Warmth enveloped her hand.
In front of her, Dieter’s strong face and dove gray eyes swam through the fog. He touched her face, cradling her jaw.
In her ear, she heard his low voice,“Durchlauchtig,come with me.”
Her hand drifted forward, pulling her.
She stumbled, trying to help Dieter, trying to walk, trying not to be a stupid target. Wulfram hated it when she froze like a stupid target. He’d spent her childhood making sure that, if something happened, she wouldrun,not freeze.
As she walked, with Dieter’s hand holding hers, the parking garage took shape.
A black SUV waited at the curb a few feet away. A man—a tall, white guy with dark hair—exited the driver’s side, leaving it running. Flicka had seen him hanging around Wulf’s wedding reception the night before, watching the guests and doors. He didn’t look back as he walked toward the bright exit that led to the street outside.
Dieter walked around the SUV and climbed into the driver’s open side door.
Flicka slid into the back seat and rolled to the floor, covering herself with a black blanket left there.
The SUV lurched forward. She huddled on the floor, breathing shallowly under the blanket. It was only an hour to the train station in Geneva. They’d decided to drive there instead of taking the train from the Montreux station because the Monegasque Secret Service agents were more likely to be watching that one.
But Geneva was an hour away.
The heavy, black blanket lay over her, pressing.
Flicka tried not to think about suffocating under the scratchy wool in the darkness of her own breath. The air moistened with each breath she exhaled, and the smell of formaldehyde from her new clothes intensified.
From the front seat, Dieter said, “All clear. You can get up.”
Flicka threw off the blanket and sucked in cool, fresh air. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“We’ll be at theGare de Genève-Cornavinrailway station in about forty minutes.”
