Page 86 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Are you prepared?” Angelie asked.
“Yes. Are you?”
Angelie just jerked her head.
Taylor climbed from the back of the vehicle, only slightly disconcerted when it slid away; her bag was inside, with her passport—her real passport—and back through the gates into the city. It was quiet in here. A few tables and chairs, some desiccated greenery spilling from urns—someone hadn’t attended the garden. An early and unexpected snow had begun to fall, whispering from the sky to gather in her hair and on her shoulders, and Taylor was happy she’d grabbed the sweater from her bag before she got into the car. She shrugged into it. As romantic as Paris could be, adding in a deep chill wasn’t as special.
She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. The drive into the city from the airport had included two stops, both buildings that Angelie disappeared into and returned carrying a plain black duffel bag. These bags, Taylor soon learned, contained money, papers, and weapons. Lots and lots of weapons. She had a flashback to one of her favorite movies, The Matrix, when Neo and Trinity go through the metal detectors to rescue Morpheus, and their bags are opened, showing a variety of weapons filling them to the brim. If they needed to go up against an army, Angelie had them covered. It made Taylor wonder just what, exactly, to expect from the next few days.
Taylor was not given a weapon, which made her uneasy, but she understood. She would be checked, both by a metal detector built into the jamb of the front door to the building and after she entered the third-floor offices. It was this secondary chokepoint where the security system would be disabled to allow her entry, and when that happened, Angelie would slip inside from the building next door. She couldn’t chance being seen on the cameras.
Taylor had her short script memorized, and a piece of paper in an envelope with a numbered account for the transaction. All of this was just for show, though. Her main role, insofar as she could understand it, was to act as a decoy simply by walking into the offices of La Boulanger.
She squared her shoulders and stepped to the entry, where two men in suits stood. Her practiced eye picked out the telltale bulges that indicated shoulder holsters. Apparently, everyone but her would have a gun today.
Get it over with, Taylor. Remember why you’re here.
“Bonjour,” she said prettily to the guards at the door. “Je suis attendu.” I am expected.
The guard on the right gestured, and she lifted up her arms and turned in a circle. He grunted acquiescence and jerked his head toward the stairs. She walked up and through, not pausing, directly across the ancient marble floors to the impressive staircase. She wound her way up two floors and was met with the unsmiling visages of two more guards.
Only four? Surely there’s more.
There were, of course there were. Angelie had described in great detail the setup inside the building. The rest of the boogeymen were concealed behind the doors, ready to spring out like characters of a terrible horror film. No, on its front, this was meant to look like a regular home and personal office. One that belonged to a respectable Parisian, not one that belonged to a terrorist moneyman.
She grinned like a tourist and gestured to the intricate moldings. “Très jolie.”
Nothing. It was like speaking to a couple of sphinxes. Fine. Stick with the script.
“Je suis attendu.”
Their hands were businesslike, professional, and a bit too thorough. She suffered them. She had nothing to hide. They knew this already because she’d made it past the highly sensitive magnetometer downstairs, but they were paid well not to take chances.
“Satisfait?” she asked. Satisfied?
“Oui,” the guard on her right answered, and she watched carefully as he spoke into his wrist. A loud clunk, like the sound of a bank vault opening, and the doors before her split apart.
She hoped like hell Angelie was paying attention.
Inside the sanctum was another set of doors, these leading to a regular office, though this was windowless. No way for a sniper to take a shot. The room was expansive, paneled, and split into two areas: a large desk with two chairs facing it on the west side of the room; a large leather couch with two wing chairs squatting in front of a gas fireplace on the east side. The fire was lit, making the room cloyingly warm. The man she was meeting was at the desk. He barely looked up when she entered. He certainly seemed comfortable with strangers.
She waited for a moment, then cleared her throat. The man still ignored her.
Where the hell was Angelie?
A shout. Ah.
The commotion was quick. Taylor heard a suppressed pistol bark once, twice, then the doors swung open again and Angelie strolled through.
“Bonjour, Frederick.”
The man behind the desk merely waved a hand, still intent on his ledger. Taylor was mildly impressed. He couldn’t not know what was happening, not after the gunshots, yet he was playing it calm and collected.
Finally, he capped his fountain pen and deigned to look up. His face was bored, but Taylor sensed a flicker of fear in his reptilian eyes.
“Comme c’est incroyablement impoli de tirer sur mes gardes. Savez-vous combien il est difficile de trouver une bonne aide de nos jours?”
Angelie twirled the gun in a circle. “I had to get your attention somehow.”
