? ? ?

?Court sat on his bike, his attention shifting from the H?tel Potocki to the passing vehicles on the roads to the windows and roofs of buildings in the neighborhood. Every now and then a car would roll up to the rear door and someone would either climb out of the vehicle and step into the building or step out of the building and climb into the vehicle; the three dozen or so onlookers on the sidewalk crowded behind the rope and kept back by a security man took pictures of the action. But despite the movement, Court saw no hint of his target.

An hour and forty minutes after Court took up his watch, a silver Cadillac Escalade pulled up by the rear door of the Potocki, and the employee access door opened in symmetry with the big vehicle’s arrival. Court locked his eyes to the scene now, thinking this looked like it could be a trained security movement in action. Just as he suspected, a pair of Bianca Medina’s bodyguards stepped out of the building and looked around at the small crowd and the street, and then the model herself appeared. Her hands held her camel raincoat tight against her neck, her massive bag swung from her shoulder, and she walked with a determined gait. She kept her head down; many in the crowd took pictures of her because she looked famous, even if they didn’t know who, in fact, she was.

In five seconds she was ensconced in the SUV, and it was moving as soon as the last door closed.

Court fired up his bike and followed the Escalade to the east.

* * *

? ? ?

The Yamaha wound through the thick early-evening traffic on the Avenue de Friedland following 150 yards back from the Escalade. He found himself too far behind at one point, so he ignored the lane markers and darted through the gridlock at an intersection, swaying left and right as needed to keep his momentum while the cars and trucks around the motorcycle moved at a snail’s pace.

Court kept his head on a swivel, his eyes firing down to his mirrors, making sure there wasn’t a chase car working with Medina’s protection element, or even another group targeting and following the model and her entourage. He’d satisfied himself he hadn’t been compromised, but his tradecraft skills caused him to resatisfy himself of his own personal security every few seconds.

They were heading east, and this indicated to Court that they weren’t going to one of three hotels with rooms reserved for models in the Zuhair Murad show. He’d doubted from the beginning his target would have much contact with the other women and girls, and this just confirmed his suspicion.

He wasn’t surprised she was steering clear of the more public places; he just leaned lower on his bike and told himself he couldn’t lose her now, because he probably wouldn’t be able to reacquire the woman if the Escalade disappeared in the traffic.

Fortunately for the man on the motorcycle, the drive to his target’s next destination was only ten minutes. The Cadillac pulled up in front of an open set of red arched doors at 7 Rue Tronchet. Court had just made the turn in front of L’eglise de la Madeleine, a massive Roman Catholic church here in the 8th Arrondissement, when he saw Bianca’s long black hair emerge from the silver SUV. She marched through the open doorway surrounded by four of her five bodyguards.

He continued heading north, past the scene, and only looked into the arch to see a darkened forecourt and confirm that there was no signage or other indicators of what sort of building Medina was entering.

Court rolled his bike up onto the curb a block to the north and parked it next to a public toilet. From here he could still see the front of the building at 7 Rue Tronchet across the street, but he was out of range of any possible cameras around the building.

He pulled out his phone without removing his helmet. He pushed some buttons and waited for the call to be answered. Soon a male voice with a French accent spoke into Court’s Bluetooth earpiece.

“Oui?”

“Sept Rue Tronchet.”

“Est vous s?r?” Are you sure?

“Bien s?r.” Of course.

There was a slight delay as his contact did some research on his end about the location, so Court took the time to check his own security here. It seemed to be a typical cloudy spring afternoon on a typical central Paris intersection, which meant a lot of traffic, both pedestrian and automobile, and quite a few people just standing around. There were window shoppers, smokers standing in front of shops and office buildings, men and women selling out of food kiosks and newsstands.

But within ten seconds of the beginning of his scan, a pair of men on the opposite sidewalk set off Court’s internal alarm. They were on motorcycles next to each other, one man on a black Honda and the other on a red Suzuki, and they scanned the area, much like Court himself was now doing.

Court looked around at the buildings behind the pair, tried to come up with a legitimate reason they would pick that part of the sidewalk to park, and came up with nothing. A women’s clothing store. A perfumery. A shop that made and sold high-end confectionery.

Sure . . . these guys could be out picking up gifts for wives or girlfriends. But they had no bags with them, only backpacks with webbing on the outside used to strap more gear on, a feature common with military and police personnel.

He put them in their late thirties or early forties; they were relatively fit men, one bearded with wavy brown hair and the other completely bald and clean-shaven. There was a hard edge to both that was easily apparent to Court, even from this distance. They weren’t military—not active duty, anyway—and they certainly weren’t beat cops, but Court wondered if they might be attached to the police or government in some capacity.

Their backpacks and helmets looked well used, but both their motorcycles appeared to be almost new. He had the impression that these guys could handle more powerful bikes than the ones they were sitting on, so he pegged the motorcycles as rentals.

As Court concentrated on remaining subtle—performing the balancing act of surveilling two people while at the same time remaining sensitive to any possible countersurveillance—his earpiece came alive again with a response from the Frenchman.

“Sept Rue Tronchet is a h?tel particulier. A private guesthouse for wealthy travelers visiting Paris. Four suites. Five floors. Minimal security . . . but cameras in the lobby, stairs, and lift. Good locks, no easy roof access.”

“My problem. Not yours.”

“D’accord.” Agreed. “What do you need?”

“A car. Somewhere within three blocks of the target location.”

“It will be delivered. You will be texted with the drop-off location.”

“Okay.” And then: “Question . . . Do you have any eyes trailing the target?”

“Non. You demanded we discontinue surveillance.”

“You’re certain your guys are clear of this scene?”

“Absolutely so. We did not have any idea she would be going to Rue Tronchet. All our assets are accounted for. Why . . . ? Is there a problem?”

Court looked up to the two bikers again. The brown-haired man on the Honda was gone; he must have headed off to the south, otherwise Court would have seen him race past. And the bald man on the Suzuki was just now putting his helmet on. In seconds he fired up his bike and rolled off to the north.

“’Allo?”

Court asked, “Who else might be interested in the target? Caucasians. Europeans.”

After a pause the Frenchman said, “No one. Certainly no Caucasians that I can think of. None.”

But Court was less sure now than he had been about the pair. Court was certain they hadn’t ID’d him, so he couldn’t imagine why they would leave like this if, indeed, they had been following Medina or holding surveillance on her building. And, try as he might, Court couldn’t find anyone else in the crowd who looked like they might have replaced these two in coverage.

“’Allo?” the man said again.

“It’s nothing,” Court replied, though he wasn’t at all sure. “Just deliver the car and text me the location.”

Court made to hang up when he heard the man speak.

“When do you think you will be able to—”

Court ended the call.

He started the Yamaha again, brushing off lingering thoughts of the two men. He drove off to circle the block and try to find a better place for surveillance, because he was certain this was his target’s residence for the evening, and this would be the evening he’d come for her.

CHAPTER 4

At ten p.m. Bianca Medina left her private apartment on the Rue Tronchet, climbed into her silver Escalade with her full security detail, and rode in silence for the ten-minute journey to a two-Michelin-star restaurant on the Rue Lord Byron.

Here she was escorted into an ornate private room by the ma?tre d’, the door was closed, and she dined alone.

Well, not really alone.