predilection for faster is just what worries me. You’re too headstrong for this stuff, Harry. I don’t want you trying to break in to Verdun’s offices. A guy with that kind of firewall on his computers is going to have good protection on the physical plant, too. Go to work on one of his employees.”
Harry was shaking his head before Ash was halfway through this speech, and maybe it was fortunate Ash couldn’t see him. “That will take too long. We’ve got to risk something more direct.”
Ash groaned. “We can’t afford to risk something more direct. Michel Verdun is in it with Ghasib up to his neck. I don’t want him cornered.”
Harry said reasonably, “Ash, you’ve held me off from this for too long. We have to find out how much Verdun knows and how he is getting the information.”
“Not to the point of risking your life.”
“Why not? Your life is going to be at much greater risk in a couple of weeks,” Haroun pointed out.
“All the more reason to keep you safe.”
“Ash, we’re agreed we need to get the Rose back. At the very least we have to prevent Verdun’s agents from delivering it to Ghasib. We can’t afford to trust anyone with this. I’m on the scene. Who better than me?”
Ash hesitated, marshalling his arguments, and Haroun rushed on, “Anyway, it’s my fault we lost the Rose. If I’d been there an hour earlier it would be in my hands, not Verdun’s. So I’ve got a slightly larger interest here. Sorry, but you can’t stop me. It’s a question of pride. You asked me to get the Rose, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
He hung up while Ash was still cursing.
One
The young woman, small but shapely, her lips a rich red, her wild red-gold mane held up at one side with a jewelled comb, earrings dangly, skirt micro-short, ran lightly up the steps and into the dim lighting of the hotel foyer. She was short and very slender, with a long waist and low, curvy hips. Her dark stiletto-heel suede boots were above the knee, her neatly muscled stomach bare between the hip-hugging leather skirt and the white bolero top, revealing a neat gold ring in her navel. A delicate butterfly tattoo quivered on her stomach. A smart leather backpack was slung over one shoulder.
The concierge smiled involuntarily as he watched her. Many of the girls who used his hotel were beautiful, mostly actresses and students supplementing their incomes. This one, who called herself Emma—of course not her real name, he understood that—was not the most beautiful among them, but she had a certain something. It always cheered up his Friday night to see her.
“Bonsoir, ma petite,” he called. “Ça va?”
“Bonsoir, Henri,” she returned with a smile, crossing to where he held up the key for her. She was the one he could not place. With the others he could usually make a guess at their daytime occupation, but Emma was an unknown.
She was unusual in other ways, too. Always the same room. Always the same client. Only Friday night. Every Friday night.
Emma was not a regular in the usual sense of the word, but on Friday nights she was here at eleven, whatever the weather. Henri always saved the same room for her for two hours, and on the rare Friday night that she did not turn up, she paid him the following week.
She had arranged it this way to protect her client, who arrived separately and came in by the service entrance. Henri had never seen him. Emma had not said so, but Henri could guess that the man was a known figure—a foreigner, of course, since what Frenchman would have worried about such an arrangement becoming public? The président’s own mistress and illegitimate daughter had attended his public funeral alongside his wife, as was only natural. But foreigners were odd about practical sexual matters, there was no denying.
Henri had found himself agreeing that of course the man could come in the back way, although it wasn’t usual. Henri liked to vet the girls’ customers, so that if there was any trouble he could be as helpful as possible with the police. He ran a decent place and kept in well with the flics. His pride was that he took no money from the girls. He charged their clients for the room. The arrangement between the girls and their clients was their own business. He was an hôtelier, not a souteneur.
But Emma paid for the room herself. Now she slipped the money onto the counter and took the key, smiling that smile, and he thought it a pity that she spoiled the line of her own luscious mouth by painting it larger. Her mouth was generous enough, and he had often thought of telling her so. But she wasn’t like the other girls. She was warm, friendly, she never got above herself, but she was not confiding. He had never quite had the courage to give her the kind of avuncular advice he offered to some.
As usual, she ignored the elevator and went lightly up the wide marble stairs, and Henri watched with an absent smile till the flashing, slim brown thighs were out of sight.
Mariel put the key in the lock and slipped into the silence of room 302. A small night-light was burning. In the shadows the air of faded elegance that marked the hotel was a little softened; you could almost imagine yourself back in time. Before the war this had been a solid, respectable establishment. Then the Germans had used it as a military headquarters, and after the war it had never quite recovered its former status. It had been in steady decline ever since, but the furniture and hangings had been of good quality once, and although badly worn, still bore testament to the old respectability.
With the quickness of familiarity, Mariel locked the door behind her in the semi-darkness, leaving the key in the lock, and crossed to the window. She dragged back the curtains and slipped the bolt that secured the large sash window. When she pulled up the window, the night air blew in, the indefinable perfume that was Paris. She heaved a breath, slipped her other arm through the strap of her small backpack, sat down on the windowsill and neatly swung her legs over the edge. Then she jumped.
She landed almost silently on her toes on the ancient, slightly wobbly iron fire escape a few inches down and stood while her eyes acclimatized to night. Overhead only the stars gave any light. Below, one or two windows illumined the small, narrow courtyard.
After a moment, keeping close to the wall, she started up the steps. The courtyard, if it could be called that, was completely surrounded by the brick walls of buildings that abutted each other. The hotel was four stories high. One flight up, the fire escape, last remnant of something that had once honeycombed the space, made a right turn and ran along the wall of the adjacent building for a dozen yards. Mariel kept close to the wall all the way. At the far end it stopped against the back wall of a third building, which sat parallel to the hotel on the next street over. Here there was another window, open just a chink at the bottom. Mariel slipped expert fingers into the chink, pushed the window open, leapt up, swung her legs through. Her feet reached for the toilet seat in the darkness.
A moment later she tiptoed past the row of porcelain sinks and slowly opened the door onto the corridor. Behind her head the word Toilettes was marked in chunky italic brass letters on the grey door. Mariel glanced to right and left as she stepped through, and although the turn of her head seemed casual, her gaze and her body were alert.
The dimly lighted hallway was empty. It probably dated from the same era, but the decor of this building was very different from that of the hotel she had just left. Here there had been extensive updating—sunken lighting in the lowered ceilings, the walls neatly painted in grey, grey carpeting on the floor, and brass plates or letters announcing the names of the various companies behind the doors that lined the corridor.
Mariel
