Page 24 of The Eagle (Spy Girl 2)
"He's purchasing a ticket," Terrance says into my ear. "Hang on. I'm hacked into the airline's database. Okay. He's going to Lyon."
"Which is a major train hub," I reply. "That's smart. From there he could go anywhere."
"Wait, shit," Terrance says.
"What?"
"Olivia--I mean, Plague--just found a passport photo for a man whose facial recognition has a ninety-two percent match. That man is flying to Nice. And get this, the flights depart just five minutes apart from adjacent gates."
"Is Ari going to make it here?"
"No, he got held up with the police. You're on your own."
"Buy me tickets for both flights. Huntley goes to Nice. Businesswoman goes to Lyon. How much time do I have?"
"The first one starts boarding in fifteen minutes."
"Merda," I curse as I run to the self checkin, scan the business woman's passport, check in with no bags for the flight, and then go through security. The only problem is I need to go through security as Huntley, too.
"Wait. Did he go through security twice? As two different people?" I ask Terrance.
"No, he didn't--wait. He's headed out the security exit. Hang on. He's in the restroom. Is he doing what you just did? Changing the way he looks?"
"Probably."
"Terrance, have you been watching to see if anyone else is following him? Have you seen any sign of surveillance?"
"No, we haven't."
"Me neither," I reply as the assassin comes out of the restroom wearing a different shirt, a more casual hairstyle, and minus the glasses.
"Terrance, we're going to have to make a call. Will he go to Nice or Lyon?"
"Lyon," Terrance guesses.
"Which flight leaves first?"
"Nice."
"Then that's where he's going. He'll be the last man on the plane. I have to hurry." I run to the nearest bathroom, change into a designer dress that makes me look like a princess, topping it with an expensive leather embroidered bomber jacket and high heels. I remove the contacts, quickly apply makeup, and fill a clutch with a few essentials.
An announcement informs me that the flight to Nice is now boarding, so I make my way through security then breeze on the plane, never even looking in the assassin's direction.
Once Ari gets checked into a five-star hotel, he gets updated by Terrance on the situation with Huntley. He wishes he could go help her, but the police requested he stay in town until tomorrow in case they need him for further questioning. And his hightailing it to the airport, playing Ares Von Allister or not, would have been deemed suspicious.
He changes clothes, tossing his blood-soaked ones away, and has a driver take him back to the car--and more importantly to his backpack filled with potential clues.
I sip on champagne and take selfies to kill time as the other passengers board. Once the plane is mostly full, save for a single first class seat in the aisle next to mine, final boarding is called.
I'm starting to get nervous. If I chose the wrong plane, we're screwed.
One of the flight attendants holds out a tabloid, which has side-by-side photos of me on it--one where I'm dancing with Lorenzo at the Queen's Ball and the other holding hands with Daniel at the President's swearing in. "Will you sign this?" she asks discreetly just as the assassin slips into the empty seat.
"But of course," I say in French, then sign Huntley Von Allister across the front, adding a heart over the I.
"Merci beaucoup," she says then turns to the assassin. "Monsieur Durand, may I offer you a glass of champagne?" I note he's using a very common surname, the equivalent to a Smith.
He starts to wave the attendant away, but then glances at me. "Actually, I will have a glass. It's not often I am so lucky to be seated by such a beautiful woman."
It's not so often I'm lucky enough to be seated next to the world's most deadly assassin.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Concierge: Designer Marcus Latrobe confirms your appointment. He will greet you upon arrival and take you to lunch at his club, where he will sketch designs for you.
"What brings you to Nice?" the assassin asks me. "You missed the Cannes Film Festival."
"I'm meeting a Parisian-based designer in Cannes. He's going to design a few gowns for me."
"Are you famous? Should I know you? You speak perfect French but look American."
"I am American. Do you speak English?" He nods. I roll my eyes and switch to English. "I'm really not famous. I've just been in the press lately due to dating a few high profile men."
"Such as?"
"Daniel Spear."
"The Olympic athlete?"
"And now the President's son. I usually fly charter, but when I got the call from the designer today, I had just enough time to get to the airport and get on this flight. Thankfully it's a quick flight, and I did not have to endure coach."
"Who is the other high profile man you date?" he asks.
"Well, we're more friends now, since the whole kidnapping thing."
"That's why you look familiar." He points his finger toward me. "You're the girl who was kidnapped with the Prince of Montrovia and refused to be interviewed by the press."
"I would prefer to forget the incident," I state, tightly closing my eyes and shuddering. "People were shot in front of me. While I'm grateful to have been rescued, part of me would have rather been fed to the sharks than to have witnessed such gruesomeness. There is no way I could ever speak of it to the press. The British agent was good at his job, that's all I will say."
"Before the incident, there were rumors you would become the next Princess."
I frown. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," he says sincerely.
"No, it's okay. The Prince--I mean, the King--seems to have taken the ordeal in stride. I have not. And the Prince's cousin who was killed was a friend of mine who had just gotten engaged. Her sister, Clarice, was so distraught, she relinquished her crown and moved back to France.
I study his face for any reaction to Clarice's name.
There is none, whatsoever.
I can see why he has the reputation he does. He is very calm and collected for someone who just committed two high-profile murders.
We talk through the entire flight, pausing only to listen to the announcements. The assassin known as The Priest tells me his name is Henri and that he's a retired real estate investor who moved to Cannes and took up selling local real estate to keep himself out of trouble. He even produces a business card with his full name, Henri Durand.
"My brother and I were considering a purchase on the French Riviera, maybe I'll call you next time we are in town."
When we land, I get a text.
Marcus Latrobe: My dearest Huntley, I regret to inform you that a small fire broke out in my Paris studio, and I will be unable to meet you this afternoon as I must deal with the authorities and the laborers who were treated for smoke inhalation. My driver will pick you up as planned but I will not arrive until later this evening. Please accept my deepest apologies. We have lunch reservations at Les Bourges, and I suggest you go without me. It takes most people up to a year to even get a reservation and their food is quite divine. Because I am a founding member, you will be allowed access in my absence. Please enjoy yourself.
Me: I completely understand and will see you when you arrive. I'm looking forward to it and appreciate you taking time during your holiday to meet with me. And I will definitely keep the reservation.
The assassin politely gestures for me to deplane ahead of him, and it goes against all my training to allow a man of his talent to follow me.
When I get to the terminal, I stop right in front of him and mutter, "Merda."
"What's wrong?" he asks.
I hold up my phone and roll my eyes. "I rush here on a moment's notice. I don't even have a change of clothing with me and now the designer is delayed. And he says I should go to some private club called Les Bourges by myself for lunch."
"You are unco
mfortable dining alone?"
"No, not at all. I'm just"--I pout--"disappointed."
"It just so happens that I am also a member of the Les Bourges club."
"You are? Is it really that good? Am I going to look stupid being there alone? You know what, I'll just go shopping to kill the time. It was nice meeting you."
Then I turn my back on him and make my way out of the airport where I greet the driver holding a sign with my name on it. As the driver leads me to a car that's idling at the curb, I fight the urge to turn around to see where the assassin is. I know he's behind me, though. I can still feel his presence.
As I'm sliding into the backseat, his hand stops the door from closing. I may look like a rich girl whose biggest care in the world is lunch, but that doesn't mean inside I'm not ready to strike at any moment. And I am fully prepared.
But I want to kill him in his home.
I want him to feel violated.
His safe haven no more.
I want him down on his knees.
Begging for his life.
"Miss Von Allister, would you like a lunch companion? It seems my afternoon appointment was cancelled, as well. I can show you around the club."
He's living in plain sight just like me, I think. Deep cover but not hiding.
And I know I'm playing a very dangerous game.
I remind myself of my mission. Find out who hired him. Then kill him.
This isn't at all how I imagined things would go down when I came face-to-face with him again. My plan was to do what I was taught--alter my looks, my gait, my posture, pretend to be different people, and simply let him lead me home.
Instead, I offer him a ride.
The assassin's car is at the airport, so he declines my offer and meets me there.
The Les Bourges Club, which translated means upper crust, doesn't look like much from the outside. An old wooden door set in the middle of an orange stucco building is sandwiched by a tailor and a leather goods store a couple blocks from the harbor. There is no sign denoting the entrance, just gold numbers above the door. I step into an entry with worn wooden floors. A hostess greets me by name and says, "This way, please." She leads me down the hall past the dining room, where fashionably dressed people are crammed together at little tables, and to another wooden door. She opens it, waves her hand toward a set of stairs, and says, "Enjoy."
I glance upward, wondering what is awaiting me at the top. I am weaponless and in a horrible tactical position, totally exposed. If The Priest has any inkling that I am after him, he would be smart to meet me here. To send me up these stairs. I'd be easy to pick off.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that Huntley would love this place. And I will admit, I'd love to explore it with someone other than The Priest.
I clump up the stairs in my heels, announcing my presence, but gripping my bag tightly in my hand. With the metal spikes that adorn it, it could do some damage in a pinch.
