Waiting for the water to warm up, she went back to the closet and dug out her overnight bag. She threw in underwear, socks, a few T-shirts, and a clean pair of jeans. She found her favorite dress still wrapped in plastic, fresh from the dry cleaner. She smiled, thinking that at least she’d have one thing she looked nice in. She glanced up and caught herself in the mirror holding the dress close, almost hugging it, an expression of dreamy bliss pasted on her face.
It was at that moment that she stopped.
What exactly did she think she was doing?
Since meeting Simon Riske, she’d done nothing but labor on his behalf. Commissaire Dumont had asked her to assist him, not be his slave. At first, she’d viewed the assignment as a welcome opportunity to escape her administrative punishment. The fact that she’d confiscated a kilo of heroin from Aziz François had earned her a few bonus points with the lieutenant but had also prompted a tongue-lashing for not having arrested him on the spot. It was only through Dumont’s intercession that she’d escaped an additional month’s desk duty. And now here she was, rushing to pack in order to once again aid Riske, this time at even further risk to her career.
Nikki hung the dress back in her armoire and banished her dreamy expression to never-never land, where it belonged. She walked to the bathroom and tested the shower. The water was lukewarm. Suddenly reminiscent, she found herself dredging up memories of the last time she’d worn the dress. It was at Restaurant Guy Savoy when things had still been good between her and David. David Renard, the ace squash player she’d met on the courts, who happened to be the forty-year-old wunderkind of Lazard Frères. David, who—as her mother never ceased to remind her—was too good for her and “from another world entirely,” as if they still lived in the nineteenth century and there was no mixing between classes. She’d gone home with him that night. They’d made love in his maison de ville overlooking the Champs de Mars, the culmination of a six-week courtship defined more by the dates she’d cancelled due to the job than by the time they’d spent together.
Lying in his bed, she’d decided that he could be “the one.” He was smart, tender, and witty, and he treated her like a lady. If he wasn’t the greatest lover she’d had, he’d shown promise. Of course, she’d gotten a call from the lieutenant the next morning at six a.m., ordering her to a crime scene. She’d been dressed and out the door before David could complain.
He called later that day to break things off. She made the mistake of asking why.
“I like a woman who cooks me breakfast,” he’d said in all earnestness.
Even now, the words stung. Her heart had been only partly broken and had mended quickly. It was her sense of self that had been shattered. How could she have been such a fool to fall in love with him? Only then did she realize that desperation, not affection, had governed her choice.
Six months had passed since that day.
Nikki climbed beneath the showerhead, turning sideways to close the folding door. Running a bar of soap over her body, she forced herself to take a more hard-eyed view of her feelings. The fact was, she knew nothing about Riske. He lied easily out of both sides of his mouth. She had no doubt that he was using her—with or without Dumont’s consent—and that he would continue to do so until he found Tino Coluzzi and retrieved that damned letter. She had no way of knowing if he would keep his word and help her to capture him afterward. Most likely, it was a smoke screen. Nikki reminded herself that she was a detective. The first rule of the job demanded that she not believe people.
And the rest of it? The immediate attraction she’d felt toward him. The desire he stirred in her when standing close. The fear he could conjure with a look of his eyes. She imagined running her hand across his muscled chest, then lower. Her breath left her and she needed a hand to steady herself.
And what was that? she thought, stunned at the sudden rushed beating of her heart, the near giddy flood of emotion.
“No,” she said aloud, standing taller. Emotions lied. Emotions deceived. Like people, they were not to be trusted. Her loyalty was to the PJ, not Riske. Her first order of business was to call the lieutenant and tell him everything she knew about Coluzzi, so he might alert their counterparts in Marseille. Consequences be damned. She would atone for her sins and finish her punishment with equanimity and grace.
And then? Sooner or later someone would bring in Coluzzi. The thought of another benefiting from her efforts made her sick to her stomach.
“No,” she said again, louder this time. “This one is mine.”
The answer had been there all along. She would use Riske as he was using her. Next time there would be no question whose name would be listed at the top of the arrest report.
Happier now that she’d decided on a course of action, Nikki climbed out of the shower, dried her hair, and dressed for the day. She glanced at her un-smiling, un-dreamy reflection in the mirror. She liked what she saw. A cold, calculating professional.
Reaching for her pistol, she looked once more at the half-filled overnight bag sitting on the floor.
And Riske?
Nikki grabbed her dress from the armoire and threw it in her overnight bag, along with her pistol and ammunition.
Que será, será.
She had fifteen minutes to get to the Gare de Lyon.
Chapter 41
Did you get the numbers?” Barnaby Neill asked a technician seated at an electronics console in the mobile surveillance center. “Send them to NSA lickety-split.”
“Already done, sir. Confirmed receipt. Substation Five. Western Europe.”
“Make sure the duty officer patches us into their feed in real time. If these phone numbers really are Coluzzi’s, I don’t want to wait to find out about it. I want to hear every word he says, as he says it.”
Neill stood up to stretch, careful not to hit his head against the roof. The van was a Mercedes Sprinter with blacked-out windows and fitted with a standard surveillance package. There was a StingRay, similar to Simon’s, if many times more powerful, a directional microphone hidden beneath the van’s opaque turret, high-def cameras linked to facial-recognition software, and much, much more. All with direct access to the new combined intelligence database code-named “Beast,” which linked together the combined resources of the CIA, the Pentagon, the FBI, and a dozen other three-letter agencies, including the DEA, ICE, NGA, and IRS. It had taken 9/11, fifteen years of haggling, dozens of false starts, and twenty billion dollars, but the United States intelligence and law enforcement communities were finally functionally integrated.
Ten years earlier, he’d needed a month to shepherd a request for information from one agency to another. Today, he could do it in a few seconds from an automobile traveling at eighty miles per hour along a highway three thousand miles from Washington, DC. That, concluded Neill, was progress.
“What can you do with the picture?” he asked a second tech seated on the opposite side of the van.
