After thoroughly examining the chocolates sent to Michael, the capable forensic technicians have given us the box, minus the candy. I’m at my favorite spot in the kitchen, turning it over in my hands. Michael is showering after his workout.
Our family has been granted a reprieve of sorts. Because of the latest threat, we’re staying put until the end of February. Brian seems to think we’ll get this all resolved one way or another by then. I can’t see how.
Nor can we stay under lock and key. We’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. My son has warned me that if he’s not allowed outside in the near future, he will wreak all sorts of havoc. I believe him. We’re all going stir-crazy.
Brian is at the office. Charlie is traveling, though I’m not sure where. Simon is back in Brussels. He’s lobbied to be included as part of the newly reopened investigation into Kemp’s whereabouts. No doubt he’s off doing whatever secret things he does to get information. I’m the only one who lacks standing. I can’t help; I can only brood.
My husband has bought me a white board and an easel.
“Sketch it all out, Suzie. You’re trained at problem-solving. So is Michael. Maybe together you’ll see connections we don’t.”
The board lays unwrapped next to the folded stand. Brian means well, but I’m not just an engineer. I’m also an aggrieved wife and mother. I need to talk and to be heard. Michael has volunteered to be my sounding board.
The package is from a shipping company named Monachus. The person answering the phone at the Melbourne office didn’t recall sending it. She also claimed never to have met the boss. Charlie might well have gone to Australia posing as a potential client to see if he can shake loose more information. The thought brings me some comfort, but not enough.
Someone named Johan Krüger has bought the assets and debt of a shipping company formerly owned by Francesco Guzman. Who in turn seems to have disappeared following an incident involving a dead girl and human cargo on a ship that traveled along routes unique to his company. Since no one can find the vessel, the cargo, or Guzman, it’s a dead-end.
Daniel Guzman, also missing and presumed dead, claimed to be the son of a shipping tycoon. We now know he’s Victor Kemp’s son. If Francesco doesn’t exist, was he Daniel’s invention or Kemp’s? More likely the latter. Krüger is very possibly another doppelganger. It’s too convenient that no one can find any pictures of either of those men.
My mind reluctantly considers the probability that Victor Kemp is behind everything that has happened, even the ill-conceived shootout. Did he survive the boat explosion with physical or intellectual injuries? The genius of using his underworld network to supply a specific and much-needed service points away from a mental defect. No one had the depth of contacts he did, not his mistress and probably not his second son. Kemp is the type who would try to reclaim whatever power he could, albeit secretly.
I run my finger lightly over the smooth olivewood box and across the raised logo. It’s an exquisite piece, carved from a tree native to Southern Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. The Mediterranean monk seal, our Monachus, is on the critically endangered list and is rarely seen. Krüger has a residence in Monaco. If it’s a message from Kemp, it seems extraordinarily heavy-handed. He might as well send a map with arrows pointing to his current hideout. Then again, the man was always fond of taunting his victims.
So: Kemp reinvents himself as Francesco Guzman and decides, perhaps with Luisa’s prodding, to bring his second son Daniel into the new venture. The son then pushes the father to carry a different kind of cargo, one that Kemp has always avoided. Something goes terribly wrong, so wrong that Daniel can see no way to make his way back into his father’s favor except to—
I nearly spill my coffee. It makes sense, given what I’ve sensed about Kemp’s twisted family dynamics. I need to run this all by Brian. As I reach for the phone, it pings. Only four people text me: Michael, Kate, Brian, and Simon. I’ve invited Annie as well, but she is resolutely old-fashioned about using phones only for calls. I put my hand on the device and look around. My son is dressing. My husband is at work. The sun throws a golden patch on the rug. All we need is a cat to complete the illusion of domestic tranquility.
The number is blocked, the message brief.
“I did not kill D. I know who did. We must meet. Time/place 2 follow. VK”
I’m suffocating. The heaviness that pins me to my chair reminds me of my first encounter with Annie. My body burns hot and cold, as if I’ve come into contact with dried ice. You’re not having a heart attack, my rational mind consoles, just another panic attack. The thought brings my breath back.
I drop the phone, which I’ve been gripping tightly enough to break, just as it pings again with a location and a time three days from now. For a long minute, I toy with the idea of leaving my son a note, leaving my husband a message, leaving London altogether to hunt down and destroy the demon who won’t die. Never mind several of the world’s most formidable agencies are once again interested in Victor Kemp. This is my fight, and he is my incubus.
You’re not alone, Brian says in my head. I forgive him for reminding me so often. After all, I’ve made my own decisions without any guidance or support for much of my life. Only I’m not a fifteen-year-old on the street or a twenty-two-year-old determined to avenge her roommate. I’m an adult with responsibilities. My decisions affect other people. If I’ve learned anything over the course of my life, it had better be this.
I pick up the phone, text a quick answer, and call Brian.
~
We hold a meeting in the apartment that evening. Five of us are in attendance: Brian, me, Michael, Simon, and even Charlie. When I ask him where he’s been, he raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t share details.
Kate enters the flat, takes one look at the assembled group, and turns back to the door with Michael trailing her.
“Katie, honey, you can stay.”
“I think I'm better off going out for the evening. I’ll text my cousin Amy. We’ll grab a bite. Probably stay out until late. Not to worry. Dad’s likely got me under surveillance.”
She gives her fiancé a quick kiss on the cheek, waves at our group, and exits.
The rest of us are pretending to snack on the light spread I put out. We’re talking. Actually, we're quarreling. How could we not be? We’re five headstrong adults arguing about the best way to take down a long-sought-after criminal impresario who has negatively impacted all our lives to a greater or lesser degree. Two in the group have ties to a government entity to which they’re expected—no, obligated—to report. One works for an organization that might well insert its own set of protocols for any imposed by New Scotland Yard, Interpol, or MI6. One is a young man whose knowledge of the workings of an operation I’ve proposed is limited. I’d like to keep it that way, but I can’t ask him to leave.
And one is a former contract killer employed and then hunted by the man we’re discussing.
“I don’t care for myself, Charlie,” Brian is saying. “I’m close enough to retirement. But you’ve already run what I’ll call ‘operation Foster’ for years, sometimes with SIS backing and sometimes not. No reason for you to risk your career any further. I’m surprised they haven’t already tossed you out on your can.”
“They can’t, man. I know where all the bodies are buried.” Charlie laughs and claps a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I’m a field agent. I’ve also got a reputation as a loose cannon to preserve. Let me worry about what we share with our superiors and when, okay?”
Simon raises his hand. “I can handle my employers in Brussels. I just have to work it out so they somehow benefit. It’s the price of doing business in the shadows.”
“Don’t suppose I’ve got a bloody chance in hell of going along.” My son has joined our discussion.
“Not to the front lines, cousin, but there’s a fair amount of recon involved. I imagine we can keep you busy.”
Michael brightens.
“We’ll need weapons.” Brian has addressed this remark to Simon and Charlie. The Scotsman clears his throat.
“I don’t know about the ‘we’ part, Brian, old boy. You’re an analyst. You haven’t fired a weapon in I don’t know how long. Don’t recall seeing you practicing in Wales, only Michael and Suzanne.”
“I practiced plenty, Charlie. And let’s not forget, I trained with the best. It’s not as if I’ve lost my edge, what with twenty-five years on the run and ten before that in the thick of things.”
“Hang on, boyo, I didn’t mean—”
“Shut up, all of you.” I manage to silence them from my cross-legged position on the rug. I fold my hands in front of my chest and go still. Simon looks puzzled. He’s about to make a comment, but Brian shoots him a warning glance. Michael looks serious. Charlie studies his feet. I take a slow inhale and an even longer exhale, fifteen seconds at least. Then I focus on the men around me.
“I’ll say this just once, gentlemen. Victor Kemp has summoned me. Only me. Never mind his other crimes over the years. This is personal. As such, it neither is nor needs to be officially sanctioned as far as I’m concerned. I contacted you because I love you, because I trust you to sort things out and back me up, and because I’m neither reckless nor foolish. Be that as it may, I’m going to France, with or without you. Preferably with at least some of you.
I take another breath and continue. “I imagine lines will be crossed once we arrive. If you can cross them, excellent. If you can’t, I suspect I still can, even seven years out of the business. Especially when my family is at risk. And let’s not forget; I’m not at all out of practice. Am I making myself clear?”
My voice is low and measured and perhaps all the more menacing because of it. I’m determined. I’m also human, and the look on my husband’s face pierces my heart.
“Brian, please, you know I have to do this. I have to face down this man. For my sake. For all of our sakes.”
“I know.” His voice is tight.
“For this to work, I ought to have Charlie and Simon with me. I’d prefer you stayed back in London with Michael. We’re going to need to utilize the services of your agency without anyone knowing we’re doing so. That requires a man on the inside.”
The silence is absolute, save for the muted sound of street traffic through the windows. Then Charlie says, “We'll keep her safe, Brian. I swear on my life.”
Brian looks at each of us in turn. He waves a hand, as if shielding himself from further inquiry. “It's fine,” he says.
Late into the night, we formulate a plan. Simon has the means to secure military-grade weapons on the Continent. I request a rifle and a handgun and a few other items. I don’t know what I might need for a showdown with Victor, but I intend to be prepared. Simon and Charlie will leave early in the morning. Simon will meet me in two days in Geneva. He and I will drive to connect with Charlie in the small village outside Nice where Kemp is apparently living and waiting for me.
Meanwhile, Brian and Michael will stay behind. I ask Brian to monitor developments in the hunt for Nancy’s killer. I’m hoping for any leads that will point to Victor or his man Dyukov.
We manage to go about our business for the next day and a half. Brian works from home. Kate does as well. She's unusually subdued. Who can blame her, poor girl? What a family she's marrying into.
I have one evening in the circle of my husband’s arms. The afternoon of day two, I grab a cab for Heathrow and the flight to Geneva. Simon picks me up at the airport in a brand-new Audi. We may be heading into the unknown, but we’re doing it in comfort and style. With a trunk full of guns.
The lobby of the Mövenpick near the airport is crowded with happy tourists itching to try their luck at the hotel casino. Alone in my room, I telephone my family, keeping it brief. Afterward, I have an urge to call Lisette. Her voicemail picks up.
“Hi, darlings. It’s February. I’m somewhere exotic. Don’t you wish you were? Leave a message.”
“It’s Suzanne, Mom. Just checking in.” I have no idea what else to say, so I disconnect. At least someone is having fun, I think. I send off a hasty text to my son. The next call is to my traveling companion. The hotel voicemail picks up.
“Do you mind if I take a pass on dining out, Simon?” I say into the phone. “I’m exhausted. I’ll use room service. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”
I hang up, intending to order something to eat. Instead, I lay back on comfortable European down pillows and fall into a dreamless sleep.