The Geneva Decision (8 page)

“No way.”

“Why?”

“Russian money is all pirated money, but they bank that inside Russia. Banque Marot would be his safe money.”

“Pia, you can’t—”

Behind her, Pia heard yelling. Through her earbud she heard Marty in a heated discussion with someone. She looked up the concourse in time to see him cuffed by two gendarmes. Jonelle rose and crossed to him as two more gendarmes stepped in front of her, spun her around and cuffed her.

Marty’s stream of French broke into English for Pia’s benefit.

“I have no bombs. You can search me. Your caller was playing a prank.”

Pia’s heart rate picked up fast. She took measured strides to the bathroom beyond the bookstore and listened to their discussions on the com-call. Jonelle provided a calm, reasoned response in English. An anonymous caller had identified Pia’s team as terrorists with bombs. Jonelle gave them permission to search her but ignored questions about Pia’s whereabouts, saying only that Pia often worried about her jet’s refueling.

Apparently the killers were there and had spotted her first, maybe while she was distracted with Katyonak. Marty and Jonelle, concerned for Pia’s safety, would have watched her instead of the concourse. That didn’t seem likely. They were too professional. But they were half-distracted. Which meant the killers were disguised and close enough to identify all three of them.

The gendarmes had sidelined her team, leaving them center-concourse with their hands cuffed. If the killers wanted to start shooting, they’d never get a clearer shot. Unlikely they would kill anyone in police custody, but these two had killed in public before. She had to find them.

Pia leaned her head around the bathroom entrance and saw her people escorted down the concourse toward the airport terminal. She felt eyes watching her and looked left to see the tall accomplice staring at her. His hair, dyed black, was still spiked, but his thin goatee was gone. Instead he wore a cheap prosthesis on his chin. Twenty yards to her left, a group of three adults with two children and a stroller passed between them. Spiky-hair used them as a shield to approach Pia.

Which meant the other killer, al-Jabal, must be behind her.

She turned and found him, disguised as an old man complete with hunched posture and a cane. The eyes, piercing and cold, gave him away. He was thirty yards to the right. The tip of a knife protruded from the long sleeve of his raincoat.

Her chances were best with spiky-hair. He might underestimate her.

Might.

She slipped the gun from her purse and charged forward at a dead run, screaming for help as she ran. She pointed her gun at Spiky-hair only to succeed in scaring the family into a state of frozen panic. Spiky-hair stepped wide of them, putting her directly between him and al-Jabal like a runner caught between bases. She aimed at him. He pulled a gun from his sleeve and took aim. She fired. The dart caught his coat. If she stayed for a second shot, he might get one off first. If he missed, the family would be in danger.

She ran.

The only way out was down the empty escalator in front of her. She flew down it three steps at a time, with a long way to go. Boots clumped on the stairs above and behind her. He’d have time to aim before she reached the bottom.

She vaulted onto the chromed center rail that separated up from down, took three running steps on it and jumped. Landing on her butt, she began a long fast slide.

Sparks flew off the metal near her hand.

A bang reverberated through the platform area.

She rolled left then back right as she slid, and jumped the last three feet. Staggering a few steps, she fought to get her balance while putting as much distance between her and Spiky-hair as she could. Then she remembered—the brochure said the platform was five hundred meters long. She’d started at the middle, taken a long escalator, and was now looking at the last two hundred meters of covered train station. A long distance for a runner. Not for a bullet. Beyond the station, she could see miles of beautiful French countryside, flat as a pancake with nowhere to hide.

To her right lay two train tracks in a lowered bed and a concrete wall that ended fifty meters away. She looked left—nothing. Ahead—nothing. She looked back. Spiky-hair was coming into view on the escalator. She kept running, but no hiding place appeared. Her only chance was to cross the rail bed, get behind the concrete wall, and shoot back.

Another bang rattled the building, scaring the daylights out of her. Bystanders screamed.

She jumped off the platform and into the track bed. Steel rails were bolted to concrete railroad ties. She jumped a rail, lost her balance, stumbled the next four steps before hopping the next rail. A puff of dust preceded another bang by an instant. His third shot, five left if it was a Sig Sauer. She swerved left, back right, then turned on the afterburners in a straight line. The timer in her head calculated how long it would take him to line up his fourth shot. She jerked right three feet. Another bang. Four left.

Shrieking police whistles erupted from the concourse above them. The gendarmes were on their way. She needed only thirty seconds or so to escape Spiky-hair. He needed only half a second to line up another shot.

She faked another swerve right and crossed the rail back to her left. With another antelope leap, she darted back right. The wall ended another ten meters ahead. She ran straight for three strides, knowing he would start shooting faster under pressure. She ducked left and right, but the next shot didn’t come. She stole a glance over her shoulder.

Spiky-hair had followed her into the track bed but landed with less grace and was picking himself off the ground. She was going to make it to the wall.

In two strides she cleared the corner, put on the brakes, and planted her body against six inches of concrete. She moved into position and peeked around the edge. Spiky-hair was up and running, fire in his eyes. Her aim was fair, not great, her weapon less accurate than his and with a lot less range. She would wait.

Her feet felt the rumbling first. The ground shook beneath her toes, vibrations tingling from her shins to her knees, rising to her quads.

The northbound Marseille-Paris was coming in.

She glanced left. She was standing on the TGV’s high-speed pass through track. Four hundred tons of France’s finest engineering was headed her way at three hundred kilometers per hour. It entered the tunnel at the far end. She did the math: five hundred meters at three hundred km/h meant six seconds before she would join the grasshoppers on the TGV’s aerodynamic nose.

She poked her head back around the wall. Spiky-hair was less than six seconds away. At speed, the train would pass in half a second, providing no cover. She had to keep running and hope Spiky-hair gave up, or stand her ground and pray for a miracle.

Pia opted for both.

She stepped out from behind the wall, aimed, fired, and missed. Spiky-hair looked up. Stopped and aimed. Pia ducked back as a chunk of concrete turned to powder. The train was bearing down. She could make out the engineer driving it. Time to run. She reached around the wall, exposing only her hand, and fired blindly to slow her pursuer. Then turned and ran.

The track bed used raised concrete ties to absorb some of the vibration and spare the track bed excess wear. Spikes and bolts held the rails to the ties. The design left a gap of three inches between the rails and the bed. Pia’s foot caught the gap and she fell face first into the track bed. Her knee hit hard. Her chest hit the far rail. One hand jammed into the gap under the other rail. Instant panic flooded through her.

The noise grew to an alarming pitch as the train approached. The air pressure rose fast. The ground shook harder.

She could not tell the source of her problem for one whole second. Enough time for the train to travel eighty-three meters. Most of a football field. Pain shot from her knee to her brain. She tried to spin in place, but her foot held fast. Realizing the problem, she backed up an inch and tugged her foot. Not enough room. She backed up another inch and tried again. This time her foot came free.

She flipped onto her back and looked at the oncoming train. Close enough to see the engineer’s eyes wide open, along with his mouth. The train’s horn blasted a shockwave of sound. She buckled in the middle, did a power sit-up, and flipped up into a standing position. A common maneuver on the soccer field. She leapt backwards four feet. Just outside the rail. With a second leap, she was clear of the track. Her head came up. Spiky-hair was rounding the corner at full speed. His eyes, filled with rage, locked on hers.

The train passed in front of her, nothing but a blur of steel for a quarter of a second. Then it was gone. Spikey-hair was gone too.

In the next instant, her eyes were full of the blowing dust and grit that swirled in the currents behind the train. She coughed and spit and blinked and blinked and blinked. As her vision cleared, the sound of shrieking steel assaulted her ears. The Marseille-Paris TGV screeched in a desperate attempt to stop. Given the weight and speed, she estimated it would take at least one kilometer.

Pia turned and ran for the far platform. As she reached the edge of the tunnel, she checked the gathered travelers for al-Jabal before crossing the tracks. Not there. Everyone faced the train and the shower of sparks flying out from under it. She placed her hands on the platform, swung herself up and walked to the escalator. No one looked her way.

At the top of the escalator, a gendarme waited. Far down the concourse, three others emerged from the other platform’s escalators. Pia presented her wrists to the officer.

“Let me guess,” she said while he cuffed her, “al-Jabal got away?”

Chapter 12

Potomac, Maryland

23-May, 5AM

P
ia slammed rapid punches into the double-ended bag, an eight-inch ball suspended at shoulder height between the ceiling and floor with elastic straps. Her blows were a mix of uppercuts, hooks, crosses, and jabs that landed with blinding speed. Barefoot, she wore black spandex shorts, a white sports bra, and pink boxing gloves. Each punch sent the bag reeling away, only to be pulled home by the elastic, where her following punch sent it flying again. Despite the erratic motion, she never missed. She concentrated on each blow, calculating distance, speed, and placement in an instant. Her breathing intensified. Her punches grew tighter, faster, stronger. Her trainer sat in his wheelchair, tracking the blows with a hand-held tally counter. He called them out in twenty-fives: one-fifty, one seventy-five, two hundred.

She became vaguely aware that Agent Jonelle had entered the gym at the far end.

Her trainer said, “Thirty seconds. Finish strong now.”

Pia pounded faster. The bell rang.

“Three forty-two,” her trainer said. “Must be the jet lag.”

She stepped back, touched one glove to the vibrating bag to stop it. Sweat dripped down her brow and face, her shoulders and back and legs. She tugged the Velcro and pulled her gloves off, stuck them under her arm.

Panting like a racehorse, she faced Jonelle. “Water?”

“No thanks,” Jonelle said. “What did you want?”

“Did you like the spa day?”

“It was a very nice gift. Thank you. I appreciate the new suit, too. Your tailors are amazing.” Jonelle turned around, showing off her new business suit. Her face remained fixed, no smile. “You didn’t need to do that. Firing at the killer was just me doing my job. But Pia, it’s five in the morning. Why did you call me in here?”

Her trainer tossed a water bottle at Pia. Without looking, she snapped it out of the air. Pia unscrewed the cap and poured half the water down her throat, then locked eyes with Jonelle.

“We didn’t get along all that well in Geneva,” she said.

“We got things done. You came home in one piece. Don’t worry about it.”

“Dad told me you asked to be reassigned.”

Jonelle winced. “Don’t take it personal. I’m just not interested—”

“I have a plan to stop the resignations.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re not mad?”

“I need your help to make it work. I’d appreciate it if you’d hear me out, listen to the offer.” A bell with a different tone rang. Pia held up her index finger between them. “Right after this next round.”

Jonelle glared at her. “If you want to have a serious conversation with me, postpone the workout and let’s talk. Otherwise, reschedule the meeting.”

Pia thought for a minute.

“OK,” she said. “I want you to be my mentor. You’ll effectively run the company but transition the role to me as I learn.”

“I asked to be reassigned.”

“Dad had you playing babysitter. This is different. I want you to help me.”

Jonelle tightened her crossed arms.

“It takes a lot of training.” Pia waved her arm around the gym. “I know how to listen to coaches. For the first year I trained here, Coach Billy wouldn’t let me punch anything until I could duck everything they threw at me. I have the discipline it takes to be the best. I want you to teach me, coach me, make sure I’m on a gold medal path. I intend to be a champion in the world of security, Jonelle. I decided that when I swam the Rhone. Oh. And there’s a large incentive plan.”

Jonelle’s eyebrows rose.

“A million for each anniversary. One million on the first anniversary, two on the second, and so on for five years.”

Jonelle gasped. “Fifteen million?”

Pia nodded.

“How long do I have to think this over?”

“Until Colonel Grant comes in for his interview.”

The bell rang. Pia tried not to look at the bag.

“How much control do I get?” Jonelle said.

Pia shrugged.

Jonelle walked ten steps away. She came back and started to ask a question. She stopped, turned, and marched toward the door. Thirty feet away, she stopped and headed back to Pia.

“I hate it when rich people use money to get what they want,” Jonelle said.

“I want the best. Is that so bad?”

“I take it Alan told you how much I make,” Jonelle said, “and you set the bonus high enough that I couldn’t say no. We both know it’s five times as much money as your father offered. And I’m sure Alan will have me back if I’m not happy. So we both know I’ll take the job.”