Screw this. Piotr snatched his room keys off the table and stormed out of the motel room, slamming the door shut behind him. His feet crunched over the gravel path beside the freeway as he charged toward the trees. He left behind the whooshing of the cars on the Autobahn and began his ascent, pushing hard up the hill while dodging the tree trunks in his way. His thighs burnt and his chest ached, but he continued his climb, determined to make it to the top. The hill eventually tapered out, and he made it to the peak. He gasped and panted, entirely out of breath, his whole body now throbbing from the strain and the lack of oxygen. With his hands on his hips he looked out over the terrain dotted with lights. The anxiety which had gripped him in the motel had eased, and his focus sharpened again. He hoped the physical exhaustion would be enough to help him sleep. His next chance would not come for another forty-eight hours.
If he survived that long.
Scheffler wrinkled his brow while rapidly tapping his finger on the desk.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Six hours,” said Gerricks. “He was supposed to get out of there after twenty-minutes if he found nothing.”
“Which means he found something.”
“Seems so.”
Scheffler rubbed his palm over his mouth. Shit.
“What should we do?” said Gerricks.
Storm the place, Scheffler thought to himself. Storm the fucking place.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” he said and marched out.
When he got inside his office he slammed the door shut behind him and began pacing from side to side. He stopped beside his desk and clenched his fists. The urge to kick his chair over came but he held it back. His eyes were stinging from lack of sleep, and his head felt fuzzy. Think, Vince, think. His only real option was to wait. He had already taken an unnecessary risk by sending in the scout. Kalakia had been clear about staying put, and Scheffler had defied the order. The assault was beginning in less than twenty-four hours. He picked up his phone but stopped before dialling the number. How would he explain that he had screwed up? He put the phone down and began pacing again. Waiting was not his style. It made him feel frustrated. Impotent. He was the guy they called on to make things happen, not to wait for things to happen to him. Something was going on in that building. There was still a slim chance that he had made the right decision. What if his inaction had ended up costing lives? They could send in another scout, this time with more caution. Then Scheffler would call Kalakia, justified in his decision. He pushed the door open and returned to the surveillance room.
“Send someone else—“
The impact when he saw Gerricks’ face was immediate, and he slowed his walk to a halt. Gerricks stared gravely at him with wide-eyes.
“What is it?” said Scheffler.
Gerricks turned to his terminal, which was showing an amateur video taken along the beachside. On the screen was a man’s body hanging limp by its feet from a light pole. The police were cordoning off the area as shocked bystanders looked on. A police officer approached the camera before it was switched off.
“Who’s that?” said Scheffler.
“That’s our scout,” said Gerricks. “They hung his body up at the main beach in Barcelona just before daylight. Someone uploaded the footage online.”
13
Paris in the evening was breathtaking.
Gazing wide-eyed out of her taxi, Ida leaned forward and carefully studied every passing building and landmark. Unreal. Her second visit to the city was reminding her what picturesque meant. Driving along the Seine felt like being in a movie — a romantic one, of course. The grand buildings, the cobbled squares, the elegantly-dressed people; everything about the place was sublime.
They crossed Place de la Concorde and turned onto the Champs-Élysées, and Ida’s senses began to prickle. She was lifted out of her body and had to grasp the edge of the seat. She was eight years old again, sitting on the carpet in front of her television watching a María Félix movie with her mother. Wrapped around María’s neck was a baby blue silk scarf and in her hand was a cigarette. She had on a diamond-encrusted tiara and earrings, both of which sparkled and glowed as she spoke, each tilt of her head hypnotising the young Ida. The cigarette smoke lifting into the air had the effect of making María’s wide, bright eyes look that much more seductive, her uncompromising facial expression giving potency to her divine beauty. Ida remembered how she had ached to cross the screen and enter María’s alluring world. Now only a car door separated her from the real thing.
The car came to a halt. Ida looked around abruptly and realised they had already turned off the Champs-Élysées and were now in the hotel driveway.
“Thank you,” she muttered, before paying and getting out of the car.
The taxi driver walked around to the back and took her luggage bag out of the trunk. In a moment he was gone, and Ida was left standing in the middle of the driveway with her hand resting over the luggage handle.
Warm lighting illuminated the top of the arched windows at the entrance as well as the balconies above, and Ida moved toward the inviting glow. She was greeted at the front by the black tuxedo-clad doorman and then again inside the lobby. The receptionist was polite and softly-spoken. Before Ida knew it, her bag was on its way to her room and she was holding a room card. She left
