Page 61 of Circle of Death
Maddy looks down at the console. Needles are bouncing and new coordinates pop up on a blurry printout.
“It’s them,” says Burbank. “Lamont and Margo.”
Maddy grabs the arm of his chair and shakes it. “What’s going on? Did something change?”
Burbank leans forward and checks his readings. “I can tell you three things,” he says softly. “They’re alive. They’re excited. And they’re in Paris.”
CHAPTER 72
IT TAKES A lot to impress Margo. But I can tell that she’s dazzled tonight. There’s no way she can hide it.
“Wow!” she says, “I’ve never seen Paris like this!”
Neither have I.
Spring of 1937. That was the last time Margo and I were here. Back then, the Eiffel Tower was the tallest structure for miles. Not anymore. The restaurant we’re sitting in is perched at the top of a 110-story skyscraper. At this very moment, we’re actually lookingdownat the famous Eiffel spire. From here, the whole tower looks like a shiny toy.
The dining room is a large circle, with clear glass panels up to waist level all around. Above the panels, the sides are totally open to the air. Overhead, there’s a clear glass canopy with a beautiful view of the night sky. It feels like we’re floating.
Paris is more beautiful than ever. But it can’t hold a candle to my date, especially in what she’s wearing tonight.
When we got back to our room after our meeting in the garden room, our evening wear was already hanging in the wardrobe. For me, a perfectly fitted tux. For Margo, a strapless white gown with lace trim. Stunning. Like something she might have picked out herself in the Triangle d’Or. Same for the high heels and beaded clutch. And the elegant diamond necklace. The ride from the villa was luxurious, too—in a vintage 1990s stretch limo. Another truly guilty pleasure.
I lean across the table and put my hand over Margo’s. “I’ll deny I ever said this. But the Destroyer of Worlds has excellent taste.”
Margo adjusts her lacy bodice. “Sure beats a jumpsuit.”
Out of nowhere, a waiter appears at our table.“Madame et monsieur, bonsoir.”
He’s slim and elegant, with his dark hair combed straight back from his Gallic face. “Welcome to Ciel. Tonight the chef is preparing for you a special tasting menu. Nine courses, with wine pairings.” His English is as smooth as his French.
“Nine courses?” says Margo. “I’ll burst a seam.”
The waiter smiles.“Pas du tout, Madame.” Small plates.He gives us a slight bow and backs off as a stately sommelier approaches, cradling a bottle in his hands. He presents it like a small treasure. Which it is. “Chateau Lafite Bordeaux. 1937. A spectacular vintage. Compliments of the house.”
1937. Nice touch.
He pours a small amount into my glass. I hold the base against the tablecloth and swirl for a good twenty seconds. No rush. A wine this mature deserves a little extra time to wake up.
I raise the glass to my lips and take a small sip, letting it roll around my tongue before I swallow. My eyes go wide. I look at Margo. “He’s right. It’s fantastic.”
The sommelier pours for both of us and leaves the bottle on the table. Margo picks up her glass and sniffs. “You don’t think she’d try to poison us, do you?”
“We’re perfectly safe.”
“How do you know?”
“I never told you? It’s an aftereffect of cryogenic suspension. The chemicals that kept us alive for all those years included some serious antitoxins.” I lift my glass for a little pronouncement. “We are fully and permanently inoculated against ingested poison.”
“Well, then,” Margo clinks her glass against mine, “here’s to one less way to die.” She takes a sip then closes her eyes in bliss. “Oh, Lamont. That’sincredible.”
The wine warms and relaxes me. I almost forget that we’re here as the guests of the most despicable human being on the planet. Obviously, she has her reasons for keeping us alive for at least a little while longer. Which buys me some time to figure out our next move. But for right now, I’m trying to just sit back and savor the company of my beautiful wife. As long as we’re together, everything feels right. Always has.
Every table in the room is full. Our fellow diners are spaced around the perimeter—far enough apart that I can’t hear conversations, just accents. From where I’m sitting, I’m picking up French, Spanish, Russian, maybe Greek.
Two tables away, a man with a lined face and upswept silver hair shares a table with a woman in a spectacular blue dress. She looks young enough to be his daughter. If it weren’t for Margo, she’d be the most beautiful woman in the room. Margo snaps her fingers in front of my face. Caught me looking.
“Lamont! Eyes front. What’s the plan? Are we actually going back to the villa tonight? I’m telling you right now, there’s no way I’m letting you meet with that killer on your own. She’s a man-eater. Among other things.”
