's end brought reconciliation and reunion, but the intervening years drove an irreparable wedge between them.
In Merlin's absence, his good friend ensured Brigitte's safety. But those were volatile times, full of fear and terror. Merlin never recaptured the essence of his first love. In the end, he was forced to make a choice.
He chose passion over love.
In an odd twist of fate, the friendship between Brigitte and Merlin's best friend became an enduring union, blessed by two wealthy families. That union cemented the Faulks name, established their power base, and catapulted them into industrial royalty.
Vivianne would have never been brought into my life if not for Merlin. He may understand Nicholas's intent and is trying to take the decision out of my hands. Ever the wise one, my father knows what Nicholas is capable of, which gives me hope.
Where is the girl?
Now, why am I not surprised?
Where is Vivianne?
Nicholas sends an address. I curse. As suspected, Nicholas drew me away from Lac Léman, placing time and distance between me and Vivianne's rescue.
And father?
You get to choose only one.
I don't believe Nicholas's hatred runs deep enough to commit patricide, but worry gnaws at the edges of my resolve. I will not be forced into choosing one over the other.
There is another way.
"Forgive me, Father."
The phone chirps in my palm.
Brother, it's a long drive. I suggest you hurry. Come alone. Your Russian friends aren't welcome.
There is no way Urakov is staying behind, but if Nicholas knows Urakov is with me, the chalet is under surveillance. I clear my throat and swallow the thick lump of anger and regret. I hand my phone to Urakov. After scrolling through our conversation, he glances up.
"I see. And what are your thoughts?"
"The house is being monitored. I must go alone."
"Obviously." A glance at the painting. "The weight of the world..."
"Pull that out of the crate. We have work to do."
My phone chirps again. Urakov glances down. His brows draw together, lips pursing into a frown.
"What is it?" My hands curl into fists at my sides.
"You must hurry." He turns the screen around.
Strapped to a metal chair, Vivianne sits inside a cistern. Water trickles from a pipe overhead, splashing her as it falls. Her eyes are wide, wild, and she pulls against the restraints with desperate jerks.
There is no doubt of Nicholas's intent.
He intends for her to drown.