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TWO MONTHS LATER
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PASCAL MONTOYA, SPORTING a deep tan after six weeks under the sun as he sailed the islands of the Caribbean, a close-cropped beard, and several fresh tattoos, made a last check of his boat and then headed away down the dock.
Guadeloupe was the largest island he had stopped at, and he was a little nervous about being there, but he needed to resupply if he was going to continue his aimless wandering of the world’s waters. Before he resupplied, though, he decided to get himself something to eat. He had skipped lunch because of how close he was to Guadeloupe, and now his stomach was protesting. He hadn’t realised how much work was involved in sailing a boat, especially sailing one single-handed, until he took up the lifestyle. Not that it had been his intention to be living a single life on the seas.
He didn’t have to go far to find something to eat, thankfully. At the end of the marina was a fish market, not very active at that time of the day, and about a hundred yards beyond that, with a good view of the harbour, was a bar, a sign outside of which advertised a variety of local dishes. He had no idea what most of the dishes were, despite having become more familiar with Caribbean food during his recent island-hopping, but he wasn’t bothered by that. He had always been adventurous when it came to food and was willing to try any new dishes he came across.
No sooner had he taken a seat at a table outside the bar, there was a nice view, but he wasn’t concerned about that just then, he was more interested in filling his stomach, when a waitress appeared at his side.
“Welcome to Elizabeth’s, first time here? I’ve not seen you before.”
“Yes, my first time. I’m cruising the islands and stopped off for supplies. I thought I’d get something to eat first, though, what do you recommend?”
“We do the best Porc Colombo on the island,” the waitress said without hesitation.
“I’ll have some of that then,” Pascal said. He didn’t know what the dish was, but he was sure it would be nice. “And a rum, whatever brand you think best.” He preferred wine to spirits, but while in the Caribbean it seemed appropriate to him to sample the various rums on offer.
It didn’t take long for either the rum or the food to arrive, and he was soon enjoying the best meal he had had in several weeks. He was a decent cook, and more than capable of preparing dishes from around the world that would satisfy even locals who grew up with them, but the galley on his boat was small and it limited what he could do.
He was halfway through his meal, and debating with himself whether to see if they did desserts, when someone sat down across from him. Annoyed that someone would be so rude as to join him without an invitation, he looked up, and immediately knew he was in trouble. The man on the other side of the table had the appearance of a businessman, or maybe a banker or lawyer, but Pascal knew instinctively that he was none of those things.
“Pascal Montoya?” the man asked. “Or should I say Rene Dubois? You are Rene Dubois, aren’t you?”
Pascal Montoya, Rene Dubois before he went on the run, sighed and pushed away his plate, his appetite gone. He had known this day was likely to come sooner or later, but he had thought that his precautions would keep it far off in the future.
His first thought was to utter a denial, and his second was to make a run for it. He abandoned both ideas as soon as they occurred to him, however. There was no point in him trying to deny who he was, the man across from him wouldn’t be there if he wasn’t certain he had the right man. Making a run for it was equally pointless, he didn’t need to look around to know that the man was not alone, and that all avenues of escape would have been discreetly blocked while he was waiting for his food.
“Who are you?” Dubois asked.
“Special Agent Ney, Interpol,” the man said, taking out his identity card, though Dubois showed no interest in examining it.
The name was known to Dubois, Ney was considered to be one of the best when it came to surveillance operations and tracking down criminals who were on the run, but he had never thought to look up those who worked in the surveillance department in Paris, and so wouldn’t have known him had he passed him in the street. It was a mistake on his part not to have done so, though it was too late to waste time chastising himself for it.
“How did you find me?” he asked. “I thought I’d covered my tracks.”
“You tried to, but you didn’t do as well as you thought. Your virus was detected almost as soon as it started attacking our system and the safety protocols kicked in, shutting the system down and switching over to the backup. We lost some data, and that caused us some problems, but not as much as you intended, and certainly not enough to stop us finding you.”
“Then what took you so long?” Dubois asked. “If my virus didn’t work,” it annoyed him to think that the time and effort he had spent on arranging the back door into Interpol’s systems, and the virus that was meant to destroy them, had been wasted, “shouldn’t you have found me sooner?”
“I’d say two months is pretty good going, given that you changed identities twice, travelled across Europe by car, used cash at every opportunity, and then disappeared onto the oceans on a boat. Of course, you were made a high priority, so I was given plenty of resources to track you down with.”
“I guess. How did you manage to track me down?”
“There will be plenty of time for us to get into that on the journey home, if you’re really interested,” Ney said. “I trust you’re going to come quietly and not try to resist.”
“Yes,” Dubois said with a nod. He couldn’t see any point in trying to resist when doing so would only make his situation worse, he knew what had happened to Marie, Jean-Paul Renault, and to Philippe Noir, and he had no desire to be shot while trying to escape. “Can I finish my food before we go?” he asked, pulling his plate back towards him.
“You might as well, it’s likely to be a very long time before you get to eat anything as good again.” Ney was glad Dubois showed no sign of causing any trouble, but he didn’t trust the man enough to simply take his word for it that he wasn’t going to try and run. He kept his men where they were, positioned to block any attempt Dubois might make to escape, while he waited for the former agent to finish his food.
Dubois took his time finishing his meal, making it last for as long as he could, knowing that the moment he finished it his freedom would be at an end. He could only make it last for so long, however, and when it was finally done he reluctantly got to his feet and allowed himself to be cuffed and led away.