I’m still in Paris…
She stepped back. In fact, she knew exactly where she was, having crossed that same square at the crack of dawn, as the city was just waking. The plaza below was the Place Vendome, known for its highend jewelers and fashion boutiques. The towering bronze Colonne Vendome in the center was a Parisian landmark, made from the melting of twelve hundred Russian and Austrian cannons collected by Napoleon to commemorate some battle or other.
Across its surface climbed a continuous ribbon of bas-relief depicting scenes from various Napoleonic wars.
She turned and studied the opulent room, draped in silk and decorated in gold leaf.
I must still be at the Ritz.
She had come to the hotel-the Ritz Paris-for an early-morning meeting with a historian who was connected to the Guild. Something major was afoot within the organization, stirring up all her contacts.
She knew that such moments of upheaval, when locked doors were momentarily left open and safeguards loosened, were the perfect time to snatch what she could. So she had reached in deep, pushed hard, and risked exposing herself perhaps too much.
One hand gently touched the collar-then lowered.
Definitely too much.
One of her trusted contacts had set up this rendezvous. But apparently money only bought so much trust. She had met with the historian in the Hemingway Bar downstairs, a wood-paneled and leather-appointed homage to the American writer.
The historian had been seated at a side table, nursing a Bloody Mary, a drink that had originated at this establishment. Next to his chair rested a black leather briefcase, holding the promise of secrets yet to be revealed.
She had a drink.
Only water.
Still a mistake.
Even now, her mouth remained cottony, her head equally so.
As she moved back into the room, a low groan drew her attention to the closed bathroom door. She cursed herself for not thoroughly checking the rest of the room upon first waking, blaming it on the fuzziness of her thinking.
That lack of vigilance ended now.
She stepped silently and swiftly across the room, snatching her holstered pistol off the nightstand. She shook the weapon free as she reached the door, letting the shoulder harness fall silently to the carpet.
She listened at the door. As a second groan- more pained now-erupted, she burst into the bathroom, pistol raised. She swept the small marbleadorned chamber, finding no one at the sink or vanity.
Then a bony arm, sleeved in tattoos, rose from the tub, waving weakly as if the bather were drowning. A hand found the swan-shaped gold faucet and gripped tightly to it.