No Shelter (17 page)

“Really?” She reaches across the table, takes my hand in hers. “Are you truly?”
 

“Yes,” I say, but it’s after a moment of hesitation, enough for both of us to catch it and understand the importance.
 

“Despite what you think,” my mother says, “I am proud of you and Tina. I love you both very, very much. But Tina ... the direction of her life has already been set. She’s married. She has the twins. She paints when she can. But you, Holly, I see the future wide open for you. I see you doing so many different things, traveling the world, and then ... then I open my eyes and I see you are still here, living less than ten minutes away from me. I want more for you. I want you to live life.”
 

“I am living life.”
 

“Are you?”
 

“I guess we all live life differently.”
 

“I guess.”
 

My mother retracts her hand, takes another bite of her slice. I just stare at mine, no longer having any appetite.
 

“As long as this life is the life you want,” she says, “then I’m happy for you. I can’t say I won’t try to push you again, but if I do please understand why I’m doing it. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
 

“Yes, Mother, I’m very happy,” I say, and despite myself, this time I don’t hesitate at all.
 

31

For some reason I expect Nova to be the one who picks me up. Instead it’s a small man with a shaven head and a pointy nose who introduces himself simply as Philippe. He wears a long brown raincoat and holds an umbrella.
 

“Please, please”—motioning me toward a gray sedan parked on the edge of the runway—“let us get out of the rain.”
 

The cargo jet did not land in Paris but at an airstrip located fifteen miles south of the city. The entire area is surrounded by farmland. Cows that haven’t been ushered into barns lie on the ground beneath trees and watch us dully.
 

Once we load into the sedan, Philippe asks, “How was the flight?”
 

“Eight hours with no real seat, no toilet, and no service carts—how do you think it was?”
 

We start driving past farms. Eventually we get on a highway called the N12. Philippe doesn’t play the radio, he doesn’t talk. After eight hours of listening to myself think, this silence becomes much too unnerving.
 

“So are you a company man or do you work off the books like me?”
 

Philippe moves his jaw around, like he’s chewing something, before answering. “I’m an operator with the
Recherche Assistance Intervention Dissuasion
. It’s a—”
 

“Counter-terrorism unit of the French National Police.” I smile at him. “I’m not as stupid as I look.”
 

“Yes, well, that is what I am officially.”
 

“And what are you unofficially?”
 

He gives me a sideways grin. “Why are you in this line of work?”
 

I think briefly of Nova when I say, “Work is work.”
 

“I don’t believe you.”
 

“Is that so?”
 

“You have a fire in your eyes. You have a passion.”
 

“If you’re trying to get in my pants, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
 

He holds up his left hand, just long enough for the headlights of an oncoming car to shine on his silver wedding band. “Married now fifteen years, have a beautiful wife and three children at home.”
 

“Good for you.”
 

“Yes,” he says, nodding slowly, his voice suddenly somber. “Yes, well, I do what I do to keep them safe. But it’s never enough. When I work officially I have to deal with the law. But
un
officially ...”
 

Staring out my window, watching the quickly passing buildings and lights drenched in rain, I say, “Laws were meant to be broken.”
 

Philippe goes silent for another minute. He has a thoughtful yet conflicted look on his face. Finally he clears his throat.
 

“There is a man very well known around Paris. He is a bad man very much like Roland Delano was before he was killed. Speaking of which, I’m told we have you to thank for that.”
 

“I do what I can.”
 

“Well the world is better off without him, trust me on that. But now this other man, I fear he plans to take Roland’s place. He already has his hand in drugs, pornography, weapons, and money laundering. We know all of this, but of course we cannot touch him. That’s the law for you. It protects the worst of the criminals.”
 

We drive for another minute in silence. After we merge onto the A12, I speak.
 

“What did he do to you?”
 

“Excuse me?”
 

“You said I had a fire in my eyes, a passion, that that’s what makes me do this work. It’s the same for you, only when you speak of this man there’s a darkness in your voice.”
 

“He was responsible for the death of my parents.”
 

“How?”
 

Philippe shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
 

“What’s his name?”
 

“Why—do you plan to kill him just as you killed Roland?”
 

“If I have the time.”
 

“Let’s stop talking about him. Our worry right now is Alayna Gramont.”
 

“Who else is here?”
 

“You mean besides your associate Nova?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Two agents from England, both MI6, and an agent from Russia who’s FSB, which is the new—”
 

“Yes, I know. The new KGB.”
 

“Do you even know what was on Roland’s flash drive?”
 

“No, and to be honest I don’t care.”
 

“You should. Because if that flash drive and the code got into the wrong hands ...” He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to imagine the consequences.”
 

“Let me guess—the end of the world as we know it?”
 

He glances at me, and in the dark I can see that his face has actually paled. “That would be the very least of our worries.”
 

32

Our safe house is a two-bedroom flat in a tall and ornate building overlooking the Seine. Apparently it’s one of the places rented out by Philippe’s unit for covert operations such as this.
 

Nova is the only one waiting inside. He has a gun in his hand, and he has it aimed at the door when we let ourselves in. Then, once the door is closed and locked, he lowers the gun and smiles at me.
 

“There’s my girl,” he says, in that cheerful way of his. He even steps closer and places his hand on my shoulder, making me think that he’s not too sore after our little spat earlier in the week. “How was the flight?”
 

“Do you know what Walter had me fly in on?”
 

Grinning now, he nods.
 

“You’re an asshole.”
 

“Among other things.” He turns toward Philippe, his face suddenly serious. “Boylan left twenty minutes ago to relieve Reed.”
 

Philippe glances at his watch. “Very good.”
 

I say, “And who exactly are Boylan and Reed?”
 

“The MI6 guys,” Nova says. “Boris is the Russian and he’s stationed on top of the building across from Garmont’s place.”
 

“His name’s actually Boris?”
 

Philippe says to Nova, “Want to get her situated? I have to take a piss.”
 

“My pleasure.” Nova motions for me to follow him as Philippe heads toward the bathroom. We come into one of the bedrooms where tables have been set up with computers and papers and surveillance photos. He grabs one of the photos and hands it to me. “Remember her?”
 

“Yeah, that’s Alayna.”
 

“If you remember back in Vegas, she didn’t have any guards on her. The only protection she had was when she was with Delano and his guards.”
 

“And should I assume she has guards now?”
 

“You should.”
 

“How many?”
 

“Three.”
 

I glance back down at the photograph, the slim woman in the smart pantsuit, blond hair and sunglasses. Around her is an entourage of at least two men in suits, also wearing shades.
 

“You said before she used to be some kind of model, right?”
 

“That’s right.”
 

“Why did she quit?”
 

“From what I’m told she got too old and somehow fell in with Delano.”
 

“How old is too old?”
 

Smiling, Nova says, “Twenty-eight.”
 

Philippe enters the room. He has two bottles of Evian and hands one of them to me.
 

“How much have you informed her?” he asks.
 

“Just about the guards,” Nova says. “At least the guards we know of right now.”
 

Philippe takes a swallow of his water, nods slowly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if more show up tomorrow.”
 

“Do we know where the buy’s going to be?” I ask.
 

Philippe shakes his head. “Just that it’s at noon. We’ll have to follow her from her place to God knows where. It’s my guess it’ll be somewhere in the city.”
 

“Where is her place?”
 

“Technically it’s Delano’s place. And it’s not a place so much as a mansion. It sits right along the Avenue La Motte Picquet and overlooks the Parc du Champs de Mars, which is where—”
 

“The Eiffel Tower is located,” I finish for him. “Sounds like pretty snazzy digs.”
 

“The rest of the team has been watching her for the past three days,” Philippe says. “After Delano’s memorial, she hasn’t left the mansion once.”
 

“There was a memorial for that guy?”
 

“Believe it or not”—Philippe makes a sour face—“that monster had many friends.”
 

I think briefly of the man Philippe had mentioned on the ride here, the one who might take over in Delano’s place.
 

“What about the code?” I ask.
 

Nova says, “What about it?”
 

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would someone want to buy the code without the flash drive?”
 

Both men look at each other, look back at me, and like that an extra piece of the puzzle falls into place.
 

“Unless,” I say, “they plan to get their hands on the flash drive.”
 

“Impossible,” Philippe says. “Your government has that sealed more tightly than your nuclear weapons. What we have been speculating is whether there is more than one flash drive.”
 

“But I thought Delano wore the only one.”
 

“You don’t think he would have a copy?”
 

I turn and walk to the window and stare down at the traffic below us. I think about that night in Vegas, at the party, the man greeting me with the flash drive around his neck, the gold glimmering in the light.
 

“Actually no, I don’t. If he had more than one copy why would he go to such lengths to protect the flash drive he wore?”
 

“If he wanted it truly protected,” Philippe says, “he would have put it in a safe.”
 

Turning back around, I say, “But safes can be broken into. They’re not one hundred percent secure. Keeping the flash drive around his neck at all times was his own personal form of security. He believed nothing could touch him, hence nothing could get at the flash drive.”
 

Nova says, “Let’s not waste time going back and forth on this. The facts are clear here. Someone is coming to Paris to buy the code, and it’s our job to figure out who that someone is.” He turns to me. “I’m assuming you didn’t get much sleep on the flight over here.”
 

“You would be assuming right.”
 

“There are a handful of cots in the other bedroom. Go lie down and try to get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
 

33

But I can’t sleep. The cot is too uncomfortable. Nova and Philippe continue to talk in the next room. After awhile someone else arrives—one of the two MI6 guys—and a third voice is added to the mix.
 

I toss and turn. I hold my breath, try to asphyxiate myself into sleep. I regret not bringing sleeping pills.
 

Eventually I get up and join the men out in the flat. The new man is Reed. It’s clear he’s MI6: broad shoulders, strong face, piercing eyes. He’s quite good-looking and when he acknowledges me with only a nod, like I’m just one of the guys, a strange tinge needles itself into my chest.
 

Nova takes me aside, asks if I’m okay.
 

“I can’t sleep.”
 

“Why not?”
 

“Jet lag,” I say, but it’s a sorry excuse. The truth is I keep thinking about what my mother told me during our dinner. Never once has she opened up like that before, and now she had to go do it and mention my father and for some reason that’s all I’ve been thinking about. Not the man I knew—the coldhearted killer—but the man who brought roses and wrote poetry.