The gallery was dark, making it impossible to see anything inside. James motioned for Anthony to follow him to the alley at the back of the building.
They waited.
“Perhaps no one will come tonight,” Anthony suggested.
“They'll come,” James replied.
Regular as clockwork, according to the information Innis had found, shipments twice a week, at night. The question was, what was in those shipments?
They rounded the corner of the building, then stopped as headlights flashed from the opposite end of the alley. A signal?
James held up a warning hand and they retreated back around the corner of the building. When those headlights didn't appear as the truck rolled toward them and out onto the street, he eased back around the corner keeping to the shadows at the wall of the building.
The truck had stopped midway down the alley and turned in, headlights gleaming off large roll-up doors.
He left Anthony at the street, then continued down the alley. The driver of the truck cut the motor, followed by a brief conversation in French as he slipped inside the opening of the bay, at the off-side of the truck.
He glimpsed two people, one tall, the other shorter, slender, their features hidden by shadows inside the loading bay. It was only a momentary glimpse, but there was something about the shorter figure as he fell into step behind the taller man, the way he moved, then the slamming of a door as they entered the back of the gallery.
There were steps at the far end of the loading area that led up to a landing with a light over the back entrance of the gallery. He glanced at the overhead security system, then edged around the back of the truck. It was enclosed with high sides and a lift gate, the type used for transporting cargo or furniture.
He kept to the shadows and moved silently along the side of the truck. When he reached the driver's door, he peered inside the window. The cab was empty, except for the weapon—automatic, short barrel with a long magazine, tucked into the backpack that lay on the other seat.
France had some of the strictest gun laws in the world. It wasn't the sort of weapon found in your local sporting shop. He slipped around to the back of the truck.
What sort of shipments were usually found in the warehouse at the back of an art gallery?
Art was the natural answer—statuary, vases, paintings, valuable pieces, consignments for customers who wanted to remain anonymous, while other clients wanted to add to their private collections. And what might be worth the amount of money Innis had found in those financial records Innis had hacked into?
With a glance at the doors where the driver and his partner had disappeared, he carefully eased open the latch on the back gate of the truck. He ran the beam from the small flashlight over one crate, then another, then the part of the cargo that wasn't in a crate.
Bloody Christ! There were enough weapons in the back of that truck to start a war, or supply one that was already going on. The question was, where were they being taken? What third-world country where people were dying in the jungles, mountains, and deserts? What the hell was Callish into?
He eased the door shut, then moved around to the other side of the truck, careful to keep out of the range of that security camera. He suddenly stopped. Another automobile, that had been blocked from view by the larger truck, was parked several feet away at the far side of the loading bay.
It was a late model white van, the sort used for service businesses and found all over the UK and Europe. There was absolutely nothing distinctive about it—no decals, no company logos, no phone numbers to call for the plumber or repairman— except the crumpled bumper and the cracked windscreen.
There was no sign, no marquee, only the glow of the number 417 on the landing, with steps descending from the street level down to the abandoned metro line and station below.
James hesitated for the same reason he'd refused to take the cross-channel tunnel from Dover. Anthony stopped halfway down the steps.
“You do still want to meet le Angel?”
Angel—the name was no small irony considering the reputation of the man who went with it, a shadowy figure who conducted business in the shadows, rarely seen, a contact who often came across information that was valuable to both the authorities and criminals, supposedly a legitimate nightclub owner, and someone who might have information about the Paris gallery.
Still, he hesitated. He knew places like this, hidden places, dangerous places. He rolled his shoulder against the tightness that had little to do with old wounds and everything to do with gut instinct. He rubbed his palms down over the pockets of his jeans and wished for something more than the knife he carried.
Dark places, hidden places. Hidden people.
“You're certain t he'll be here?”
It was after midnight, and after what he'd seen at the gallery, that instinct had sharpened. These were dangerous people. Somehow Cate had stumbled into something, and now they were in the middle of it. But just exactly wasit? And what did all of it have to do with a photograph Cate's father had taken during the war?
“It's Friday night,” Anthony replied. “He'll be here.”
James silently swore to himself then followed him down, pushing back the uneasy feeling that tightened the back of his neck in places like this, where you couldn't see things in front of you until you were almost on top of them. Or they were on top of you.
The tunnel was dark except for ambient lighting and what appeared to be old-fashioned street lamps along the sides of the tunnel.
