The Lion's Den(115)
“I’ve left her out of everything until now because I didn’t want to upset her, but I’m nearly certain she’ll be on our side once she learns the truth.”
“What if something goes wrong? What if they find me out?”
“Remember, I’ll be able to see the feed from the watch every time it connects to Wi-Fi and uploads what it’s shot since the last time it was connected. If anything goes wrong, we change plans. I’ll get you out of there. I promise.”
“Okay,” I said. “Lemme think about it. But I think, okay.”
Day 7
Friday evening—Italian to French Riviera
The train careens along the lip of the cliff on rails cut into the side of the mountain, high above the glittering sea. My heart beats in sync with every rotation of the wheels as we skate along the razor’s edge. It’s breathtaking; one wrong move and we plunge to the rocks below.
I’ve failed on my mission and I’m a million miles from home. What a terrible spy I’d make. Staring out at the horizon, I catalog my mistakes: I should have taken the money Eric offered; I should have been more careful––more obsequious with Summer, firmer with Amythest; I should never have given Amythest my watch. When was the last time it had uploaded––in the port yesterday before my meeting with John? At least I’d downloaded the link. If the cameras on the boat caught Summer pushing Amythest, was Eric able to capture the recording off John’s servers before the feed was inevitably wiped?
The train hurtles into a tunnel. Your sister is headed to your grandmother’s. A threat? Or a reference to my code with Eric, a validation that Vinny’s on my side? In the pitch black, I wish more than anything that I could email Lauren_Carter812 somehow, and find out who to trust.
Please, God, don’t let it be a trap.
Hoping to avoid passport control, I visit the restroom as we cross the French border, taking as much time as possible to clean myself up in the small steel space. It feels immensely good to wash my face and rinse the blood, sweat, and dirt from my weary limbs, but nothing is to be done about my tangled hair or ripped dress. Thankfully, when I emerge, I find no agents have boarded the train.
When the train pulls into Gare de Saint-Rapha?l Valescure just after eight, the sun has just dropped beneath the sea, leaving the sky lavender in its wake. I scramble off the train and hasten through the modern station, skidding to a stop in front of the rectangular glass information booth. “Taxi?”
“Sortir les portes à gauche,” the unsmiling attendant informs me, pointing toward the sliding glass doors.
Outside to the left, I find a couple of taxis idling at the curb in a dedicated lane just off the busy local street. I lean into the open passenger-side window of the first one in line. “La Quessine?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Local seulement.”
I move to the second taxi in line and repeat the question, only to be given another refusal. Discouraged, I move to the third and last taxi. The driver adjusts her hot-pink hijab and sighs. “Deux cent. En especes.”
My jaw drops. Two hundred euros? After the low cost of the train ticket, I’d been hopeful a taxi would at least be affordable. I only have eighty in cash, and I don’t know whether I even have a hundred in my bank account. Regardless, I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Je vais au…” I don’t know the word for ATM. “ATM? Cash point?”
She nods and holds up three fingers. “Je vous attendre trois minutes.”
I cast a glance around for an ATM, relieved to spot one not twenty feet from where I stand, on the front of the boxlike train station. I insert my debit card and hit the balance button, hoping against hope that I have enough. Finally the spinning wheel disappears and my balance flashes up on the screen: €108.20. So I’m twenty short. Okay, clearly I’m just gonna have to make do.
Again kicking myself for being too proud to take the money Eric offered me before the trip, I withdraw the hundred the ATM will allow me and return to the car sporting my most pitiful smile. “J’ai cent quatre-vingts,” I say. Then, remembering the three left over from my train ticket. “Cent quatre-vingt trois. S’il vous pla?t? C’est très important.” She looks me up and down, considering. “S’il vous pla?t,” I again plead with prayer hands.
She nods and waves me into the cab. “Merci beaucoup,” I cry, climbing into the backseat with a sigh of relief. “Allez au 12 Chemin de la Pommière dans La Quessine.” She searches in her navigation. “Combien de temps?”
“Une heure,” she says as she pulls away from the curb.
I’ll be ten minutes late, but ten minutes is nothing considering the hoops I’ve jumped through to get here, and with any luck Vinny can be a little flexible.
We wind along the coast as the color drains from the sky, and I find I’m biting my nails, a habit I haven’t indulged in since college. I stop myself, for the millionth time trying to focus on my breathing as I gaze out the window. I feel as though I’ve leaped off a cliff with no idea whether I can fly. All I need is my passport back, and to get home, where I can reconnect with Eric and be done with this whole charade.
Night has fallen by the time we drive through the gate at the address Vinny gave me. A full moon hovers over the water, casting long shadows as we roll up the gravel driveway nestled between vineyard rows. Atop the hill looking out toward the sea is a large traditional French country house, stone exterior accentuated by light-blue shutters and a steep, sloped roof. I’m not sure what I expected for my handoff with Vinny––dark alleys and abandoned warehouses come to mind––but a mansion with an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean is certainly a surprise. “êtes-vous s?r que c’est l’adresse?” I ask the driver.