Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,59

the terminal. Got it?”

René nodded.

“A smooth and professional operation,” said Bob, exhaling a stream that made René choke. “Not like in the Antonio Banderas movies. This is commerce, René. Business.”

Andy had said that too. René checked his cell phone. No service.

“What about you, Bob?”

“Me, I’ll lay low on the beach in Zihautanejo.”

René reflected on meeting the blonde. A toxic experience. Maybe next time he’d concentrate on the beach, if there ever was a next time.

“I’m crashing with a friend,” Bob continued, “using his computer until this thing passes over.” His eyes were hooded. For the first time, René saw his nervousness. A programming director like Bob couldn’t take extended leave on the spur of the moment. “It will pass over, right, René?”

René showed him the backup drive and clone he’d made. Managed a small grin. “Once I hook this to my tools in Paris.…”

“You’ll make their front running history, right?”

“Count on it, Bob.” He prayed he could close the greedy bastards’ back door. God knew what they’d aim to manipulate if he couldn’t stop them. Why stop at Wall Street? He shuddered at the global implications—markets in Brussels, London, Hong Kong.

If he ever wanted to come back to this country, he had to make it right. And he had to make it up to Bob.

FOUR HOURS AND fifteen bumpy minutes later at the San Lucia Airport, René handed the van driver, a mustached grandfather with white hair, the Glock.

“Buen viaje,” the driver said and slammed the door.

“Any bags to check, Monsieur Friant?”

René looked at his duty-free bag, then up at the smiling blue-uniformed Air France woman at the counter.

“Only carry-on, Mademoiselle,” he said.

“Good, because they wouldn’t make this flight. We’re pre-boarding.”

“This is nonstop?”

“Bien sûr.” She passed his boarding pass across the counter. He tiptoed to reach and palmed it in his sweaty hand.

“What’s the flight time?”

“With a good tail wind, the flight’s expected to take ten hours and twenty minutes.”

And then he’d be home. Almost six hours since Andy kicked him out of Tradelert.

She glanced back at her computer. “You’ve got the last ticket. I’ve alerted the boarding gate, but you’ll have to hurry, Monsieur Friant.”

At Immigration, the official thumbed René’s passport. “I see the US arrival stamp but none for Mexico.”

René’s heart dropped. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

If the official detained him, he’d never make it to Paris in time.

“Monsieur, we entered through Mexicali. My friend drove, I didn’t pay attention. Should I have insisted.…” René shrugged. “It’s my first visit to your beautiful country. Sadly, a family emergency cut short my visit.…”

A loud thump as his passport was stamped.

“Come back again, Señor, stay a bit longer.”

René could have sworn the immigration official winked.

As he ran down the long terminal to the far gate, he heard the announcement. “Final boarding call for Flight 813 to Charles de Gaulle.”

René pumped his legs, clutching the duty-free bag to his chest and ignoring the pain in his straining thighs. “Courtesy alert to passenger René Friant, last call to Paris.…”

Panting, he ran into the deserted waiting area as the attendant was about to close the gate.

“Please hold that plane,” René yelled, waving his boarding pass.

“Thirty more seconds and you’d have been out of luck, Monsieur Friant.” She swiped his pass and reached for the interphone all in one movement.

“Ground crew, keep the door open,” she said, her voice terse, “the last passenger’s boarding in the jetway now.”

Exhausted, his legs trembling, René stumbled in the jetway. His hip seized up and he collapsed in pain. Alarm crossed the flight attendant’s face at the plane door. “I’ll alert the medical crew, have you taken to the airport clinic.”

“Not while I can crawl,” he said.

“Monsieur? But you’re ill and aviation regulations.…”

With the last ounce of his strength, every muscle cramping, René pulled himself up the jetway wall. Sweat streamed down his face. He gritted his teeth.

“Just an old sports injury. Flares up once in a while.” He made a rictus of a smile. Limped forward and took her arm. “Champagne, the extended leg room, adaptors for laptops and Bose headsets,” he said. “First class in Air France never disappoints, am I correct?”

Wednesday Morning, Paris

BELLS CHIMED. SOMETHING soft and wet pressed Aimée’s cheek. She cracked open her eyes and squinted at the sunlight streaming in her office. Morning. It was morning.

Nearby rang the bells of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. She’d slept on Leduc Detective’s recamier and drooled on the silk duvet.

Groggy, she sat up and rubbed her sore wrists. Beside her lay the concierge’s blue wash bucket, half