Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller) (23 page)

“So he’s your mysterious client.”

Gérard nodded.
 

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No. He’s constantly on the move. We communicate through encrypted text messages only, and I haven’t heard from him in several days.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t plant those photographs?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What about my mother’s wedding video? Do you know anything about that?”

He spread his hands. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”

Strange
, she thought. Then who had left them? And why?

“What does all this have to do with Eric Hopcroft?” she asked. “It can’t be a coincidence you contacted me only a few days before McElroy showed up.”

“A man once said that chance is the nickname of providence.”

“Skip the bullshit and just tell me.”

Gérard smiled. “One of your father’s government contacts alerted him about the call between Favreau and Reinhard Beck. And when Stonewell was mentioned in connection to a possible recovery effort, he correctly deduced that because of your connection to Eric Hopcroft, they would involve you somehow.”

“How could he know that?”

“He wasn’t sure, of course, but he once worked with the man who initiated this mission and knows how he operates.”

“And who is this guy?”

Gérard shook his head. “I don’t know his real name, but people call him Mr. Gray. But that isn’t important. All that matters is that your father was correct and you’re here at the right place and time.”

“For what?”

“To do what he’s been trying to do for the last several years.”

“And that is?”

Gérard pinned her with his gaze. “Kill Eric Hopcroft.”

Alex wasn’t sure what made her do it.

Maybe it was instinct, or the fury returning, or the simple audacity of the words themselves. But before she could stop herself, she lunged across the table and knocked Gérard backward in his chair, sending coffee cups flying as she planted him on the ground.

The next thing she knew, hands were grabbing at her—Gérard’s thugs jerking her away from him.

“Who the hell
are
you?” she spat as Gérard climbed to his feet. “My father would never send me a message like that.”

Gérard calmly straightened his clothes and hair. “You know him so well, do you?”

Another stab to the heart. “I know that much. He’s not that kind of man.”

Gérard turned, and saw other patrons and the waitstaff staring at him and Alex in dismay. He seemed genuinely embarrassed and quickly produced several bills from his wallet, offering them to their waiter and pouring on the charm. “I’m so sorry about this. Please forgive us.” He gestured to his men. “Let her go.”

As they released her, Alex felt foolish for the outburst, but only because of the attention it had drawn.

Gérard waved his men toward the street. “You and Hugo return her car.”

“Are you sure?” the one from the beach said.
 

“Yes, I’m certain. Go.” Once they’d left, Gérard looked at Alex. “Why don’t we discuss this on the drive back to the hotel?”

“I’ll catch a cab,” she said. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“I know you don’t think much of me right now, but I’m not lying to you. Not this time.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“I can prove it,” he said.

“How?”

“Ride with me to the hotel and I’ll tell you.”

She hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t want proof. Why would she? It would mean she really
didn’t
know her father. Didn’t know him at all. That in the years he’d been missing, he had become some hardened mercenary she wouldn’t recognize. And even though she could understand such a transformation—she had gone through it herself to some degree—she didn’t want to believe her mother’s death had turned him into someone like that.

But she didn’t say no. She nodded, then followed Gérard to the car, and they got in front this time, Thomas climbing behind the wheel.

After they were back on the highway and had driven in silence for a while, he said, “You remember the last night you saw your father?”

She turned. “Of course I do.”

“He was in his study, and he’d had a lot to drink.” He glanced over at her and then back at the road. “You found him on the floor, leaning up against his desk, photographs of you and Danny and your mother in his lap.”

Alex was astonished. “How could you know that?”

“Because he told me. He said when you helped him up, he told you he loved you, then began to recite some lines from a poem. One your mother was fond of.”

Alex’s throat constricted and she felt tears welling. “Stop.”

“‘But ere he vanished from her view/He waved to her a last adieu/Then onward hastily he steered/And in the forest disa—’”

“Stop,” she said. “I believe you, all right?”

“It was his way of saying goodbye.”

“And this is your way of torturing me.” She couldn’t deny it now. Nobody could have known about that night but her father and her. “Just tell me why. Why would he ask me to kill Uncle Eric? Why would he ask his own daughter to kill a man he once called his best friend?”

Gérard looked at her again. “Because Hopcroft isn’t the friend your father thought he was.”

“Then what is he?”

“The man who killed your mother.”

W
HEN
A
LEX
RETURNED
to the suite, she couldn’t get the door open. Her key card no longer worked.

Typical.

Cooper answered her knock and she swept past him without a word and found Deuce and Warlock waiting for her in the living room. She dismissed them with a gesture, told them everything was okay, then locked herself in her room.

She grabbed her phone from her backpack, crawled onto the bed, and curled up on her side as she punched three digits.

A moment later the line connected and a voice said, “Ryan’s House, Mrs. Thornton speaking.”

“Hi, Mrs. Thornton, it’s Alex Poe.”

“Oh, hi, Alex. How are things in Key Largo?”

“Great,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’ve almost got the house packed. Is Danny available?”

“Oh, you know him, he’s planted in front of the TV right now watching SpongeBob.”

SpongeBob SquarePants was her brother’s favorite cartoon. He never seemed to get enough of it.

“Let me talk to him, okay?”

“Of course, dear.”

Alex waited as Mrs. Thornton tried to draw Danny’s attention away from the television and get him on the phone. In the background she could hear Sandy Cheeks saying something about “ugly on an ape,” then Danny’s voice was in her ear, a man’s husky baritone that sounded so childlike.

“Aleck?”

“Hey, buddy, how are you?”

“Good,” he said, drawing out the word and sounding like he was about to laugh.

“You having a good day?”

“Good day! You come home? Aleck come home?”

“Not yet, hon, but as soon as I can. I promise.”

“French fry?”

“Of course. We always get french fries.”

“French fry, french fry, french fry. Three ketchup.”

Alex laughed. She would never be able to speak to him as an adult but she cherished these moments.

“I just wanted to give you a quick call, make sure you’re okay. I love you.”

She heard cartoon voices again and knew his attention had wandered back to the TV.

“Danny?”

“Aleck. Danny love Aleck.”

Alex closed her eyes. “Me, too, hon. More than you’ll ever know.”

They talked a while longer, but phone calls had always been difficult and keeping his attention was a struggle, especially when she was up against SpongeBob and Patrick. Still, she kept him on the line longer than usual, wanting to maintain the comfort of family and home and the warmest of the memories that had been dogging her these last few days.

She finally said goodbye and clicked off, then fell back against the pillows, thinking about her conversation with Thomas Gérard.
 

Quoting that Anne Brontë poem had done the trick. She had never told anyone about her father’s last goodbye, and nobody could have known about that moment except him. She hadn’t even thought about it herself in several years.

But ere he vanished from her view

He waved to her a last adieu,

Then onward hastily he steered

And in the forest disappeared.

It was a favorite of her mother’s, one she would recite at will, as if it gave her strength. There had always been an air of melancholy about her as she spoke the words, her eyes looking inward toward some private heartache.

Could she have been thinking about her life before coming to the US?

A life that apparently included her marriage to another man?

That Alex’s father had used the poem as his own goodbye spoke volumes about where his mind was at the time. He was grieving deeply, just as Alex was. And Danny.

“Why does my father think Hopcroft was involved in her death?” she had asked Gérard. “The Lebanese government blamed it on Hezbollah.”

“Everything in Lebanon is blamed on Hezbollah, and I’m sure they’re happy to accept the blame. But when the colonel went there and started to investigate, he realized it was only a convenient cover story. He managed to trace the bomb’s triggering device to a group of terrorists who were in league with a man he thought was dead. A man he had considered his friend.”

“But why?” she asked. “Why would Hopcroft kill my mother? She was an anthropologist. She meant no harm to anyone.”

“I don’t know the answer,” Gérard said. “All I know is that he wants you to put a bullet in the man’s head.”

“But why me?”

“He’s been keeping tabs on you. He knows about your time in the military, the commendations you received. And he knows you’re fully capable of doing what needs to be done. He’s very proud of you.”

“Proud enough to ask me to kill for him?”

“Not just for him. For you and Danny, too.”

“This is crazy,” she said. “What am I supposed to do, just walk up to Hopcroft and shoot him? His guards would cut me down before I got within ten feet of him.”

Gérard shook his head. “That’s why I stopped you from barging in on them. He wants you to continue on as planned. Work with your team and cozy up to Favreau. Leonard Latham is throwing a party at his mansion tomorrow night, and we believe that’s when the exchange will take place.”

“Why didn’t we know about this party?”

“Latham is St. Cajetan’s answer to Howard Hughes. He’s very cautious about his privacy. You’d only know about the party if he wanted you to.”

“Yet
you
know. Which doesn’t say much for Stonewell’s intelligence division.”

“My opinion of Stonewell has never been very high.”

“There’s just one problem,” she said. “If I’m not supposed to know about this party, how do I get myself invited?”

“We believe Favreau
will
be. All you have to do is convince him to take you with him.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Come now, Alex, why are you always so quick to dismiss the effect you have on men? Why try so hard to be one of us when you can use your natural gifts to be so much more?”

“Even if I convince him,” she said, “that doesn’t mean I’ll do what you want me to.”

“Not me. I’m merely the messenger.”

“Then I want to hear it directly from him. From my father.”

Gérard balked. “I’m not sure that can be arranged before tomorrow.”

“Try,” she said. “Otherwise I’m concentrating on Valac and Valac only.”

The message came much sooner than she expected.

She was still lying in bed, Gérard’s words swirling through her mind, when her cell phone vibrated, indicating she had received a text.

She called it up with trembling hands, entered the encryption key Gérard had given her, and looked at the screen:

If it’s too much to ask, I’ll understand.

And that was it. Nothing more followed. She had no real proof this was even from her father, but that poem had been a powerful convincer.
 

She waited a full ten minutes before she responded.

She thought of her mother being torn apart by that bomb in Lebanon. Of their lives being torn apart by her death.