Lust, Money & Murder (21 page)

“One moment.” The woman picked up the phone.

He looked impatiently back at the jetway, then turned and muttered “
Tvoyu mat
,” and headed towards it. His ass was on the line—if he didn’t find this girl, he was in serious trouble.

The gate agent yelled something as he disappeared into the jetway.

When he went around the dogleg, he ran smack into an Air France stewardess, nearly knocking her down.

“You cannot board ze flight!” she said, straightening her hat. She pointed. “Return to ze gate at once!”

“Shut up,” he said, brushing past her.

He reached the aircraft’s door and stepped inside the cabin.

“Sir?” another stewardess said. “Were you aboard zis flight?”

He gazed past her, down the aisle.

The entire aircraft was empty.

CHAPTER 2.7

Three hours later, Elaine Brogan was sitting in a dark corner of a restaurant just around the corner from the CDG Lost Luggage Office, the baggage claim check clutched in her sweaty hand. She was afraid to move.

Her wounds were seeping blood and she was afraid that it would show on the light blue Air France overcoat she was wearing.

Elaine was sure that the man she had bumped into in the jetway had figured out what happened by now. He would have checked with the flight attendants to see if there had been a crew change. Fortunately, the man must not have known about her Irish passport or he could have had her stopped when she went through Passport Control.

At the moment, Elaine was mired down with indecision about whether to try and retrieve the suitcase she had given the nun to check for her. It was probably still going around and around on the conveyor in Baggage Claim, or had already been picked up and taken to the office for lost and unclaimed luggage. She thought she could probably make it back to Washington on the Irish passport, if she moved quickly. But Lassiter had framed her so thoroughly that without the data key, she would look guilty. It would appear that something had gone wrong, that she had perhaps not been paid for the product, and that she was trying to come back and blame Lassiter for it.

At the end of the day, it would be his word against hers. Who would they believe? A 26-year-old from the worst section of Pittsburgh with a criminal father, who had worked at Treasury for six months? Or a gray-haired man who had devoted his whole life to the department?

The answer was obvious.

Elaine gritted her teeth—it took all her willpower not to slam her fist down on the table, to overturn chairs, to scream her head off...the sneaky old bastard! He had used her in the coldest, most heartless way imaginable. All those months she had slaved away on his “secret project” for him, only so he could sell the resulting information to criminals and then frame her for it!

Had he lied to her about Nick, too?

He must have.

If she ever came face to face against Gene Lassiter, even if inside a courtroom, she didn’t think she would be able to control herself.

* * *

Her back rigid with tension, Elaine walked down the corridor and passed by the door of the Lost Baggage Office, being careful not to look at it. Out of the corner of her eye she tried to see if there was anyone watching, but so many people were scuttling up and down the corridor, and sitting at a coffee shop directly across from the entrance, it was impossible to be sure.

She had ditched the green parka and hat, buying a cheap mustard-colored jacket and a black wool cap, stuffing her hair up under it.

After one more casual stroll past the Baggage Office, she finally decided to take the risk.

She opened the door to the Lost Baggage Office and went inside.

There were a dozen people standing in line. They all looked annoyed and frustrated—only one person was working behind the counter, a middle-aged Frenchman who looked like he moved at the same plodding pace regardless of how many people were waiting.

Elaine joined the queue, her shoulders two rigid blocks of anxiety. Every time she heard the door open, her heart skipped a beat. Her vision was fuzzy. She hadn’t slept at all during the flight over to Moscow, and she had now been up for 30 hours straight. She took a few deep breaths, trying to clear her head, telling herself it was almost over. If the suitcase was there, all she had to do was claim it and then get to Washington.

After a few more excruciatingly long minutes, a second clerk appeared behind the counter. Elaine rushed over before anyone else could get there.

“
Oui
?” the man said.

“I forgot to pick up my suitcase when my flight came in,” she said, making an effort to sound calm. She handed over the claim check the nun had given her in Moscow.

The clerk glanced at the paper. “One moment, please, it may still be out on the carousel.”

He disappeared through a swinging door. Beyond it, Elaine glimpsed shelves stacked with rows and rows of suitcases, backpacks, sports bags, and various other unclaimed pieces of luggage.

She heard the door open behind her. She fought the urge to glance over her shoulder.

After a tortuous long minute or two, the clerk returned with a suitcase. Elaine’s pulse quickened—it was definitely hers.

He set the bag down in the gap between the counters, but not quite within her reach. “This suitcase belongs to you,
oui
?”

“Yes.”

“Please make certain,
mademoiselle
. Many bags look alike.”

“I’m sure it’s mine.”

“Anything to declare?”

Elaine tried not to think about the data key hidden inside it. “No, nothing.”

The clerk stapled her claim check to a form and asked her to sign it. With a sweat-slick hand, she scribbled something illegible in the blank. He slid the suitcase through the gap in the counter.

“
Après, s’il vous plaît
?” he said, looking past her at the next person in line.

Elaine picked up the suitcase and quickly stuffed the receipt into her pocket. She turned around, half expecting to be arrested on the spot.

No one was there.

She prayed the data key was still inside the suitcase.

Feeling a little more confident, she went out the Lost Baggage Office door and into the corridor.

After taking only a few steps, a male voice said, “
Mademoiselle
!”

Elaine kept moving.

“
Mademoiselle
!”

She turned a corner.

There were footsteps behind her—the man was running after her. “
Mademoiselle
!”

A hand grabbed her arm.

She turned around.

A portly, red-faced man held out a piece of paper.

It was the receipt for her suitcase—it must have fallen out of her pocket.

“
Merci
,” she said, her legs nearly buckling underneath her.

She turned and shakily walked out of the airport.

* * *

As soon as she was outside, she looked up and down the sidewalk. She needed to get away from here, and out of France, as quickly as possible. Her plan was to take a train from Paris to London and then fly from Heathrow to Washington. She knew that the Eurostar train left from the Gare du Nord station. She could take a taxi there.

She spotted the taxi queue, and headed in that direction, rolling her suitcase behind her.

Ahead of her, the red-faced man had stepped out of one of the doors, then looked up and down the sidewalk. There was a cellphone to his ear.

“
Merde
,” he said, putting the phone back in his pocket. He looked at Elaine as she approached. “Can you tell me where the taxis are? My wife was supposed to pick me up, but it seems she has forgotten.”

“That way,” Elaine said, pointing past him.

He walked along beside her.

“You are going to the center of Paris?”

She glanced at him. “Yes.”

“Perhaps we can share a taxi? They are very expensive.”

She looked at him again—he seemed safe enough.
Why not?
she thought. It would be less likely for her to be spotted if she was with someone else.

His cellphone started ringing.

“Ah,
cheri
!” he said, “
J’ai pensé que vous aviez oublié votre mari
!” He stopped and looked out at the drive, then started waving. “
Ici, ici, ici
!”

A black BMW pulled over to the sidewalk.

He turned back to Elaine. “
Mademoiselle
, I would be happy to give you a ride to the center. Where are you going, exactly?

“Gare du Nord.”

“Ah, this is very close to our house! Please...” he said, opening the back door for her. “My wife will not mind.”

Elaine hesitated. They had almost reached the taxi queue, and there was a long line.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. “But—”

Before she could protest, he took her suitcase and slid it into the back seat, then held the back door open for her.

She leaned down to get in, but first glanced at the man’s wife.

Behind the wheel was a man—the same man who had been waiting for her at the gate.

His hand shot out and a chemical sprayed into her face.

Elaine gasped, stars whirling before her eyes. As the other man shoved her into the back seat, she passed out.

CHAPTER 2.8

The sleek Gulfstream jet was cruising along at 38,000 feet above the Swiss Alps, glittering in the morning sun.

Elaine Brogan lay in a reclined seat inside the luxurious cabin, sleeping under a blanket. She was just beginning to stir.

The first thing she became aware of was a medicinal taste in her mouth.

I’ve been drugged
, she thought hazily, as she fought her way to consciousness. She looked around, her vision going in and out of focus. There were some empty leather seats...a teak coffee table... a colorful bouquet of wildflowers...a row of oval windows.

She was aboard an airplane. A private jet, it seemed. Something was pinching at her waist. There was a seatbelt pulled around her, over the blanket. She struggled to release it.

“Oh, you are awake!” an accented female voice said from behind her.

A tall, rail-thin blonde stepped around to the front of her seat. She wore a tight-fitting skirt, blouse and jacket. Her face was stunning. “May I get you some coffee? Espresso, cappuccino...?”

It was all so strange Elaine thought she might be dreaming. “Where am I?” she said hoarsely.

“You are aboard Mr. Cattoretti’s aircraft,” the woman said. She gave a practiced smile. “Would you like a croissant? Some toast and caviar, perhaps?”

Mr. Cattoretti’s aircraft
. Elaine strained to look out the window—she could see snowy mountain peaks in the distance, and a flawless azure sky. It was early morning, she thought, or very late afternoon. When she looked back inside the cabin, she saw her suitcase sitting beside one of the coffee tables. What had happened to her? The last thing she remembered was that portly man who had offered her a ride to the center of Paris, and then being shoved into the car and having something sprayed into her face.

Memory came flooding back. Outrunning the Russian Mafia, fleeing to Paris, the data key...

Elaine felt sick.

“
Signora
?” the flight attendant said. She was still standing there, waiting for an answer.

“Coffee, I guess,” Elaine finally said.

“
Caffè
Americano
?”

“Yes. Fine.”

The woman smiled, then turned and strutted up to a kitchen nook near a door that Elaine presumed led to the cockpit.

Elaine took the opportunity to unfasten her seatbelt, wincing as it brushed against her knife wounds. She had forgotten about those, too. When she pulled the blanket away, she was afraid of what she would see, but there was no blood on her clothes. She felt the bandage. It was fresh, thicker than the one before. Someone had changed it.

She looked back at her suitcase. Was the data key still there?

Her mind felt fuzzy again. She didn’t have the strength to get up.

The cockpit door opened. A short, heavyset young man in a leather jacket emerged, saw her, and smiled. “How you feel?” he said, as he made his way down the aisle. He was dressed in expensive Italian clothes. “My father, he say he apologize how we take you from Paris.”

“Your father...?”

“Giorgio Cattoretti.” He smiled and offered Elaine his hand. “I am Luigi.”

She numbly shook it.
Cattoretti
...the name meant nothing to her.

She glanced at her suitcase, and the man noticed. “Can I get you anything,
signora
?”