Chapter 20

Frankfurt, Germany

10:52 am GMT, 12:52 pm Local

The night was black and cold. Monica Cross crouched low behind a garbage dumpster, hiding from the man with one eye. He’d been chasing her for what seemed like hours, but in just the last few minutes she seemed to have finally eluded him. He was gone and she was free, and she could go home.

Then, almost out of nowhere, a young girl called to her from the kitchen window behind her. It was her daughter, the one she and Phillip would never have. The girl had her face pressed to the glass and was about to blow her cover. Monica motioned for her to hush when someone grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Mom…mom…you’ll have to butcher seal pups.”

Damn: they’d caught up with her at last.

Then her eyes flickered open and she woke up.

“Ma’am, ma’am…you’ll have to put your seat up,” the flight attendant repeated, releasing her hold on Monica’s arm. “We’re about to land.”

Monica glanced around the cabin and couldn’t help giggle as a wave of relief washed away the fear. The last thing she remembered was her refill of Bordeaux an hour after lifting off from Istanbul, before she curled up against the window and drifted off to sleep.

“Frankfurt?” she asked, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” the flight attendant confirmed with a smile. “Your seat back, please—”

Monica nodded and pressed the button. Immediately the seat lurched forward, and she realized her ribs didn’t feel quite as bad as they had when she’d left the hospital. Maybe she was on the mend. Maybe it was the wine. And maybe today would be better than yesterday.

Then she remembered the little girl in her dream and felt that same familiar veil of grief descend on her, like a blanket enfolding her on a cold night; remembering the plans she and Phillip had spent hours talking about—a girl and a boy, a house with a yard and a treehouse, schools and family vacations. But all of that came to an abrupt end that night right after Christmas, with a single phone call from an officer with the New York State Police.

“Mrs. Cross…this is Captain Jay Utley…there’s been an accident…terribly sorry.”

Even now she could hear his voice ringing in her brain, and she physically shook her head to make it go away.

This morning she was sitting on the aisle, which gave her no view of the city below, no sense of altitude, no reference point to gauge how long before the plane touched down. With all the chaos back at the airport in Islamabad she hadn’t realized her layover in Istanbul was almost four hours, and she’d endured a long line at customs before being waved through. The entire time she was in the terminal she’d kept her eyes open for any sign of trouble. In her mind she was a target, and everyone was a suspect. But no one was paying any special attention to this woman dressed in the brightly colored shalwar qamiz, no one coming at her with a deadly needle or a knife or a gun.

Now, as she waited for the thump of wheels on the tarmac, she pulled the dupatta from her hair and realized her make-up was running from nervous anticipation. She considered making a mad dash for the rest room, as if she were going to be sick. At least there was water and soap in there, and she could do a passable job on her appearance. But at that moment the landing gear thudded into place and Monica knew she’d have to wait out the descent and find an airport lavatory as quickly as possible after she got off the plane. She wiped what makeup she could from her cheeks and eyes, then wrapped the dupatta around her hair again and drew the edges close to her face—just in case someone was in the terminal waiting for her.

The Airbus touched down forty seconds later. As the brakes squealed and the engines reversed, Monica sensed a sudden release of tension throughout the plane, followed by a swell of impatience as the aircraft taxied from the runway to the gate. Passengers grew restless with the slow pace, passing the time by unbuckling their seatbelts and dragging their carry-ons from under the seats in front of them. The senior flight attendant came over the P.A. system and told them to stay put and be patient, as the plane would be moving for a couple minutes yet.

An eternity later the lumbering aircraft pulled up to the jetway and a bell chimed. The weary international travelers jumped to their feet en masse, yanking bags from the overhead compartments, eager to get out of the flying sardine tin. Monica waited until all the others had disembarked, then edged out of her seat.

“Have a wonderful stay in Frankfurt, or wherever your travels take you,” the flight attendant at the front of the aisle said in both German and English.

Monica flashed her a smile as she left the plane and slowly made her way up the ramp into the international terminal. It was a massive structure designed in the post-Bauhaus style of concrete, steel, and glass, and seemed the size of a small city. Just to the left of the gate she located the departure screens and smiled giddily when she saw the words “on time” next to her flight number. She had just over two hours to make the connection, which gave her more than enough time to scrub her face, change out of the shalwar qamiz, and wind her way through passport control.

She scanned both sides of the long corridor, finally found what she was looking for: a door with a universal sign showing a stick figure wearing a skirt. She started to follow several other women inside, then noticed a separate doorway with a picture of a unisex person changing a baby. Even better.

The room was empty and held a toilet, sink, and a fold-down table for dealing with soiled diapers and wipes. Monica peeled the grimy dupatta from her head and dumped it in the trash bin, then turned on the tap and started scrubbing her eyes and cheeks. Once she was rid of the makeup, she straightened out the jeans and shirt she had pulled on early yesterday morning. She would have liked to put on some new underwear and a clean bra, but those would have to wait until she got home to New York.

Damn, that sounded good…New York City.

Home.

At that moment the door opened and a woman slipped inside. “Oh…excuse me,” she announced as she entered. In English, with a thick accent that seemed decidedly more French than German. “I didn’t know this room was occupied.”

“Come on in,” Monica replied. “I’m just tidying up.”

“Thank you so much,” the woman said. “I just had the most dreadful flight.”

She appeared to be in her forties, athletic build, with a rugged yet handsome face. White skirt and green blouse, a leather belt cinched around her waist. Her mushroom blonde hair, almost silver, was bunched up in a messy bun, a wooden peg driven through it to hold it in place.

Monica gave her face another careful glance in the mirror, gently rubbing a finger on the skin under her right eye. The swelling seemed to have gone down, as had the bruising. Satisfied, she turned to go and pulled on the door handle, but it wouldn’t open.

“I locked it,” the woman said in a voice as cold as the Arctic tundra. She was letting her hair down, combing out the tangles with her fingers, holding the wooden peg between her teeth as a snarl formed on her lips.

“Locked it?” Monica asked. “Why?”

“So you can be a good girl and we can get this over with.”

She took the peg from between her teeth and removed what appeared to be a small plastic cap on the end. Monica only caught a glimpse, but that was more than enough time to notice a sharp point no larger than a thumb tack protruding from one end. Prior to yesterday her first reaction would have been to freeze like a squirrel in the middle of the street, but she’d learned a lot about herself since her encounter with the rebels on the mountain trail.

“Bitch,” she seethed as she instinctively let loose with her foot, aiming at the wooden peg. A spasm shot through her ribs, and her ankle screamed in torment.

The unexpected response surprised the woman, who had been assured her target was disabled from the injuries suffered in her fall. She yelped as Monica’s foot missed the needle but caught her wrist. Monica heard something snap, and the peg went flying across the room.

“Motherfucker,” the woman wailed in anger and pain. “You’re dead.”

Monica lunged toward the wooden peg on the floor, but her opponent grabbed her good ankle and brought her down with a resounding crunch. She wrapped the crook of her elbow around Monica’s neck and began to squeeze, the constricting pain almost too much for her to bear.

“I should’ve killed you...the second I came in,” the woman grunted as she pressed Monica’s chin down against her chest, while her arms were doubled behind her neck.

Monica squirmed and kicked out with her legs, but the woman was too strong and experienced to get tangled in a mass of limbs. Running out of air and options, Monica drew her head as far forward against her breast as possible, then snapped it backward with all the force she could muster. The base of her skull caught her assailant squarely in the mouth and caused her to loosen her grip, allowing Monica to slip from her clutches. Blood was pouring from her assailant’s gums, and she attempted to stanch the flow—and the pain—with her hand.

Once more, Monica scrambled for the wooden peg, and this time she was able to wrap her hand around it. She was careful not to stick herself with the sharp point; she was certain it was coated with the same deadly compound that had stricken Brian Walker. At the same moment the woman came rushing straight at her, head lowered, weight thrown into her attack like a bull charging through the streets of Pamplona. All Monica could do was slide low to the floor and allow the woman to crash headlong into the unforgiving wall.

The room shuddered with a resounding thud. Monica scrambled away, then pivoted back around to face her attacker. “Who the hell are you—?” she snarled.

Her assailant cradled her jaw in her hand, a deadly look of vengeance etched in her face. She closed her eyes, and for a moment Monica thought she might have died. Then they blinked open again, inflamed with rage, and the muscles in her face seemed to tighten, as if preparing for yet another attack.

“You are so going to die, you mother—”

Monica sensed where this was going, but she didn’t have the patience. Rather than wait for the woman to finish her threat, she plunged the needle into her neck. “Nighty-night,” she whispered as the woman’s eyes rolled upwards and she wilted on the hard tile.

Monica slowly rose to her feet, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably as a shot of adrenaline punched through her veins, which helped to dampen the throbbing in her ankle and ribs. Without thinking, she wiped the hair peg on her shirt and deposited it in the trash, then checked her own appearance in the mirror. Not bad, considering. And much better than the dead woman lying just a few feet away.

Satisfied that she didn’t appear to be a major wreck, she turned the knob and stepped as calmly as she could back into the bustling terminal. She limped to the departure screens and brought up the digital boarding pass on her phone one more time, then glanced at the overhead monitor to double-check her departure time.

That’s when her heart sank.

Phythian’s flight from Toulouse touched down eight minutes after Monica’s, and pulled up to the gate at the other end of the enormous Terminal 1.

The G3 had tried but failed to kill Monica Cross while she was in Islamabad. Lacking the resources to set up a follow-up ambush in Istanbul, Frankfurt appeared to be the Greenwich Global Group’s next best hope. He’d learned this from Martin Beaudin, both through normal conversation and threads of information he’d mentally pried from his brain. As he’d expected, the G3’s interest in her stemmed from the disappearance of the hard drive known as Equinox. She’d taken a photograph of the Faraday case, which was empty when investigators found it in the wreckage. Had she removed the device, they wondered, or had it been empty when she’d found it? Her belongings had been searched thoroughly and her phone confiscated while she was in the hospital and, while there was no sign of the device, the fact that she even knew of its existence—let alone its name—was a major threat to global stability. And, more important, to the G3’s very existence.

Subjected to further questioning, Martin Beaudin readily had provided Phythian with Monica Cross’ updated itinerary, which he was able to access from the G3 cloud servers via his laptop. Once Phythian had what he needed, he elected to leave the Frenchman alive, shivering from the Pyrenees chill that was blowing the sheer balcony drapes like the tendrils of a mournful ghost. He also was trembling from the thought of what the G3 would do to him once The Chairman learned of this late-night incursion by an assassin long thought dead.

“Best to strike first,” Phythian had advised him as he stood to go, examining the empty bottle against the dim bulb of a glass lamp with dangly pink crystals that looked as if it had come from a cheap bordello.

Le Serrurier had flashed him a worried look, said, “What does that mean?”

“Give him a call,” he replied. “Tell him you led me into a trap in Frankfurt.”

Beaudin had brightened at the suggestion; not a bad idea. “That might work,” he’d agreed. “For a time, at least.”

“To long life, then,” Phythian had said, toasting his empty glass to the locksmith before disappearing into the night.

Now he pushed his way through the mass of humanity crowding the concourse, past hustling businessmen and tourists and weary parents with whining kids that squealed and threw tantrums on the hard floor. The commotion was enough to drive him mad, and the mental blather only made it worse.

Phythian did his best to tune out the noise as he studied the row of ceiling-mounted video screens. Le Serrurier had confided in him that Monica Cross had a modest layover in Frankfurt before her connecting plane to JFK took off, same terminal and airline as this one. But when he checked the list of “Departures” he saw the notation “Cancelled” next to her flight number.

Cancelled? How could that be? Just before he’d lifted off from Toulouse, he’d checked her itinerary on his phone and saw the plane was expected to leave for New York on time. But that was over two hours ago, and a lot could happen in a short amount of time—especially when the G3 was part of the mix.

The arrival monitor told him that Monica Cross’ plane from Istanbul had already landed. He could sense her now, a couple hundred yards down the long structure, several dozen crowded gates in between them. He attempted to zero-in on her, probe her mind to get a fix on what she was thinking and feeling. He’d been out of the game for years, but it had come back to him quickly when he’d stood below Le Serrurier’s window just a few hours ago in Andorra La Vella and mentally extracted the code to the push-button deadbolt.

Phythian turned away from the departure screen and locked his brain onto hers. She was somewhere down the hallway, in a restroom of sorts. Not your typical ladies’ room, but a place where parents wiped shit off their babies. He felt what she was feeling: intermittent fear, yet an element of relief. Pain yet freedom. Apprehension yet confidence. Peeling off her Pakistani outfit, scrubbing away a layer of hastily applied makeup. (Thank you, Fiona Cassidy.) Using the toilet. (Lousy sheets of TP that feel like wax paper, but they’ll do.)

Then he sensed an unexpected stab, followed by a rough kick. There was a brief moment of silence, followed by a thrust and a reflexive jab.

Someone was attacking her.

Phythian hesitated about half a second, abruptly shifted his cerebral energy from pull to push, the way he’d been taught all those years ago at The Farm. Instead of gently pulling thoughts and feelings from the woman named Monica Cross, he now pressed hard to get her to act. Fight back and attack. Kill or be killed.

She did, as his mind picked up a quick snap that resulted in a nasty crunch, then an instinctive lunge that ended with blood. And death.

The bedlam lasted mere seconds, and in that span of time he’d lost his mental connection. He feared the worst, that maybe Monica had been killed, but a second later he picked it up again, sensed an overwhelming tremor of panic and bone-penetrating dread. She was still alive, despite some kind of horrific fight to the finish. Against a woman, with a clipped French accent. Luxembourg, actually. And then it hit him, just as her last dying thoughts dripped from her parietal, occipital, and temporal lobes: La Duchesse de la Mort. The Duchess of Death. Also known as Simone Marchand, career intelligence operative and—at one time—extraordinary field agent for the Directorate-General for External Security in France. Highly trained in hand-to-hand termination techniques and invaluable in several off-the-books operations, she’d been furloughed following the botched burglary of the hotel room of a Chinese CEO on French soil.

Three months after that monumental blunder, an official within the French Ministry of Defense had wired the G3 five hundred thousand Euros to terminate her. Preferably an automobile accident similar to the one that had been staged in the Pont de l’Alma tunnel in Paris ten years earlier, but considerably lower profile. Instead, a recruiter from the Greenwich Global Group by the name of Diana Petrie confronted her in a car park and offered her a lucrative position. Given no alternative, Marchand had accepted on the spot.

Two days later the contracted vehicle mishap occurred anyway, a single car crash on the Peripherique. The driver behind the wheel died instantly and her body burned beyond recognition. Dental records were involved, bitcoin changed hands, and no one was the wiser.

Fucking Greenwich bastards weren’t taking any chances, Phythian thought now as he sensed Simone Marchand’s brain fade to black. Sending one of their best and deadliest to kill Monica Cross.

And even though they had failed—again, and against all odds—he knew they would not give up until they succeeded.