She invites me into her house.
My shoulders relax.
Twenty minutes and a disgusting coffee later, Yolanda and I bid our goodbyes, both pleased as punch.
Mission accomplished.I have the first key! I can’t believe how easy this turned out to be in the end.
As I walk back to the car, bursting with joy and triumph, Anders calls me. “They found you.”
“Kurt’s men?”
“That SOB must have half of this country on his payroll.” He mutters a curse.
“How far is their car from me now? Do you think they were able to see the key?”
“Depends on their equipment. If you look right, about fifty meters down the street, you’ll see the SUV from last time. And farther down, there’s a second one.”
Damn!
“Let me be your decoy, Your Highness,” Anders says.
“How exactly?”
“I saw a car wash behind some trees, after the last big roundabout before this suburb.”
“OK.”
“We’ll head there and switch cars. I’ll drive back into Lyon in yours, while you and Lucie cruise northwest and find a nice hotel in one of the villages west of the city.”
“It’s a good plan,” I say.
I hope it is because we don’t have a better one.
The SUV is coming up behind me.
Anders’s plan worked, but only in part. Kurt’s men must’ve seen through our ruse and split up, with one of them chasing Anders in the Mercedes-Benz, and the other racing behind Lucie and me, in the BMW.
Our pursuers are aggressive, much more than I’ve ever seen them in Paris or here in Lyon. That makes me think they saw the key when Yolanda showed it to me in the doorway. They’re keen on seizing it before I can get it to the safety of Château des Neiges.
Do I regret insisting that my security detail remain limited to just one man?You bet I do.Probably one of my most reckless decisions ever.
It’s a long, straight road to the next village, with nowhere to duck and plenty of road to drive down. We’vebeen playing at this for over an hour now. It’s getting dark.
Kurt’s guys are persistent. But I doubt they’ve had to race against a man who’s won dozens of car races, including the brutal 24 Hours of Le Mans and the savage Dakar Rally that kills racers like flies.
The trick is to keep them from passing on the long flats and let them mess themselves up on the quick turns and hills. I’ll pump the brakes for that and let them think they can catch up. They’ll try it and either spin out or run themselves off the road.
I look over to the right. Lucie’s strapped in, hands gripping the sides of her seat. The speed must be terrifying her, clearly much more than running along rooftops. Objectively, it makes sense to be scared. One wrong move and we’re flipping end over end into a tree.
And this long straightaway is the perfect place for Kurt’s men to try and pass.
Go ahead and try it!
There they go, accelerating to pull ahead. The SUV just entered my blind spot and is catching up fast. I don’t even need to look back. I can hear it, can feel them, coming up.No problem.Contact racing is like martial arts. It’s all about channeling your opponent’s force to send them in a direction they weren’t planning, but slamming into them at top speed will pitch me off course, too.
Bang!
They hit us. The Beemer jerks a little but not too much. My hands are steady, wheels are forward, we’re not going anywhere. They’ll have to turn away to get another hit on us. As soon as they pull to the right, I match their steering and drive down the middle of the road.
