Masquerade (34 page)

As soon as the men disappeared back inside, Sarah wiped off the name tag and angled it to pick up the light. It said the dead woman was Chantelle Joyeaux, Masseuse. Sarah didn't recognize the name. She shook her head sadly, put the tag in her pocket, and filed the face in her memory.

The two musclemen returned, this time in camouflage shirts and pants, accompanied by the driver in his chauffeur's uniform. All three jumped into the big Cadillac, the headlights turned on, and the machine rolled off down the cobblestones.

The mansion's doors remained open, and moths danced in the yellow light. Sarah's mind was clear as ice. Somehow she knew the answers she sought were inside that mansion.

The turnaround was empty and provided no cover, so she slipped through the bushes and trees around the periphery, heading indirectly toward the rear entrance. But then, with an abruptness that stunned her, massive floodlights blazed. She crouched. The turnaround was bright as day, and a van spun onto it from the driveway, its doors already swinging open. Before she could raise her Beretta, a half-dozen armed figures dressed in black jumped out and swarmed toward her. Two more burst from the mansion's doorway. In seconds, in a perfectly orchestrated ambush, she was ringed by assault rifles pointed at her head and heart.

Someone ripped away her Beretta. Hands dragged her through
the mansion's rear doors. In a softly lighted corridor, four muscular attendants in white uniforms held Sarah. The group with assault rifles disappeared, and the floodlights blinked out. Behind her the night was dark and silent again, as if nothing had happened. The mansion's doors closed. Locks clicked.

She heard footsteps and turned. A towering, cadaverous man stepped into the corridor. Sickened, strangely exhilarated, she looked up into the gaunt face of Dr. Allan Levine.

“Well, well, Liz. Welcome to Je Suis Chez Moi.”

Her whole body was numb. Even her lips felt paralyzed as she managed to say, “Sarah. I'm Sarah Walker.”

“Ah?” Dr. Levine nodded slowly. “Then you do know. Well, we'll have to remedy that, won't we?”

She had never been so afraid.

Chapter 38

Glittering stars spread across the black canopy of the Parisian night. Henri le Petit, the dynamic governor of the Banque de France, stood in the gardens of the magnificent Hotel Matignon at 57, rue de Varenne and admired the way the rising moon illuminated the villa's aged stone exterior in a radiant, candle-wax glow. This was the official residence and workplace of the Prime Minister of France. With a nod to himself, Henri next turned to survey with pride the twenty high officials and powerful business and civic leaders who had gathered here tonight without spouses or other companions for a very special, very private celebration.

“Where is he?” demanded a voice at Henri's elbow. It was René Christian Martin, the Minister of Finance. “We are here. Our host is not. Is there a problem?”

“Vincent was busy all day,
mon ami
. Running behind, as all of us have in our preparations for Monday. You know that firsthand.” Henri chuckled. “His schedule forced him to attend Je Suis Chez Moi late today, and then he had yet another meeting. But at this moment he is upstairs in his rooms, dressing. Our patience will be rewarded.” He smiled and watched the tiny worry line between the finance minister's eyebrows smooth and disappear. René was in superb condition now—muscular yet svelte. He no longer trembled with the nervous edge that had propelled him in his meteoric rise from Treasury to Finance, yet he was even more savvy and focused.

“Louise Dupuy is not here either,” René observed.

“Oui
. Vincent said she arrived at the spa shortly before he left. She is probably there still.” Louise Dupuy was the most popular TV journalist in France. She would spend all of Monday broadcasting the bold, fresh direction their government would take.

“Ah, there is Martine!” René moved on, and Henri watched him bow over Martine Tisa's elegant, jeweled fingers. Martine must be eighty now, Henri reflected, but somehow thirty years had evaporated in the last eighteen months, and she easily looked a stylish, enviable fifty. She had a vigorous handshake, an aura of no-nonsense intensity, and platinum hair that curled coquettishly around her ears. Martine owned a publishing company that controlled some forty percent of newspapers and sixty percent of magazines in France, and she ran her empire with an iron will.

Nearby stood the oil magnate Jacques Mieux, looking sleek as a panther in his perfectly cut tuxedo. He was talking with Roger Cluny, who was in his twenties and used his unerring comprehension of youthful angst and life-styles to make himself the highest paid, most sought-after consultant to companies targeting the lucrative French teen market. The third person in their little conversational group was Claudette Cochiti, the legendary movie star now also known for her good works benefiting children and animals. There was talk among Catholics she'd someday be made a saint.

Henri felt himself swell with respect for the luminaries gathered here in this lovely old courtyard under the stars. Surely that would be their destiny now, and France's—the stars!

He moved off among the throng, chatting, laughing, patting arms, reminiscing. It was a noble night, and the momentousness of the occasion was lost on no one.

When at last the Prime Minister stepped from the doorway of Matignon to greet them, there was a sudden hush. All turned to admire him, suave in his tailored tuxedo, his thick white hair stunning against the healthy glow of his tanned face. France was on the brink of her destined greatness, and their statesman–Prime Minister, Vincent Vauban, would lead them triumphantly forward.

The Prime Minister smiled. “My friends.” He spread his
arms expansively, affectionately. “We have traveled a long way,
non?
Once some of us were socialists, others conservatives. We remember 1968, when rebelling students and striking workers reduced France to anarchy. Today our glorious nation is again sick and injured, plummeting to depths that will show our fellow
citoyens
what the future would be without our stringent new plans. France will not give up its sovereignty to European technocrats; we will not allow industrial and agricultural ruin.” He lifted his august chin, and his voice rang out across the courtyard as if it were all Europe. “Instead we unite for
La Grandeur
!”

As Sarah was marched along the silent corridors of Je Suis Chez Moi, her mind was clouded by fear and anger. Fear at being in the hellish hands of Levine again, and anger at being caught so easily. Liz Sansborough wouldn't have been so stupid, so unprepared. Sarah should have contacted Flores for backup. For a moment she realized how much she longed to see him, to warm herself in the glow of his zany kindness and intensity.

Dammit, she was still more Sarah than Liz, soft and distracted! She'd have to blend Liz into her identity if she was going to find out what had been done to her and why and get out alive. If it wasn't already too late.

The attendants opened a door and pushed her inside. Quickly she took in her surroundings: A large, sumptuous suite, decorated with eighteenth-century French, modern, and Oriental furnishings and art. Except for an ornate desk in front of its high windows and a row of polished-wood filing cabinets against one wall, it appeared to be some kind of elegant sitting room. Open double doors to her right revealed a dining room. A living suite and office combined.

As the towering doctor watched, the male attendant who held her pistol also took her day pack, and a woman searched her Western shirt and jeans. With a flash of fear, Sarah wanted to put a protective hand over the delirium in her jeans pocket, but that would only alert them. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

The attendant squeezed Sarah's jeans pocket. “Take it out.”

Sarah pulled out Chantelle Joyeaux's name tag. The woman's face froze. She handed it to Dr. Levine.

“How did you get this, Sarah?”

Through a fog of fear she tried to calculate whether she would gain anything by lying. But the way the van had arrived to overwhelm her with an orchestrated attack told her time and planning had been necessary. They were undoubtedly Bremner's people from Languedoc, and they must have known she'd been in the rear turnaround.

“I saw her body in the trunk of the Cadillac.”

“Very good.” Levine returned the name tag to the guard, who put it in her own pocket. “You've encouraged me that you're worth talking to. If you'd lied—” He shrugged, but the conclusion she was expected to draw was clear: Whatever fate they planned for her would have come more swiftly and cruelly.

“What did Chantelle Joyeaux do to make you kill her?” she asked, trying to distract the attendant from her search.

But almost immediately the woman found the bulge formed by the tiny vial of delirium with the paper towel wrapped around it. Blood throbbed at Sarah's temples. She didn't know exactly how, but she sensed if she were to have any hope of escaping from Levine, she had to have the delirium.

“Let's see that, too,” the attendant ordered.

“My sinuses were bothering me on the flight,” she lied as she pulled out the crumpled towel. She snuffled, blew her nose into it, then held it out to the attendant.

Stone-faced, the woman ignored the distasteful wad and glanced at Levine. “That's all she has on her, sir.”

Sarah snuffled again and looked around. She saw the waste-basket beside the ornate desk. Her back to Levine and both attendants, she advanced on the wastebasket. Trying to appear calm, she pretended to blow her nose again, palmed the vial from the towel, and threw the wadded towel into the trash. At the same instant, with her hidden hand, she slipped the vial of delirium back into the pocket of her jeans. As she turned, a glint of silver on Levine's desk caught her eye. No surprise: It was a Cross pen, just like Gordon's.

She returned innocently to them.

The doctor nodded to the male attendant. “You can both leave and get on with your regular duties.”

The two guards hesitated. The woman said, “I think we should stay with you, Doctor.”

“I don't care what you think. Leave us.”

The man said, “She's a trained agent. Bremner wouldn't—”

“She's a fictional agent created by me, and Bremner isn't here, I am. I'll take her gun. I assure you I know how to use it.” Reluctantly the man handed Sarah's Beretta to the doctor. “Good. Get out.”

The attendants left, and Levine dropped the gun into the pocket of his long white lab coat. He smiled at Sarah and said in a pleasant, almost eager, voice, “Sit wherever you like. You must be hungry after all your surveillance and exertion. We'll have dinner while we talk.”

They'd been observing her the whole time. Inwardly she groaned. Liz Sansborough would have expected that. The
Herald Tribune
hadn't known she and Flores were in Paris yet, but Liz would have realized Bremner had alerted his people. Perhaps someone at the café had been Bremner's agent.

“Who was it?” she said bitterly. “The man in the straw Panama? The young couple holding hands, so much in love?”

He shook his head almost sadly. “Don't feel bad, Sarah. Hughes and his people are too experienced for you. After all, you're only a magazine writer.” He sat in a damask chair in the middle of the room, relaxed and smiling. Somehow she had to get the delirium into him and soon. She could try to put it into his food, but dinner could be a long way away. She wanted the drug to begin working now, because it would take at least forty minutes to reach full effect. She had to find a way to do that immediately and get back her Beretta—

Casually she studied the two rooms. At the end of this one was a fully equipped bar with glasses hanging overhead. She saw the recessed, pencil-thin video cameras high on the walls.

The doctor watched her, and again his voice was gentle. “Don't bother considering escape, Sarah. This isn't the Ranch. All the doors have automated locks controlled from central security. The windows are a special glass compound that requires
something on the level of a howitzer to break through. And our attendants are fully trained in martial arts.”

He smiled his friendly smile. And, suddenly, a voice inside her said:
He wants something from you
. Not for Bremner, for himself. That was the reason for the amiable tone and the removal of the attendants and their implied threat. But Gordon had taught her well. She'd never again be duped by a disarming manner. With a rush of understanding, her mind cleared: When someone wants something, that person is vulnerable.

She had to divert his attention. “You haven't told me why you killed Chantelle Joyeaux and that man. Who were they?”

Levine sat straight, a lab-coated emperor on his damask throne, and he frowned. “Two people who made a mistake they won't make again.” Then his smile returned. “Still asking questions. That's very good.” He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice was again eager, almost trembling. “Tell me, Sarah, did your memory come back slowly or all at once?”

The question caught her by surprise. He didn't seem to notice. He was still leaning eagerly toward her, excited. “Did events trigger your memory, or was it spontaneous? Did you realize what was happening to you? Did you—?”

All at once she understood what he wanted: Scientific data! To Hughes Bremner and Gordon Taite she was part of a major operation against the Carnivore, but to Levine she was a research project, and he wanted what only she could tell him—her experiences. This was better than she'd dared hope. Nothing could distract a scientist as much as collecting research data from the guinea pig herself!

She said, “Why should I tell you anything? Are you going to let me walk out of here?”

“Of course! Once M
ASQUERADE
is over, I'll simply—”

“What does Hughes Bremner want me for?”