Foreign Éclairs Page 9

  The air had cooled tremendously. I shivered. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  He waited until we got to a bench. “Have a seat,” he said. When I did, he made a slow circuit around it before sitting down next to me.

  “Jason is okay. He was pretty badly injured, but he’ll make it. His restaurant, on the other hand . . .” Gav sat forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “I hope he has good insurance.”

  I waited for him to continue, knowing he would at his own pace.

  “There was no gas leak,” he said after a pause. “But I assume you already knew that.”

  “Got that impression, yes.”

  “Suzette’s was destroyed by an IED.”

  I knew from the first time Gav and I had worked together, long before we even liked each other, that an IED was an improvised explosive device.

  “Who would want to target Suzette’s?”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting.” Tension tightened his face, deepening his cheeks and accentuating his jawline. A vein throbbed at his throat. He raised his eyes, checking the area around us again. “Remember how we talked about signature bombs? And how we can sometimes trace a bomb to its creator through an analysis of its components and composition?”

  I nodded.

  “Our forensics team will be analyzing the debris to confirm, but Yablonski and I are convinced that the bomb that destroyed Suzette’s today was created by the same person who set off the bomb at Cenga Prison on Sunday.”

  When I gasped, Gav turned to face me. “I wasn’t able to share specifics when you asked, but after tonight, Yablonski is greenlighting including you in the investigation.” He took both my hands. “The bomb that went off at Cenga Prison was almost certainly the work of Armustanian terrorists.”

  “Which means that the bomb at Suzette’s was theirs, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Realization crashed, humming in my ears and quickening my heart. I stiffened, but Gav held tight to my hands as I reasoned it out. “Yablonski is allowing you to tell me all this because we are targets?”

  He nodded.

  I turned away, picturing the destruction I’d seen tonight. “The front of Suzette’s was blown off. Our table,” I said. “If Josh hadn’t asked to work with me in the kitchen—if we hadn’t been delayed, we would have been there tonight when the bomb went off.”

  Gav nodded again.

  “The Armustanians knew our plans, didn’t they?” I asked. “And that’s why you asked which phone I used to make the reservation. The landline. They’re taping our phone calls?”

  Still holding my hands, he spoke quietly. “We believe it may be worse than that. We believe that when your purse was stolen, they were after your keys. We believe they bugged the entire apartment.”

  “But I had the locks changed the next morning, remember? Agent Romero and I walked through the entire apartment that night to make sure no one was—” My hands flew out of Gav’s into the air as the answer came to me. “Of course. They were in our apartment that night. They let themselves in while I was busy giving my statement to the Secret Service and the police.”

  “Most likely, yes.”

  Snippets from that evening came back to me in a rush. “James mentioned confusion in the lobby that evening. How much do you want to bet that it was a distraction to allow someone to sneak past him unnoticed?”

  Gav looked sad. “As a doorman, James is ineffectual at best. Even on a good day he tends to fall asleep at his post.”

  The bombers had been in our apartment. And I’d never suspected it. My stomach somersaulted. “They’ve been listening to everything, haven’t they?” I sucked in a breath as horror set my gut spinning again, this time shooting bile up the back of my throat. “Cameras? Do you think there are cameras in our apartment?”

  He pulled me close. “We will find out. I promise you.”

  Now I glanced around, fearful that we were being watched. Certain that we were.

  “What do we do?”

  “For now, we head back to the apartment.”

  “And rip out every single listening and watching device they put there.”

  “Unfortunately not,” he said. He pulled me closer. “Yablonski is calling in a few favors, and he’s making arrangements as we speak. You and I need to go home and wait for him to contact us. Until we get further instructions, we have to pretend as though we have no idea we’re being watched or listened to.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

  “You know I do.”

  I hung my head and closed my eyes. Except for the traffic and the wind shushing through the trees, the evening was silent. My stomach growled.

  Gav patted my knee. “Let’s get something to eat while we’re out. The less time we spend in the apartment, the better.”

  CHAPTER 12

  We started back for our apartment after having devoured far more food than was good for us. Our favorite Mexican place specialized in takeout but provided two small Formica tables and four wobbly aluminum chairs for those rare patrons who chose to dine in. We’d occupied one of the tables for more than an hour, consuming tacos, burritos, chips, salsa, and guacamole, little of which I actually tasted.

  Agent Romero met us outside the elevator when we alighted at our floor. “One of us will be out here all night if you need anything,” she assured us. “You can both sleep soundly knowing we have agents stationed around the building. No one who shouldn’t be here is getting in.”

  We thanked her and let ourselves into the apartment the same way we always did. And yet, the clank of our keys into the ceramic bowl on the table inside the door sounded different. The very air smelled different. Breathing felt different.

  Talking, however, was the absolute worst. The pressure to behave normally—to pretend we had no inkling we were being observed while every nerve in my body twisted with tension—made forming casual conversation virtually impossible.

  Gav had expressed his strong belief that whoever had established surveillance had placed only a handful of listening devices around the apartment and would not have had the time to set up cameras.

  Still, to be safe, we agreed to keep our actions as benign as possible. That meant no pantomiming messages. No writing notes. If the bad guys were watching, they needed to be convinced that we didn’t suspect a thing.

  We hung up our coats in silence and moved toward the kitchen, bumping into each other when we both started through the doorway at once.

  “You first,” Gav said.

  “No, after you.”

  He tried to smile, but it was as forced as my gesture signaling him to go ahead.

  Gav walked through the kitchen into the living room, where he turned on the television. I opened the refrigerator and stared in, seeing nothing.

  Updates screamed from the TV. Our eavesdroppers had to have realized by now that we’d escaped being blown to bits. I kept my fingers crossed they wouldn’t try to redouble their efforts tonight.

  “I hope Jason has good insurance,” Gav said.

  Okay, here we go.

  Gav’s comment about insurance at Suzette’s signaled the start to our agreed-upon script—the one we’d worked out over dinner because we had no choice: We had to discuss the bombing. Avoiding the topic would have only raised suspicion.

  I poured two glasses of water from the carafe in the fridge and handed one to Gav as I joined him in the living room. No wine for us tonight. We needed to stay alert.

  Every television news station cheerfully reported that no diners had been seated at the front table at the time of the explosion and that no one had been killed in the “gas explosion.” On-camera experts theorized that if anyone had been dining in that space when the blast occurred, casualties would have been a certainty.

  I delivered my line: “I can’t imagine how that happened. Aren’t there safeguards in place to prevent gas explosions?”

  Gav stood in f
ront of the TV, arms folded. “These things happen.”

  “Can you imagine if we’d gotten to the restaurant on time tonight?” I gave a shudder that wasn’t complete affectation. “The gas company should do a better job of protecting the public.”

  “Shush,” he said, pointing to the TV. “I’m watching.”

  Gav would never tell me to shush, but our eavesdroppers didn’t know that.

  “We were right there, less than a half hour after it happened.” I injected a trace of whine into my voice. “What more do you need to know?”

  “There’s nothing more I need to know,” he said, answering my huffy tone in kind. “Can’t you just be quiet for five minutes? I want to watch this.”

  “Fine. Cuddle up with your TV. See how much comfort it gives you tonight.”

  I slammed my water onto the coffee table and stormed into our bedroom.

  It didn’t matter that the squabble was bogus; exchanging sharp words with Gav unsettled me more than I cared to admit. This fabricated argument was our best cover. How better to prevent awkward, stilted conversation than by avoiding conversation entirely? If our eavesdroppers believed we were angry with each other, they’d accept our silent treatment as a reasonable consequence.

  Sitting on my side of the bed, I stared up at the ceiling, doing my best to look like a beleaguered wife. At this time of night, I would normally get comfortable in my sleepwear, but the idea of undressing where I might be observed froze me in place. The thought of how many times I’d done so since Sunday night turned my stomach.

  I blew out a breath of frustration and reminded myself of Gav’s theory that the Armustanians hadn’t had time to install cameras. I wanted to believe that.

  Rather than get changed, I made my way to the other bedroom, where I turned on my computer and pulled up one of my favorite recipe sites.

  You want a peephole into my life you lowlifes? Here it is.

  I browsed recipes until my vision blurred. My bones were tired, my spirit drained. I cast a look at the doorway, wishing I could talk with Gav. Really talk. But I needed to sleep and I knew he needed to, too.

  Steeling myself, I pulled out the long-sleeved T-shirt and cotton pants I usually slept in, and began making my way to the bathroom. Surely they wouldn’t have set up a camera in there.

  “Hey.” Gav stood in the doorway, frowning. “I’m going out.”

  “What?” I covered my surprise with indignation. “At this time of night?”

  Gav’s proclamation could mean only one thing: Yablonski must have texted and wanted to meet with him. Although we’d anticipated that possibility, the likelihood had grown dimmer with each passing minute.

  “I need air,” he said.

  “It’s so late.”

  He met my eyes and held up two fingers. “For the second time: I need air.”

  Two fingers. I was to come, too.

  “Oh, really?” I said with a snarl. “Seems a little fishy to be wandering outside by yourself.”

  He shrugged and walked away.

  “What? The television isn’t enough company for you anymore?” I called to his back.

  “Cut me a little slack, would you?” he shouted in return. “One of my buddies is in town. He just texted that he wants to meet for a beer. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Fine.” I got up and followed. “I’m coming along. I could use a drink.”

  “You’ll be bored out of your wits.”

  “So? You’re not the only one who had a rough night, you know.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Romero nearly jumped when the two of us exited the apartment. She glanced at her watch. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “We’re going out,” Gav said. “You’re to remain here.”

  “Sir?”

  “You have your orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t like it.

  Gav strode past his car without giving it a glance. I kept up with him, knowing better than to ask what was up. When we were almost to the end of the parking row, he turned and opened the passenger door of a dark blue Ford. “Your chariot, ma’am,” he said.

  Once I was in, he came around and sat in the driver’s seat. He dug beneath it until he came up with a set of keys.

  “Yablonski?” I asked.

  He nodded as he started the car. “Can’t take the chance that they bugged either of our vehicles. Unlikely, but not worth the risk.”

  I rested my head back and sighed deeply. “I cannot believe how hard it is to stay in that apartment,” I said as we pulled out of the lot. “Even my thoughts feel formal and stilted.”

  “I know,” he said, checking his rearview mirror.

  “Please don’t tell me we’re being followed.”

  He checked both side mirrors, then the rearview one again. “That’s the nice thing about late-night meetings. Makes it way easier to spot a tail. The only vehicle behind us is the one that’s supposed to be there. We’re clear.”

  Gav hadn’t gotten into specifics at the Mexican restaurant and every inch of me was crawling with curiosity. “What’s going on? Can you tell me now?”

  He gave a curt nod. “As I mentioned before, there’s no doubt Armustan was behind Sunday’s bombing at Cenga Prison. Yablonski and I are convinced that they’re responsible for tonight’s attack as well.”

  “And for some unknown reason, they’re targeting us,” I said.

  “Not us.” He shot me a sideways look. “You.”

  “Me?” I nearly shot out of my seatbelt. “But why?”

  “Remember when we talked about how Armustanians value family honor above all else and how they swear to avenge their loved ones’ deaths?”

  “I never killed any Armustanians.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He took a last-minute left on a yellow light and checked his mirrors again. “You did, however, kill their plan to kidnap Josh.”

  “And for that they’ve declared war on me? They should blame their operatives or whoever devised the plan in the first place. The fact that it failed wasn’t my fault.” I thought about that. “Well, not entirely. It was a bad plan to begin with. You don’t kidnap the president’s children. You don’t touch children.”

  Gav waited for me to finish my tirade. “They did blame the person who devised the plan. Remember when I told you about the Armustanian regime being overthrown?”

  “Of course.”

  “Its leader was overthrown because of you.”

  I had no words. “Explain.”

  “You, Ollie, singlehandedly foiled the kidnapping attempt causing Armustan to lose its last chance to negotiate Farbod Ansari’s release. When that happened, its leader fell into disgrace. He’d failed, badly. Angry Armustanians rose up, murdered him, then paraded his body through the streets. A very public humiliation.”

  “A blow to the family honor,” I repeated quietly. “Who is the relative coming after me? And why now?”

  We’d crossed the Potomac into D.C. and were now heading north.

  “His name is Kern and he seeks to avenge his brother’s death by overthrowing the new regime and reclaiming his family’s power.” Gav turned to me. “You didn’t just save Josh’s life that night. You took down an entire faction—what had been the most powerful faction in Armustan until that point. The new leadership is on shaky ground. Kern stands a good chance of gaining control.” He made eye contact. “If he can succeed, that is.”

  Raindrops pattered the windshield as we sped through the night. I worked to process everything Gav had said. After a couple of miles, he turned right.

  “Kern’s success comes with my death, is that it?”

  Gav’s face was grim. “Armustan’s ultimate goal has always been to free Farbod Ansari from prison, make no mistake about that.” He kept his eyes on the road. “Kern’s objective is to seize control of his country using any means at his disposal. We believe he intends to use you to achieve his goals, though how, we can only guess. W
hat’s important, as far as you’re concerned, however, is that to Kern you represent the loss of family honor. That makes you a personal target.”

  “Which is why he won’t give up until I’m dead.” Ahead, the shiny pavement reflected the watery streetlights, smeared and bright. “None of this makes sense. If the Armustanians did arrange to have my purse stolen, then why am I still alive? They could have killed me right then and there.”

  “I’m hoping Yablonski has answers for us,” he said.

  Gav slowed as we encountered a residential area where two-story brick houses were set so close together there were no gangways between buildings. Identical in style, the homes formed a line of giant, sleepy faces. Their wooden, spindled porches were shadowed teeth; their front door noses sat between tall window eyes, all shaded closed this time of night. Above the windows, half roofs jutted forward, their heavy overhangs resembling angry brows. Like the buildings were frowning at us.

  “I hope he does, too,” I said. “By the way, where exactly are we going?”

  Two blocks later, Gav parallel parked in front of one of the squat, silent homes. “We’re here.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Gav led me to a house in the middle of the block. As we ascended the concrete steps, a woman stepped out of the porch shadows.

  “Good evening, Agent Gavin, Ms. Paras.” She opened the front door for us as another agent stepped out of a far corner to take her place. “Follow me.”

  The small front hallway was not much bigger than an elevator car. Smelling of damp pets and old carpeting, it offered just enough light to keep us from tripping over one another. Our guide waited for Gav to close the front door behind us before she opened the one in front of her.

  Though considerably more spacious than the hallway, the room we found ourselves in was also small and only slightly better lit. Three pieces of art—the kind one might find at an ART SALE TODAY stand by the side of the road—decorated bare, cracked walls. A sagging, patterned sofa sat along the far side. Heavy brocade draperies framed the front windows and, behind the fabric, the shades were down. There was a low table, a television on a stand, and a fog of stale cigarettes. The bare floor creaked under our feet.