Chapter 31

Belgium

2:30 pm GMT, 4:30 pm Local

Monica kept her head against the window, pretending to sleep, keeping one eye open just a sliver. The two uniformed officers were walking up the aisle slowly, studying each passenger one by one, paying close attention to the women and totally disregarding the men. Every second they inched a bit closer to where she was seated, trapped against the window. Could the call she’d made to her sister have been traced that fast, and Interpol or some other law enforcement agency had determined she was on this train?

They stopped, spoke briefly with a woman whose hair was tied loosely in a kerchief. After asking a few questions they deduced this was not the person they were looking for. They moved on, ignoring the man seated behind her. Then they glanced across the aisle at a young red-haired girl who looked too young to be the mother of the child sitting beside her. They addressed her in French, the young woman answering with a noncommittal shrug as the little boy playfully reached for the nearest policeman’s gun. In a flash the officer had it out of its holster and aimed point-blank at the little boy’s head. From the look on the officer’s face Monica could tell this was not a drill.

“Tu viens avec nous,” the policeman with the gun commanded the young woman. His partner said something to him, but the policeman vehemently shook his head. Using his weapon as an extended finger he motioned for the woman to stand up. She started to grab her boy and the policeman said, “Oui, amenez-le aussi” as he indicated for them both to move out into the aisle.

Confused by all the commotion, the little boy started to cry, and the policeman yelled at him to shut up. Then he led them both up the aisle and through the door into the next car.

Monica exhaled long and slow, realizing the police had not been there to arrest her. They had to be working an entirely different case altogether, possibly a domestic spat, the red-haired woman maybe snatching her son and trying to make a run for it. She settled back against the window and inhaled several deep, relaxing breaths designed to slow her heart and take the edge off her anxiety. Pranayama. The gentle vibration of the glass melded with the pulsing of her heart, and she began to feel a sense of control as she let the past—distant and recent—slip away.

Three cars forward, Phythian sensed Monica freeze at the abrupt appearance of the two policemen. A quick mental scan of their brains, however, told him it had nothing to do with her, and the red-haired woman they’d apprehended was wanted in connection with an illegal baby-adoption ring in Ghent. He continued to be impressed with Monica’s endurance and fortitude; rarely had he encountered a person—target or otherwise—who possessed the ability to sense danger and make flash decisions that would avert trouble. Certainly, he had helped her out in Frankfurt when she was most in need of a mental nudge, but mostly she had proven herself cool and nimble when pushed to the brink.

Yes, she had made a blunder by calling her sister in New York, but not for the reason she believed. Whether the conversation was being monitored or not, the real threat likely lay in the phone the attaché named Walker had given to her, the one into which a call monitoring app and GPS tracker had probably been installed.

Other than his late-night visit to Le Serrurier, which he knew would raise a red flag, Phythian had managed to remain under the G3’s radar. The locksmith’s call to The Chairman would reveal his interest in Monica Cross and, likewise, that he was headed to Frankfurt. This had given them time to figure out his intention and his motivation, and then come after him. Which they had done.

So depressingly predictable.

Six years ago Phythian had made a clean break. Not even Le Serrurier knew where he now called home, and he was determined to keep it that way. But when he’d returned to Utuliva after killing the Russian podonok who was set on bagging one of nature’s most magnificent creatures, he’d learned of the discovery of the wrecked plane. He’d barely slept that night, assessing how the Greenwich Global Group would deal with the reality that their plot to blow up the Beechcraft King Air had failed. It had not fallen in pieces into the Mediterranean, all the passengers had died from gunshots to the head, Phythian was likely alive, and the Equinox drive was missing. A worst-case scenario, and they would not stand down until they dealt with the wayward photographer who had discovered the wreckage and, in their collective mind, possibly knew secrets she should not have known. Theirs would be a blunt-force approach, particularly if they even remotely believed Monica Cross had the device in her possession. Possession was nine-tenths of the law, and execution was the last.

In his previous life, none of that would have mattered. He’d lost count of how many lives he’d taken during his years in the employ of the Greenwich Global Group, and his conscience had further hardened with each successful assignment, like wood petrifying over the eons. Every death had separated him from his own vijñāna, as a Buddhist monk in Thailand had once defined it. At some point along the way, he’d become indifferent to the pain and suffering he’d brought upon his victims.

Utuliva had changed all that. There, the light and grace of the universe fell upon the Serengeti every morning, and expanded in all its grandeur until the stars and distant galaxies filled the heavens at night. Call it the work of nature or the Supreme Being, the sheer beauty of life began to flow back into Phythian’s world, drop by drop. This was the same way the African rains began with a trickle from the sky each winter, and continued until the plains were soaked and the rivers ran full and the animals came from miles around for the annual rite of renewal.

When he had learned about the photographer named Monica Cross who had stumbled upon the wreckage in Pakistan, he knew what awaited her. The G3 would make absolutely certain she did not make it home to the states. The mere fact that she had seen the inside of the plane, let alone stumbled on the empty Faraday case that had contained the Equinox drive, was enough reason to sentence her to death.

And she didn’t have a clue.

Monica’s train pulled into Bruxelles-Midi/Brussel-Zuid station in the center of the city right on time. Her travel map told her the airport was only eleven kilometers away, and she’d developed a plan she believed might get her on a plane and out of the country before computer algorithms even knew she was gone.

But the phone call with her sister had really spooked her, as had the two police officers who had escorted the red-haired woman and the boy off the train in Liege. Plus, she remained rattled by the sight of Erich Rohm’s body in the cramped restroom, blood and brains on the floor and walls. She was convinced he’d been on board the train because of her, although she did not know how or why.

She also knew she’d stayed alive this far because she’d made decisions that didn’t fit into the character of a helpless woman who somehow had stumbled into an international incident. Some of her success of the last few days had been dealt by the hand of fate, but others occurred because she’d made deliberate choices along the way. She sure as hell wasn’t about to stop now, even though her ticket told her Brussels was the end of the line.

Three cars forward, Phythian remained impressed with her headstrong impulse. What she did not know was that two independent hitmen were waiting in the shadows of Platform 5, as well as a back-up operative at the top of the escalator, standing by just in case. All of them American, all on temporary loan from their respective acronym employers. Word of Monica Cross’ elusive nature had spread through the ranks, and no one was taking any chances.

The final stop for this train was the French town of Calais, the European port of entry for the Chunnel that ran beneath the English Channel and connected the continent with the U.K. A quick check on her phone told her the trip from there to London would be leaving just eight minutes after this one was scheduled to pull in. That would be calling it close, considering she’d have to navigate her way through yet another railway terminal and purchase another ticket with cash. No way was she going to make the mistake of using her credit card, giving them yet another way to track her movements.

Her plan also involved making one more phone call, but she didn’t dare use her cell. No telling what sort of software the American embassy might have installed on it to track her movements. Brian Walker had mentioned contacting a man named Cliff Broward if she ran into trouble in London, but she had no intention of doing so. Instead, she dug through her pocket and pulled out the embossed card Fiona Cassidy had handed her on the plane in Islamabad.

Monica never thought she’d have reason to actually look her up, certainly not this soon. But after all she’d been through, she realized she needed a friend and, possibly, a secure place to crash for the night. Given the hour she’d be arriving in London, she’d be faced with renting a hotel room, which might prove difficult if she didn’t use her credit card. And she had almost hit her daily limit on ATM cash withdrawals. Since Fiona was a travel agent, maybe she could offer some professional advice, or arrange a place to stay at a company discount.

Monica was positioned next to the window, and no one was seated next to her. But across the aisle was a young man with a shaved head and tattooed neck, a ring through his nose, studs the size of nickels inserted in holes in his ear lobes. He’d attempted polite conversation earlier, speaking English but with a continental accent, then spent an hour playing video games on his phone. Now he was reading a graphic novel, and he’d stuffed the mobile device into one of the many zippered pockets of his oversized trousers.

She put on her nicest smile and leaned across the seat beside her, attracting his attention with a wave of her hand. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but would it be at all possible to borrow your phone a minute?”

Tattoo looked up, and she realized how green his eyes were. They almost matched the lizard scales inked on his skin. “My phone?” he repeated.

“I know it’s an imposition, but mine installed an update earlier and now I can’t make any calls. It would be quick—”

“No problem,” the kid replied. He was ten years younger than she was, almost a child, not a likely candidate for Interpol agent or CIA ringer. He dug the phone out and handed it across the aisle to her. “Don’t worry about the charges…it’s on my parents’ bill.”

“Thank you,” she told him. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“No problem,” he said again with a disinterested shrug, then went back to his book.

Monica punched in the number on the business card, hoping she got the international codes right—not something Americans tend to worry about, but a big thing in Europe. She waited, and then a few seconds later she heard the call clicking through.

“Britannia Travel and Leisure…this is Fiona,” a tired voice announced on the other end, and instantly Monica felt a tsunami of relief flow through her.