This is an unedited sample chapter
Nothing ruins a perfectly good morning faster than a note on your desk from your boss when you arrive at work, asking you to meet him at “your earliest convenience.” I hadn’t even taken a seat and I was already upset.
And it had been a perfectly good Monday so far. After a long summer, autumn had arrived in Lyon practically overnight, turning the trees lining the Saône and the Rhône, the two rivers running through the city, beautiful red and yellow. The weather was nice, but cool enough for my new velvet blazer, so I’d been able to wear it for the first time. I’d felt very chic and French in it as I waited for the bus, which had arrived on time and had not been too full, so I’d had a seat. There had been no queue at my favorite bakery, and I’d scored one of the brioches that always ran out early. And now this.
I stared at the yellow Post-it note stuck to my computer screen, my mind racing frantically to figure out what it could mean. The most likely explanation was that it was work-related, something to do with one of the cases I was working on as an analyst in the organized crime division at Interpol. Maybe my investigation had led to an arrest somewhere.
I discarded that option immediately. Not that I wasn’t a good investigator, but Laurent Paget, the head of the division, would’ve brought it up publicly. He was a bit of a conceited prig, but it made him look good when his underlings did well, so he made sure everyone knew.
A less pleasant but plausible option was that an investigation had gone belly-up because I’d made a mistake. I couldn’t immediately recall which of the myriad cases I was working on had the biggest potential for failure, but the notion instantly soured my mood.
Then a more frightening option hit and my stomach sank. Has Laurent found out?
A while back, I’d falsified evidence in a case I’d been working on. Well, the evidence was real and genuinely connected with the case, but since I’d come across it in a less than savory manner, I’d had to log it into evidence in a clandestine fashion.
I would lose my job for sure if it was discovered, maybe even face charges.
From there, my mind spiraled to the worst-case scenario: he’d found out my deepest, darkest secret. That I was an international cat burglar, and a very good one too. There were several files about my cases in the Interpol archives, none of which were connected or cross-referenced, a testament to my skills. The investigators had no idea they were done by the same person. But it would only take one mistake for everything to unravel.
My hands clammy, I decided to handle the worst immediately. My legs were shaking, but I inhaled and brought my body back under control. I wasn’t a brilliant cat burglar for nothing. I didn’t succumb to panic even under the greatest stress. A chat with my boss was a walk in the park compared to some heists I’d pulled.
I shook my shoulders to release the tension and put on the pleasant, neutral face that I usually wore at work as Ada Reed, a persona almost as false as my other identities, no matter that it was closest to the real me and was my genuine name. I’d assumed so many personas and names over the years for my criminal activities that my real self often felt like a mask too.
I gave a brief tug to my clothes, but the off-white silk blouse and knee-length burgundy skirt were perfectly put together, and my wine-red leather walking shoes were as spotless as they’d been this morning. My strawberry-blond hair had grown past its usual shoulder-length bob, and I’d worn it up today. The new chocolate brown velvet blazer was the perfect dot on the “i.”
My desk neighbor, Richard Svenson, arrived as I was leaving. He gave me a questioning look and I smiled. “I’ve been summoned.”
He made a commiserating face. “Good luck. Don’t put him in a mood. I have a favor to ask of him later today.”
I promised to do my best as I headed across the floor to Laurent’s office. The door was open, and I gave the frame a brief knock.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked in French. The official language at Interpol was English, but most people knew more languages. I spoke excellent French, thanks to my French mother, even though I’d grown up in England. Laurent’s English, on the other hand, wasn’t as good, so speaking his native tongue would put him in a better mood.
His answering smile was polite and didn’t reveal anything about the nature of this summons. He was about a decade older than my thirty-two, short and stocky, but what he lost in height he more than made up for in self-importance and well-cut suits. He was a bit fastidious about his looks—and everyone else’s for that matter. He gave me a quick once-over and the smile deepened a notch.
“Yes. Please, have a seat.”
I took one of the chairs in front of his desk, which was as neat as his appearances. But that was as far as his fastidious neatness extended. The shelves lining the walls were overflowing with books, files, and random papers tucked where they happened to fit. It was an archivist’s nightmare. And probably a fireman’s too.
He turned his monitor to face me, showing an Excel table with colored columns. He pointed to one. “I noticed you haven’t taken your summer holidays yet this year.”
The opening took me completely by surprise, which hadn’t happened often in my long career as a professional pretender. My mouth dropped open.
“I … what?” I shook my head. Of all scenarios that had coursed through my head, something this mundane hadn’t even occurred to me. “Are you sure?”
I was pretty sure I’d had several holidays this past summer, going to Monaco, Rome, Venice, and Milan. Granted, none of them had exactly been relaxing vacations, what with chasing drug lords, being held hostage by mafia bosses, and almost dying a couple of times, but I seldom spent my holidays lying on a beach anyway.
A smug smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He liked that he’d managed to surprise me. “There was that week you took off to look after your mother in London, but since you fell ill, it has been commuted to a sick-leave. Incidentally, you’ve used all your sick-leave days this year.”
I’d forgotten about that. I hadn’t actually fallen ill or been taking care of my mother. Or been in London. I’d been held hostage in Rome, and my coworker and best friend, Laïla Diab, had come up with a ruse that I’d had pneumonia. I had hospital documentation to prove it too. Not that I could explain where it had come from.
“You have until the end of October to use your vacation days,” Laurent continued. I blinked.
“But it’s already mid-October.”
“I suggest you begin immediately, then. The remaining days aren’t transferable, so you’ll miss those.” Interpol had a generous vacation scheme, so it was a loss of at least ten days. I could’ve made good use of those days if I’d noticed earlier.
He turned the monitor back to facing him. “I’ll mark you being on vacation starting from today. I hope you’ve nothing pressing you’re working on?”
Still reeling, I ran a checklist in my head and shook my head. “Nothing that won’t hold.” Interpol investigations dealt with cases spanning nations, and often took months or years to bring to the point where local law enforcements could make arrests. Nothing was pressing.
“Excellent. Have a great holiday, and don’t show your face here until November.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said feebly, getting up and exiting the office, my legs almost as tottery as when I’d come in.
My brain hadn’t caught up with events by the time I returned to my desk, which must have shown on my face, because Richard straightened, alarmed.
“What happened? Were you fired? Did someone die?”
I gave him a bewildered look. “I’m on a summer holiday.”
He blinked, then snorted a guffaw that sounded across the large room. “That’s a good one. You had me fooled for a moment there.”
“I’m serious. Apparently, I haven’t remembered to use my vacation days this year and I have until the end of this month to do so or I lose them.”
“But … weren’t you in England for over a week? Wasn’t that your summer vacation?”
“Technically, it was a leave of absence to look after my mother, but then I fell ill and HR changed it to sick leave.”
“Huh. What are you going to do now?”
I picked up my leather satchel. “I’ll go home. I’m not staying where I’m not welcome.”
His eyes twinkled. “That’s the spirit. Well, have a nice summer holiday. Bring me a souvenir.”
“Provided I leave home…”
His laughter followed me out.
I didn’t head straight home. Laïla needed to know what was up, so I rode the lift to the belowground floor where the tech department was. It was a labyrinthine space with many corridors and nooks, but I knew my way and located the cybersecurity department with ease.
“Ada!” Laïla said, delighted, when she spotted me, taking off her headphones that she never went anywhere without. I was honored.
At twenty-five, she was just about the best cybersecurity expert we had, though people usually dismissed her based on her looks. She was short, and wiry thanks to a lifetime of self-defense practice, with a black belt in several disciplines. Her arms were tattooed in defiance of her Algerian family’s traditions, and bare despite the weather—it was always warm in her room that was full of servers—and her hair was shorn short and dyed in several colors—also to the great upset of her mother.
I pulled up a chair next to her and dropped down. “I’m on a summer holiday,” I stated, sounding gloomier than I intended.
“Why?” she asked, interested enough that she lowered her feet from the edge of the desk and swiveled her chair to face me. “Haven’t you used all your days already? You had that thing … in March, wasn’t it?”
I’d forgotten that completely, but since I had no recollection which ruse I’d used to cover for that—never a good thing—I just nodded. “I think that was my winter holiday. And the Monaco thing this summer was mostly over a weekend, and since it led to an arrest, I could use it as work. And then the Italy thing…” I made a face and she grimaced too.
“I lost some of my vacation time for that.”
“Maybe next time you don’t rush headfirst into my messes,” I said dryly. She pulled straight, incensed.
“It was worth it.”
“Hardly, but I’m glad you were there anyway.”
She grinned. “How long do you have? What are you going to do?”
“Until the end of this month, and I have no idea.”
“Not getting abducted, ideally?”
“Absolutely,” I said, with feeling.
She turned to her computer and began to click faster than I could follow. “I’m checking last-minute departures from Lyon… There’s ten days in Tenerife leaving tonight.”
“I’m not much into beach holidays,” I said, leaning to look at the screen too.
“A week in Athens?”
That was more promising. “I’ve been there. And it’s like an oven at this time of year.” Early October might be autumn in France, but it was full-on summer warmth in Greece still.
“There’s that… How about Paris?”
It would be great, work-wise—the other job—but as a holiday destination it didn’t tempt me. I’d been there too often.
“Never mind, it went already,” she said before I could answer. “So, where would you want to go?”
I gave it a thought. If my only goal was to rest and relax, anywhere would be fine, even a beach. I wasn’t into heat and sunbathing though, so I’d rather go hiking in Scotland or something. The idea tempted me for a moment, and I almost said it aloud.
But I never simply holidayed. I always used the opportunity to pull a heist. Problem was, I had nothing lined up, and planning those took time. But I did have unfinished business, and this would be a perfect opportunity to handle it.
“Macau.”
“Macau? As in, China?” She blinked, baffled, then she tilted her head like a curious bird. “Is this about Eliot?”
I gritted my teeth so hard I almost bit my tongue. “Maybe.”
Eliot Reed, no relation, was the most pressing problem I had. Not because he was a mystery I wanted to solve, or because he’d been instrumental in the scrapes I’d found myself in this summer, or even because he’d managed to pull one over on me—though he would answer that. All those were true. But because he knew my true identity as a cat burglar. And he’d disappeared from the face of the Earth before promising me he wouldn’t reveal it. Macau was the only clue I had—and I’d looked, thoroughly, with all the Interpol assets available to me—so that’s where I’d go.
“He said he’d love to work as a casino manager there.”
She began to click her computer again. “There are no direct flights from Lyon, but I can book you one from Amsterdam to Hong Kong.”
Hong Kong sounded great work-wise too, but I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ll look into it when I’m in a proper headspace. I’m still reeling from this sudden turn of events.”
She grinned. “I hear you. Just let me know where you’re going. And no getting into trouble.” She gave me a stern look that actually worked. She was mostly in charge of raising her younger brother, who was a handful, and she had the look perfected. She’d inherited it from her mother, a lovely but scary woman.
“Now, get out of here and don’t come back until November.”
The morning commute rush hadn’t even ended when I headed back home. Since I had nothing better to do and the day was fine, I walked through the park by Interpol Headquarters, crossed the Rhône, and walked across the old town to Saône, past several of my favorite cafés, the town hall, and art museum. And the restaurant near the opera where I’d had dinner with Eliot before I learned he knew who—and what—I was.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, then came the events in Milan. He’d colluded with my “late” husband Danny—not that I’d entirely believed he was dead, so his miraculous resurrection hadn’t been a great surprise—and had helped Danny fake his death again without telling me. And then he’d disappeared. There were no traces of Eliot Reed anywhere.
Eliot Reed, the whole thirty-two years, six foot two of trim body and beautiful blue-green eyes of him, was either a secret agent or a criminal like me. And I needed to know which. He’d caught me red-handed opening a safe that wasn’t mine. A criminal would protect my secret. An agent, not so much. That he hadn’t spilled the secret so far didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was waiting for the best moment, or leverage.
Because of him, I’d been pulled into a murder investigation that turned into a trafficking case, with us almost ending up being trafficked. He’d meddled in the mess I’d found myself in thanks to Danny. That he’d saved my life too didn’t really matter. Then he’d disappeared and I had no way of making sure he wouldn’t reveal my secret or use it against me somehow.
The first chance I’d had, I’d checked a bank vault in Rome he’d shown me where he kept his stash of several IDs and money. He’d given me a key to the safe deposit box, but it turned out to be empty by the time I got there. I’d memorized a couple of his aliases though, and I’d kept an eye on them. So far, none of them had alerted, so he wasn’t using any of them. Wise of him.
But he’d talked about retiring to Macau once. Since it was my only clue, I’d been monitoring the Chinese casino island these past months. I’d gotten nothing from there either, though I couldn’t be sure if it wasn’t the Chinese system keeping me out. But now that I had time on my hands, I could travel there and look myself.
One way or another, I would find him. And then I would demand he tell me exactly who he was. I didn’t care whether he was an agent or a criminal. I just wanted to be sure he would keep his mouth shut.
Energized by my decision, I hurried to my home on Quai de la Pêcherie that ran along the Saône. It was a long boulevard in the old town lined with five- and six-story buildings from the eighteenth century, with restaurants and small shops on the ground floor and very sought-after flats above. An Interpol analyst couldn’t afford one with her salary, especially a unit with a river view, but I didn’t have to rely on my income. Though when anyone asked, I said I’d inherited money.
I had to use my ill-gained wealth for something.
The only drawback of living in a building this old was that there was no lift, but climbing up to the fourth floor kept me fit. The hallway was faded green and yellow, but I’d renovated my flat before I moved in. It was my safe haven, my only place where I could securely be me.
The entrance hallway had a bathroom on one side and a kitchenette on the other, and opened onto a living room. The living room was only one window wide, narrow and deep, but I didn’t need much space. It was cozy, if a tad impersonal.
The room originally had two windows, but I’d built a wall in the middle and created a bedroom. The place did have an actual bedroom too, but I’d hidden it. It could only be accessed through a secret door in my walk-in closet.
That was where all my illegal activities were hidden.
I pushed aside the clothes that concealed the door and went in. Sometimes the uncomfortable way in annoyed me and I contemplated just leaving the wall empty. No one ever visited me. But reason always won, and I diligently spread the clothes back over the hidden door when I left.
Eliot had found the room anyway. Another reminder of how dangerous he was.
I headed straight to my desk to power up my laptop, past the armoires and drawers that held my disguises, wigs, ropes, night-vision goggles, and everything else a good burglar needed. I also had a couple of practice safes, older models, but I needed to keep my skills fresh with those too.
“Let’s see…” I said aloud as I opened the page I usually used when I booked flights, a service for wealthy private individuals who didn’t want their travelling plans to be public knowledge. I never logged in when I made searches, and often routed the IP through aliases. I didn’t want there to be records of my searches to places where valuable jewelry went missing.
I spent a good hour checking hotels in Hong Kong and Macao. Only the luxury ones, as I was on holiday and money wasn’t a problem. I chose a suite in the best-looking hotel in Hong Kong, and then selected flights on an airline that provided private cabins with a bed. There weren’t any flights until the next evening, but it didn’t matter. I’d spend a day in Amsterdam, where the flight left.
Searches done, I logged on to a public site and booked everything under my own name. I didn’t do that often, but I was on holiday and I wanted Interpol to have a solid fix on me. That meant I couldn’t indulge in my other business while I was there. I had other things to do anyway. I’d find Eliot, and then spend the rest of my holiday doing whatever I wanted. After I’d secured a promise that he would keep my secret.
As if that would happen. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack trying to find someone who didn’t want to be found. If Eliot was as good as I was with disguises, I wouldn’t even know who I was looking for.
I had everything booked and paid when my email pinged, startling me. I didn’t use this computer for anything but work-related communication—my illegal work—so that meant a job offer.
I opened the secure email program, encrypted and separate from all social media with their spying habits. My body quickened when I saw the name of the sender: Handler. My main contact to the criminal underworld.
I’d never met them, and knew nothing about them, not their age, gender, or where they lived, but I tended to think of them as “he.” I’d inherited him from my father who used to refer to him as “the whelp,” which sounded like a male, and which in Dad’s vernacular meant anything from a teenager to someone a couple of years younger than him. Dad was in his late fifties when he died six years ago, so my handler could be anything from his twenties to early sixties.
My handler arranged jobs for me, took care of the goods, and paid me what I was owed directly to my Swiss bank account. I’d never had any trouble with him, and the most lucrative, most interesting jobs always came through him. All in all, he made my criminal life easy.
The subject line read “Hummingbird.” It had been my father’s pet name for me, and I’d resented at first that my handler used it as my code name. But after my initial grief for Dad’s passing had eased, I’d come to like this small connection to him. No one else used the pet name anymore, not even my mother who never had.
The email only read: See the attached file, so I downloaded it. My mouth went dry when I read the first line:
Maharaja Blue has surfaced. You have until Sunday.
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