now seemed so wildly incomprehensible in the terror that simmered under the surface that all she could do was muffle it, compartmentalize, and stop herself from dwelling on her fear whenever her mind wandered that way. Yet she was unable to completely ignore the rising panic that suffused her body as the minutes ticked past.
At least the sun was finally out.
It was past the copse of cherry trees, just starting to bloom now, that she noticed her middle-aged/Middle Eastern minder (Ms. Middle?) following a few yards behind her. Peyton slowed her walk, yet Ms. Middle plodded on, not caring if she were noticed or not. When the minder was a couple of feet away, Peyton whirled suddenly and made to grab the minder's arm…only to find a small pocket knife pointed at her. The tip of it glinted in the sun from underneath the woman's thumb.
"What do you want?" asked Peyton, heart leaping in her throat.
"I am to bring you to the flat," said Ms. Middle. "A message for you."
Ms. Middle marched her all the way up to the flat and very nearly shoved her into the room before locking the door behind her. Carson was already sitting on the bed, a tablet held in his hand, and he looked up as the door slammed shut. He scooted for her to take her seat beside him.
"Where'd you get that?"
He nodded at the door. "One of the tails found me."
"Safe phone not enough?"
"Apparently not."
The tablet screen showed a wood-paneled room. In a few seconds, Gustave filled the frame, clad in his impeccable gray suit, his longish hair shellacked into place.
He did not look very happy.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as his dark eyes swept over them, not saying anything for some minutes. And then:
"The Countess's money was supposed to have been reversed two days ago. It has not. Explain."
She looked at Carson. Tiny beads of perspiration broke over his upper lip.
"The painting was delivered on time—Van Der Luyden confirmed the block—I–" He licked his lower lip. "Perhaps a wire issue?"
Gustave looked like thunder. "Swiss banks, accustomed to handling billions for an aristocratic family going back five generations, do not have 'a wire issue.'"
Carson had the grace to look abashed.
"Get to the bottom of this, or I will be most displeased." The screen blacked out before either of them could speak. Peyton watched as his temples broke out in sweat.
"What's wrong?" she asked carefully.
"Nothing." He stood and ran his hands through his hair. "I just—I just need to get to Anja's—I got to check--"
"I'm coming with you."
"No, just—"
She grabbed his arm. "I'm fucking done with waiting. I'm coming with you." He refused to meet her eye so she took his chin firmly between thumb and forefinger. "But you need to tell me what the fuck is going on."
His eyes found hers for one briefly charged moment. "I'll tell you on the way."
Five days ago, after the disastrous argument with Peyton, Carson Varis wandered the streets of Amsterdam. The light was nearly gone, the canals murky in the gray twilight. The fake painting was tucked under his armpit, and as he walked his mind was a jumble of thoughts, a snarl of odd, disjointed statements that could not be resolved into a concrete decision.
He made a fist and slammed it against his thigh. This wasn't like him. This whole mission, from the start, had been a cock-up from the moment he laid eyes on Peyton, in that ridiculous lemon yellow bikini, on that boat to Cosa Imbah'i. His mind flashed back to the stillness of her, alternately milk white and ruddy under the sun, and he groaned as he wondered whether what bothered him about working with her were her actual methods, or how the picture in his mind suffered in comparison.
It was as though his feet led him on even before his mind was aware of the destination. The sky was fully dark by the time he stood in front of the blank, locked backdoor along a nondescript residential street in an ethnic neighborhood. He gave the rhythmic knock that
At least the sun was finally out.
It was past the copse of cherry trees, just starting to bloom now, that she noticed her middle-aged/Middle Eastern minder (Ms. Middle?) following a few yards behind her. Peyton slowed her walk, yet Ms. Middle plodded on, not caring if she were noticed or not. When the minder was a couple of feet away, Peyton whirled suddenly and made to grab the minder's arm…only to find a small pocket knife pointed at her. The tip of it glinted in the sun from underneath the woman's thumb.
"What do you want?" asked Peyton, heart leaping in her throat.
"I am to bring you to the flat," said Ms. Middle. "A message for you."
Ms. Middle marched her all the way up to the flat and very nearly shoved her into the room before locking the door behind her. Carson was already sitting on the bed, a tablet held in his hand, and he looked up as the door slammed shut. He scooted for her to take her seat beside him.
"Where'd you get that?"
He nodded at the door. "One of the tails found me."
"Safe phone not enough?"
"Apparently not."
The tablet screen showed a wood-paneled room. In a few seconds, Gustave filled the frame, clad in his impeccable gray suit, his longish hair shellacked into place.
He did not look very happy.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as his dark eyes swept over them, not saying anything for some minutes. And then:
"The Countess's money was supposed to have been reversed two days ago. It has not. Explain."
She looked at Carson. Tiny beads of perspiration broke over his upper lip.
"The painting was delivered on time—Van Der Luyden confirmed the block—I–" He licked his lower lip. "Perhaps a wire issue?"
Gustave looked like thunder. "Swiss banks, accustomed to handling billions for an aristocratic family going back five generations, do not have 'a wire issue.'"
Carson had the grace to look abashed.
"Get to the bottom of this, or I will be most displeased." The screen blacked out before either of them could speak. Peyton watched as his temples broke out in sweat.
"What's wrong?" she asked carefully.
"Nothing." He stood and ran his hands through his hair. "I just—I just need to get to Anja's—I got to check--"
"I'm coming with you."
"No, just—"
She grabbed his arm. "I'm fucking done with waiting. I'm coming with you." He refused to meet her eye so she took his chin firmly between thumb and forefinger. "But you need to tell me what the fuck is going on."
His eyes found hers for one briefly charged moment. "I'll tell you on the way."
Five days ago, after the disastrous argument with Peyton, Carson Varis wandered the streets of Amsterdam. The light was nearly gone, the canals murky in the gray twilight. The fake painting was tucked under his armpit, and as he walked his mind was a jumble of thoughts, a snarl of odd, disjointed statements that could not be resolved into a concrete decision.
He made a fist and slammed it against his thigh. This wasn't like him. This whole mission, from the start, had been a cock-up from the moment he laid eyes on Peyton, in that ridiculous lemon yellow bikini, on that boat to Cosa Imbah'i. His mind flashed back to the stillness of her, alternately milk white and ruddy under the sun, and he groaned as he wondered whether what bothered him about working with her were her actual methods, or how the picture in his mind suffered in comparison.
It was as though his feet led him on even before his mind was aware of the destination. The sky was fully dark by the time he stood in front of the blank, locked backdoor along a nondescript residential street in an ethnic neighborhood. He gave the rhythmic knock that
Similar Books
