Black Ice - Anne Stuart [61]
The address he’d given was a modern high-rise with a basement garage—he’d spent a few weeks there several years ago with a beautiful model from Ethiopia. The last time in recent memory that he’d spent any time away from the job. She’d been warm, affectionate and sexually inventive, and he’d been very fond of her. He couldn’t even remember her name.
“Could I ask you to drive us into the parking garage?” Bastien asked. “The elevator is right there and I could get my wife up to bed that much faster.”
“Of course, monsieur.” The poor man had no idea. He drove under the building, into the darkened parking garage, and pulled up to the elevator. He even got out of the taxi to help Bastien with Chloe’s limp form. He never knew what hit him.
It would have made sense to kill him. Slit his throat and leave him in the cul-de-sac behind the elevator, where no one would find him for days. By then Chloe would be long gone, and Bastien wouldn’t care.
But at the last minute Bastien remembered the four children and the wife the size of a water buffalo, and for some reason he felt sentimental. It was probably just defiance—they had turned him into a man who would kill without compunction, and he wanted to do the opposite of what he’d been trained.
The driver had a roll of duct tape in the trunk of the taxi—it saved his life. Bastien wrapped him tightly, efficiently, stuffing the man’s own handkerchief in his mouth before sealing it. They’d find him sooner or later—he figured he had at best six hours, maybe less. Chloe was still in the back seat of the cab, and he left her there, closing the door and climbing into the driver’s seat. He flicked on the Pas de Service sign, and drove out into the early-morning sunlight, a taxi driver on his way home after a long night’s work.
Too bad he didn’t kill the driver—it would have given them a solid twelve hours before his wife reported him missing, maybe longer. And the disappearance of one taxi driver wouldn’t be treated with much deference by the Paris police department. They would probably assume he’d gone off with a girlfriend and would return to the wrath of his wife eventually.
Another sign of why he’d outlived his usefulness, Bastien thought. Mercy was a weakness an operative couldn’t afford. He glanced into the back seat. Chloe was curled up on the seat, his coat wrapped tightly around her body, her eyes open and staring. Sooner or later the shock was going to wear off, and she was going to start screaming. He needed to get her someplace safe before that happened.
He couldn’t get her on a plane until that evening. For a moment he considered driving her to a smaller airport, like Tours, but then rejected it. They would be watching all the airports—he stood a better chance at Charles de Gaulle where he had a few connections even Thomason and the others didn’t know about.
He found the house easily enough, though he spent a good twenty minutes circling it, alert to the possibility of surveillance. They’d stopped using the place two years ago when it had been hopelessly compromised, and while the Committee would remember to check it eventually, they would be more likely to go through the current safe houses first. Again, another few hours added to the precious horde he was building.
As far as he could tell no one was watching. It was a huge old house on the very outskirts of Paris, abandoned since the 1950s. It was sitting on a prime piece of real estate, and it was a wonder no one had forced enquiries into the ownership. On paper it belonged to the family of an old lady whose estate was so complicated it would never be resolved. In truth it had once been the home of a collaborator, the attics filled with looted treasure. That treasure had been part of the Committee war chest—whoever had owned the priceless works of art and jewelry would no longer be alive to benefit from them.
It also came equipped with a secret room where the previous owner