The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

toward the faster current at the river’s center. “That’s to compensate our benefactor for the skiff.”

“Won’t the owner find the boat once we’re done with it?”

“No. We’ll have to sink her. We don’t want the police figuring out where we put in.”

The current checked the drift and held the skiff near the river’s center. They picked up speed, maybe four knots. At that rate, they’d be out of the city in two hours. Ben hoped the smuggler’s mist would hold that long.

Clara lifted a small case from her purse and shook out a couple of pills. “Take these.”

He let her set them in his hand. They had no markings. “What are they?”

“Ibuprofen. Your head hurts, right?”

“Right.”

“Then take the pills. Show a little faith, please.”

Faith. Tess had mentioned faith. The day had shaken Ben’s—in the Director and in Clara. But the pounding in his head drowned out his suspicions. “Yeah . . . okay.”

He chased the pills with water from his go-bag, then settled in for the long haul. He sat on the bottom and pushed his feet toward the bow, resting his shoulders against the bench. “You, too,” he said, tapping Clara’s arm. “We’ll cover up with the tarp before we reach the tower. The Champ de Mars and Quai Branly never sleep. The cops’ll be watching the streets there for sure, maybe patrol the bridges too.”

“If we’re hiding under the tarp, how will you steer?”

“No need. The current near the river’s center will lock us in.” He laid a hand on a plastic paddle clipped to the interior hull. “The hard part will be getting to shore south of the city.”

Clara squeezed in beside him and used a life vest as a cushion for her neck. Otto had claimed the other one as a bed. Ben let him keep it. He needed a little discomfort, anyway—to keep him awake. His eyes felt heavy. He pressed his body against the hull to give Clara some room. “What were you doing outside the cathedral?”

“What else? Looking for you.”

“I told you I’d come back.”

“Oh yes. I remember. You said you would come back in two hours. ‘What if you do not?’ I asked. And what did you say?” She deepened her voice, adding some Texan. “‘I will, little lady.’”

“I didn’t say ‘little lady.’” He laid his head back, trying not to put pressure on the painful knots back there, and looked up through wisps of vapor at the void above—no stars, no discernible clouds. Just emptiness. “And I don’t sound like that.”

“Perhaps not, but you did say two hours. You were gone almost three. I was worried. I took a stone for protection and came looking.” She pulled her coat tight about her. “I also thought you might have run away.”

“If I wanted to ditch you, I would have done it this morning. And if I had, you’d be dead.”

She snorted. “So would you.”

“I had Duval handled.”

“Mm-hmm.” She mimicked him with the bad southern accent again. “I had it handled.”

“Stop that.”

An echo of voices interrupted the argument. Ben touched at her arm. “Here comes Quai Branly. Help me with the tarp.”

She held it taut while he stuffed the corners under a bungee cord strapped to the stern gunwale. The two lay there, scrunched so close together that when Clara rolled her head toward him, her breath tickled his ear. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Gray boat, gray tarp. In this fog, we’re invisible. Trust me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all day?”

He felt the sting in her voice, despite the whisper’s softness. She had trusted him—over and over. Why did he find it so hard to return the favor?

Some tragic secret had died on Duval’s tongue when Clara knocked him out. Ben had seen it in his eyes—heard it in his voice. The dirty cop knew something about her. Maybe it had been the plans he had for her after killing Ben. Maybe he’d been a breath away from revealing her as a plant. She might be the reason the police had found them in the park and the reason Duval had found him at the bridge. Hale had warned his entire class.

The deadliest betrayals come from those closest to us, people. Watch your backs.

In a few short hours, had Ben let this woman get too close?

When he considered their relationship, she’d been close to him for months, even if he’d tried to push her away. How many times had she run into him in the stairwell? Were all their meetings chance? Were any of them?

Trust me. Ben’s words. Maybe his error too.

The boat shifted sideways, tempting him to peel back the tarp, but the current soon corrected the drift. The river must have split at the narrow island southwest of the Eiffel Tower. The voices faded. “We’re clear,” he said. “But keep the tarp in place.”

Clara rolled onto her side. “What about river traffic?”

“No traffic at this hour—not in winter. We’ll be safe all the way to Meudon. An hour and a half or so.”

“In that case, I’m going to sleep. You should too.” With no small amount of bumping and bustling, she unfolded the life vest. “Here. Lift your head. We can share it as a pillow. This aluminum shell cannot be healthy for those bumps on your head.”

He let her slide a portion of the vest into place behind him. “Thanks. I’ll stay awake, though. One of us has to.”

“Suit yourself.” She closed her eyes, leaving him alone with no sound but the steady chirr of Otto’s nasally breathing.

Ben stared at the tarp’s underside, a few inches above his head.

Trust me.

The thought came fuzzy this time. He had a hard time keeping it in focus. He had a hard time keeping any thought in focus. Important questions had occurred to him before the shift of the current passing the island had stolen his attention. He tried and failed to recapture them.

Ben closed his eyes and saw Duval. He saw the revolver extended, the cop’s smirk, some vicious revelation forming on