Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“She’s somewhere in Paris,” Anderson said, poking his head in the door to Peter Madsen’s private office in Richmond. “She used a false passport to come into the country and to check into the Hotel St. Just, but she’s definitely there.”
Peter Madsen looked up at him from his desk. “Where is she now?”
“She was last seen on the Left Bank three days ago. There’s been no sign of her since—she never went back to her hotel room and some man checked her out of it, took her suitcase. Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. Maybe she was meeting a lover.”
“You don’t know Chloe and Bastien,” he said heavily.
“Maybe not, but sometimes the most obvious answer is the right one. He walks out on her for another woman, she follows suit. How long have they been married? People get tired of each other.”
“Not those two.” Anderson was beginning to piss Peter off, but he controlled his irritation with an effort. “What do we know about the man who checked her out of the hotel?”
“French. Looked like a student. I tell you, she’s paying Bastien back for leaving her, and—”
“Bastien didn’t leave her. He wouldn’t.” His voice was cold.
“Then where the hell is he?”
Peter didn’t answer. He had no answers to Anderson’s questions or his own.
Bastien had been gone for almost six weeks now, with no sign of him, which meant one of two things.
Either he was hiding out—but what possible reason could he have for that?
He had the skills to remain out of sight, but if any of his enemies had resurfaced, Peter would know.
No, either Bastien was in hiding for some unknown reason. Or he was dead.
Peter had to consider that possibility with all his cold-blooded rationality.
Bastien Toussaint was a legend, but even legends die, and he had a great many enemies.
He’d been gone too long, without a word to the Committee, even though he no longer worked for them.
There was a very good chance he was dead in some unmarked grave, never to be heard from again.
And now Chloe had disappeared. At least their children were safe at his home in the Hampshire countryside. Genny would see to them, keep them safe and loved. But time was running out. Bastien wouldn’t be gone that long without resurfacing. Chloe wouldn’t just disappear into the heart of Paris.
“Go to France,” Peter said abruptly. “Find her.”
Anderson didn’t make the mistake of asking how he was going to do that. He simply nodded. “What about Bastien?”
“You’ll never find him if he doesn’t want to be found. He’s above your pay grade. Concentrate on Chloe—she’s been gone a shorter period of time and should be easier to find.”
“Yes, boss.”
Peter Madsen eyed him dubiously. Anderson had been an operative for four years now, smart and loyal.
It wasn’t his fault that he was having to be the bearer of bad news.
If Bastien and Chloe were dead, Peter would know it—he counted on his instincts which had saved his life and others many times.
Anderson wouldn’t find Bastien, but Chloe would be an easier task.
Once Anderson had her safely back in England with her children, Peter could concentrate on where the hell Bastien had disappeared to.
One thing was for sure—Anderson was wrong in his supposition that either Chloe or Bastien had a lover. The two were joined at the hip, with just enough room for their two children. Peter would be jealous if he didn’t have Genevieve and his own obstreperous offspring.
No, if they weren’t together, they’d be looking for each other, and God knew what kind of mess they’d gotten themselves into.
Much as Chloe resented her new status of maid-of-all-work, she appreciated the fact that at least she had something to do.
The kitchen was small, up two stairs into an annex that had just enough room for the basic appliances.
It didn’t matter. She’d cooked in her tiny apartment kitchen in Paris, she’d cooked in her huge gourmet kitchen in North Carolina.
She could manage a decent dinner anywhere.
She found a package of frozen stew meat in the freezer, fresh mushrooms and baby onions on the counter, and it would be a simple enough matter to make a Boeuf Bourguignon for dinner.
It was one of Bastien’s favorite meals—would his doppelganger like it as well?
The kitchen was well-stocked—there would be enough food for weeks, assuming they could get fresh fruits and vegetables, but the one thing missing was bread.
Chloe could make bread of any sort, including baguettes.
The kitchen came equipped with a baking stone, and anything that kept her from her captors seemed like a good idea.
She’d changed into her jeans and a sweater, keeping an eye on the open door to Bastien’s room, but no one came near her, and by the time she was back in the kitchen, she was almost in a good mood.
Baking always soothed her soul, and it didn’t matter if the bread was going to the three criminals.
It was still bread, the staff of life, and she kneaded it with slow, deft hands, emotionally clinging to this one sure thing in a world of lies and chaos.
By the time it was rising, she had nothing else to do—the kitchen was spotless and it was too early for the Boeuf.
She eyed the space-age coffee maker dubiously, then set to work.
The book-sized manual was in a drawer, in French, of course, and she wasn’t up to date on the most technical coffee terms. But she persevered, and by the she’d formed the baguette loaves, she had a perfect tiny cup of espresso.
It was then she realized the living room was silent.
She went down the stairs to look and sure enough, it was deserted.
She ignored the dirty dishes and went straight to the front door.
Maybe they were going to abandon her here, leave her to find her way home.
She viewed that possibility with mixed emotions.
Part of her longed to be back with her children, safe from the gangsters who kidnapped her.
But one of those gangsters was her husband.
She should have known better. When she opened the door, there was no sign of the aging Renault that had brought them here, no sign of the men, but the sudden explosion of noise almost had her on the ground. It was followed by another, and another. Someone was shooting something.
Holding herself very still, she listened, trying to make sense of it. The gunshots were steady and even. Too many shots for a hunter or a murderer. Someone was shooting at targets, and her stomach sank.
“What are you doing out here?” Flambeau shambled around the corner, glaring at her. “Shouldn’t you be cleaning or something?”
“I wondered where everyone was.”
“Missed me, did you?” His leer showed blackened teeth. “We’ve got work to do—we can’t be babysitting you all day. Go back in the house.”
There’d been a momentary pause in the gunshots, but now they started up again, and Flambeau recognized her interest. “Wondering where Jean-Marc is? He’s practicing his shooting.
He’s got an important job coming up and there’s no room for second chances.
Play your cards right and maybe he won’t shoot you. ”
“Flambeau!” Luc had come around the corner, and he barked out his name in warning.
Flambeau shrugged. “She’ll figure it out soon enough. She’s not that stupid.”
“You talk too much.”
“And what are you going to do about it, pretty boy? You gonna tell Jean-Marc on me? Pussy.”
But Luc didn’t rise to the bait. “Go back inside, Chloe,” he said instead. “It’s dangerous out here.”
“Dangerous for her,” Flambeau said with a laugh. “I think Jean-Marc should use her for target practice—she doesn’t have much other use.”
“You’re forgetting—she can cook.”
Flambeau looked momentarily struck by the notion. “We’ll see what she makes for dinner. Food isn’t everything.”
Luc eyed Flambeau’s impressive gut and rolled his eyes. “Leave her alone. What have you got against her?”
“She’s cooking and cleaning—she can warm our beds as well. I haven’t had a woman in weeks.”
Luc looked disgusted. “And you really think Jean-Marc would share? Not likely.”
“Share what?” said Bastien.
Chloe had been so caught up with the argument that she hadn’t realized the gunshots had stopped, and Bastien was back. He didn’t look pleased.
“Share the woman,” Luc said, while Flambeau retreated into a sullen silence. “Apparently, Flambeau thinks her duties should extend further.”
Bastien just looked at him, and Flambeau seemed to diminish. “Well, you haven’t taken her to bed,” he whined. “Why not me?”
She could feel the force of Bastien’s gaze on her, but she refused to meet it. “I need to check the bread,” she said abruptly, turning away from them.
“You see?” Luc said cheerfully. “She cooks bread, she makes omelets. She’s earning her keep.”
“She could earn it on her back as well,” Flambeau said.
Bastien moved so fast that Chloe barely saw him—at one moment he was at the side of the house, at the next he had Flambeau shoved up against the wall of the decrepit-looking house and had a knife to his throat.
“If anyone fucks her it’s going to be me,” he said in a deceptively gentle voice, and Chloe wished she could feel flattered.
She practically heard Flambeau swallow. “Yes, boss,” he said in a sullen voice mixed with bravado. “But can I have her when you’re done with her?”
“There won’t be anything left.”
Chloe slammed the door behind her.
“They think she’s still in Paris,” Anderson said, keeping his voice low. There was no need—he was alone in his flat in Kensington and there was no one to overhear him, but old habits died hard. “I was going to tell him she’d gone to Amsterdam, but he might have wanted to see my intel.”
“Paris is fine,” said Le Faucon. “They can search for weeks, particularly if you find the occasional clue to keep them looking. You’ve done very well this time, Anderson. I won’t forget it.”