Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,56
using Susie’s ID bit into the ball of his foot. He unlaced his shoe, moved it to the side. Safest place for now.
They wouldn’t be able to change the pass codes for a while. René figured that, given all the reconfigurations that would be required once they did realize what he’d done, it would take a minimum of twelve hours. Bare minimum. But if they didn’t catch on to his cloning the remote access token, he’d have twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
“Bob, I need to get out of the country.”
“I can drop you at SFO, no problem.”
Bluff or not, he wouldn’t chance them tipping off immigration. Ruining his chance of ever working in this country again.
“No commercial airport, Bob. Ever hear of Mexicali?”
“That bad?”
Bob pulled up in front of the motel.
“Keep the engine running,” René said. “Call me if.…”
“I see suspicious people? Sure, René. Never knew about your flair for the dramatic.”
René slammed the car door, slid the key card into his room door. He threw everything in his bag. Reached for his laptop and backup drive. His phone rang. Bob.
He ran into the bathroom near the pink hot tub, found the plastic Aéroports de Paris duty-free bag and stuffed the laptop and backup drive inside. From the bathroom window overlooking the back door of a Mexican restaurant came the smell of refried beans.
The phone rang again. René hurried back to the front window and peered out a chink in the drapes. Bob’s big-finned, baby-blue Cadillac was nowhere in sight. Only two big men at the door with baseball bats.
Tuesday Night, Paris
AIMÉE HEARD THE sea, the lapping water. Her mind went to white sand, the pine scrub near the shore at Cassis. Was she on holiday? Dreaming?
A wave of dizziness overtook her. She blinked and realized she couldn’t see because a blindfold was covering her eyes. Nausea rose in her stomach. She gagged, but her mouth was taped shut.
Panicked, she tried to kick but a sharp cord cut into her ankles. Tight bands on her wrist tied her to something flat and hard. She struggled for air through her nose, terrified she’d choke on her own vomit.
A loud rip and the tape came off. Stinging needles tore her face. She gasped for air. Gagged again.
Hot and cold rippled over her. The smells around her took over her senses—pine, and leather. She realized she must be bound to the armrests of her office chair. With luck, she’d be near her desk and the drawer containing her Beretta.
Fat lot of good that did with her hands tied up. More nausea; she gulped for air. What did the sea sounds mean? Through her own choking and coughing, she heard footsteps, the fluttering of papers.
“Mademoiselle, we need to talk,” said a man’s voice, distorted by the telephone line. It must be coming from the speakerphone on her desk.
“Who are you?”
“Introductions another time.”
In the background, she heard the whooshing of tires on wet pavement, footsteps. A call from a public pay phone?
“What do you want?”
How could she stop them? Or the flashes of dizziness from whatever they’d drugged her with?
“Tell the fixer we’ll meet her price.”
Fixer … price? “I don’t understand.”
“Yuri told us your connection.”
The hair on her arm tingled. A Parisian accent, but she couldn’t place the voice. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “or why you’re playing games, but—”
“Your mother and Yuri have had certain dealings recently,” the voice interrupted.
She broke out in a cold sweat. The bile rose again.
“Then he’s seen her more recently than I have,” she said, catching her breath. Saliva dripped from her chin. Her damp sweater was plastered to her back. “What kind of dealings?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Up to you, Mademoiselle.”
Her heart thumped in her chest. “What do you want?”
“What I’m paying for. So tell us before—”
A ringing interrupted the voice. Another call coming in on her office console. Grunting noises. Her wrists and ankles were untied. Before she could reach out for the drawer, she was dragged away across the floor by her hair. Her knees hit something hard and strong arms plunged her head into a bucket of water. She swallowed a huge mouthful of water, tried to hold her breath and choked, her lungs exploding.
And then she was yanked back up by her hair.
She sputtered, her throat and lungs burning. The phone was ringing again. She heard the speakerphone voice saying something in a language she didn’t know.
“He’ll do that again,” the voice said. “Unless you contact the fixer and