Chapter 10
Weekends were his busy days and he was happy to take a look. Hudson sent him the basics along with a few photographs. They agreed to meet in Baxter’s office in McLean at six.
Neither Fritz nor Linzy wanted to attend the meeting.
By then they were quite willing to hand the matter over to Hudson and stay out of the way.
Thoughts of moving, of digging out after twenty-four years and packing up the things they didn’t toss, were overwhelming.
However, it had been discussed before, if only in general terms. Fritz was sixty and tired of his job.
Linzy was fifty-eight and still teaching.
They were old enough to think about retirement and its advantages, though they had made no concrete plans.
The tuition bills were almost behind them and they could start seriously saving again.
Their ace was their home and its value, which would only continue to increase as they wound down their careers.
Those plans, vague as they were, were now gone. They were thinking of nothing but Paul and Chelsea, and if they had to sell their towels and bedsheets in a flea market they would quickly do so.
Still, they moved around the house as if sleepwalking.
They closed the curtains and ignored their cell phones.
Sam called again on the burner and said his father was walking around Paris, bored and waiting.
Linzy told him about the last email and photo.
She assured him they were doing okay and holding up.
Same at the Clayburn home. Neither was being truthful.
—
Ben Baxter worked from an efficient, no-frills office with just enough room for a secretary by the front door.
He was curious about the reasons behind the sudden need to sell and cash in, but he knew not to pry.
He’d seen it all, and didn’t really care about the motives.
Hudson gave him nothing but the basics and stressed the importance of confidentiality.
Ben told a couple of mildly interesting stories of homes he had brokered for representatives of people with no identities.
They involved corporate names, offshore businesses, straw men, shell companies, and so on.
His lawyers and their lawyers knew all the tricks.
Hudson had spent his career in and around real estate investors and their developments and had dealt with plenty of fast-talkers and shady types.
After fifteen minutes with Ben, he felt the guy could be trusted.
Ben had already found a dozen comparable sales in the past year in the same neighborhood. He had copies of those “comps,” along with recent tax assessments for the property. He was of the opinion that the Tanners should price their home at $2.2 million with plenty of room to negotiate.
The meeting lasted half an hour before Ben had to hustle off to meet another client. As Hudson was returning to the Tanner home, Ben called with a question about availability. He had a prospect who wanted to see the house Sunday morning.
—
At 5:10 Eastern, Justine got an email with another text that she promptly clicked on. She and Sam were staring at the screen when a photo of Lowell appeared. He was walking out of a train station. The words Gare de Lyon were clearly visible behind him. They were indeed watching.
Justine and Sam discussed sending the photo to Lowell but decided not to. There was no benefit in doing so and they were uncertain about the risks.
—
The bistro was a ten-minute walk from the hotel and recommended by the clerk at the front desk.
For a man who’d spent the day walking aimlessly around Paris, another ten minutes was nothing.
Lowell settled behind a small table with a checkerboard cloth and ordered a glass of champagne.
He was looking at the English language menu, and contemplating a late dinner, when his cell phone vibrated.
Caller unknown, which meant only one thing.
The text read: Sunday, take the 9:40 a.m. train from Gare du Nord to Chantilly.
Get a room at the Hotel Dauphine. Wait for further instructions.
He could think of nothing to say but tried to respond anyway. It was blocked. He pulled out his guidebook and found Chantilly, fifty kilometers north of Paris. Five minutes later, Sam called on the burner and said, “They’re taking photos of you.”
“Okay. Why am I not surprised?”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. Some restaurant in Paris.”
“They just emailed a photo of you walking out of the Gare de Lyon.”
“Was I smiling?”
“No. You looked rather bothered.”
“Wonder why. That was hours ago. They just instructed me to take a train to the town of Chantilly, which, according to my little book, is a lovely town of ten thousand just north of the city.”
“Be careful.”
“I am. How’s your mother?”
“The same. We’re hanging on.”
“Thanks, Sam, for being there.”
“Of course.”
“Any word from the Tanners?”
“We’re keeping in touch. Nothing new, really.”
“Any more talk of calling the FBI?”
“No. I think they’ve decided to wait and see how things go tomorrow.”
“I can only hope we’re doing the right thing, Sam.”
“Who knows?”
They ended the call. A waiter appeared and Dr. Clayburn ordered sea bass with a glass of white burgundy. He studied his guidebook and refused to look around.