The Art of Possession Page 9

  It was still the best evening I’d had in months.

  Patricia met us at the café just across from Hotel Sofitel the next morning, a delicate cup of espresso in one elegant hand and a large leather Louis Vuitton bag at her feet. “Gentlemen,” she said, smiling at us. She wore a long, vibrant orange and yellow cotton dress today, with intricate geometric shapes repeating beneath the colors in metallic threads.

  Alex sat down, a far warier look on his face than meeting Patricia for breakfast seemed to warrant, to my mind. “We’re five minutes late,” he pointed out.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He gestured at the table. “And yet you haven’t ordered for us already.”

  She affected an air of mild concern. “Did you want me to?”

  “You always, always order for me if I’m more than thirty seconds late to meet you. It’s your passive-aggressive way of letting me know that you disapprove.” Alex sounded baffled. “We’re five minutes late. Five minutes! Where’s the coffee and the orange juice? Where are the chausson aux pommes?”

  “Oh, I’m not so bad,” she said, pouting a bit as she set her cup down.

  “You are.” He looked at me. “She really is.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got a dog in this fight, so I’m going to just stay out of it,” I said. The waiter came over to our table, and I ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a croissant with butter and jam. It wasn’t much, but I hadn’t found my stomach feeling terribly cooperative since waking up this morning. After last night’s dismal attempt at sleep, despite the comfortable room, I was more than ready to mainline some caffeine, make a plan for how to retrieve the scepter, and get it done.

  “Perhaps I just assumed you would only be late if you had a good reason,” Patricia offered with a glint in her eye just as Alex lifted his cappuccino to his lips. He spluttered, spraying foam across the table.

  “Can you at least try to be professional?” he demanded in a low, very unamused voice.

  “I am the soul of professionalism,” she said pertly. “Aren’t I, Mal?”

  Oh wait. She… she thought we were running behind because we had been… really? Really? I about inhaled my own cup’s contents. “Really,” I insisted, “don’t involve me in this. I mean, apart from what you need from me when it comes to the plan, please do involve me in that. Which, ah… can we get to talking about that part, please?”

  “Thank God,” Alex muttered, and absurdly, I was momentarily a bit hurt that he was so ready and willing to move on from any thought of lying in bed fucking me senseless enough that time became a secondary concern. Then I remembered the way he’d been yesterday, so unexpectedly kind as we’d explored the museum, listening to me speak and truly appreciating what I had to say, and perhaps… perhaps he was as eager to get this job over with as I was, for more than one reason. It was an intriguing possibility.

  “Very well.” Patricia took a tiny bite of her pain au chocolat before continuing, “All video evidence indicates that Corday’s keeping the scepter in her room. Given the speed that she’s capable of moving with, it’s imperative that we get to it today, and early, before she has a chance to shift it via the port. That means we need to get into her room. The simplest way to do that will be to steal or clone her keycard.”

  Oh, easy. Absolutely. Sounds like a child could do it. Actually, it sounded ridiculously difficult, but judging from the look on Alex’s face, it wasn’t as hard as all that.

  “You have a magstripe encoder?”

  “I do,” she affirmed. “That’s the easy part. The hard part will be getting the keycard off of her long enough to clone it.”

  Alex shook his head. “I won’t be able to get that close. She knows me by sight.”

  “Very well, what about Mal?” She looked at me. “It wouldn’t be impossible. All you’d have to do is make a bit of a scene, stumble about a bit perhaps, then make the grab.”

  “Mal isn’t trained for that sort of thing,” Alex said before I could fumble my way into speech. “And I don’t want to throw him into her line of sight anyway. The more removed from the action he is, the better.”

  Patricia sighed. “Well, I can’t do it, because she’s already seen my face as well. That brings us to our second option—programming a new keycard. I know how to work the software they’re running, but I need a chance to get behind the front desk without being noticed.”

  “A diversion.”

  “Exactly. What we need to do is cause a bit of a fuss at the hotel, something sordid enough to draw attention but not so big that it’ll make our lady spooked. No fire alarms, certainly.” She folded her hands around her cup. “Thoughts?”

  Actually… “I think I can manage that,” I said.

  Alex and Patricia both looked at me with expressions of mild astonishment. I was a bit astonished myself, actually, but this part wasn’t really dangerous and I was tired of feeling like a third wheel. “Really, I’m sure I can.”

  “Well.” Patricia grinned. “I’m all ears. What’s your plan?”

  I looked over at the hotel, tall and elegant and utterly pretentious, fitting into its surroundings perfectly. Anything built on such a scale had to be full service. “It has a bar, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. It opens at eleven.”

  “And she hasn’t moved from inside yet, has she?”

  “According to my tracker, she hasn’t,” Patricia agreed. “Where are you going with this?”

  “I think,” I mused, “that it’s time I get in touch with my inner lush.”

  Chapter Seven

  I SAT in the corner of the lobby of the hotel, partially concealed by an immense ficus tree and partially by the newspaper I angled to keep my face hidden. “For the record,” I said softly, knowing my earpiece would transmit it to Patricia, “I’m not crazy about this plan.”

  “You should be,” she said, smoothing one hand along the plain fabric of her skirt. The bag she’d carried to breakfast had contained a very close facsimile of the Hotel Sofitel’s uniform, close enough that as soon as she put on her crisp black jacket, she would blend in almost perfectly. She was in the bar now, seated a few tables away from where Mal appeared, to all intents, to be getting rip-roaring drunk. “It’s perfect. It is simple, and the simplest plans are always the most effective ones.”

  “Just because it’s simple doesn’t mean things can’t get fucked-up.”

  “Would you stop worrying?” she scoffed. “Your man will be just fine.”

  Unless Corday decides not to go out at all, or ends up meeting her contact right here in the hotel. Unless she does have a partner keeping an eye on things for her. Unless Mal really does get drunk and takes it too far and winds up getting arrested. It had been years since I’d had to break anyone out of a police station, and I didn’t want to do it again.

  All I ended up saying was “He’s not my man.”

  “I love to listen to you lie, you’re almost as good at it as you think you are. Ah.” She glanced at her phone. “Corday is on the move. Out of her room, to the elevator—the elevator, my goodness, that’s trusting—and here… she… comes….”

  Right on cue, the elevator door farthest to my right opened, and out walked the woman I now knew as Corday. She looked sharp today; her royal blue pantsuit less whimsical than what I’d seen her in last. It looked weirdly familiar… oh, yeah. It was what she’d worn to rob Ashad in.

  She didn’t even look my way, just strode out the door like she owned the place and headed down the street.

  “Aaand she’s gone. I’ll cue Mal.” We’d decided it was easier not to stick a headset on him, in case he really did end up getting arrested. Patricia got up out of her chair and headed for the bathroom in the lobby, brushing her fingers against Mal’s shoulders as she passed him.

  Mal wobbled on his barstool, reaching for his highball glass of gin and tonic and hoisting it into the air as he dismounted. He looked… well, he looked drunk as a skunk. He’d entered the place pretending to be drunk, then piled on another th
ree drinks once there, this one included. I felt my shoulders tense and breathed slowly. I hope you know what you’re doing.

  “This…,” he said loudly, staring from the glass to the bartender, “I’ll have you know, sir, is the worst gin and tonic I have ever drunk, and I’ve been drunk in bloody Cannes, d’you understand me? It’s so bad, it’s—it’s like you made it with French gin, which—look, you lot are all right with wine and have a bloody fucking monopole… monop… got the champagne racket, whatever, but you can’t do gin right to save your sad, shriveled souls!”

  “Sir,” the bartender began, but Mal cut him off, thrusting the drink right under his nose. He was starting to attract attention.

  “Sniff it! Sniff it, right, is that Beefeater? Is that even a bloody Bombay Sapphire or Tanquer… Tanq… look, it’s not British, got it? It smells like sad, musty, defeated French gin, an’ I won’t give it another moment of my time!” He proceeded to tip his head back and drain the glass down to the ice.

  “Sir, please—”

  “Not another word from you, sir,” Mal chided the poor bartender, shaking his mostly-empty glass at him before wandering toward the lobby. “I’ve had ’nough out of you, eh? Bunch of….” He looked around blearily, blinking at the people in the lobby, who were staring right back in slightly horrified fascination. “Bunch of… cheese-eating kowtowers. Bootlickers all, until you got your damn capital back after the war, and then!” He reeled over to the front desk and banged his hand on the bell angrily, startling the woman behind the marble countertop. “Then! Nose in the air, right? Can’t be bothered to acknowl… ackle… remember that we saved your sorry arses, right?”

  He set his glass down on the sleek marble countertop, then swung around in a circle to face the onlookers. As he did so, the edge of his hand caught the glass and sent it spinning toward the center of the lobby, where it broke with a splintering crash.

  A woman who looked like the manager, with a prim updo and a stern look on her face, was already coming out of an office behind the desk, murmuring to the woman there to fetch a broom while she headed for Mal. “Sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” she said in heavily accented English. Her helper behind the desk was already heading for the middle of the floor.

  As smooth as silk and as quiet as a mouse’s footfall, Patricia, in her full costume, slipped from the ladies’ room to behind the desk and began programming a keycard for Corday’s room. All I had to do was watch as she got the job done in under thirty seconds, while Mal played a masterful jackass.

  “Madame”—he jerked his arm out of her grip—“I am not some naughty toddler to be escorted off the bloody playground by his mum. I’m a grown man, and I will walk myself out, no thank you very, very much.” He looked at his hand, then around the room with a questioning expression. “Where’s my bloody drink gone?”

  “You dropped it on our floor, sir,” the manager snapped. “And if you don’t want to join it there, I suggest you leave at once!”

  Mal suddenly smiled at her. “Regular old battleax, aren’t you? All right, I’ll go. I just need to go to my room and get my…. Did I bring a suitcase with me?”

  That was my cue to step in. I folded up the paper, left my hiding spot, and rushed over to him, embarrassment written in every line of my body. “I am so sorry,” I apologized. “I should never have left him alone at the bar, but I had a business call to take and… honey.” I gripped Mal’s shoulders and turned him to face me. “Honey, gin before noon is never a good idea, remember?”

  He whined disconsolately. “But we lost to bloody Ireland in rugby last night. Ireland! How’re we going to beat France if we can’t beat Ireland, that’s what I’d like to know, and I had a hundred quid riding on it, and now we’re—”

  “I know, I know.” I drew him into a hug, trying to ignore how nice it felt. I looked at the manager. “We’ll be out of your hair momentarily, madame, I’m so sorry for all of this. Please charge any costs for the damage to room 305.” That was Corday’s room, and it was the least she deserved.

  The manager sniffed. “I’ll do that.”

  I turned Mal, now looking thoroughly dejected, toward the elevators. We got into the first one to open, and I pushed the button for three. The door closed….

  “Perfect!” Patricia said brightly from where she was standing back in the corner. “Well done, Mal, that was more than enough time to get a card for you two. I also shut down this camera and the cameras on the third floor, so you shouldn’t have to worry about being observed.” As the elevator began to move, she quickly stripped out of her hotel uniform and was back into her colorful dress before we stopped again.

  “For you,” she said, patting her hair as she handed me the keycard. “Try to be fast, all right? I’ll keep watch outside.”

  “Why bother, if you’ve got the tracker on her?” Mal asked as we stepped into the hallway. I handed him a pair of latex gloves, then pulled my own on.

  Patricia shook her head. “Relying too much on technology is a weakness. I’d rather be able to see her arrive in person than find out too late that she’s found a way to evade my bug.” She reached over and pushed the button for the bottom floor. “Good luck, gentlemen! I’ll be listening.” She tapped her ear just as the doors closed.

  I looked at Mal, who despite the smell of gin on his clothes seemed sober. “How’d you get rid of the drinks?” I asked.

  “Sloshing,” he said with a little smile. “Inveterate sloshing. I’m absolutely fine, I promise.”

  “Good.” I held up the keycard. “Because it’s about to get interesting. Stay behind me, and don’t touch anything that I don’t handle first, okay? We don’t know whether or not this woman left behind any booby traps, but I wouldn’t put anything past her yet.”

  Mal nodded, his smile vanishing under seriousness. “I understand.”

  “Good.” I led the way to room 305, inserted the keycard, and waited. A second later, we had a green light and a gentle click.

  I opened the door slowly, feeling along the crack for any wires or strings. Mildly reassured when I didn’t find any, I stepped inside, making room for Mal behind me. “Nice place,” I commented. And it was—the short entryway let out into a large sitting room, with a white leather couch and recliner, a glass-topped coffee table with matching end tables, and a huge flat screen. Lace-covered, french-style doors led out to a small balcony.

  “You have to hand it to the French. They know how to decorate,” Mal commented.

  “Sure, if you like cleaning with bleach.” I moved warily into the room, feeling for soft spots under my feet or tripwires on the floor. “Well, if it’s here it’s probably not going to be in plain sight. Let’s start with the couch.”

  We worked methodically, me starting on each new piece of furniture before surrendering its components to Mal for another check as I moved on. Ten minutes was enough to assure me that the only thing hiding in this room was a used condom in the seat cushions of the couch.

  Mal watched me put it back with distaste. “Oh, must you? Can’t we just throw it away?”

  I shook my head. “She might check the trash. And there’s no way I’m carrying it out of here, so unless you want to flush it, it stays.”

  “That is disgusting.”

  “It really is,” Patricia said over our connection.

  “People are disgusting,” I said. “Especially when they’re trying to hide things.” I stood up and resisted the urge to brush my gloved hands off on my jeans. “Let’s move on to the bedroom.”

  “Oh good,” Mal murmured, putting one hand on the arm of the couch and using it to push up. “Because I can’t imagine we’ll find any more used condoms in the place where they’re actually more likely to be u—”

  A second after his hand left the couch, a hole appeared in the leather, the edges of it crisped brown. I reacted before my brain even registered the crash of broken glass—like Mal’s glass on the marble floor, times a hundred—threw my arms around Mal and hurled myself backwar
d, until we were out of sight of whoever was shooting at us through the balcony doors.

  We landed hard on the carpet, halfway between the sitting room and the bedroom. I pushed up onto one elbow, ignoring the sudden pain in my shoulder, and pulled my gun. “Patricia, we’re being shot at,” I snarled into my mic. “Where the fuck is this coming from?”

  “It has to be from the fort, if it’s getting in on the north side like that,” she said, sounding out of breath. “I’m heading in that direction now, but it’s going to take me some time to get over there unless I jump in and swim to it. Listen, I’ll handle it, you two just concentrate on holding steady until—oh, shit!”

  “What ‘oh shit’?” I demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Corday is heading your way.”

  Oh. Shit.

  Beneath me, Mal coughed as he regained his wind. I’d knocked the hell out of him. I put my free hand on his shoulder, irritated to see how it shook. “They won’t let her up, though. The hotel must be in the process of evacuating, right?”

  “Wrong,” Patricia said tensely. “I barely heard that glass breaking down here on the street, and the gunshot was muffled. Worst-case scenario, management just thinks that Mal is being clumsy again.”

  And now the glass was broken, so the sniper would be able to fire into the room with even less noise. We couldn’t call the police, either—the last thing we needed was to bring a bunch of outsiders in with questions we couldn’t answer. “You need to stop Corday.”

  “I need to stop her damn partner,” she replied. “You can handle Corday, but you won’t be able to leave that room if bullets are still flying.”

  She had a point, but I hated the thought of her going after the sniper on her own, especially one that could fire with this kind of accuracy at a distance of… it had to be close to a thousand feet. “Be careful.”

  “You too. I’ll let you know what I find. Going silent for now, but I’ll know if you sound the alarm.” She tapped her earpiece twice for good measure, a muted thump-thump, and then we were alone.