65
The plan was simple. Once inside the office, Remi would come up with a way to find out the location of the warehouse holding the Gray Ghost while Sam acted as lookout. Oliver and Chad would wait in the car, ready to pick the Fargos up for a quick getaway.
At the moment, Chad was finding a suitable place to park that wasn’t too far. Remi, Oliver, and Sam were seated on a bench in the shade of a chestnut tree, Remi reading up on the import/export business on her phone. A row of motorbikes parked in front of them offered some cover, just in case anyone in Rossi’s building across the street happened to look their direction.
Oliver eyed the windows across the street. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked. “Those are armed guards in that lobby.”
“They’re for the bank,” Sam said. “After what happened at the villa, I’m more worried about what Remi might find upstairs in Rossi’s offices.”
Oliver shifted nervously. “All the more reason not to go.”
“We’ll be fine. Remi’s got quite the knack for pretending to be something she’s not.”
She looked up from her phone. “If that’s supposed to be a compliment, Fargo, you’ve missed the mark.”
He leaned toward Oliver and in a stage whisper said, “She’s very good at subterfuge. Sneaky operations,” he quickly added.
“Better,” she said, returning her attention to the phone.
“What if something goes wrong?” Oliver asked. “Bad enough my uncle’s in jail for something he didn’t do. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to either of you.”
“We’ll be fine,” Sam assured him. “Just make sure you and Chad are ready with the car. We might have to leave in a hurry.”
Chad walked up a few minutes later. “I finally found a place to park.” He pointed down the tree-lined street. “The patisserie on the corner. It was the closest available.”
“It’ll do,” Sam said.
Remi dropped her phone in her purse, then stood. “I think I have all I need to know.”
If anything, Oliver looked even more worried. “You couldn’t have read through it but once.”
“Good memory,” Sam said. He looked at her. “Ready?”
She leaned over and kissed him. “See you soon.”
* * *
—
REMI SMILED at the security guard before announcing her appointment at the Rossi Export Management Company. The guard looked her over, then buzzed her into the lobby. “Third floor,” he said.
She took the elevator up, walked into the shipping company, her expression somber, her head tilted at just the right angle to imply a certain haughtiness that demanded immediate attention. “Mr. Rossi, please,” she said to the receptionist, a woman in her twenties, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“And you are . . . ?”
“Rebecca Longstreet. My U.S. attorney should have called to arrange a meeting. Short notice, but I’m only in the country until this evening.”
“Regarding?”
“SRF Import/Export.” Remi strode into the middle of the office, giving the place a thorough perusal. “Who’s in charge?”
“Monsieur Marchand.”
Remi gave her a blank stare.
A look of confusion crossed the young woman’s face. “Did you need to speak to him?”
“If he’s not expecting me,” Remi said, “he should be.”
“Of course. One moment, please.” The woman rose from her seat, knocked on the door behind her, opened it, then disappeared inside. A moment later, she returned, holding the door open for Remi. “Monsieur Marchand can spare you five minutes.”
As Remi walked in, a portly man in his fifties pushed his chair back and stood, his smile wide, as he held out his hand. “Mademoiselle Longstreet. Please. Come in, sit. May I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He walked around his desk, holding the chair for Remi. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A slight falling-out with my former logistics company manager. And a need for an immediate replacement.”
“What sort of volume does your company handle, mademoiselle?”
“About twenty or so fewer full containers a month than last year. But I’m hoping that once we speed up the freight process, we’ll double that load.” She cleared her throat, started to speak, smiled. “Actually, I will take that offer of a drink.”
“Of course. One moment.”
When he walked out the door, Remi saw a stack of papers on a low file cabinet in the corner next to the window. She quickly walked over, looked out the open curtains, saw a glimpse of the Seine between the buildings across the street. She looked down, moving the papers with her fingers, quickly reading the addresses. Just from this short stack, she saw that Rossi had two warehouses in Calais and one in Brussels. Somehow she needed to narrow down which warehouse or they’d never arrive in time to get the Ghost before Oren took possession. Before she had a chance to search further, Marchand returned with her water. He stopped short when he saw her standing by the file cabinet.
She nodded out the window. “I was admiring the view of the river.”
“Most of our visitors do,” he said, barely sparing a glance himself. “Your Perrier. My apologies, as we have no glasses.”
“Merci. The bottle is fine,” she said, taking it from him.
“You were saying? About your business?”
“Yes. About our recent downturn,” she replied, twisting the top of her bottle to break the seal. The water fizzed slightly. “Something I hope to turn around.”
“You’ll forgive me if I seem too inquisitive, but in order to know if your company will be a good fit with ours, I need to have some idea of what volume—”
“Assuming your warehouse can handle loading thirty or forty containers a month,” she said, citing what she’d read that morning about the company she was modeling hers after. Marchand leaned forward with interest on hearing the number of containers she’d mentioned, and she took a sip of her water, letting her words sink in, before asking, “Are there certain ports you use more frequently than others? If they line up with ours, it might be easier to seamlessly move our shipping to your facilities.”
“It all depends on the origin and destination of the load,” Marchand replied.
“Calais?”
“One of our busier ports. Do you mind my asking why you’re searching for a new logistics company?”
“As I said, a slight falling-out with the former company, combined with a desire to move my business to Paris—not that I’d consider it without thoroughly investigating the logistics company.”
“We’re very well respected. Your business would be in good hands. Of course, I should let Monsieur Rossi welcome you personally. We’re fortunate that he’s making a rare appearance here today. He usually works out of our offices in Rome, but he’s scheduled to meet with a client later this morning. I expect him any minute, in fact.”
Definitely not what Remi was hoping to hear. Rossi was arriving far earlier than she’d expected. Realizing that she needed an alternative plan—and quick—she took her phone and accessed the calendar. “I may have a conflict . . . Let me call and see if I can cancel my appointment.” She turned toward the window, pretending interest in the view again, as she called Sam. “It’s Rebecca. About that appointment I have this morning . . . Is there any way I can change it? The man I hope to meet, Monsieur Rossi, is on his way as we speak.”
“If he’s in that black BMW,” Sam said, “then no. It just pulled up.”
Remi scanned the street, noticing a dark sedan double-parked directly below, its emergency flashers blinking. The driver opened the back passenger door, and two men in business suits got out. Granted, identifying the tops of their heads from the third floor wasn’t the same as seeing them face-to-face, but with one being dark-ha
ired and the other blond, reminding her of the shooter on Rossi’s balcony, she suspected Rossi and his bodyguard had just arrived.
66
With only one elevator, Rossi’s arrival meant Remi was going to have one heck of a time trying to get out without being seen. Sam, still on the other end of the line, said, “You have about three minutes. Just saw him walk into the building.”
“How unfortunate,” Remi said into her phone, thinking what a waste to have come all this way and be so close to having the information they needed. She looked back at Marchand, who was eagerly watching her, and gave him an apologetic smile, before turning back to the window. When she saw the curtains falling to the sill behind the chair, she knew exactly what to do. “Since I can’t cancel the appointment, please inform them that I’m on my way. And regarding that personnel matter we hoped to resolve, they should keep the line of communication open. I just don’t want to hear anything on my end.”
There was a moment of silence. Remi wondered if she’d been too subtle, until Sam responded, “Will do.”
She looked at Marchand, as she lowered her phone. “I am so sorry. My appointment can’t be changed. Will Monsieur Rossi be here later this afternoon? Perhaps I can return then?”
“I would have to ask him,” Marchand said. “It would be a shame if you were to miss this opportunity.”
She turned back to the window, leaning against the sill. “I do hope I can work things out. Such a lovely view,” she said, sliding her phone out of sight, into the right-hand corner of the sill, beneath the curtain, before turning back to Marchand and smiling. “My apologies for rushing out.”
“Mademoiselle, I look forward to meeting you again.”
“Soon, I hope.”
He gave her his card, and she left. The long hallway was deserted, as she approached the elevator, noticing it was heading up. If Rossi was on it, she’d never make the stairs without being seen. Wondering if there was a doorway she could duck into, she spied the fire alarm on the wall nearby. She pulled it, walked quickly toward the staircase, as a high-pitched electronic chirp sounded, followed by the metallic clang of a bell overhead. As the alarm blared, several office doors opened, and the hall filled with people, creating a barrier of bodies between Remi and the elevator, as its door opened. When she reached the stairwell, she caught a glimpse of Rossi striding toward Marchand’s office, a look of annoyance on his face at the disturbance. Remi hurried down the stairs, until she reached the ground floor, and emerged into the alley.
Sam was waiting at the corner of the building. “Love your Plan B,” he said, handing her his phone.
“Did it work?”
“If you mean, did I hear the alarm going off? Then yes. After that? Anyone’s guess,” he said, as a car pulled up beside them in the alley. Chad was behind the wheel, Oliver in the front passenger seat.
Sam and Remi got into the back. As Chad pulled out into traffic, taking a left turn, away from the bank, Remi, checking to make sure the mute button was on, put Sam’s phone to her ear. The alarm sounded for a few seconds longer, then finally stopped.
“Circle around,” Sam told Chad. “We’ll follow Rossi’s car when it leaves.”
Remi tapped Sam, put her finger to her lips, as a man started speaking Italian. “Rossi,” she said. “Talking to his bodyguard.” And, sure enough, when they stopped down the street from the bank, they saw the bodyguard out front, on his mobile phone. “Rossi’s saying he’ll be down soon . . . Now he’s cursing because Marchand still isn’t in his office because of the alarm. Never mind, he just walked in.”
The two men started speaking French, at a slower pace, and she switched the phone to speaker so that everyone could hear.
“Where were you?” Rossi asked Marchand.
“Making sure the employees obeyed the fire drill.”
“Suzette said something about a visitor?”
Remi turned up the volume, curious if Marchand might tell Rossi about her visit. “An inquiry about shipping services.”
“We have no time for that. You’ve made the arrangements for the container to ship?”
“Of course. Just as you requested.” There was a moment of silence, then Marchand saying, “You’re leaving so soon? What of Monsieur Oren? I believe he’s expecting for you to personally—”
“A change of plans. Call me when he’s on his way.”
After the secretary’s faint voice bid Rossi good-bye, they heard a loud sigh.
Remi regarded the phone. “Marchand’s awful quiet, now that Rossi’s left.”
“Probably crying over the loss of your shipping business.”
“I might have made it too enticing.” About three minutes later, Rossi walked out of the building, but instead of getting into the car, he nodded to his driver and walked off with his bodyguard down the street.
Remi looked over at Sam. “Maybe the Ghost really is here in Paris.”
“I would’ve bet our last euro that car was in Calais,” Sam said, unbuckling his seat belt. He leaned toward the center, speaking to Oliver and Chad in front. “Pop the trunk, Chad. Remi and I will follow them. You two take the car and wait at the apartment. We’ll meet back there tonight. The moment we figure out where we’re going, we’ll text.”
“And if something happens to you?” Oliver asked.
Sam opened his wallet to see how much cash they had. A little more than a thousand euros left. He handed half to Oliver. “We’re at the tail end of the money. If you don’t hear from us by morning, get in touch with Selma, and head back to Manchester.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we all stuck together?” Oliver said, his face etched with worry. “Look what happened in Rome.”
“You’ll be fine.” Remi reached over the seat, grasping his shoulder. “You’re a pro at this by now.”
He gave a timid smile. “Do me a favor? Don’t let anything happen to you.”
“Not a problem,” Remi said, with a big smile, slipping her purse straps over her shoulder before getting out of the car.
Sam took his backpack from the trunk, then he and Remi followed Rossi and his bodyguard.
The two men, about a block ahead, made a right turn. Sam looked at Remi, as they quickened their pace to keep up. “Quick thinking with that phone. Did I ever tell you how brilliant you are?” he said, as they rounded the corner, emerging into a busy square filled with hundreds of tourists.
“Apparently, not that brilliant. They’re gone.”
67
Remi looked around at the myriad shops and restaurants. Rossi and his guard could have disappeared into any one of them.
“The Metro,” Sam said.
“They don’t seem like the public transportation type.”
“But they don’t seem like the tourist type, either.”
He had a point.
They took the stairs down, bought two tickets, then looked at the two tunnels leading to the different platforms and the various trains on each.
Sam eyed the choices on the sign, checking the listing of transfers. “This way,” he said, leading Remi to the left.
“I hope you picked right, Fargo,” Remi said, as she and Sam took the escalator down into the depths of the Paris Metro.
“Have I ever guessed wrong?”
“There was that time in—”
Sam suddenly pulled her to the side, as they stepped off the escalator. “They’re about fifteen feet ahead of us.”
She saw Rossi and his guard turn left into an archway that led to the train station’s platform. Sam took her hand, guiding her past a first and second archway, taking the third that the men just took. They stopped short of the platform when a loudspeaker announced the Metro’s arrival. As the two men stepped on board, Sam and Remi crossed the platform and entered the last car.
Remi found an empty seat. “How’d you figure this out? The Metro—” br />
“Is the fastest way to the train station from Rossi’s office. Send Oren by car while he takes the train. That gives him at least an hour-and-a-half head start. The time he would need to search the car before Oren got there.”
“Color me impressed, Fargo.”
When they reached Gare du Nord, Sam and Remi followed as the pair weaved their way through the crowd, not to the ticket booths but toward the Calais platform, which meant they bought their tickets online.
Sam gave her his wallet. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
Although she picked the shortest queue for tickets, it moved slowly. By the time she reached the front, the train to Calais was set to leave in less than five minutes. The woman in front of her was at the window, busy asking questions about what to do with her luggage once she was on the train.
Remi watched the clock ticking. Worried, she leaned forward and said, “About how much longer will you be? I’m about to miss my train.”
The woman looked back at her, an annoyed expression on her face. “If you don’t mind, it’s my turn.”
“I apologize,” Remi said, clasping her hands together. “I just found out my father’s been taken to the hospital. He might not make it.”
The woman appeared unmoved.
“And his dog is locked in the house with no one to take care of him.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” The woman moved aside, allowing Remi to pass.
At the window, Remi laid out the exact amount in cash, bought the tickets, then hurried toward the platform, the woman yelling after her, “I hope your dog is okay!”
The platform was nearly empty when she arrived, everyone having already boarded. Sam was nowhere in sight. A soft beep indicated the doors were about to close. After one last look around, she stepped aboard the train just as the doors slid shut. Sam walked toward her from the next car as she worked her way past the passengers stacking their luggage on the racks.