Fortunately for the man on the motorcycle, the drive to his target’s next destination was only ten minutes. The Cadillac pulled up in front of an open set of red arched doors at 7 Rue Tronchet. Court had just made the turn in front of L’eglise de la Madeleine, a massive Roman Catholic church here in the 8th Arrondissement, when he saw Bianca’s long black hair emerge from the silver SUV. She marched through the open doorway surrounded by four of her five bodyguards.
He continued heading north, past the scene, and only looked into the arch to see a darkened forecourt and confirm that there was no signage or other indicators of what sort of building Medina was entering.
Court rolled his bike up onto the curb a block to the north and parked it next to a public toilet. From here he could still see the front of the building at 7 Rue Tronchet across the street, but he was out of range of any possible cameras around the building.
He pulled out his phone without removing his helmet. He pushed some buttons and waited for the call to be answered. Soon a male voice with a French accent spoke into Court’s Bluetooth earpiece.
“Oui?”
“Sept Rue Tronchet.”
“Est vous s?r?” Are you sure?
“Bien s?r.” Of course.
There was a slight delay as his contact did some research on his end about the location, so Court took the time to check his own security here. It seemed to be a typical cloudy spring afternoon on a typical central Paris intersection, which meant a lot of traffic, both pedestrian and automobile, and quite a few people just standing around. There were window shoppers, smokers standing in front of shops and office buildings, men and women selling out of food kiosks and newsstands.
But within ten seconds of the beginning of his scan, a pair of men on the opposite sidewalk set off Court’s internal alarm. They were on motorcycles next to each other, one man on a black Honda and the other on a red Suzuki, and they scanned the area, much like Court himself was now doing.
Court looked around at the buildings behind the pair, tried to come up with a legitimate reason they would pick that part of the sidewalk to park, and came up with nothing. A women’s clothing store. A perfumery. A shop that made and sold high-end confectionery.
Sure . . . these guys could be out picking up gifts for wives or girlfriends. But they had no bags with them, only backpacks with webbing on the outside used to strap more gear on, a feature common with military and police personnel.
He put them in their late thirties or early forties; they were relatively fit men, one bearded with wavy brown hair and the other completely bald and clean-shaven. There was a hard edge to both that was easily apparent to Court, even from this distance. They weren’t military—not active duty, anyway—and they certainly weren’t beat cops, but Court wondered if they might be attached to the police or government in some capacity.
Their backpacks and helmets looked well used, but both their motorcycles appeared to be almost new. He had the impression that these guys could handle more powerful bikes than the ones they were sitting on, so he pegged the motorcycles as rentals.
As Court concentrated on remaining subtle—performing the balancing act of surveilling two people while at the same time remaining sensitive to any possible countersurveillance—his earpiece came alive again with a response from the Frenchman.
“Sept Rue Tronchet is a h?tel particulier. A private guesthouse for wealthy travelers visiting Paris. Four suites. Five floors. Minimal security . . . but cameras in the lobby, stairs, and lift. Good locks, no easy roof access.”
“My problem. Not yours.”
“D’accord.” Agreed. “What do you need?”
“A car. Somewhere within three blocks of the target location.”
“It will be delivered. You will be texted with the drop-off location.”
“Okay.” And then: “Question . . . Do you have any eyes trailing the target?”
“Non. You demanded we discontinue surveillance.”
“You’re certain your guys are clear of this scene?”
“Absolutely so. We did not have any idea she would be going to Rue Tronchet. All our assets are accounted for. Why . . . ? Is there a problem?”
Court looked up to the two bikers again. The brown-haired man on the Honda was gone; he must have headed off to the south, otherwise Court would have seen him race past. And the bald man on the Suzuki was just now putting his helmet on. In seconds he fired up his bike and rolled off to the north.
“’Allo?”
Court asked, “Who else might be interested in the target? Caucasians. Europeans.”
After a pause the Frenchman said, “No one. Certainly no Caucasians that I can think of. None.”
But Court was less sure now than he had been about the pair. Court was certain they hadn’t ID’d him, so he couldn’t imagine why they would leave like this if, indeed, they had been following Medina or holding surveillance on her building. And, try as he might, Court couldn’t find anyone else in the crowd who looked like they might have replaced these two in coverage.
“’Allo?” the man said again.
“It’s nothing,” Court replied, though he wasn’t at all sure. “Just deliver the car and text me the location.”
Court made to hang up when he heard the man speak.
“When do you think you will be able to—”
Court ended the call.
He started the Yamaha again, brushing off lingering thoughts of the two men. He drove off to circle the block and try to find a better place for surveillance, because he was certain this was his target’s residence for the evening, and this would be the evening he’d come for her.
CHAPTER 4
At ten p.m. Bianca Medina left her private apartment on the Rue Tronchet, climbed into her silver Escalade with her full security detail, and rode in silence for the ten-minute journey to a two-Michelin-star restaurant on the Rue Lord Byron.
Here she was escorted into an ornate private room by the ma?tre d’, the door was closed, and she dined alone.
Well, not really alone.
Three of her five minders sat at the two other tables in the room, with a fourth man just beyond the door to the main dining room, and the fifth with the Escalade outside.
The men around her did not make eye contact with Bianca, nor she with them. There was little talking between the protectee and any of her protectors and no real conversation whatsoever. The detail and the principal had a prickly relationship that no one in the mix seemed anxious to rectify.
Bianca sat at her candlelit table, nursed a flute of champagne, and picked at a salad with no dressing. She alternatively nibbled on her food and thumbed a copy of French Vogue she’d pulled out of her handbag. Bianca was from Spain, but she spoke French and English fluently, having lived in Paris and New York working as a model, dividing her time between the two fashion meccas for nearly a decade before all but retiring three years earlier.
Her waiter was a handsome man in his midtwenties, a few years younger than her and a thousand times more upbeat and talkative, and he was clearly fascinated by the sullen-looking beauty with the expensive jewelry and the big security entourage. He attempted to flirt with her at every opportunity, showing himself not to be intimidated by either her magnificence or the gruff men surrounding her.
Bianca had ignored his early attempts at small talk, but this Casanova wasn’t one to take no for an answer, so the more curt she became, the more he wanted to break through her tough exterior.
As he removed her salad plate and replaced her silverware, he asked, “Are you in town on vacation?”
“Work,” she said, not even looking up from Vogue.
“Of course. You must be here for Fashion Week.”
She did not reply.
“A supermodel. I would surely recognize you if I spent more time following celebrity magazines.”
Nothing.
After a pause, the waiter leaned a little closer. “Madame . . . I just have to say it—”
She flipped a page in her magazine. “No, monsieur . . . whatever it is, you do not.”