Chapter 56
Hotel Danube was two blocks from the Luxembourg Gardens and a twenty-minute walk to the Seine River.
It was not rated a luxury hotel; thus, it could not charge the going rate of a thousand euros a night.
But being one slight notch below allowed it to remain almost as expensive.
Young couples could barely afford it, but they didn’t stop trying.
It catered to Americans and Japanese and advertised heavily in bridal magazines.
A year earlier, Jason and Beth Snyder had checked in for their aborted honeymoon. Chelsea and Paul Tanner had stayed a few blocks away at another chic hotel. Rae Claire and Nyall Leblanc thought it best to mix up the hotels.
From the moment they landed, Stuart flipped a switch and became quite lovable.
His head still ached, but the next week would require a prolonged effort to put on a smile, hold hands with his bride, and appear to be thoroughly enamored with her and the City of Light.
He forgot about the hangover. They entered the hotel lobby and were immediately charmed by the spectacular holiday decorations and lights.
A tree at least thirty feet tall stood in the center of the lobby and dominated it.
Real logs burned in the fireplace. Other young couples lounged with drinks as American carols played in the background.
Their room on the third floor was less than a third the size of the one at the Four Seasons, but they had been warned.
Space is scarce and expensive in Paris. The bed seemed rather compact, as if made for closeness.
Both of them immediately noticed that there was no sofa to sleep on.
Could be interesting. The closet was built for a kindergartner, so Stuart chivalrously offered it to his bride.
He would settle in a corner. He changed nothing but his shoes, brushed his teeth, and left for the lobby.
Their schedule demanded an immediate trip to the Louvre, to spend the rest of the day gawking at old paintings and Egyptian urns.
As he’d been taught at The Farm, one key to surveillance was to spot it, then ignore it.
Notice everything, but acknowledge nothing.
He got a coffee and found a seat near the fireplace.
With hardly a look up, he began making notes on the others present: the tourists, the bellhops, the desk clerks, the waiters, the bartenders.
For three months now he had practiced observation, noting and later trying to recall everyone present in a room.
It was a nice exercise, though totally useless.
He wasn’t running from surveillance; rather, he was walking into it.
He planned to be watched, followed, then abducted.
But he enjoyed the game of acting like a real spook.
As he scanned the room, he looked for the lingering eye, the double take, the casual stare. But he saw nothing. Rae Claire arrived and they were off to the Louvre, apparently without being followed.
—
Dinner was at Brasserie Lipp, the landmark on Boulevard Saint-Germain. They sat at a cramped table in the rear, in a section unofficially reserved for Americans who couldn’t speak a word of French. The meal was a delicious bouillabaisse and a bottle of C?tes du Rh?ne.
The late night was chilly but not too cold, and Rae Claire decided a long walk was what they needed.
Arm in arm they went, ducking through narrow streets and trying not to get lost. They talked and giggled and anyone bothering to notice would suspect nothing unusual about their behavior.
At that moment, there was nothing unusual.
Stuart was struggling to accept the fact that he was in Paris for only one reason: to get grabbed, yanked off the street, kidnapped, probably drugged, then roughed up and hauled away.
And it could happen at any moment, or not at all.
The alley ahead of them could be the place.
Or that parked van with its flashers on.
Chelsea Tanner and Beth Snyder had made identical descriptions of the small white delivery van.
He and Rae Claire had studied dozens of photos of them, and now that they had been in Paris for about twelve hours they realized there were thousands of them.
Nash had flinched at the first ten, but now they hardly registered.
He and his bride also knew that none of the prior three abductions had taken place in the city. There were too many people and too many security cameras.
Rae Claire said quietly, “I checked in with Casper before dinner.”
“And who is Casper again?”
“Come on. Our team, just around the corner from our hotel.”
“Oh yeah. Forgot about them.”
“I doubt it. Anyway, they’ve picked up nothing so far. They tailed us from the airport to the hotel, to the Louvre, and were in the brasserie.”
“They or them? It’s very confusing.”
“The good guys.”
“Makes for a cozy honeymoon.”
“No sign of the bad boys yet.”
They walked on as a cold wind picked up. Near the Church of Saint-Sulpice the bells began ringing to announce the eleventh hour. Near their hotel, Rae Claire suddenly stopped, grabbed his arm, and pulled him close. “I’m thinking we should consummate our marriage tonight.”
Nash was caught off guard but rallied quickly. “Wow. A real wedding after all. Our little trip just took a turn for the better. May I ask what prompted this?”
“Well, Stuart, you know I’m very practical. Our room has no sofa for you to sleep on and the bed is not that wide. So, if we’re going to be so close, why not enjoy all the benefits of a proper marriage?”
“Agreed! Atta girl.”
“And, besides, we don’t know who’s listening.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. And you know the housekeepers are accustomed to changing sheets that have been through a brawl. We must be authentic.”
She suddenly kissed him on the lips and said, “Let’s go.”
The champagne she’d ordered was in the room, on ice. She turned on soft jazz and they danced slowly around the room. They clinked tall glasses and giggled like real lovers. They danced and sipped some more, then slowly began to undress.
—
The jet lag hit hard at dawn and was aided by the wine and champagne, and the sex, which began somewhat awkwardly but ended with enough natural noise to satisfy any eavesdroppers. They rolled over, went back to sleep, but by 8 a.m. they were awake and back at it, making up for lost time.
When he caught his breath, Nash said, “Why don’t we just stay in bed all day?”
“No,” she practically barked as she hopped out of bed. “I’m in the shower. Order room service, coffee and a croissant for me. We have tickets for the Eiffel Tower at ten a.m.”
As if he didn’t know. The entire itinerary had been seared into his brain.
Lunch at 1 p.m. at Chez Louis, the afternoon lounging around Sacré-Coeur, and on and on.
Tomorrow they would take a car for a day trip into Burgundy to hit some vineyards and try to make themselves isolated and vulnerable.
His wife desperately hoped they would be abducted.
He wasn’t so sure. Now that their dream vacation had taken a pleasant and unexpected turn, getting kidnapped might not be the high point after all.
Even with tickets they waited in line an hour for the ride up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. There they took photos and selfies that Rae Claire dutifully posted with breathless captions for the folks back home, and for anyone else who might be interested.