Page 42 of Angel's Flight

The hair rose on the back of Shaya’s neck as he regarded the spy across the park.Shaya couldn’t make out any details except that he was a man of average height and build.Had he noticed Shaya watching him back?He hoped not.

Shaya rose, making sure to look casual and calm as he wandered out of the gardens to theRue de la Paix.The streets were quiet and uncrowded this time of day, with only a few shop owners and waiters outside sweeping steps and cleaning tables before the workday began.Shaya made it to thePlace de Vendômebefore pausing, making a show of looking up at the triumphal column Napoleon had erected in the square.His gaze followed the spiraling line of figures on the green bronze as they ascended, telling the story of old battles.

Or that’s what he made it look like.In truth, his focus was on his peripheral vision, taking stock of anyone who might follow him into the square.It took a moment, but he wasn’t disappointed.The same figure from the Tuileries entered the square, his gaze falling on Shaya before retreating to a newsstand.

Shaya walked nonchalantly from the square, checking his reflection in windows along the avenue as he meandered.He didn’t catch sight of the other man until he reached the Opéra and went left on theRue Scribe.Perhaps the man knew where Shaya was headed, for he drew closer, to see which entrance Shaya made for.It wasn’t a simple thing to enter the Opéra alone when one wasn’t a patron or employee.The backstage entrance at the rear of the building on theBoulevard Haussmanhad an imposing gate, but the guard there knew Shaya – and had been paid well by him before.

So did the clerks by the door, who opened it for Shaya.He smiled at them in clear view of the glass-paneled door because he wanted the spy to see.He wanted whoever was following him to know he was in the Opéra and nowhere else.

The dark figure waited across theBoulevard Haussmann, watching the door.Shaya watched him in return.He waited, observing from a hidden corner for a quarter of an hour, then made his move.It was thanks to Erik that he knew one of the secret ways out of the Opéra – the stables.The groom was asleep in a stall when Shaya shuffled by, and soon enough, he was back on theRue Scribe.Soon enough, he found his pursuer, seated in a door frame, watching the Opéra.

Now it was Shaya’s turn to watch.The man looked bored, and after ten minutes, he took a notebook out of his pocket and jotted something down, exactly as Shaya would.What Shaya wouldn't have done was leave his post so quickly, but this one was young.His gait was easy and spry as he headed away from the Opéra down theRue Auberand towards theSaint-Lazaretrain station.Thankfully, the man didn’t enter the crowded station but turned right and towards the shops at the newGaleries Lafayette.He went beyond that too, with Shaya trailing all the while until he turned down a small street and entered a nondescript building.Offices of some kind.

Shaya wondered if he should wait to see what kind of building this was or come back some other time.His impatience won out, but he was careful about it.He waited for another man to walk along the street and then followed a little beside him, only glancing at the names on the plaques by the door before moving on.One look was all he needed.

Pomeroy and Associates: private detectives.

6.In Plain Sight

Genoa

Erik could barely makeout the port from the window of their room.There were a few boats moored at the docks – flimsy wooden things meant for fishing or pleasure – and they seemed like toys in comparison to the great steel hull of the steamship waiting in her berth.Even though it was past midnight, men were at work loading the holds with goods to be transported along with the throng of people that would board in the morning.Most of them were bound for America.But not them.

Because of what Erik had brought upon them, they would disembark in Dover, England, and fumble their way onward from there.He didn’t like the idea.He resented that they had to sail through the Mediterranean for days to avoid setting foot in France.He detested that he still couldn’t sleep, even next to his wife.He didn’t like any of this.He hated it.And he hated himself for bringing it all upon them.

She doesn’t deserve this, a voice whispered in his ear.

A breeze rose off the sea, heavy with the scent of salt, cool against his bare face as he stared out into the night.He had loved the sea when he first saw it as a child when he had thought it meant adventure.Now it was a mystery, like everything else.

“Why are you awake?”

Erik turned to look at Christine, propped up on her elbow in the bed.The watery moonlight cast the room in shades of black and blue, making her skin look ghostly pale where it peaked out from her white chemise.Pale as a ghost.

“Bad dream,” Erik answered.“I remembered the horrors of English food.”

“As if you’d remember to eat without me,” Christine smiled in reply.“What is it, really?”

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