I pulled my bag onto my shoulder, making sure the pockets faced out and were easily accessible to me, then stood and made my way over to the door. To any casual observer, it would look like I was simply anticipating the train’s arrival at the next stop and getting ready to disembark.
I came to a stop right next to Dufor, pushed my way between two others and gripped the pole above him.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur,” I said in perfect French. “Quelle heure est-il?” Excuse me, sir. Do you have the time? It was our code phrase. If he didn’t have the drive, he’d look at his watch and give the time, and the drop would be aborted. It was the last chance for him to back out.
I held my breath.
Dufor glanced at me and pursed his lips. “Ma montre est cassée.” My watch is broken. He’d completed the code perfectly—he not only had the drive, but he felt secure in passing it along.
I sighed in feigned disappointment, then shrugged and turned toward the door.
The train began to slow, and I steeled myself for the quick sleight of hand I was about to employ. The train lurched to a stop, and I allowed myself to be thrown slightly into Dufor. My left hand came up to his chest, disguised as an effort to steady myself, and while I was profusely apologizing, I slipped it stealthily into his right breast pocket and, quick as lighting, palmed the drive and something else—a thick piece of paper.
I flushed and pulled away from Dufor, playing an embarrassed young professional who’d been caught off guard. I patted my hair and rearranged my bag over my left shoulder, dropping the drive surreptitiously into the outer pocket and switching the paper into my other hand. Dufor frowned slightly and took a step away, to the other side of the pole. He played his part well. He looked like any other grumpy Frenchman, irritated at the disruption of his daily routine. In truth, from all I’d learned about him, he was a really nice guy.
The doors hissed open, and I turned my attention to the flood of people about to board the train, scanning faces for anything that looked suspicious. I saw nothing to worry about and relaxed slightly as I waited for the doors to close. This was a textbook mission. At the next stop, Dufor would get off, remaining under the care of Division until he got home, and I’d ride two more stops before disembarking and heading for headquarters. I could just imagine the excitement Rosabella must be feeling right now. A mission well planned and perfectly executed. I took a moment and glanced at the small piece of paper in my hand that I’d taken from Dufor’s pocket along with the flash drive. It was a ticket stub for l’Orangerie museum. I tucked it into my jacket pocket. Just one more stop.
Suddenly, I felt a wrench at my side and an abrupt emptiness where my satchel should be. I gasped. The drive! It took me only a split-second to identify the thief—a young boy running swiftly away from the train, through the crowds and up the stairs, my satchel slung around his neck. His black jacket had an embroidered yellow sun on the back. I didn’t have time to think—the doors were already closing. I glanced at Dufor and quickly scanned the people on the train once more. No threats. Dufor’s eyes were wide with fright, but I couldn’t focus on that. That drive could save millions. I could not lose it, and Dufor would be safe until he reached the next stop. I dove off the train, barely squeezing through the closing doors, and ran after the boy.
I pushed my way up the stairs, cursing my choice to wear three-inch heeled boots on this mission. It was a good thing that I had some nice thick stockings underneath. I pulled out the sheathed knife I had stashed in there, sliding it into my front waistband, just under my silk shirt. I kicked the boots off as I climbed, hoping someone who could really use the lovely things would find them.
Ace and Halluis talked over each other, hurling agitated questions at me over the earpiece. I didn’t have the concentration to spare to decipher their words, so I just gave my report through gritted teeth. “Pursuing thief out of the metro. Dufor safe on train, but solo. Requesting backup at Gare du Nord.” Once up the stairs, I ran at top speed out of the metro tunnel onto rue de Dunkerque.
I spotted the boy only a few streets ahead of me, the yellow sun on his jacket standing out like a beacon. He was walking now, believing he had gotten away. The bag, now in his hand, swung at his side. I took off after him, people gawking as I passed. Only one more street and I’d have him. I wove my way through the crowds of tourists and only had half a street to catch up to him, when he looked back and spotted me.
He gave me a snide, taunting look before hauling off running. He slipped my bag back over his neck. That rotten kid
