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Page 37.

19. Verdun

Hannah rested in her seat, with her head back and eyes closed.

Rick steered among wan yellowish street lights along rainy roads. The houses looked civilized and somehow sadly pretty. They were passing near the ancient city of Verdun in the Lorraine region.

Wan's people would be unlikely to report either Yolo's killing or the car theft. The less they involved the police, the less likely they could be connected to Fincoff's killing in Bagnolet, and much other messy stuff.

On the other hand, it would be careless to underestimate Wan's reach. He no doubt had a network of contacts and operatives all over Europe, not to mention the world. As he considered the options, Rick was less worried about legitimate police than about private agents.

Rick began to feel nervousthat Wan might have a Global Positioning System on board all of his cars, and might be tracking them—to the package. What a thought.

"We are going to change cars," he told Hannah.

"Whatever you say." She yawned tiredly, and stretched.

As she moved about, he looked at her hands from the corners of his eyes and wondered. What would it be like to have a woman like her? What would it be like to live a normal, peaceful existence without killing or running or fear? He took her nearer hand and squeezed it gently.

She looked at him in surprise. She laid her other hand over their two entwined hands and gave him a quick peck on the right cheek. Then she purred like a cat, snuggled, and fell asleep facing toward him.

He thought again how impossible this was. One of them would get both of them killed.

As they drove through the region south of Verdun on the Autoroute de l'Est, Rick noticed a regional airport. He followed the signs toward the airport. It was starting to rain again, and cars passed in either direction on the road with their wipers on. The road was pleasantly decorated with green, leafy trees on both sides. Overhead, small planes took off, landed, or buzzed between clouds.

"The rain will cover us a bit," Hannah said hopefully.

"Maybe." He leaned over the steering wheel, craning his neck. "There."

"What?"

He pointed to a multistory parking garage of wet concrete, ornamented with blue on white signs: Parking. Airport.

The next building along the road was a rental car service. "Okay," Rick said. "I'm already probably wanted for murder." He said it in a macabre, sardonic tone, not really believing it—though it might be true. With his luck, maybe he was already wanted for Yolo's killing—never mind that he'd had to save himself and Hannah. He thought of his JAG protectress. That would heap one more serving of misery on her plate.

Rick pulled off the road, followed a driveway, and went down into the parking structure. Evidently, you could park your car here for days or weeks while you flew away on business or vacation. He drove matter-of-factly down a ramp, and stopped at a ticket machine to remove a date-time stamp for theoretically paying when he left the garage; maybe in a thousand years, if the world still existed.

He tossed the ticket on the floor and drove as deep into the bowels of the garage as he could.

She spoke gently, tentatively. "I hope you know what you're doing."

He shrugged. "We've got to ditch the car. Too risky. I could steal some plates and swap, but I'm just really paranoid that maybe there is a GPS transponder in this crate."

She nodded. It was clear—they could not allow Wan's people to track them to the package, which would not only mean potentially losing the fuselage formula, but their own lives, and the lives of Mélusine and others in the PAX movement.

Deep in a dark corner of the garage, two stories underground, Rick pulled into a remote corner. Hidden behind a massive concrete pillar, it was beyond the reach of anemic overhead fluorescent light bars.

"Grab your stuff and let's go."

They climbed out.

Rick popped the trunk lid. "Let's have a quick look."

"I'm half expecting to see Fincoff's body," Hannah said.

"Nothing that drastic," Rick said as he leaned into the ample trunk. In the gloom, he made out two boxy objects. "Look there." He pulled the objects close.

"Careful," Hannah said, half hiding behind him and gripping his torso with both hands.

He liked the touch of her small, busy hands, except she gripped him hard enough to bruise ribs. "Easy, baby. My bones. We'll need them."

"Sorry." She eased her embrace from behind and pressed her cheek against his back.

The two objects were small leather valises, almost like camera cases. He unzipped one of them—and whistled. "Wow, look at that. Money."

Packed into the valise were bundled stacks of ten and twenty Euro notes.

"Those liars," he said. "Yolo was talking about 200,000 Euros. This is at best twenty grand."

"It's all we need." Hannah started to take some of the bundles. "Wan is nothing but lies. Everything he touches is dishonest."

Rick laid his hand over hers to stop her. "Just grab the valise."

"What about GPS?"

"Good point. Okay, Plan B—put the bundles in my backpack. We'll leave the valises here. Take what you can, and we'll leave the rest."

She was already at work with both hands, leaning into the trunk. She took stacks of money out. She checked each bundle to make sure there was no electronic tracking gadget.

Rick opened the other valise.

He whistled softly and said, "More money—except—" He lifted some of the bills, and found underneath them some empty shoe boxes. "What's that all about?"

"Plan X and Plan Z," she said.

"Enlighten me."

She waggled a finger thoughtfully. "They had two options. One was to pay us some money, which is the stacks I'm putting in your backpack."

"Wan is desperate enough," Rick agreed.

"Or they hand us the fake valise with money on top and empty boxes underneath."

"Bastards."

Hannah laughed. "We faked them out. Serves Wan right. We got the car, and the money."

"And we got our lives."

"Right. Let's go."

They unloaded as much cash as they could into the backpack. Rick resisted the temptation to set the car on fire. It would draw unwanted attention. He slammed the trunk lid shut. They started walking back the way they'd come. Within ten minutes, they had reached ground level and exited the garage.

Rick and Hannah stood in a light rain, eyeballing the car rental center. Several leading companies—including two or three they knew from the U.S.—provided rental cars to travelers. They backed under the overhang of a parking ramp and watched. After a while, the pattern became clear. Passenger walks into the lounge and talks with a clerk. The clerk processes the traveler's credit card, and while waiting for the payment to clear, talks on a phone with a garage attendant—a young man or woman in a plain uniform with dark pants and white shirt, who jogs away someplace and returns five minutes later driving a car. Attendant leaves the car in a row in the driveway outside the rental agency. Traveler picks up approved receipt, thanks the clerk behind the counter, and walks outside. Traveler enters car and drives away. Meanwhile, the attendants fetch the next car so that there always is a lead car ready to go. It's a well-oiled machine, very routine, fueled with yawns.

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