Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,55

who gave her the runaround, she headed to her office. She had reports to finish up, a security scan to run. And Maxence’s printouts on Yuri Volodya to go through. But when she punched in the entry code on the keypad, no answering click opened the door. Merde. On the blink again.

She searched in her bag, dropped the boxed salad, and found the old key after a minute. Picking up the salad, she inserted the key, turned it twice, and finally the tumbler turned. She’d complain to the concierge. First the lift didn’t work, then the door. Always something. And a long, empty evening of work ahead.

She hit the timed light. Nothing happened.

Then she heard scuffling, felt a whoosh of cold air.

“What the …?”

Before she could turn in the darkness, something was pulled over her head. And then everything went black.

Tuesday, Silicon Valley

RENÉ’S HANDS SHOOK in his jacket pockets. He faced Andy and Susie, who towered over him on strappy sandals and tanned legs. Only one door out of the back supply room, and that was blocked by the rent-a-guard.

“Reconsider, René. Two new investors fly in tomorrow. The pot’s growing. With the three we’ve got so far, that IPO gives you twenty million, give or take. Put that against two hundred thou’ a year, René.” Andy shook his head. “Why would you say no to a two hundred percent profit increase? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Andy, it’s wrong.”

“Sounds right to me. Do the math.”

“You can’t think—”

“Think all you like,” Andy said. “You’ve set the relay and delay mode. It’s all your work.”

“While you monitored me, and never even provided me access to the whole system. It says ‘Chief Technology Officer’ on my door, yet you used my work and froze me out.” He glared at Susie. Her cool hazel eyes met his for a moment, but she had the grace to look down. “You had me do the dirty work.”

“Check this out, René,” Andy said, handing him the business page of the San Jose Mercury. “Detained corporate French spy awaiting trial. Just last month. Caught at the airport. Terrible. Looks like San Quentin for him.”

San Quentin, the prison?

“You’ve set me up.”

“More like we took out insurance, René,” Susie said, her voice thin. “We bought you, now finish delivering. Make nice.”

He had to figure out how to blow the whistle on them. And get out alive. “Give me some time,” he said. “I’ve got to think.”

“What’s to think about?” Susie said, edging forward.

“You engineered the back door, René,” Andy said. “If you talk, we deny all allegations. Report you to immigration. They’ll be watching for you at the airport. Detain you.”

“What?” Fear flooded him.

“Just another foreign corporate spy detained for questioning at immigration.”

Andy lifted his phone and checked a message. “Hurry up, René. The meeting’s starting.”

“Front running’s illegal,” he said, hating how weak he sounded.

“Don’t want to play? Think you’ll blow the whistle on us?” Susie said. “But no one understands all the technical jargon, René. Of course, if you try we’ll tell them it was you, some idea you wanted to show us on our platform. How we had no clue you tried to sabotage us.”

Andy flicked off his phone. Jerked his thumb at the guard, who put a cardboard box on the floor. Inside was René’s coffee cup, the brass plate with his name, a blank memo pad, and his own laptop. The motherboard open and exposed.

“You’re out of here, René.”

René realized that was Andy’s plan all along.

Susie opened the supply room door, glanced down the corridor. “All clear. The guard will escort you out.”

In shock, René picked up the box. Threatened and now fired—what could he do? They’d covered their tail. Shut him up for good.

But he had an idea. They’d be preoccupied with the looming investor meeting—if he hurried he could do it.

“Dude, I’m so sorry. I wanted us to work together. You know, be friends,” Andy said, that rocket-bright smile back on his face. At the door he paused, turned to the guard. “One more thing, empty his pockets.”

The guard took René’s token and office key.

“YOU’RE WALKING FUNNY, René,” Bob said from his Cadillac window. “Did they beat you up?”

René ducked out of the El Camino Real bus shelter and slid into the passenger seat. “This car’s got eight cylinders. Use them, Bob.”

Bob hit the gas. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Not right now. Just get me to the motel before they discover what I stole and change the passwords.”

He reached down in his shoe. The token he’d cloned