27
5:44 a.m.
Suspicious and worried, Sharyn waved everyone back from the parked van, but there was nowhere to retreat. They were fully exposed on the beach. Even the trawler’s crewman had not wasted any time. He had shoved off and was headed away with the dinghy, abandoning them to their fate.
Finally, the door to the van popped open. The interior lamps silhouetted a tall shadowy figure as he exited, dressed in an ankle-length coat. He appeared to be alone. Still, she prayed it was not another ambush.
“I’m Malick Laurent!” the man called over, keeping his distance, likely noting Duncan’s raised weapon. “I see you’ve reached our shores safely.”
Recognizing the man’s voice, Sharyn swallowed hard and responded. “I don’t know if I’d use the wordsafely, Monsieur Laurent.”
If that’s who you are.
After all of this, she refused to take anything at face value.
“Fear not, let us get you all aboard and put more distance between you and any further threat.”
Duncan turned to her, slightly lowering his weapon. “What do you think?”
She weighed the risk and came to a decision. “We’ve trusted him this far. We might as well finish the journey.” She waved to the others. “Let’s go.”
As they crossed toward the vehicle, Sharyn studied Laurent. From his accent, from his sense of authority over the phone, she had expected an older gentleman, picturing some pale French aristocrat. But Laurent was Black, possibly West African, with stubbled hair so dense that it appeared like a dark skullcap. His physique was muscled, and his complexion hard, roughened by a scar at his chin and one brow. Still, he looked to be no older than his mid-thirties.
Naomi also eyed him as they approached and whispered, “Who knew Idris Elba had a son?”
“Be on your guard,” Duncan warned them.
Laurent slid open a large hatch on the side of the vehicle. It was a black Mercedes Sprinter van, some executive model with darkly tinted windows. Inside, leather seats welcomed them, as did a well-stocked bar to one side, glittering with bottles on ice.
“At least the bloke brought us a party bus,” Archie commented, wincing as he climbed aboard, holding the elbow of his wounded arm. He crossed over, grabbed a bottle of scotch, cradled it to his chest, and dropped heavily into a rear seat.
Tag took a spot opposite him. “Hope you’re planning on sharing that.”
“No promises, mate. I need it for medicinal purposes.”
Naomi surveyed the bar, then passed Sharyn a bottle of Perrier before joining her near the front. Duncan tucked away his Glock and took the passenger seat next to Laurent.
The Frenchman climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and called back to them. “Settle in. We still have a two-hour drive ahead of us.”
“To where?” Sharyn pressed him.
“To Meaux, a small village forty kilometers outside of Paris.”
“And we’ll be safe there?” Duncan asked.
Laurent sighed. “As well as can be managed,” he answered, offering no real reassurance.
Despite this lack of guarantee, Sharyn appreciated his candor.
Laurent bumped the large van out of the beach parking lot and headed down a dark country road.
Once underway, the Frenchman continued, “I understand your worry. We plainly have a mole in theGardiens. Someone who has been leaking intelligence to theConfrérie. I fear—in making arrangements to rendezvous at the Tower of London, along with acquiring new papers for you all—word must have reached the wrong ears.”
“Does your group have any idea who this traitor might be?” Sharyn asked.
“Not as of yet.”
As his gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, she noted the slight narrowing of his eyes. He must be wondering if one of them could be complicit. While Sharyn refused to believe this, she could not help but consider it. Their small group had separated multiple times during their escape to London. One of them could have secured another burner or borrowed a stranger’s cell to alert the enemy of their destination.
