thought, feeling helpless to do anything. Whatever happened now, it was too late.
The VW stopped to pull into a parking space. The motorcycle came up beside the VW, slowed as the rider leaned over and attached something black to the car door, then suddenly revving the engine, sped off. The motorcycle raced down the street in a roar.
âBess! Waqif! Bombela!â Stop! Stop! Bomb! Scorpion screamed to his driver. The driver just had time to slam on the brakes, the taxi screeching to a stop an instant before the VW exploded in an orange fireball that rocked the street. The powerful blast cast a fiery glare across the buildings, the shock wave buffeting the taxi like a toy shaken by a dog. Fragments from the VW peppered the taxi like hail as Scorpion dived flat onto the backseat.
When he looked up, the driver was staring wide-eyed through his windshield, chipped and cracked from the explosion. His face was bleeding from broken glass cuts but he didnât appear seriously hurt. The burning wreck of the chassis was all that remained of the VW. Scorpion jumped out into the street, where a manâs severed hand lay next to an overturned café table. He couldnât tell if it was Harandiâs. He felt sick, stumbled over to a tree to brace himself and looked up. The motorcycle was nowhere to be seen.
A hundred-to-one the motorcyclist had videoed his meeting with Harandi, he thought. Hopefully, all they got were his back and cap, with maybe a glimpse of his glasses, spotted with raindrops. Not enough to ID him, and he would immediately get rid of the glasses and cap to change the image. Whoever they were, it was clear they were already using the Bern data. That was the only way they couldâve gotten on to Harandi.
His regular iPhone vibrated and he answered. It was an e-mail from the Gmail account known only to Rabinowich and Schaefer. Only it wasnât either of them. It read:
Vendredi. la marée. 8è. 20h. Urgent.
Friday, the La Marée restaurant in the 8th Arrondissement in Paris at 8:00 P.M. Urgent.
It was Sandrine, he thought. It couldnât be anyone else. She was the only other person who knew that e-mail account. She wanted to see him. And it didnât sound like sheâd e-mailed because she actually wanted to see him. Something had happened. Hence the âurgent.â
God, what insane timing, he thought as he stared at the smoldering frame of the VW and the wreckage-strewn street filling with people, windows opening in buildings around the park, spectators peering out. He had to get away, he thought, climbing back into the taxi and patting the stunned driver on the shoulder.
One thing was clear: his turn was coming.
And now he had put her in danger too.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris,
France
âI wasnât sure you would come,â she said. It was the first time he had seen her wearing makeup, and in a green sheath dress and bronze eye shadow that brought out the gold in her lionâs eyes, she took his breath away. âI wasnât so nice the last time.â
âYou knew Iâd come,â Scorpion said. âYou didnât dress like that for the chef de cuisine.â
They were sitting at a table at La Marée, a clubby restaurant with Tudor-style leaded windows on the Right Bank not far from the Arc de Triomphe. They were the only ones speaking English in the crowded restaurant, sharing a superb Montrachet white wine along with the freshest fines de claire oysters heâd ever tasted. The restaurant was famous for its seafood.
âAlors,â she smiled. âThere are two occasions when a woman must look absolutely fabulous. When sheâs going to see a man sheâs interested in and when sheâs getting rid of a man, so he can properly appreciate what heâs lost.â
âAnd which is this?â
âAllez au diable,â she laughed, her laughter clear as a bell. Go to hell. âImpossible man.â
The waiter came over and they
The VW stopped to pull into a parking space. The motorcycle came up beside the VW, slowed as the rider leaned over and attached something black to the car door, then suddenly revving the engine, sped off. The motorcycle raced down the street in a roar.
âBess! Waqif! Bombela!â Stop! Stop! Bomb! Scorpion screamed to his driver. The driver just had time to slam on the brakes, the taxi screeching to a stop an instant before the VW exploded in an orange fireball that rocked the street. The powerful blast cast a fiery glare across the buildings, the shock wave buffeting the taxi like a toy shaken by a dog. Fragments from the VW peppered the taxi like hail as Scorpion dived flat onto the backseat.
When he looked up, the driver was staring wide-eyed through his windshield, chipped and cracked from the explosion. His face was bleeding from broken glass cuts but he didnât appear seriously hurt. The burning wreck of the chassis was all that remained of the VW. Scorpion jumped out into the street, where a manâs severed hand lay next to an overturned café table. He couldnât tell if it was Harandiâs. He felt sick, stumbled over to a tree to brace himself and looked up. The motorcycle was nowhere to be seen.
A hundred-to-one the motorcyclist had videoed his meeting with Harandi, he thought. Hopefully, all they got were his back and cap, with maybe a glimpse of his glasses, spotted with raindrops. Not enough to ID him, and he would immediately get rid of the glasses and cap to change the image. Whoever they were, it was clear they were already using the Bern data. That was the only way they couldâve gotten on to Harandi.
His regular iPhone vibrated and he answered. It was an e-mail from the Gmail account known only to Rabinowich and Schaefer. Only it wasnât either of them. It read:
Vendredi. la marée. 8è. 20h. Urgent.
Friday, the La Marée restaurant in the 8th Arrondissement in Paris at 8:00 P.M. Urgent.
It was Sandrine, he thought. It couldnât be anyone else. She was the only other person who knew that e-mail account. She wanted to see him. And it didnât sound like sheâd e-mailed because she actually wanted to see him. Something had happened. Hence the âurgent.â
God, what insane timing, he thought as he stared at the smoldering frame of the VW and the wreckage-strewn street filling with people, windows opening in buildings around the park, spectators peering out. He had to get away, he thought, climbing back into the taxi and patting the stunned driver on the shoulder.
One thing was clear: his turn was coming.
And now he had put her in danger too.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris,
France
âI wasnât sure you would come,â she said. It was the first time he had seen her wearing makeup, and in a green sheath dress and bronze eye shadow that brought out the gold in her lionâs eyes, she took his breath away. âI wasnât so nice the last time.â
âYou knew Iâd come,â Scorpion said. âYou didnât dress like that for the chef de cuisine.â
They were sitting at a table at La Marée, a clubby restaurant with Tudor-style leaded windows on the Right Bank not far from the Arc de Triomphe. They were the only ones speaking English in the crowded restaurant, sharing a superb Montrachet white wine along with the freshest fines de claire oysters heâd ever tasted. The restaurant was famous for its seafood.
âAlors,â she smiled. âThere are two occasions when a woman must look absolutely fabulous. When sheâs going to see a man sheâs interested in and when sheâs getting rid of a man, so he can properly appreciate what heâs lost.â
âAnd which is this?â
âAllez au diable,â she laughed, her laughter clear as a bell. Go to hell. âImpossible man.â
The waiter came over and they
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