I was about to open a celebratory bottle of Marqués de Murrieta ’93 from the suite’s glass-enclosed wine wall when the text from Ms. Sabel came in. We were to meet her in Lyon as soon as we could get there. I glanced at the giant feather bed with down pillows and weighed sleeping on them against flying an hour away to meet the boss.
It would be a terrible loss, but she would have to get along without me.
Mercury said, Dude, I am two votes away from sparing your life, and you’re thinking of ghosting on a Caesar? She’s the only reason you still breathe.
I said, You mean you don’t keep me alive because you care?
Mercury tossed up his hands. Dawg, we care about you as much as we care about the cockroach that just fell off your balcony. I’m the god of commerce. The Sabels are commerce. You’re … well. Not. Looky here now. You promised to build a shrine and show it to Pia-Caesar-Sabel and Alan-Caesar-Sabel. So none of this slacker bullshit’s gonna fly. Feel me?
I said, Wait—the twelve of you vote on my life? Do I get a chance to speak on my own behalf?
You? Speak to the Dii Concentes? Wreck your chances for sure, bro. I got this. I’m on your side. Trust me.
I closed my eyes in disbelief.
When I opened them again, Emily and Miguel stood in front of me with duffels slung over their shoulders. One of Miguel’s bags clanked as the barrels of assault rifles banged into each other. He unzipped the bag and stuffed a pillow off my bed between the weapons. With a frustrated sigh, I grabbed my duffel, shoved a couple bottles of wine into it, and headed for the front desk.
Miguel went to the valet, leaving me to check out, which should’ve been my first clue. The second clue was the look on the manager’s face when he thanked me profusely—too profusely—and quadruple-checked that we were happy with our stay.
Then I looked at the bill.
Miguel had checked in under my name and my company credit card. The one-night stay exceeded fifteen thousand euros.
“Are you OK, señor?” the manager asked when my ragged gasps subsided.
“Did this suite come with a selection of sex partners I was supposed to choose from?”
“Señor, my apologies. We thought you brought your own.” He nodded at Miguel and Emily, who were climbing into our car out front.
I glanced over the line items. They included the wine I thought I was stealing, Miguel’s pillow, and disposal services of four grand.
Couldn’t argue with that last one. The W’s staff were the consummate Russian-disposers.
I felt a presence and looked into the shiny marble wall behind the manager. The vague reflection of a woman doing the supermodel-catwalk approached from behind. Each foot went down directly in front of the other as if she were on a tightrope. Her hips swiveled with each step in a rhythm that had me hypnotized in three steps.
Mercury tapped my shoulder. You ain’t falling for Sylvia again, homie. We’re not going there.
I heard my voice sounding distant and drugged. Again?
She killed you in the last life. And you killed her in the life before that. And before that she killed you. I think. I lose track. Anyway, that’s why I had it set up for you and Miguel to shoot her when she got out of the limo. Just cut to the chase and spare us both the agonizing drama.
Again, distant and slow: I met her in a past life?
Sylvia, still dressed in red, walked right to me and hooked a finger through a hole in my t-shirt. She read it in a glance: RELAX—A Ranger has arrived. She looked up at me and slowly licked her lips. “You’re leaving town without me?”
“Gotta meet … um.”
“You asked me if I needed a ride.” Her pale blue eyes softened. “Well … I do.”
“I’m going to Lyon.” I crossed my arms and leaned back against the lobby desk, trying to act casual. “Ever been to France?”
“I was born in Bordeaux.”
“That sounds French.” Behind me, I sensed the manager stepping away to give us some privacy.
“I need to be in Monaco, but it seems my ride had … expectations.” A worried look crossed her face. “Could you drop me in Avignon on your way?”
French geography was never my strong suit. But the prospect of spending a couple hours with her had me dreaming up ways I could get Sylvia to her destination and still meet Ms. Sabel on time without losing my job. A smart man would just say no.
“I have a jet waiting.” I paused for dramatic effect. Call me what you will, but I don’t have a problem appropriating company resources to impress a lady. “Dropping you would require a parachute.”
She looked more disappointed than impressed. Not the desired effect.
I asked, “What’s such a big deal in Monaco?”
“A fund-raiser.” She dropped the sex-kitten act and glanced away. “They’re counting on me.”
There was a hint of despair in her voice.
I tried to lighten the mood. “Good cause or criminal defense fund?”
She touched my arm as if to push me away, her eyes widened with worry and bounced from my right to left eye and back, searching for the serious side of Jacob. “Charity. We work with Aide Sociale à l’Enfance.”
French rolled off her tongue like butter off a hot pancake. “The what?”
“Sorry.” She reverted to English without a hint of accent. “ASE, the French social service that helps children in crisis. The forgotten, abandoned, and abused.”
Something caught in the back of her throat. She looked away with a sniffle.
Working with Ms. Sabel made me aware that many people get involved in charities close to their world experience. In the back of Ms. Sabel’s mind, she never forgot how close she’d come to being a homeless waif bouncing from one foster family to another. I’d served with plenty of soldiers who spent every spare hour helping veterans reintegrate into the utterly foreign landscape back home. Others had come so close to losing a limb they dedicated themselves to those who had. There was a personal connection to her charity she didn’t want to explain.
“Follow me.” I picked up my bag and marched for the car without looking back.
She took a couple seconds to think. Then her heels clicked across the marble behind me. “But, can you help me? It’s really important to me. I have to be in Monaco—”
“We’re going to Lyon.” I held the car door open. “Trust me; you want to come with me.”
She looked at me. She looked at the cramped space behind Emily’s driver’s seat. She looked back at me with no-thanks forming on her lips.
“Get in.” I pointed.
“Wait a second.” Her eyes flashed. “This isn’t some kind of—”
“Don’t worry,” Emily called out from the driver’s seat. “I’ll keep him from being a pig.”
With friends like Emily, what do I need with the Taliban? I shot her a nasty glance. Emily shrugged.
Sylvia reluctantly crawled in. I snuggled in beside her and kept deflecting her questions about how going to a city farther from Monaco than Barcelona was going to help. She stopped talking when Emily pulled through the executive terminal gate. Our headlights lit up the white jet with blue lettering across the fuselage. Sylvia’s eyes popped. The ground crew swept the car away.
Four hundred miles later, while Emily and Miguel napped, Sylvia and I wrapped up a lengthy and comprehensive discussion about music. We disagreed about Billie Holliday’s legacy. We agreed Rachael Price is the sexiest voice alive. And that a Trombone Shorty concert was not to be missed. We landed in Lyon. The pilots parked next to Sabel One. Ms. Sabel’s bigger, fancier jet.
The boss texted me to meet her between the jets, alone.
As I descended the airstair into a dark abyss. My heart raced with the certainty that I was about to lose my job for having breached a thousand protocols.
“You’re fired.” Her first words as we stood face-to-face. “Causing an international incident in Barcelona is against company policy. Feel better?”
Mercury said, The vote is swinging against you right now, mo-fo. Watch for falling meteors.
I looked into the night sky. “Not really.”
“Well, at least you’ve been punished. You’re rehired. Now explain why the accounting department wants you gone.”
“Ah, that.” I took a deep breath and cursed my best friend, who thought Ms. Sabel would let me spend anything without question just because I saved her life a few times. “They disposed of the Russians for us. There were fees involved.”
“Seems reasonable.” She nodded. “What did Watson say about the Russians?”
“Uh, he was one of the guys I had disposed.”
“You’re fired.”
Holy mother of Ceres, homie. Mercury paced behind her. You’re toast right now. The vote’s six to five against. They’re thinking the meteor will take too long. You have five minutes to say your prayers while we arrange for a thunderstorm with a lightning bolt.
I said, Wait. That’s only eleven votes.
They’re making me abstain. But I was going for the lightning bolt anyway, so … whatever.
I pleaded my case to Ms. Sabel. “I had to sacrifice Watson to get information out of the Russian. He wasn’t going to talk unless he had someone to blame it on.”
She rolled her eyes and made a call. Three minutes later the American ambassador to Spain promised to extricate Watson from the Russian consulate in Barcelona—if he was still alive—and send him home. She clicked off. “Since we know he’s the one charged with killing me, I’d like to know where he is. All the time.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“I should re-fire you for the incident with Popov. The company is taking all kinds of heat for your kidnapping idea. The FBI sent my lawyers a subpoena. There’s a Congressional investigation starting up.”
“He took my dog.”
“Yeah.” She looked at me, tilted her head, and let a long silence pass. “Understandable.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm. “I guess.”
We looked at each other. Those gray-green eyes looked through me as if she was reading the serial number the Creator left on the inside of my skull.
I looked away. “Watson’s worse than an assassin. He’s a courier.”
She reeled back like she’d seen a discarded god. “That’s why we can’t find a paper trail. We have evidence, but it never points to Chuck Roche. He never put anything in writing or email or even a text. Everything is verbal.”
“Watson is his sacrificial messenger.” I faced her again. Her laser-gaze waited for me. “The man would die before he’d give up Roche. But we still don’t know if there’s any connection. Is Roche doing what the Russians tell him, or is he that naïve?”
She relaxed just a bit. “Dad thinks he’s in league with them. I’m not so sure.”
“Why not trust Alan’s opinion?”
“Roche promised to raise import tariffs twenty-five percent. That won’t benefit the Russians or anyone else.”
“Wouldn’t that cause instant, sky-rocketing inflation?” As I spoke, her point about his lack of basic economic knowledge became clear. “It would—but he’s not planning to do it, it just sounds great in a campaign.”
She nodded.
“Bianca’s tracking the chip from Zurich,” she said. “It went to a Danish island. Bring it back and discover what you can about the facility. Dad thinks it might be Strangelove’s compound. The Asteria is in the Baltic, but it’s too far away to get there tonight.” She referred to her massive yacht that we’d pressed into service on a few occasions. “You’ll have to rent a boat.”
“Why are we doing this?” I asked.
Mercury leaned over her shoulder. Don’t be asking about her motivations, bro. She’s a complex creature, not just some single-minded automaton. You know she has a hundred reasons. She’s doing it to save her country. She’s doing it because someone needs to step up. She’s doing it to save the millions of people who—
“Dad.” She looked happy for a second. “He’s on this mission to stop Roche. I’m helping him. It’s the first time we’ve worked together.”
Mercury said, And because she’s Daddy’s girl. But let’s get out of here before she goes all philosophical on us. I had enough of that shit from Cicero. Man, that guy could talk in circles.
She scowled. “But I’m more worried about your friend Popov than Roche. Anyway, the next step is tracking down Strangelove. Follow that tracker.”
Normally, I would accept my orders, salute, and get moving. Instead, I stood there and checked out the pavement.
She brought up those piercing gray-green eyes again.
I fidgeted.
Nothing in life is as painful as coming clean about abusing company resources to impress a woman.
“What is it?” She tilted her head. “Oh, you have Emily with you. Right, she can ride with us. She can post Olivier’s story.”
“Uh, yeah. OK.”
She kept staring. “What else?”
“I met a lady who asked for a ride and … um.”
“You met someone? Is she nice?”
“There are differing opinions.” I shot a glance at Mercury, who always wore his formal toga when he was in the presence of Ms. Sabel.
“A ride.” She tilted her head, her eyebrows rose quickly. “She’s on the jet?”
I nodded.
“Have her join me. Bring her luggage.”
“She doesn’t have any.”
Ms. Sabel stared at me for far too long. “I can’t wait to hear her side of the story.”
“She volunteers with foster kids. She wanted a ride to Monaco to work a fund-raiser.”
“And you thought I might donate to her cause?” She smiled and squeezed my arm. “You like her?”
I felt like a little boy trying hard to hide the truth while knowing my face had betrayed my feelings. I looked up.
“Send her over, I’ll figure out how we can help her.” Ms. Sabel walked back to her jet.
She called over her shoulder. “By the way, the Lyon office is fully deployed, so there’s no one to spare. You and Miguel have to go it alone.”
She climbed the airstair and stopped at the top. “How are things with Mercury?”
“Strained.” I shrugged. “I might have to go back on my meds.”
“I’m not a believer in chemical solutions.” She nodded with an understanding look. “They always make me feel like a mud-brain. But do whatever you think best. Tell him I said hey.”
With that, she disappeared into the fuselage.
I turned around to find Mercury jumping up and down, dancing with irrational exuberance, and generally acting like a circus clown. Dude! Who’s the MAN? Did I tell you she loves me? Oh, boy! We are IN, baby! That temple is on the HO-rize-ON. Can you see it?
She was humoring me. I started for Sabel Three’s airstair. There isn’t going to be any temple.
Mercury said, Oh really? Is that how you’re going to be? That lightning bolt is five miles out, bro. Is that the answer you want me to give the other gods?
I climbed up and faced three expectant faces. “Ladies, Ms. Sabel has requested your presence.”
Emily beamed and grabbed her things. “Thank god. I hate riding in the little jet.”
“Who?” Sylvia looked perplexed.
“My boss. She has deep pockets, and she’s a big fan of foster care programs.”
Sylvia brightened and gave me a big hug.
“C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” Emily tugged Sylvia’s hand. They flowed down the steps and into the night.
When it was too late, I realized I’d never gotten her phone number. Maybe I would find her again someday. Maybe not. Maybe she would remember the guy who set her up with a billionaire philanthropist. Maybe not. I took a deep breath.
The pilot stepped out of the cabin. “Sir, there’s an unexpected thunderstorm moving in. We should wait an hour before taking off.”
“Let’s go now and get in front of it.” I gave Mercury a nasty glare. He shrugged.
“As you wish, but it could be bumpy.” The pilot hurried back to the cockpit and roared onto the runway.
Miguel mapped out the mission while I took a nap on the two-hour flight to Malmö, Sweden.
From there, we drove an hour to Ystad and rented a forty-foot cruiser with a Zodiac we could use as a landing craft. We set off across the Baltic a few hours before dawn. My interrupted nap resumed while Miguel piloted our ship across the rough, open seas and around the island of Bornholm.
It was dark, cold, and rainy when he woke me up. We slipped our augmented-reality visors on, giving us night vision with thermal highlights. We slipped ashore half a mile from the target, a lighthouse south of Svaneke on Bornholm, Denmark. Clouds kept the full moon muted. We made our way along a track between autumn trees whose foliage was clinging on to the bitter end.
We separated near the lighthouse. It was a red-brick place with a stone tower. The house had been modernized with a glass wall on one side. From our angle, it appeared unoccupied.
“Don’t like it,” Miguel said over our comm link. “Too quiet.”
“They aren’t expecting us.” I backed up to cover our six from a wider angle.
“I mean too quiet a town.” He moved back to a tree line. “Whoever cleaned out Alan Sabel’s safe deposit box brought the stuff to a vacation rental?”
“You’re right. It smells like a trap,” I said.
“Exactly.” Miguel ran to the walled yard around the house. “I’m going in.”