to—”
“Like hell we have to!” Alain pounded the card table for emphasis, making it jump, making glasses and plates go up in the air and come down hard. He wanted to kill this flat-faced bastard. Maybe he would when the trip was over, but right now Girons had to run the ship and keep the crew in line.
“If we don’t, France will think we’ve got trouble and maybe send search ships looking for us. I’m sure you don’t want that. And if we don’t tell London we’re coming in, they’ll think we’ve got trouble, and we’ll be greeted by some official people you might not want to see.”
Alain Lonzu kept quiet, frowning, his pain-racked brain trying to grab on to a piece of what Girons had just said to him. Lonzu wanted things his way, but something about what the captain had just said to him made sense. Yes, it did.
Alain nodded again and again, breathing loudly, nostrils flaring, his eyes burning into Girons, who was getting nervous and tried to hide it by folding his hands in his lap and twirling his thumbs.
“O.K., captain, we radio when we get closer. But you understand something: nothing better happen to me, and you know why. My brother never forgets, and I’m sure you know what that means. It means you’re dead if I don’t walk off this ship and see my brother. You’re dead.”
Girons licked his lips, suddenly realizing he’d been holding his breath and leaning back in the chair as though to move farther away from Alain Lonzu. The Count owned the La Rochelle, and Girons had no choice but to follow orders if he wanted to continue as ship’s captain. These days few men were ship’s captains, and for a young orphan boy who had eaten garbage in Marseilles’s streets to keep from starving to death, Hubert Girons had come a long way.
He wanted to stay captain almost as much as he wanted to stay alive. Sighing, he raised his hands from his lap, letting them fall back on his thick thighs. A gesture of defeat.
“Everything will be all right, you’ll see. It’ll be all right.”
Alain’s twisted smile was ugly as he reached over with his left hand, keeping his eyes on Girons while pressing the hand onto Girons’s white shirt, feeling the man stiffen under the touch and seeing him fight for control as Alain wiped blood on the shirt. The smile, still ugly, was there as Alain said, “That’s my blood. Go on, look at it. Now, if everything is not all right, your blood will be there, you understand?”
Girons, lips pressed tightly together, jaw trembling with fear and shame, his face burning with savage embarrassment, said nothing.
“Captain, I asked you a question: I said do you understand?” Alain, like those with any power or advantage, used it.
Girons nodded, his head jerking stiffly, as though he were a puppet. And the harsh truth was that he was. But in his mind he made a note.
Girons, proud as those are who rise from nothing, had been pushed too far this time. The humiliation by Alain had been too much, and Girons, a Corsican, vowed that one day he would have his revenge on this bleeding bastard. The captain’s voice was low, almost inaudible. “I understand. I do.”
CHAPTER 6
F RANCE.
Eighty miles an hour. Speeding down an empty highway at eighty miles an hour, 6:45 on a chilly morning, bouncing around in the back seat of a small French taxi, his body tired and aching from a seven-hour night flight from Washington, D.C., to Orly Field in Paris. Shit, thought John Bolt, that’s just the good, news. The bad news is that the taxi was in midair—it had just hit a bump in the road—and all four wheels were off the ground.
My ass, thought Bolt. The fucking Frenchman’s driving like he’s the Red Baron.
In the seconds left to him before the taxi slammed back down into the highway, Bolt shoved his legs straight out, pressing hard against the base of the seat in front of him. Both hands were tightly entwined with a strap near the window on his right, the best white-knuckle grip the
“Like hell we have to!” Alain pounded the card table for emphasis, making it jump, making glasses and plates go up in the air and come down hard. He wanted to kill this flat-faced bastard. Maybe he would when the trip was over, but right now Girons had to run the ship and keep the crew in line.
“If we don’t, France will think we’ve got trouble and maybe send search ships looking for us. I’m sure you don’t want that. And if we don’t tell London we’re coming in, they’ll think we’ve got trouble, and we’ll be greeted by some official people you might not want to see.”
Alain Lonzu kept quiet, frowning, his pain-racked brain trying to grab on to a piece of what Girons had just said to him. Lonzu wanted things his way, but something about what the captain had just said to him made sense. Yes, it did.
Alain nodded again and again, breathing loudly, nostrils flaring, his eyes burning into Girons, who was getting nervous and tried to hide it by folding his hands in his lap and twirling his thumbs.
“O.K., captain, we radio when we get closer. But you understand something: nothing better happen to me, and you know why. My brother never forgets, and I’m sure you know what that means. It means you’re dead if I don’t walk off this ship and see my brother. You’re dead.”
Girons licked his lips, suddenly realizing he’d been holding his breath and leaning back in the chair as though to move farther away from Alain Lonzu. The Count owned the La Rochelle, and Girons had no choice but to follow orders if he wanted to continue as ship’s captain. These days few men were ship’s captains, and for a young orphan boy who had eaten garbage in Marseilles’s streets to keep from starving to death, Hubert Girons had come a long way.
He wanted to stay captain almost as much as he wanted to stay alive. Sighing, he raised his hands from his lap, letting them fall back on his thick thighs. A gesture of defeat.
“Everything will be all right, you’ll see. It’ll be all right.”
Alain’s twisted smile was ugly as he reached over with his left hand, keeping his eyes on Girons while pressing the hand onto Girons’s white shirt, feeling the man stiffen under the touch and seeing him fight for control as Alain wiped blood on the shirt. The smile, still ugly, was there as Alain said, “That’s my blood. Go on, look at it. Now, if everything is not all right, your blood will be there, you understand?”
Girons, lips pressed tightly together, jaw trembling with fear and shame, his face burning with savage embarrassment, said nothing.
“Captain, I asked you a question: I said do you understand?” Alain, like those with any power or advantage, used it.
Girons nodded, his head jerking stiffly, as though he were a puppet. And the harsh truth was that he was. But in his mind he made a note.
Girons, proud as those are who rise from nothing, had been pushed too far this time. The humiliation by Alain had been too much, and Girons, a Corsican, vowed that one day he would have his revenge on this bleeding bastard. The captain’s voice was low, almost inaudible. “I understand. I do.”
CHAPTER 6
F RANCE.
Eighty miles an hour. Speeding down an empty highway at eighty miles an hour, 6:45 on a chilly morning, bouncing around in the back seat of a small French taxi, his body tired and aching from a seven-hour night flight from Washington, D.C., to Orly Field in Paris. Shit, thought John Bolt, that’s just the good, news. The bad news is that the taxi was in midair—it had just hit a bump in the road—and all four wheels were off the ground.
My ass, thought Bolt. The fucking Frenchman’s driving like he’s the Red Baron.
In the seconds left to him before the taxi slammed back down into the highway, Bolt shoved his legs straight out, pressing hard against the base of the seat in front of him. Both hands were tightly entwined with a strap near the window on his right, the best white-knuckle grip the
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