Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

It wasn’t working. “Come to Paris,” her father had said. “You need a little magic.” “Thanks, no, Harry. Too many memories,” she’d replied. “Charley, maybe you’ll make new memories,” he said gently, taking her hand. “We need you among the living. We really do… ”

But everywhere in Paris reminded her of what she’d lost: her baby, the miscarriage induced by, of all people, her late husband who was part of a conspiracy that took her mother’s life as well. Every day was a relentless replay of what could’ve been and what would never be. Even now, as she strolled through dappled sunlight under leafy trees whose branches crowned the pathway, she saw young children toddling comically as they chased pigeons, their contented mothers smiling as they watched. Nothing else existed for her at that moment, neither the dignified old men in their brown suits who chatted knowingly, the businessmen and women on the Champs Élysées who were making their way back to their offices nor the tourists wandering toward the Obelisque and Jardin des Tuileries. All she saw were stout, laughing children and their beaming mothers, and she felt the weight of hopelessness and a profound, hammering sense of loss. She knew she would never be whole again and would never trust any man enough to love him. As for a child of her own, she feared she would never be able to provide the sense of security and optimism the child would need to thrive. She was counting her days, wondering when she would be consumed by the void inside her.

And so all that remained for Charlotte Middleton-she’d returned to her maiden name when she learned the extent of her husband’s participation in a plot to kill thousands in Washington, D.C.-was the work she was doing for the Volunteers. Her father had told her he needed her. It was possible that he did. Protesting, she’d said, “Harry, I can’t. Given how pointless, how empty… Damn it, I wish I could explain so you’d know.” “Charley,” he replied, “when I think about what my life would be without you, I know.”

At a kiosk near the Théatre Marigny, she bought a sandwich of thin slices of ham, a sliver of gruyere and salty butter on crunchy bread, and a bottle of Badoit, and sat on a bench in a stream of sunlight, the Étoile and the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, the relentless traffic coursing along the cobblestone. In an attempt to dispatch her thoughts, she recalled some of the research she’d done for the Volunteers. Her mind wandered to Connie Carson and the bravado instilled in every task undertaken by that little Texas firebrand, and then to Wiki Cheung’s fascination with Second Life and how the adorable 19-year-old computer geek had given himself a black avatar with a ’70s Afro and chiseled body any athlete would kill for. “Try it,” Wiki had suggested. “Everybody needs someplace to be somebody new.” As soon as the words passed his lips he recoiled in embarrassment. “I’m not saying your life is not good, Charley. No, what I’m saying-I’m saying, Charley, the game-Maybe you’ll make new friends-If you want new friends, Charley… Ah damn it… ”

Around the same time, Leonora Tesla, who she admired more so now that she understood what the Volunteers had achieved, had asked her to join her for a drink after hours. They’d gone to a Latin lounge in Dupont Circle, where they were surrounded by careless singles floating between youth and responsibilities, six fresh faces crammed at tables for four. Giddy conversations rose over bubbling music. “Charley,” Tesla shouted, “here’s my advice: Don’t take any advice. Listen to your own heart in your own time.”

Now on the Champs Élysées, reflecting on those memories four-thousand miles away, Charley watched a tour bus scored with Hangul script wheezed to a halt, blocking traffic. She grimaced as taxi horns blared, and then returned to her solitude.

Perhaps 30 yards behind Charlotte Middleton in the park was a self-satisfied man in his 50s, tanned with salt-and-pepper hair. His blue suit, cut to perfection, was impressive even in the arrondissement that hosted the houses of Saint Laurent, Dior, Chanel and Lacroix. As he sat, he removed a silk handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped the sides of his Berlutti shoes, removing a coat of dust. His cell phone vibrated as he returned the kerchief to its post.

“I’m on Middleton’s daughter,” he said. “In Paris. I’ll stay with her.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

Ian Barrett-Bone had gotten over the shock of nearly being gunned to death on a road outside of Paris. He and his employer were used to wielding money and threats of violence-and violence itself-to force people to do the most despicable things. Many of them sputtered and swore and promised to get even. But few did.

Jana was different, of course.

Barrett-Bone himself was motivated by money and thrill. He considered a desk job the purest of tortures.

But Jana? What drove her?

Idealism, he supposed. How childish a motive. How meddlesome.

Yet her appearance on that road outside Paris was a sharp reminder of the danger everyone was facing.

How many other deaths would occur-all because of the copper bracelet?

He watched as Charley rose from the bench. She took a long, final swig of the sparkling water and tossed its green plastic bottle in the trash, along with the heel of the bread. Then she thought better of it, retrieved the bread, crumpled it and offered the crumbs to pecking pigeons.

“She couldn’t be more American if she tried,” Barrett-Bone muttered to himself as he regarded the attractive woman with a measure of disgust.

He glanced at his Patek Phillippe wristwatch as he resumed following Middleton’s daughter from a discrete distance. He imagined she would continue to wander aimlessly, her guard down, defenses non-existent.

Felicia Kaminski, now conscious, and Pierre Crane sat side by side in the back row of the Mercedes van, their wrists cuffed together with plastic, their ankles tied to each other’s. The driver had managed to shackle them in seconds while Jana trained her gun at the two captives.

A double beep of a cell phone sounded. Jana answered. She spoke in a language Crane took to be Hindi. Then she spun to face the prisoners. “I have just learned,” she said in thickly accented English, “that you are not Charlotte Middleton.”

Felicia said nothing.

Jana barked at Crane. “Who is she?”

“I have no idea. I can ask her, but it will have to be in English. But I don’t think she speaks French.”

“You,” Jana said in halting English. “What your name is?”

“Felicia.”

Jana looked at Crane. “Is French,” she said in English.

“Is Polish,” he replied in French. He was going to mention her accent, but knew Jana couldn’t detect it, no more than he could distinguish between an Algerian or a Moroccan when they spoken French. “She may be his maid.”

“A maid who can fight.”

“I think she was defending herself. A lucky blow with the instrument. You have the wrong girl.”

Crane knew they were heading southeast.

“I think she’s a little off,” he added. “Incompetent. You know… ”

Felicia seemed to will herself not to stare at him, not to stomp his foot.

Jana had Crane’s gun in her lap.

“Let her go,” the reporter said.

The driver glanced at Jana.

“Let her go and I’ll help you.” Crane was after a story. He was after Jana. He had no quarrel with the young woman.

“How? How can you help me?”

“I’m searching for the Scorpion. And so are you. I know things about him. I saw your face when you noticed the men in the limo. You were disappointed neither of them was him.”

“Give me a fact. Something I can use.”