Page 121

I check the restraints. They’re snug against the chair. An unconscious woman is an odd touch, décor wise, but the silver bracelets suit Camille. The color flatters her cool skin tone. With the breezy blouse and denim-shorts, she’s positively prisoner chic.

“We’ll have to make it quick,” he says as he empties her pockets—cell, taser, gun—and pats her down. But she’s got no place to hide her weapons.

That’s the problem with summer, especially somewhere this hot. Makes it hard to conceal carry.

“How do you know her?” he asks.

“She’s one of Elena’s lovers,” I say. The last time I saw her we were at some winery outside of Paris, and the two of them were drinking vodka martinis and chain smoking on the balcony between rounds of loud, athletic sex involving intricate knots and Indiana Jones style whips.

I guess it all makes sense now.

She was working Elena.

I should kill her for that.

Elena’s voice echoes in my head.

Strategy first, doll. Get mad on your own time.

Elena is straightforward. She’d kill Camille and then everyone else sent to take her out.

But that won’t get me what I really need:

Information.

No, I need to do this my way. Sideways.

“Are you okay?” Matteo asks when I don’t reply for a minute.

I am. That’s the strange thing. Right now, trying to figure out how to keep the two of us alive, I’m completely in my element. “I’m perfect.” I turn to him. “How do you know Camille?”

“We borrowed her from French intelligence. We worked together a few times. She’s always been professional, but she never struck me as a true believer.”

“How long have you known her?”

“A decade,” he says.

Which means she’s done a great job evading suspicion for a long time.

Or she’s new to my side of the law.

She might be backup from Olympus, here to grab the laptop and run.

She might be DGSE, here to turn it into the feds.

Or she might be doing this freelance, hoping to sell the info to the highest bidder.

How much does he know about the laptop? I’m not sure. I try to keep him distracted. “I still remember this one tip in Budapest, where I kept coming home to the two of them screaming each others names. They made me look positively… satiable.”

He chuckles. Here we are, with someone sent to kill us, and we’re talking about your sex drive. “You didn’t get a sense she was faking it?” he asks.

“Not the orgasms. Those were real. The rest, I don’t know. They didn’t do a lot of talking. And it was never romantic, really. Just sexual. That’s how Elena does things.”

Which doesn’t give us much information.

Matteo nods, turning over our options. “She’s either after us or after the laptop.”

So it’s obvious to him too.