The Dark Hour (38 page)

“Damn,” Griffin whispered, drawing his gun.

“What’s happening?” Sydney asked.

“He’s smoking. I don’t know if that means he’s going back inside when he’s done or what.”

The man finished his cigarette, tossed it, then happened to glance down. Judging from the look of suspicion on his face, he undoubtedly noticed the footprints in the snow leading to the van Griffin and Sydney were hiding in. He stepped off the porch, started following the trail, at the same time pulling out a cell phone.

Griffin slid down even further. Too late.

“Hey! What are you doing in there?”

A car honked from the alley behind them, and Father Dumas called out, “Monsieur! Can you tell me how to get to Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge?”

The bakery employee hesitated. Griffin threw open the door and hit him over the head with the butt of his gun.

“Was that necessary?” Dumas asked, getting out of the car to assist.

“A lot easier than trying to explain why we were
borrowing
his van. Help me tie him up and get him inside.”

“This will probably take a larger donation,” Dumas said, eyeing the man as they lifted him from the ground.

“If it goes by actions taken, Father, I owe a lot more than I’m worth.”

Chapter 64

December 12

ATLAS Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

“A
ll right, listen up!” McNiel stood at the head of the room, waiting for the group of agents to quit talking. “In a few minutes, we’ll start reviewing our dignitary protection for Senator Grogan’s widow, Olivia. Tex has the op plans. Take a look, familiarize yourself with the players, then we’ll get started.”

Tex passed out the copies to the five ATLAS agents who were assigned to the operation, including Marc di Luca. When Lisette walked in wearing a blue dress that fit her curves to perfection, Marc’s jaw seemed to drop, and Tex had to wave the op plan in front of Marc’s face to get his attention. “Down, boy,” Tex said.

“Where’s she going to hide her gun?” Marc asked.

“We’re working on it. Read your plan.”

Tex took a seat next to Marc, and McNiel said, “If you notice, you have two packets. The first one is eyes-only, numbered, and needs to be returned before you exit. It’s highly classified and we don’t want anyone leaving it on their desks, in their cars or the men’s room. Second packet has all your emergency contact numbers, call signs and op plans should this turn into a medical emergency. Eyes-only packet, second page, please.”

Robert Ennis raised his hand. “Isn’t this sort of overkill for a simple dignitary protection that one or two FBI agents could handle?”

“Under normal circumstances,” McNiel replied, “it would be. If you follow along on the op plan, you’ll see why we’re taking this threat very seriously. Olivia Grogan’s name came up as a potential victim by the same crew suspected of killing her husband.”

“You mean LockeStarr?”

“Exactly. Since we don’t have the available FBI agents with proper clearance, we’re having Lisette Perrault pose as FBI Agent Lise Pera. Since she’ll be wired, you’ll be able to hear her when she’s out of visual. Her emergency code phrase will be ‘I can really use a drink,’ and failing audio, she’ll grab a glass of champagne. Any questions?”

“How long will we be watching Grogan’s widow for?” Ennis asked. He was standing in the back of the room, leaning against the wall.

“For as many days as it takes to determine the threat and resolve it. After today, we’ll be cutting down the number of required agents to two per shift. Any more questions?”

McNiel looked around the room. No one had any, and so he continued on, saying, “We’ve set up a security checkpoint at the entrance, a slight and unexpected inconvenience for the guests, but better a metal detector than a dead senator’s dead wife. Stevens and Gerard will be stationed just outside the entrance. If someone suddenly decides they don’t want to pass through the metal detector, I want that person stopped and detained. The remainder of you will be working inside, some as waiters, others as standard security. Any questions?”

“Basic security work,” Ennis said. “Piece of cake.”

Chapter 65

December 12

Paris, France

T
en minutes later than they’d planned, they were on their way to the château at the winery, Griffin at the wheel, Sydney riding shotgun, Giustino and Donovan in the back of the catering van. They’d left the hapless employee tied and trussed beside the laundry bin at the bakery, which meant he’d be found by morning at the latest. Father Dumas had driven ahead. He’d remain on the perimeter of town, should they need him, and would call the police as a last resort—last, because not only were they supposed to take Becca into custody, should they find her, but there was still an international warrant for Griffin’s arrest. Warrant or not, Griffin had no idea what they were heading into, but he’d decided it was far better for him to be arrested than for harm to come to the others.

After they’d been on the road for some time, they hit a patch of rough asphalt, and the two cases of whipped cream started rattling around. Griffin glanced back to make sure they hadn’t tipped over. Giustino, however, had his arm across both boxes, keeping them safe. Beneath the cans, and hidden with a false cardboard bottom, were their weapons, two in each box, as well as all the cell phones, with the exception of Griffin’s.

Sydney looked over at him. “You really think this whipped cream idea is going to fly? Not exactly gourmet, considering the reputation of the bakery.”

“They’re metal,” he said. “At least that way if they’re screening the kitchen help, the cans will cover the guns from a metal detector.”

“Yeah. It’s convincing them that we should all be allowed inside with cans of whip cream that has me concerned. We’d have the real deal, thick, decadent fresh cream in a pastry bag, not grocery store stuff. We’re supposed to work for a bakery. One of the finest.”

“Wing it, Fitzpatrick.”

“Easy for you to say. At least you speak French.”

Although a several-days accumulation of snow had settled onto the countryside, a touch of burnt orange peeked through the thick bank of clouds on the horizon with the setting sun. As the car sped along the corniche overlooking the Loire River, graced by Renaissance châteaus on the opposite bank, a brief flurry of tiny snowflakes whirled about, melting as soon as they hit the windshield, and, thankfully, the road.

A few minutes later, they crested the hill. Griffin caught sight of the château’s roofline in the distance with its steep gables and turrets. He’d heard the turrets had been added within the past decade to give it a castlelike appearance to match the illustration on the winery’s label. “There it is,” he said, pointing.

“That’s a mansion,” Sydney said. “Not a château.”

And Giustino said, “Delusions of grandeur,
si
?”

“You think we can pull this off?” Sydney asked Griffin.

“Getting in? Yes. Finding out what it is we need to find? That remains to be seen.”

No one said a word after that, but he knew they were all thinking the same thing. Would they find any information on Becca and what had happened to her?

Part of him wanted her to be alive, the part that felt no one should die the way he believed she had, by explosion, burned beyond recognition. It was the darker part of him that he didn’t want to examine too closely. The part that demanded answers for all the questions he had if she really was alive. The part that said if she’d turned on her country, on him, on everything they’d believed in, then she was better off dead. He was grateful when his cell phone rang, not wanting to continue the direction of his thoughts.

Father Dumas was on the other end. “You’re not going to believe this. Luc just passed me on the road, going the opposite direction.”

“Looks like he’s not taking any chances, and he’s picking up the buyer in person.”

“That should make it easier for you to get into his office.”

Griffin hoped. Of course there was always the possibility that Luc had taken the port security information with him, was going to sell it in person, but somehow he doubted it. Too dangerous. “We’re almost there. If you don’t hear from us in two hours, call the police.”

T
hey crossed the bridge, then drove along a narrow road that meandered through rolling hills covered with acres of barren grapevines dusted with snow, and Sydney was glad the trip was nearly over. Griffin slowed the van at the entrance, where two men stood guard at the gatehouse. He conversed with them in rapid French, making Sydney wish she had mastered languages in college in addition to criminal justice. The gate opened, and the guard waved them through.

“What’d you tell him?” Sydney asked.

“There was a problem with the dessert, and we were there to inspect it.”

“What was the problem you came up with?”

“He didn’t ask, I didn’t say.”

Good enough for her, she thought, as Griffin continued down the hill toward the château, where lights blazed from the tall windows of the
primière étage.

Griffin pulled around to the service entrance, which was located in one of the turreted additions, parking far enough from the building to allow them some concealment in the van. He handed his cell phone to Giustino, who hid it in the false bottom of the box beneath the whipped cream. “You both understand,” Griffin said, “that if anything happens, if anything goes wrong, your first priority is to get Sydney out. That’s an order.”

“Understood,
amico mio
,” Giustino replied, and Donovan nodded. Everyone but Donovan got out, since he’d be waiting at the wheel, ready to take off at a moment’s notice should they need a quick getaway. Griffin and Giustino each carried one of the boxes, and Sydney followed them across the drive to the pseudo-gothic entrance. The men wore their dress clothes beneath the white catering uniforms, their polished black shoes looking as out of place as Sydney’s Prada heels did beneath hers. She only hoped her dress wouldn’t be too wrinkled after being stuffed beneath the white smock and pants. The guard didn’t seem to notice their shoes or her bulky uniform, merely glancing at their identity papers, which assured him that they had indeed come from Le Pâtisserie de la Cité, one of Paris’s most notable confectioners.

Again, Sydney wasn’t able to understand the conversation. She was, however, able to see that getting inside wasn’t going to be as easy as getting through the gate. “What’s wrong?” she asked Griffin in a low voice.

“The guard said we’re not on the list. Giustino is telling him that it was an oversight, as we are supposed to fix the dessert, due to a mistake.”

Giustino set his box of whipped cream down, still arguing with the guard. Sydney didn’t need to understand French to recognize the swearwords thrown in, as Griffin whispered, “The guard wants to know what is wrong with the whipped cream already on the dessert.”

“Salmonella,” Sydney said aloud.

Both men stopped talking at once. Turned toward her. She held up her hand, looking at Griffin, and nodding at the guard, indicating he needed to take that conversation and run with it. “Salmonella,” he repeated. And whatever he said next was far too fast for her to understand.

The guard looked at each of them in turn. “
Très bon
,” he said, then took a handheld metal detector, indicating that they would all submit to a search.

Giustino held up his hands, the guard ran the wand over him. When he finished, Giustino picked up the box of whipped cream, started for the door. The guard stopped him, demanded something, and Giustino held the box for him to inspect. The man pulled out a can, popped off the top, sprayed some cream from it onto the lid, smelled it, then dropped it back into the box, motioning for Giustino to step through. He then did the same to Griffin, checked his box, waved him through. He stopped Sydney, however—not because of her dress shoes, which didn’t seem to faze him, but because of the black purse, an evening bag with a metal chain, hanging from her shoulder. Unfortunately, he didn’t like that she brought a purse, as he pointed to it, demanding something, what, she didn’t know.

Everyone paused, looking at her, as though waiting for some response. She had no idea what to say or what was expected of her, and her heart started beating faster. She’d chosen the purse specifically because the chain strap was sturdy enough to carry the weight of her gun and the fake alligator was shiny, giving it a dressy appearance. At the moment, it was actually empty, except for the piece of cardboard rolled inside, inserted to conceal the gun once she put it in there, and to reinforce the thin leather. If he looked inside, found it empty, saw the cardboard, he might think it suspicious. Who knew? Unfortunately, every French word she could think of had to do with food.

Until she recalled something she’d heard years ago. One word that was the same in French as it was in English.

“Tampons.” She smiled.

The guard’s hand stilled as he was about to open it. He gave a curt nod, ran the wand over her, then waved her in. She looked at Griffin, smiled, then mouthed,
Winging it
, as she followed him in.

A minute later the four walked down a hallway up the circular stone stairs, then entered the huge stone kitchen of the château, where several white-coated men stood working feverishly at the stainless steel counter. One, wearing a chef’s hat, looked over, saw them, and started yelling.

Giustino responded, holding up his box, and the two argued. It was only then that Sydney realized that dinner had not only been already served, but the waiters were clearing the dishes, dumping them into large plastic bins. The napoleons were already plated, and were being placed onto serving trays. Sydney couldn’t imagine spraying store-bought whipped cream over them, even if such a dessert called for that topping, which this one did not. Apparently the chef thought the same, as he continued arguing with Giustino, then pointed to somewhere beyond the brick oven where a fire burned, presumably telling him where the refrigerator was and to remove the offending ingredients from his sight.