The Geneva Decision (7 page)

Mme. Marot swatted the air with contempt. “She is a climber. The best mountaineer we could hope to have. But you are the one to catch killers. I have seen you play many times. In the game, the players are like an opened book to you. You frighten them, knowing their play before they make it, knowing their thought before they think it. You have the tiger’s eye. Even in darkness you see your prey.”

Mme. Marot smiled. “You can do this, ja?”

As Pia smiled back, she realized something had transpired. “Are you saying you want to hire Sabel Security?”

Chapter 10

21-May, 10AM

“F
ree?” Agent Jonelle said. “You told her we’d do it for free. Are you kidding me?”

“Yes, I mean, no. No kidding, yes free. She’s a suspect—you said so yourself. So is everyone else around here. Besides, these guys tried to kill me.” Pia’s hands went up. “I want these guys, and I don’t want to answer to anyone.”

“She wants to pay us,” Jonelle said. “That’s OK. It happens every day at nail salons, grocery stores, movie theaters. Someone wants a product or a service, they pay money for it. And I’ve lowered her on my suspect list. She made sense for the first murder but not the others. If it turns out she did it, and we get a conviction, she still has to pay for our service.”

From the suite’s vestibule, Agent Marty said, “I’ll go find a bellman.”

He disappeared.

Jonelle said, “Pia, you have eighteen hundred employees working for you who struggle to put their kids through school, pay for healthcare, and put food on the table. Those people are counting on you to—”

“I’ll reimburse the company, OK? I’ll pay for it. I want independence on my first job. This whole thing stinks, and I think integrity is important.” Pia paused. “Besides, Lena Marot gives me the creeps.”

“OK. You’re buying with your money. That works this time. But in the future, you have to understand. My father didn’t give me a Lamborghini when I turned sixteen, and he sure as hell didn’t give me a billion-dollar company when I turned twenty-five.”

“Don’t go there—I heard that crap every time I made the starting lineup.
Her dad bought her the starter spot.
No one said that when Alex Morgan took the field, because she earned it. So did I, but when your father’s rich, no one cares how good you are. Shovel it on someone who cares.”

“I came to work for Alan Sabel a decade ago, with ten years of military training and experience on my resume. You earned your starting position on the soccer field the same way. But that’s soccer. At Sabel Security, you don’t even know what we do. You have too much to learn. And you have to do it fast, or a whole lot of people are going to lose their jobs.”

“I’m not doing layoffs.”

“Not your call. You saw those headlines.
Nepotism will work this time
—that’s what the business community thinks when they hear about the new Sabel Security. If our clients lose their confidence in us, they won’t hire us to rescue their executives in Columbia or their truckers in Mongolia, and a whole lot of our employees won’t have missions. If you don’t have missions, you can’t pay the employees.”

Pia walked to the balcony, looked out at the drizzle. “Then I need a big win.”

Her phone rang.

“This phone is most helpful, thank you,” Alphonse said. “I’m catching up on witness statements. Some of them told me you jumped on a bench seconds before the killing and watched al-Jabal. They say it was as if you knew what he was going to do. Is this true?”

In a thousandth of a second, she thought about telling him the truth. She thought about telling him of the extortionist’s demand for ten million dollars and the accompanying threat to murder ten-year-old Pia. And Alan Sabel’s one-word reply: No. Which necessitated the hiring of off-duty Secret Service agents, the world’s greatest experts at identifying assassins hidden among thousands of fans. Which led to the training and drilling of a child who was just as defiant as her father.

The extortionist was never caught and was still out there somewhere. As time went on, the Secret Service agents became the first Sabel Security agents. The intense operation they put together to keep one rich kid alive, day after day, became the hottest thing in executive security. She thought of telling him all this but simplified it.

“I saw his face,” she said. “I could tell he was going to kill someone—I just sensed it. I lost track of him in the crowd and stood on the bench to see where he’d gone. I was going to stop him, but I was too late.”

Alphonse said nothing for a long time. Then, “I see.”

There was shouting in the background behind him. He put her on mute for a few seconds then came back on to announce in a rushed voice that there was an emergency. He clicked off.

Jonelle waited for an explanation. Pia shrugged.

Both their phones buzzed with an incoming text from Marty:

Sara Campbell shot at her house thirty minutes ago. DOA.

Pia dialed her pilot. “Any change in schedule?”

“No,” he said. “We can have wheels up five minutes after you board.”

“On our way.”

Pia dragged her suitcases into the hall as Marty and a bellboy arrived. Jonelle followed her out.

“Where we going?” Jonelle said.

“Lyon,” Pia said.

“Why?”

“I worked it out with the pilots. Best way to get from here to Cameroon while staying off the grid and away from facial recognition systems is to drive to Lyon, take the TGV to Brussels, and catch a flight from there. They have to be there by one o’clock to make the Brussels flight. But they have to drive, and I happen to have a Gulfstream handy. Ready?”

Chapter 11

Lyon, France

21-May, Noon

P
ia strolled along one side of the
Gare de Saint-Exupéry
train station, while Jonelle observed passersby from the coffee shop. Marty emerged from the lower decks, having scoured the platforms. He shrugged—nothing.

Pia kept her voice down as she spoke to her agents through her Bluetooth earbud. All three were linked through a com-call on their satellite phones. They checked the connector walkway to the airport, the escalators to the boarding platforms, the bathrooms, the shops. They checked cafés and bookstores. They checked positions along the concourse. According to their timing, if the killers came this way from Geneva, they were at least half an hour ahead of them.

They discussed the options again. Geneva’s police had turned up their noses at the Lyon theory, though they admitted it made sense. They chose to deploy their limited resources on the obvious routes: by car to Berne or Brussels, by rail to Paris or Zurich. The Canton police checked every person going anywhere except the two back roads to Lyon. They admitted it was an imperfect plan, but it was all they could do. When Pia again offered her company’s services, they reminded her that she wasn’t completely in the clear herself and declined. Which left Pia, Jonelle, and Marty hunting killers in France with no official cooperation.

Slightly bored, Pia said, “Anyone want a Gini?”

“A what?” Marty asked.

“Gini. French lemon soda. I’ll grab some.” Pia trotted into a gift shop to find only three bottles of Gini left. She took them, turned around in the narrow aisle, and nearly fell over a wheelchair. It carried a young boy with deformed hands on the ends of short arms, his tangled legs beneath a blanket. She apologized and smiled at the father pushing him.

As she paid at the register, she saw the boy struggling to point at the refrigerator case. His arm reached in the vague direction of the empty shelf of Gini, and she heard sounds of exasperation. The father consoled him with a hand on his shoulder. The cashier handed back Pia’s credit card. Pia slipped it away, picked up one of the Ginis, and whistled at the father.

When the man looked up, she tossed the drink in a slow underhand arc. While it was still in midair, she grabbed the other two drinks, turned, and walked out. She gave one to Marty and the other to Jonelle.

The three of them resumed watching the thin crowds streaming to and from the train platforms. With four escalators, they took turns wandering the concourse before returning to a static vantage point. Marty was on the airport side, Jonelle in the middle, Pia farthest away at the bookstore.

She wandered past a rack of tourist brochures, picked up one that described the station’s wild architecture and flipped through it. The roof that soared overhead was designed to represent a bird in flight, its steel wings arched over a central corridor to represent rounded wings in mid-flap. The station ran perpendicular to the tracks below. Four regular train tracks and platforms five hundred meters long flanked two high-speed tracks—an arrangement that allowed the Paris-Marseille train to pass at three hundred kilometers per hour, or 174 mph. Over the top of her brochure, she spotted a familiar face.

Katyonak Yeschenko, third wife of Mikhail Yeschenko and one of the guests at last night’s tragic party, approached from the airport crosswalk. Seeing her reminded Pia that she could ask Mikhail about the
Zorka Moscoq
. But why was Katyonak traveling commercial flights? Even for the plaything of a Russian oil baron, that was wrong. She eyed Katyonak and spotted a bruise on her arm and another on her neck. She winced.

“Katyonak?” Pia said as she approached. “What are you doing here?”

Katyonak stopped and paled. She clicked her fingers and pointed at Pia.

A short, over-muscled man stepped around her. He planted himself between them. Pia recognized the man for what he was: an overbuilt weightlifter with no fighting experience. Fighters, like farmers and steelworkers, have layered muscles—hundreds of small support muscles defined with chiseled clarity. Gym rats have overgrown power muscles, impressive but nowhere near as useful. She leaned around the broad man and locked eyes with Katyonak.

“I like your shoes, Manolos?” Pia said. Her words were met with a cold look. “Are you OK? What happened to your arm?”

Katyonak pouted and turned in profile.

“I need to speak to Mikhail,” Pia said. “Can you give me his number, please?”

Katyonak didn’t speak, didn’t move.

“You go now.” The muscleman stepped within striking distance.

Pia’s eyes moved to him for a moment, then back to Katyonak.

“I need to speak to Mikhail about his ship, the
Zorka Moscoq
. I know how to find the pirates who stole it.”

Katyonak uttered something petulant in Russian.

Muscleman growled at Pia. “You go now, or I beat on you.”

“I beat on you?” Pia’s brows rose as she considered him. She moved her left foot forward, bent her knees slightly, and cocked her head to the side. “I don’t have a problem with you. I’m trying to help Mr. Yeschenko find a ship. OK?”

She saw his hands and thought they were about the same size as Katyonak’s bruises. Not conclusive evidence by any means, but an alarming coincidence. When she lifted her eyes back to his, his eyes flared. He pulled his fist back like an amateur. Pia watched him. His fist came forward with all the power he could put behind it. His upper body never moved. She bent her knees and dropped four inches. His fist grazed the top of her shoulder. His momentum carried his center of gravity over his front foot. Pia rose, twisted her torso, and banged her shoulder against his. Off balance, he staggered sideways to the wall. He steadied himself with one hand and looked back.

“Hey, no need for violence,” she said. She held her hands up, palms open. “I just want to talk to Mikhail about his ship.”

Muscleman threw another left with all his might. Pia slipped her left shoulder to the right. His fist skimmed across her back. She unwound her core with a right cross, landing the heel of her hand in his temple. He staggered back, his skull banging off the wall with a thud.

“Call him off, Katyonak. I don’t want to hurt him.”

The Russian woman’s hands flew to cover her horrified face. She said something in Russian. Muscleman’s eyes glazed over. He leaned back against the wall. Bystanders gathered around, wanting to offer assistance but unsure who to help.

Pia said, “Katyonak, if anyone sees what a lousy bodyguard you have, you’ll be in danger. Tell everyone to back off, then call your husband. I need to talk to him.”

Katyonak did as she was told, handing her phone to Pia after the bystanders left.

“Mikhail, this is Pia Sabel. We met at the Chelsea-Arsenal game last fall. I’m calling about a ship of yours, the
Zorka Moscoq
.”

Mikhail Yeschenko said, “How could I forget? You are an amazing player. You must try out for my Moscow team. I think you could be a starter there. Someone has to show those boys how game is played.” He laughed. “I do not know shipping details, but I will have someone look into it and get back to you. The
Zorka Moscoq
?”

“Yes. Thank you. By the way, you need to hire Sabel Security. I just put down one of your men without breaking a sweat.”

Laughter rolled through the airwaves. Pia pulled the phone an inch from her ear.

“He is not her bodyguard. Give your father my regards.”

Pia squeezed her eyes shut for a beat. Her lips formed an “Ooo” that she didn’t voice. She clicked off the phone and handed it back to Katyonak.

“What is it?” Katyonak said.

“Um. He knows about…” Pia slid her gaze to indicate Katyonak’s companion.

Katyonak paled and swallowed hard.

“You’re in a tough spot,” Pia said. “Mikhail is going to dump you, and this guy is violent. You probably think you can still make it all work out. When it falls apart, call me. I’ll help you.” She pulled a business card from her purse and pressed it into the young woman’s hand. “I’m serious. I’ll help.”

Pia turned to muscleman, “If you ever hurt my friend again, I’ll find you and then—I beat on you.”

Katyonak gave her the Russian double-cheek kiss and walked away. Muscleman gathered what little dignity he could and followed her.

Through her earbud, Jonelle said, “You sure jumped to a lot of conclusions. Maybe Yeschenko is behind this. Just because he’s a friend of your father doesn’t make him clean.”