Chapter 8
Imake my first mistake in London.
My mistake is believing I am still the person doing the watching.
For three days, I know where Xavier Blackwell is before he does.
His office.
His hotel.
The restaurant where he meets a government minister who looks considerably less impressive in person than he does on television.
The private club where he spends forty-seven minutes with two men from Blackwell’s European operations.
I don't follow closely.
I don't need to.
That is amateur behavior.
I move around him instead.
Different hair.
Different clothes.
Different posture.
Sometimes I watch from across the street.
Sometimes from a café.
Once from the upper level of a bookstore where I can see the entrance to his hotel through a rain-streaked window.
I tell myself this is reconnaissance.
It isn't.
Not entirely.
I want to see him.
That is becoming the problem.
Ghost has existed in my life for years without taking up physical space.
He lived in a screen.
In words.
In the quiet hours after midnight when Papa was gone and sleeping felt impossible.
Xavier occupies space.
A lot of it.
He walks into rooms and people shift without realizing they are moving for him. Men twice his age watch his reaction before offering their own. Women look.
He rarely notices.
That part surprises me.
The rumors about him make more sense now.
He isn't uninterested in women.
He simply isn't interested in most people.
I understand that better than I should.
Yesterday, I watched him leave the hotel wearing a dark suit and no overcoat despite the cold. A woman nearly walked into a lamppost looking at him.
He never saw her.
I did.
I laughed for half a block.
Then Ghost messaged me.
GHOST: Something funny?
I stopped walking.
VESPER: Why would you ask that?
GHOST: Instinct.
Infuriating man.
I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering whether he really could feel me nearby.
Today, I stop wondering.
Because someone else can.
The first sign is a reflection.
A man behind me in the window of a pharmacy.
Dark coat.
Nothing unusual.
London is full of men in dark coats.
I turn at the next corner without looking back.
Two streets later, he's gone.
Fine.
Then I see another.
Different man.
Same stillness.
He isn't looking directly at me.
That is what makes me notice.
Good surveillance never watches.
It exists.
My pulse changes.
I continue walking.
No hurry.
No sudden movements.
I pass a bakery.
Turn right.
Cross against the light.
Enter a shop with two entrances and leave through the second.
Nobody follows.
I almost smile.
Then a black car rolls past.
Slowly.
I see the passenger.
Not the first man.
Not the second.
Third.
My stomach goes cold.
This isn't Blackwell.
Xavier would never use three visible operators inside six blocks.
Unless he wanted me to know.
He wouldn't.
Ghost would tease.
Xavier would wait.
Whoever this is doesn't know me well enough for either.
I change direction.
The car continues.
Good.
I take another turn.
And somebody hits me from behind.
I wake tasting blood.
Not much.
A split lip, maybe.
My head throbs.
My hands are bound behind the chair.
Plastic bites my wrists.
My ankles are secured too.
Concrete floor.
Concrete walls.
No windows.
One industrial light overhead.
Fantastic.
I lift my head.
A man sits across from me.
Forties.
Maybe fifty.
Close-cropped gray hair.
Heavy shoulders.
A face that has been broken before and healed badly.
Russian?
Ukrainian?
The accent will tell me very little even if he speaks.
Borders move.
People move more.
A second man leans against the door.
Younger.
Both armed.
My coat is gone.
Shoes too.
My wig sits on a metal table beside every device I carried.
Phone.
Two transmitters.
Emergency drive.
Watch.
Even the little signal relay I was particularly proud of.
The older man follows my gaze.
“You carry many toys.”
His English is excellent.
“Occupational hazard.”
My voice sounds rough.
He smiles.
“Sabine Beaumont.”
Everything inside me freezes.
I don't let my face show it.
“Wrong girl.”
“Cornflower eyes.”
He gestures toward the table.
My contacts lie beside the wig.
They removed them.
My real hair hangs around my shoulders, tangled from whatever they did getting me here.
Caramel.
Exposed.
Me.
No Jenny.
No blonde wedding guest.
No Vesper.
Sabine.
The man leans forward.
“Your father would be disappointed.”
That gets through.
A tiny movement.
Enough.
He sees it.
I hate him for that.
“What do you want?”
“Better.”
He rests his forearms on his thighs.
“ARGUS.”
I say nothing.
“Where is the architecture?”
“Never heard of it.”
His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
“Your father built pieces of it.”
Interesting.
Not worked on.
Built.
“You have the wrong Beaumont.”
“No.”
He reaches into his coat and tosses a photograph onto the floor in front of me.
Papa.
Younger.
Standing beside three men outside a Blackwell facility.
My chest constricts.
I've never seen the picture.
The man watches me.
“Where did Adrien put the second key?”
I look up.
“The what?”
Something changes in his expression.
He expected recognition.
Good.
I file that away.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Your father was careful.”
“So am I.”
“Yes.”
His gaze moves to my devices.
“Usually.”
That one lands.
Because he's right.
I was watching Xavier.
Watching Ghost.
Thinking about his hands.
His mouth.
The stupid way my stomach reacted every time he called me baby.
And while I was staring at Xavier Blackwell, someone found Sabine Beaumont.
My skin prickles.
How long?
Paris?
California?
London Bridge?
Did the photograph give them something?
The book?
Did I become careless because I wanted one man to find me?
The older man stands.
“We know you entered Blackwell.”
I keep my face blank.
“We know someone else entered after you.”
My heart gives one hard beat.
There.
Someone else.
Not me.
The ARGUS intrusion Xavier mentioned indirectly.
The one Blackwell is chasing.
“We want what you took.”
“I take many things.”
“Then this will take a long time.”
He walks toward the door.
I call after him.
“Who hired you?”
He looks back.
I smile despite the blood drying at the corner of my mouth.
“Worth trying.”
His expression remains empty.
Then the door shuts.
Lock.
Silence.
I wait.
Count.
Listen.
Nothing for a while.
Then distant voices.
Two.
Maybe three.
I close my eyes.
Think.
My devices are gone.
They found everything I expected them to find.
Everything except NULL.
Because NULL isn't stored in any one machine.
Ghost and I designed it that way.
The room can exist anywhere if I can reach enough of the architecture and authenticate myself.
Which currently presents one small problem.
I am tied to a chair.
I look around.
Concrete.
Pipe.
Door.
Old wall control near the opposite corner.
Cheap.
Networked.
Maybe.
I almost laugh.
Papa always said people spent fortunes securing computers and then connected everything to something stupid.
I shift my wrists.
Pain flashes.
The restraint is tight.
Too tight.
There is a rough metal edge behind the chair where part of the frame has split.
I work against it.
Slowly.
The plastic doesn't give.
My skin does.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet.
Again.
The sharp edge catches my wrist.
Warmth slides over my palm.
Fuck.
I stop.
Breathe.
Then try again.
Not because I want to hurt myself.
Because I would rather bleed than find out what those men mean by a long time.
The restraint finally loosens enough for one hand to twist.
More skin tears.
My vision goes white for a second.
Then my hand comes free.
I nearly sob.
No time.
I work the other wrist loose and stumble out of the chair.
My knees buckle.
I catch myself against the wall.
The control panel is old.
Cheap.
Barely intelligent.
Good enough.
My fingers shake as I wake it.
I don't need Blackwell.
I don't need police.
I don't need a government.
I need one person.
The only person I know who can find me faster than the people outside this room can move me.
NULL opens.
Barely.
Ugly interface.
No familiar black screen.
Doesn't matter.
I authenticate.
One message.
No games.
No riddles.
No Shakespeare.
No Vesper.
Just me.
VESPER: 911.
I swallow.
Type again.
VESPER: KIDNAPPED. REAL. NOT A GAME.
My bloody fingers slip.
I wipe them against my trousers.
VESPER: THEY KNOW WHO I AM. THEY KNOW MY FATHER.
Footsteps outside.
My heart slams.
I type faster.
VESPER: I NEED YOU.
Then the hardest thing I've ever given another human being.
Access.
Not a breadcrumb.
Not a photograph.
Not a false trail.
Me.
VESPER: LOCATION OPEN. COME NOW. brING YOUR PEOPLE.
I activate the emergency permission.
Everything I spent years protecting becomes available to Ghost for one narrow purpose.
Find me.
The door handle moves.
I send the last message.
VESPER: PLEASE, XAVIER.
Then I kill the connection.
The door opens.
Time becomes ugly after that.
Questions.
Silence.
Threats.
More questions.
They move me to another room.
I refuse to answer.
One of them keeps demanding the second key.
I genuinely don't know what it is.
That seems to make him angrier.
At some point they realize I used something.
The older man enters holding the wall unit ripped from its mount.
His expression tells me enough.
“What did you send?”
I say nothing.
His hand closes around my jaw.
“Who?”
I look directly at him.
And smile.
That makes him furious.
Good.
“Who did you contact?”
I taste blood again.
This time when I answer, I use English.
“The wrong man.”
A noise comes from somewhere outside.
Not loud.
A dull impact.
Then another.
Everyone in the room changes.
The younger guard reaches for his weapon.
The older man turns toward the door.
I stop breathing.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Fast.
Controlled.
Not shouting.
That frightens them more.
Men who know what they're doing rarely need to yell.
The older man grabs my arm and pulls me upright.
A weapon presses against my ribs.
The door bursts inward.
Everything happens at once.
Black clothing.
Movement.
Someone hits the floor.
The weapon disappears from my side.
An arm locks around me and drags me backward.
I fight on instinct.
“Sabine.”
I freeze.
Not because of the name.
The voice.
I've never heard it before.
Not aloud.