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

Show a little faith. He heard her voice this time, not his.

He saw Duval crumple—saw Clara behind him, frightened.

No.

Had she looked frightened? Or had his memory filled a gap with an assumed detail. The light from the streetlamps and the growing fog had obscured his vision. Had he seen her face clearly enough to register fear? He lost his hold on the image.

His thoughts dissolved into black.

20

Ben woke to the sting of a finger flicking the end of his nose. He swatted the finger away, and the back of his hand grazed the underside of a tarp. Why was he lying beneath a tarp?

“Hey, wake up.” Clara flicked his nose again. “We’ve stopped.”

The tarp. The skiff. Ben’s head felt ready to split. He groaned.

Clara moved to flick his nose again.

He fended her off. “I’m awake.”

“Really? You don’t sound awake, especially not for a man who declared only hours ago that he refused to sleep.”

A shock of fright-induced cortisol snapped him to full wakefulness. He rolled onto his side. “Hours?” The drift south to Meudon should have taken no more than ninety minutes. “How many hours?”

Clara showed him a watch, some Fitbit knockoff with a rectangular face and pink glowing numbers. “Too many, I think. It is a quarter to five.”

“Why did you let me sleep?”

“Let you? You’re the one in charge, remember? And I only woke up moments ago. Now get up and get us moving.”

Clara’s indignation raised her voice too far above a whisper for Ben’s comfort. “Quiet,” he said, and pulled the tarp free from the bungee cord holding it in place. He rolled it back.

The skiff had come to rest in a tangle of willow branches bending low to reach the water. The fog remained as thick as ever, but black willows meant they’d reached St. Germain, a mile-long island near the 150-degree bend where the Seine snaked from south to north after leaving Paris. Meudon, their goal, might be a hundred meters away, or it might be a thousand, depending on what part of the island had trapped the boat. With zero visibility, they’d have to feel their way along the shore to find out.

Ben unclipped the plastic oar. “Sun’ll be up in three hours. We have to keep moving.” He poked at a willow branch. “Sit up and help me get us loose.”

They clawed their way along St. Germain’s shoreline a few meters at a time. Over and over, Ben pushed away, with Clara paddling on the other side, and the river pushed them back into the willows. The repetitive work got his mind churning again.

Ben’s worries over Duval’s interrupted revelation returned, compounded by his long sleep. He’d never struggled with staying awake for all-night missions before. He grabbed a willow branch and muscled the skiff onward for another five-meter run. “Did you drug me?”

“Did I what?”

“You gave me pills. I fell asleep.” He pushed off the next branch, grunting with the effort. “I don’t fall asleep on the job. Ever.”

“I gave you ibuprofen.”

“So you say.”

Clara stopped paddling. “You think I’m working against you? Do you think I wanted to smash a policeman’s head with a rock and spend the night half-frozen in a tiny boat with a man I hardly know? You are insane.”

The boat hit the willows. Ben pushed it off again. “You never answered the question. Did you drug me? Better yet, did you give my position to the cops or Duval? Are you part of this?”

“I can’t believe you. I saved your life, and this is my thanks.” She dipped her oar in the water and started paddling again. “Think what you want.”

One moment the willows seemed an unending barrier. In the next, the skiff sailed into open water. Ben took over the paddling. Wooden docks appeared in the mist to his left. Meudon. They’d made it.

Neither spoke a word as the two climbed out, even when Ben kept Clara from pitching sidelong into the water. The moment she had both feet on the dock, she jerked her elbow free. Ben frowned and retrieved Otto, setting him at her feet. The dachshund yawned and stretched, unfazed by the strangeness of his night.

The first gray hint of morning dusted the eastern horizon over the old-world suburbia of Meudon. Ben hefted his backpack up to his shoulder. “I’ll be setting a quick pace. Try to keep up.”

Three blocks southeast of the river, on a street lined with multifamily homes, Clara broke the silence. “This town. This is where your imaginary girlfriend lives?”

“Giselle. Yes. Her flat is two blocks west.”

Clara’s gaze shifted up the street. “Good. I’m only minutes away from a shower.”

“Hours, actually.”

The look she gave him said she wished she’d brought her bludgeoning rock along.

Ben let out a frustrated grunt. “Giselle won’t be at her flat, okay? And I’ve never set foot in the place. We keep our personal and professional identities well clear of each other. She has another place, one nobody knows about but us.”

“How far?”

“Almost five kilometers. The cottage is in Chaville, on the far side of the Meudon Forest Reserve. But first . . .” He slowed as they approached the next street corner. “A little shopping.”

“Not another burner phone.” She turned to stand in front of him, scratching Otto’s ears. “Remember how well that went last time?”

He sensed from her wry expression that she knew the real reason he’d stopped—the reason he needed to risk exposing his face to security cameras at an all-night pharmacy. She knew. He felt it. But he told her anyway. “We have to deal with your hair.”

“You’ve always hated this color.”

“Funny. But this isn’t about fashion. It’s about disappearing. Pick a new color, and I’ll go in and get it for you.”

Her lips parted with a reply.

Ben held up a finger. “If you say purple or green, I’m out of here. No pink either.”

She dropped her gaze. “Yeah. Okay.”

“What’s your natural color?”

“Boring.”

He didn’t have time for this. “Stay here. Keep the dog