“Yes, at the Crillon.”
“The Crillon?”
“Yes.” Rebecca blushed and smiled. The Hôtel de Crillon was one of the most luxurious and expensive in Paris. “It’s nice to have a wealthy boss.”
“I’m sure it is.” Marten smiled, and then it faded. “I’m going to ask Nadine’s brother to take you to the hotel. When you get there, I want you to go to your room and lock the door and don’t answer it for anyone. I’ll book you on a flight to Geneva early tomorrow morning. Have the concierge arrange for a hotel car to take you to the airport. Make sure the concierge knows the driver personally, and ask him to call the airline and arrange to have that driver stay with you until you board the plane. In the meantime I will have called the Rothfels to have someone they know meet your flight and get you safely to Neuchâtel.”
“You’re frightened, aren’t you?”
“Yes, for both of us.”
Rebecca was a mix of emotions as Nicholas left to find Nadine’s brother. If Dan Ford had died in an accident or of some dread disease, they would still have been devastated, but the way it had happened, so quickly and horribly and out of nowhere, was unfathomable. Unfathomable, too, was the idea of Raymond still alive and inflicting such terror so many months later and fifty-six hundred miles from where it started.
Yet, frightening and overwhelming as it all was, there was something apart from it that she wanted desperately to share with her brother. It was about her and the love and light of her life, Alexander Cabrera, and how central they had become in each other’s lives. Secretive as their relationship had been, and despite the conspiratorial pact of silence Lady Clem shared with her, she felt the time drawing closer to when Alexander would fulfill his promise and ask her to marry him, and she wanted Nicholas to know beforehand.
In the past the secrecy of their relationship had been fun, a rambunctious game of keep-away where big brother didn’t know what little sister was doing—but now as the bond between her and Alexander tightened and worked its way toward the inevitable, she felt as if she were deliberately hiding something from Nicholas, and it made her increasingly uncomfortable.
Tonight had been a perfect example. She had not told him the entire truth about Gerard Rothfels’ insistence she come on the corporate plane from Switzerland. It was true Rothfels had made the arrangements, but it had been at Alexander’s order. And it had not been a company driver who had met her at Orly Airport when she’d arrived but rather Alexander’s driver and bodyguard, Jean-Pierre Rodin. Her hope had been that Alexander might have come to the airport himself so that she could have coaxed him to come with her, and meet her brother even under the heartbreaking circumstances, but he had been in Italy on business, and Jean-Pierre had said he would not arrive in Paris until later this evening, so it was a matter of simple logistics and, for now, out of the question.
And then there was Raymond and whether to tell Alexander about him. To do so would bring up why there was reason for concern, and while both Alexander and Clem knew about her breakdown, neither knew the real truth of it, nor what had happened to shock her out of it.
The story she had told them had been concocted by Nicholas and her psychiatrist, Dr. Flannery, before they left L.A. In it, she had said she and Nicholas had grown up in a small town in Vermont. When she was fifteen her parents died within two months of each other and she went to California to live with Nicholas, who was in college there. Shortly after arriving she had gone to the beach with Nicholas and some friends. A while later she and a friend wandered off down the beach, where they saw a young boy caught in a strong riptide being dragged out to sea and screaming for help. Sending her friend to get the lifeguards, Rebecca swam out through heavy swells toward him. Reaching him, she struggled in the big waves for what seemed hours trying to keep both their heads above water until lifeguards arrived. It was only when they did that she learned the boy was already dead. Later she was told he had probably drowned even before she got to him. Suddenly she realized she had been holding on to a corpse for the whole time. The thought of it, coming so soon after the tragic loss of her parents, galvanized her, and almost instantly she suffered a massive psychological collapse—one that lasted for years until she finally began to come out of it and her brother had her transferred to the Balmore for specialized treatment under Dr. Maxwell-Scot.
So now, if she brought up Raymond she could hardly tell them about what had happened at the rail yards and instead would have to put the onus on Nicholas. She would have to tell Alexander that her brother had not only known Dan Ford when he was a police reporter in Los Angeles but, through him, had known Detective Halliday as well, and that both men had been heavily involved in investigating Raymond there.
Now Ford and Halliday were dead in Paris, and if their killer was indeed the same Raymond, thought to be dead but wasn’t, there was every reason to believe he might come after Nicholas as well. And then, in turn, come after her for fear Nicholas had said something to her.
So Rebecca’s question to herself was, why alarm Alexander when Nicholas had said he was not by any means certain the killer was Raymond, or if Raymond was even alive? In thinking about it she decided it was simply best to say nothing about Raymond period and let it go at that.
Yet, even as she made the decision, she knew she had to be fully aware of her brother’s warning and do exactly as he said once she reached the hotel.
40
STILL 27 RUE HUYSMANS, THE APARTMENT OF ARMAND DROUIN.
10:45 P.M.
The front door to the apartment house opened and Nicholas and Rebecca came out, accompanied by Armand, Nadine’s twenty-four-year-old brother, and another man, a friend of Armand’s and a soldier in the French army.
Armand was a professional bicycle racer, young and headstrong and generous. His car was right outside. The Crillon at this time of night was a ten-minute drive, it was a pleasure for him to take her there. He led her quickly across the street to his green Nissan, climbing in behind the wheel, while his friend got into the back.
Marten glanced cautiously around and opened the passenger door for Rebecca. “What’s your room number at the Crillon?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll call you as soon as I have the flight information. I want you out of Paris first thing in the morning.”
“Room four-twelve.” She looked at him and he could feel the worry in her. He tried to soften it.
“I said before there’s no proof this is Raymond at all. The fact is he probably is dead and what’s gone on here is just coincidence, done by a crazy who has no idea in the world who we are and who couldn’t care less. Okay?”
“Yes.” Rebecca smiled and kissed him on the cheek.
Abruptly Marten looked to Armand. “Thank you, Armand, thank you.”
“She is in safe hands, mon ami. We will make sure she gets to her room, and I will speak to the concierge myself about a car for her in the morning. We have had enough tears for one day.”
“For any day.” Nicholas closed the door and stepped back as Armand started the Nissan, then made a sharp U-turn and drove off. At the far end of the street he turned onto the Boulevard Raspail and the Nissan disappeared from view.
41
Raymond sat in the rear seat of a darkened black Mercedes parked three doors down. He had seen the four come out of the apartment and cross the street to the green Nissan, and then watched as three of them got in and the car drove off. Now he saw Nicholas Marten step from the shadowed sidewalk to cross under a streetlamp alone and go back into the apartment at number 27 rue Huysmans.
It had been ten months since he’d last seen him and seven since he’d tracked him to Manchester, or rather since the Baroness had. In that time he’d learned everything about him; his change of name, where he lived, what he was doing with his life. He even knew about Lord Prestbury and Marten’s secret affair with Prestbury’s daughter, Lady Clementine Simpson. He knew, too, about Switzerland and Rebecca, where she lived and for whom she worked.
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But for all Raymond had learned about Marten, for all those months, he’d purposely pushed him from his mind, done his best not to think about him at all.
Now, having seen him alive and in the flesh and crossing the street with his sister, he was reminded how dangerous a man he was.
Marten was either inhumanly cunning, bulldog-determined, or just plain lucky, or some combination of all three. Like some ancient hound, he was on Raymond’s heels seemingly at every turn; the same as he had been in Los Angeles after his escape from jail, and then suddenly appearing out of the rain at Los Angeles International Airport to prevent him from escaping on the Lufthansa flight to Germany, and then once more, coming out of nowhere to arrive at Alfred Neuss’s residence in Beverly Hills while Raymond was there, and then, even after he had been terminated from the police force, sequestering Rebecca in London to, he was certain, follow up on the handwritten notations they would have found in his bag on the Southwest Chief, and now here he was in Paris.
Some of it, he knew, was his own doing—knowing Marten was only an hour or two away in Manchester but going ahead and killing Neuss anyway. But with Neuss in Paris and the close timing of things, he’d had no choice; besides, the irony of doing it in the Parc Monceau had been delicious, especially when Neuss realized who he was and that he was going to die.
Still, seeing Marten cross his path so very few feet in front of him tantalized. More than anything, Raymond wanted to get out of the car right then, follow Marten into the building, and kill him, cruelly and savagely, the way he had Neuss and Halliday and Dan Ford and Jean-Luc Vabres, but he knew he couldn’t, not just yet, and certainly not tonight. Tonight was for something else. So he had to pull back his feelings and put his thoughts and energy to what was at hand.
Lightly fingering a long, gaily wrapped rectangular package, he mused a moment longer, then looked to his driver.
“L’Hôtel Crillon,” he said. “L’Hôtel Crillon.”
42
HÔTEL CRILLON. 11:05 P.M.
Raymond’s black Mercedes turned onto the Place de la Concorde and stopped across from the hotel. The green Nissan was in front, parked in the passenger-loading zone.
Raymond brushed back his hair, then ran a hand over his carefully trimmed beard and waited.
11:08 P.M.
A taxi pulled up and several well-dressed people got out and entered through the hotel’s large revolving door.
11:10 P.M.
A middle-aged couple in evening clothes came out through the door. A chauffeured car pulled up and a uniformed majordomo opened the door. The couple got in and the car drove off. The revolving door turned again and Armand and his friend came through it and went directly to the Nissan. Several seconds passed, then its lights came on and the car squealed off past them, its headlights illuminating Raymond briefly as it went by. Another moment and Raymond opened the door and stepped out into the crisp air, the gaily wrapped package under his arm.
Neatly bearded, poised, his hair jet-black and combed stylishly back, and wearing a tailored double-breasted charcoal suit, he looked for all the world like a successful young executive on his way to enjoy some late-evening intimacy with an attractive young lady. This was precisely what he had in mind, though the intimacy would be more far-reaching than most.
He brushed back his hair once again, then looked across at the Crillon, elegantly lit against the night sky, and started toward it.
At two weeks past his thirty-fourth birthday, and for the first time in what seemed an exceedingly long time, he felt truly alive. Even more energetic than he had been early this morning when he’d met and killed Jean-Luc and then Dan Ford at the river in the dark and the pouring rain. The minor limp he walked with seemed trivial, as did the lingering aches that were the result of the multiple surgeries and physical rehabilitations he had endured for what felt like an eternity but what—thanks primarily to the Kevlar vest he had taken from John Barron and was wearing in the confrontation in the rail yards—had been barely four months. In the meantime the Baroness had delicately maneuvered the major players into the position they had been in before, and now things were moving swiftly forward and they were operating with the same kind of self-contained and precisely timed schematic they had used then. Only this time Neuss was dead and the “pieces” were in their possession. It was a twin deed they were certain Sir Peter Kitner would suspect they had been responsible for, but could do nothing about. Nonetheless he would fear greatly for himself and his family. But it was a fear he could share with no one. It would become worse as the days progressed because he would have no more idea what they were planning now than he had before, when Neuss had so hastily fled to London. As a result there was nothing he could do but extend the guard around himself and his family and move forward toward what was to be the crowning moment of his life. And by doing that he would step fully into their trap.
Another twenty paces and Raymond reached the Crillon’s revolving front door. The majordomo nodded as he went by and pushed through it. Inside, the grand lobby was alive with a bubbly congregation of hotel guests and Parisians out for the evening. He stopped briefly and scanned the room, then started toward the concierge desk toward the rear.
He was halfway there when the bright lights of television cameras drew his attention and he saw a small gathering of people surrounding two businessmen being interviewed by the media. As he neared he couldn’t believe what he saw. There he was—the regal, white-haired, global-media industrialist and billionaire—Sir Peter Kitner himself. With him was his thirty-year-old son, Michael, president of his empire and heir apparent to it.
Then he saw the third man, standing to Kitner’s immediate right. He was Dr. Geoffrey Higgs, a former Royal Air Force flight surgeon and Kitner’s personal physician, bodyguard, and chief of intelligence. Exceptionally fit, with a protruding jaw and buzz haircut, Higgs had a tiny earphone in his left ear with an even smaller microphone clipped to the lapel of his suit coat. Wherever Kitner went, so did Higgs and the corps of unseen security people he was electronically connected to.
Raymond should have kept going, but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped into the relative dark behind the gathered reporters and the glare of television lights as Kitner was being questioned about the high-level board meeting he and his son had just attended. Was it true, the French media wanted to know, that his U.S.-based company MediaCorp was attempting a takeover of the French television network TV5?
Raymond could feel the rise in his pulse as he watched Kitner play around with the question.
“Everything is for sale, is it not?” Kitner asked in French. “Even MediaCorp. It is simply a matter of price.”
This was the Peter Kitner Raymond had known about all of his adult life. Best-selling books had been written about him. He was the subject of endless articles in magazines and newspapers and had been interviewed over and over again on television. But this was the first time Raymond had seen him in person in years, and the suddenness of it came as a total surprise.
Yet there he was, standing in the darkness only feet away, and Raymond knew full well he could step forward and kill him in a blink. But to do that would defeat everything he and the Baroness had so carefully planned for years as they watched the clock of history slowly tick to the exact right moment. It had done so once before, nearly a year earlier, and then had come the debacle in Los Angeles. Yet, with his recovery and the Baroness’s grand manipulation of the key players, that moment was once again at hand. So, as much as he might savor it, killing Peter Kitner was the last thing to do now. On the other hand, it was impossible for him to simply turn and walk away without at least giving the great man something to think about.
“Sir Peter,” Raymond abruptly called out in French from behind the reporters, “is the TV5 takeover the announcement you will make at the World Economic Forum in Davos this weekend?”
“What?” Kitner was obviously taken by surprise and tried to peer beyond the lights to see who had spoken.
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nbsp; “Is there not some major announcement involving you personally to be made at Davos, Sir Peter?”
“Who said that?” Kitner stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the lights, looking for the speaker. Media people turned, looking, too.
“Who said that? Turn off those damn lights.” Angrily Kitner pushed through the gathering, trying to find the man who had spoken. Michael was moving with him. So was Higgs, snapping orders into the microphone on his lapel as he went. At the far side they stopped and looked around. Whoever had spoken had disappeared among the guests crowding the lobby.
“Et Davos, Sir Peter?” What about Davos, Sir Peter?
“Sir Peter, quelle est la nature de votre annonce?” Sir Peter, what is the nature of your announcement?
“Sir Peter.” “Sir Peter.” “Sir Peter.”
Raymond heard shouts from the French media behind him as he continued toward the concierge desk. Seconds later, several men in dark suits entered from an adjacent doorway and moved protectively toward Kitner. Bodyguards called in by Higgs.
Raymond smiled confidently. A seed had been planted and the media had picked up on it. Kitner’s style and assurance, he knew, would quickly swat the troublesome media away, and soon his surprise and anger would fade. After that, curiosity would rise as to who the questioner had been and how, and just how much, he knew about what was to happen in Davos. Then, at some point later, Kitner would realize who it had been and what had happened. When he did, fear and suspicion would quickly supersede everything else. Which was precisely what Raymond had intended.
Ahead were the elevators. He tucked the package under his arm and looked at his watch.