Eye of the God (34 page)

“Of course. Please wait. I will let you know when the transfer is complete.”

Isaac stood before the picture window in the
Hotel Le Bristol
. The previously arranged rendezvous with the Broker was no longer of interest to him. Now that Alex was out of the way, things were going to be different.

“Transfer complete, Mr. Weld.”

“And the account will be active immediately?”

“Yes. You received the package I sent to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you have your cards?”

“Yes.”

“Then you and I have no further need of each other. Unless you need my services in the future we will not be speaking again, Mr. Weld.”

“I prefer it that way.”

“It's been a pleasure doing business with you.”

Isaac flipped his phone shut, stuffed a small duffel bag with a few personal belongings, and left the room. Their suite was booked for three days, and he would be in another country by the time Alex's body was discovered. Isaac left his brother behind without a backward glance. Had he bothered to take the time, he would have been in for a great surprise.

Abby slept better on the flight to Paris than she had for a month at home. Perhaps it was the luxuries of first class, or the Tylenol PM she requested.

It was late morning by the time she found herself wandering the streets of Paris's shopping district, slightly bewildered and feeling the effects of jet lag. Despite six hours of solid sleep, her body insisted it was the middle of the night.

Abby stopped before Notre Dame Cathedral, known as the heart of Paris. Distances to anywhere in the city were measured from the cathedral, it being “point zero” for all French roads. It was a massive, ornate building, French Gothic in style, but not as gaudy as many scattered throughout Europe.
What held her attention were the ornate stained-glass windows, so reminiscent of the chapel across the street from her apartment.

Abby sat on a stone bench in the courtyard and dialed an international number on her iPhone. She counted the number of rings on the other end. Just as the message clicked on, it occurred to her that she had not really sorted through just what she wanted to say.

“Leave a message. I might get back to you.” The familiar, yet brisk sound of her father's voice was just as startling to her on the answering machine as it was in real life.

“Dad, it's me,” she said, realizing she'd been silent for several seconds after the beep. “I need your help. Please call my cell as soon as you can. This is important.”

Her hope of actually connecting with him on the phone was slim, but she had to try. Things would be more difficult now. Abby took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. Once again her eyes drifted toward the old church.

For a moment she was tempted to enter and offer a prayer for help. The task before her seemed impossible. Yet even as she looked with longing at the ancient place of worship, she could not urge her feet to move in that direction.

Abby tugged at her ear and studied her iPhone for a moment. Then she hailed a cab.

“I just want to get one thing straight,” the Broker said, struggling to maintain a level tone on his cell. He sat in an open-air café, enjoying a light breakfast while Wülf stood
a short distance away. His cheeks were flushed, and he gripped the phone tightly in his left hand. “You're changing the plan?”

“Yes,” replied the voice of Isaac Weld on the other line.

“That won't happen.”

“If you want your diamond it will.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Weld?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That is a dangerous proposition.”

“If you want your diamond you will meet me at the rendezvous point in ten minutes.”

Isaac hung up. The Broker shifted in his chair and looked at Wülf. “When this is over, I want him dead. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

Abby craned her neck and took in a charming hotel snuggled on the
Rue Du Faubourg Saint-Honore.
Each of the many windows was fitted with a wrought-iron flower box, now devoid of foliage. The glass front doors were trimmed in brass and welcomed guests into the elegant lobby.

Abby fingered her iPhone and pushed her way through the double doors, feeling at once underdressed. Reproductions of classic French paintings hung on the walls, and busts of French kings sat in niches, bathed in display lighting. Along the walls display cases featured Henry Winston and Pierre Cartier jewelry.

Abby would never have seen her father had he not stopped in the middle of the lobby to check a missed call
on his cell phone. She flinched. Could it really be her father? Unmistakably. He was tall, his black hair tinged with gray at the temples. He wore a trim three-piece suit and a scowl. Abby could not remember the last time she had seen her father smile.

The Broker was not at all pleased to hear the message on his voice mail. Just as he hung up the phone, he lifted his eyes and saw her. Abby stood just inside the entrance of
Hotel Le Bristol,
watching him nervously.

“Dad!” she called out, her face at once hopeful and hesitant.

Douglas Mitchell, the man known to many as the Broker, could not control the look of fear that spread across his face.

27

A
LEX ROLLED ONTO HIS STOMACH, FEELING AS THOUGH A PITCHFORK HAD
impaled the side of his head. While Isaac had made his call, Alex had played dead, struggling to stay conscious, so that he could control his breathing. If Isaac had known Alex lived, his brother would have unloaded another round into him, albeit as badly aimed as the first.

“He always was a lousy shot,” Alex groaned, rising onto his hands and knees.

A swath of fire burned above his left ear, but he dared not touch it for fear of what he would find. Once on his hands and knees, Alex rocked back and forth gently, like a child learning to crawl. The bathroom was only fifteen feet away, but it may as well have been in Montana.

Alex crawled forward slowly, blood running down his cheek and dripping from his nose. Even on all fours he was dizzy, and spots swam before his eyes. Only when his hand met the cool marble of the bathroom floor did he lift his head. He sat back on his heels, grabbed the edge of the sink, and pulled himself into a standing position.

The bullet had ripped open a gash three inches long and nearly an inch wide above his left ear. Thankfully, it missed
his temple by a hair's breadth. Alex ran his fingers over the wound, pressing gently as he looked for further damage. He took a trembling breath and teetered against the sink.

That was close.

What came next would not be fun, but it was necessary. Wincing, he pinched the skin together to close the gap. Blood oozed through his fingers and ran down the back of his hand. He stumbled to the minibar and grabbed a travel-size bottle of vodka. Back in the bathroom, Alex grabbed the sewing kit set out with the shampoo and hand lotion. It would be a quick fix that wouldn't last for long, but he didn't have time to find a doctor.

The black thread in the sewing kit could hardly be compared to medical sutures, but he had no choice. It took several attempts to thread the needle with shaky fingers, but he finally slipped the flimsy thread through the eye. Alex took a deep breath and dumped the bottle of vodka over his wound. He tucked his chin against his chest and held onto the sink until his knuckles turned white; the pain seared his skin like a branding iron. Tears dripped from his eyes and splattered into the bloody sink.

Alex took a deep breath, raised the needle, and stitched up the wound. He did it more by touch than sight, knowing full well that he was making a mess of things, but his main concern at the moment was to stop the bleeding. It took him ten minutes. His handiwork wasn't pretty, but it was effective.

He dared a quick glance at the clock, noting that Isaac had been gone for thirty minutes. He had to hurry. Peeling off his bloody clothes, he tossed them on the floor. He climbed into the shower and rinsed the blood from his head as carefully as possible so as not to damage his makeshift sutures.

Dizzy, he dried off and pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. He willed himself to remain conscious. To combat the
nausea Alex forced himself to eat the rest of his breakfast. Then he chased down a few Tylenol with a glass of orange juice.

A linen table napkin folded into a rectangle made a fine bandage; he pressed it against the wound and covered his head with a baseball cap in case it started bleeding again.

If he had heard Isaac's money transfer orders correctly, he was operating on borrowed time and an empty bank account. Maybe, just maybe, he could intercept his brother before it was too late.

Abby could not remember the last time she had seen her father face-to-face. She also could not remember him ever looking less pleased to see her.

“Dad?” It was more of a question than a title.

“What are you doing here?” He finished the distance between them and took hold of her elbow, ushering her into a small seating area off the lobby.

“You said in your email that you would be in Paris.” He grimaced, but she continued. “I need your help. Something's happened.”