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I’ll be at the mayor’s office when they open in the morning. Even if she can’t see me then, I’ll tell her staff who I am—who my father is—and she might be willing to meet with me at some point later in the day. Hush-hush, of course. There’s no way she’ll want word to get out that she met with someone so closely related to organized crime. If she won’t see me, I’ll make a scene big enough to interest the press—which she’ll hate—and then she won’t have any choice.
One thing I’m sure about is that the mayor won’t risk calling the authorities on William Clarke’s daughter. If she does, her days in politics are over. Maybe worse. It’s her choice. I don’t have a choice. I have to speak to the mayor. It has to be her. Going to the police is out of the question.
Since I was a young girl, I’ve been warned repeatedly that the police will stop at nothing to destroy my family. Not just the police, but all of law enforcement. My father trusts only those on his payroll—even then, he’s cautious. As an adult, I understand that the relationship between my father and the authorities is more complicated than I was led to believe, but still, I would never dream of going to them for anything.
As far as Interpol goes, they don’t have an office in Quimper. Plus, for all intents and purposes, they’re law enforcement. My previous contacts with them have all been anonymous and untraceable. If I show up in person, even if I use my mother’s maiden name, they’ll know who I am right away and begin asking questions about my father. At this point, it’s better to avoid them altogether.
When I’m satisfied that the plan is complete, I stare out the window into the abyss that is the night sky.
If this doesn’t work, I’m going to have to share what I know—what I’ve been doing—with my father and deal with the fallout, ugly as it will surely be. His head will explode when I tell him.
Although I think he’ll be willing—or at least that I can convince him—to help. Will Clarke doesn’t permit women to be trafficked through London. No exceptions. Those who fail to heed his order do so at their own peril.
But Quimper isn’t London or even the UK, and he might not see it as his purview. If that happens, I’ll have to change his mind—from the cloistered tower he’s going to lock me into when he finds out what I’ve been up to. Any punishment I’ve experienced up until now will seem like nothing compared to what’s in store for me when he learns the truth.
“Do you need anything, miss?” the flight attendant asks, rousing me from disturbing thoughts of Anne Boleyn, a dank tower, and another unforgiving king.
“How long before we land?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Anya replies.
Anya. Something about her makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why—she’s nice enough. I force my mouth to curl, and she smiles back. She has a gap between her front teeth, like Cristina, the regular flight attendant.
“Although,” Anya continues, “I understand there’s some bad weather ahead and we might fly around it. If that’s the case, it’ll be a bit longer before we’re on the ground. Are you sure I can’t bring you some chamomile tea or a blanket?”
She’s more than nice. She’s very sweet. It’s late, and I’m exhausted and a bit cranky. I hate personnel changes—that’s all. I’m used to Cristina, who stocks my favorite snacks and sits with me when she’s not busy. I’m a baby. A baby who would benefit from a nap.
“A blanket would be lovely. Thank you.”
3
RAFAEL
When we chase red herrings, Rafael, the bodies pile up. Will’s words keep coming back to me like street food in Marrakesh.
I’m beginning to have doubts about who’s responsible for the dead flight attendant. The trouble in London doesn’t sound at all like the traffickers—it sounds personal.
“Where is she staying in Quimper?” I ask Will, putting the call back on speaker as a plan forms in my head.
Between issuing orders to someone with him, he rattles off the hotel information.
“Pull it up,” I instruct Tamar.
“Done,” she replies seconds later, pointing to the large screen on the wall. The hotel is little more than an elegant inn. I’m sure they took it because it’s easy to contain. “Here’s the interior layout they provided to the fire inspectors.”
“Did you take the entire place?” I ask Will. It’s midweek and offseason. With a little financial incentive, a small hotel could be procured for a day or two.
“All but one room. There are VIP guests occupying the top west side, and despite a good deal of encouragement, the hotel refused to move them in the middle of the night.”
Doesn’t matter. We’re not going to that hotel.
I mute the call while Will talks to someone on his end. “Find a new hotel. Something larger that will make it easier for us to get in and out. Make it happen quickly.”
“It’s Quimper, not Paris. All the accommodations are going to be on the small side. But we can probably find something that better suits our needs,” she adds.
“The insurgent on the plane is Astrid Eklund,” Will sneers. “Swedish father, Romanian mother. Her parents were divorced when she was three, and her mother took her to Prague, where she grew up.”
An image of Misha strung up in the shack pops to mind, and I swat it away.
