Flee Page 3

  But as soon as the anger came upon him, it subsided. He had no right to be angry at her. None at all. He’d tormented her relentlessly. Yes, he’d done that to protect her, but there was no denying that he’d destroyed their relationship. He’ddumpedher. He’d left her in the park, alone with Brendan’s brother, because he knew that if he hung around any longer, he’d get them both shot to death.

  Some relationship.

  “I’m waiting,” Gaia stated.

  “I don’t want us to be apart anymore,” Sam breathed. His voice was low, urgent. “I was wrong. I’vebeenwrong. I have to be with you. That’s all that matters.”

  He took a step forward.

  Gaia took a step back.

  This was torture.No, this was bullshit.It had to stop. “Please, Gaia, let me tell you what’s goingon.” Uttering that sentence was like pushing a boulder up a hill. “I’m ready—”

  “Doesn’t this feel like déjà vu?” Gaia interrupted, her voice flat.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. The night suddenly seemed very cold and dark. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve already had this conversation,” she said. Her eyes flashed around the park once more, almost as if she was expecting somebody to appear out of the shadows. “A dozen times. It’s boring. It doesn’t serve any purpose.”

  “But I. . . .” Sam closed his mouth. It was ironic, wasn’t it? The last time he’d seen her—that day in the park—she’d asked him: “Who are you, Sam? I don’t even know.”And now he was feeling that exact same emotion toward her. She was wearing more than the usual protective shield.This furtive android was not Gaia Moore.Something else was going on—something besides the decimation of their relationship. This girl was a stranger.

  “What’s going on, Gaia?” he whispered.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” she shot back. “I can’t deal with you, Sam. I can’t deal with whatever secret life you have. I’ve suffered plenty because of other people’s secrets. I’m through with that.”

  She was talking about her father, of course—and once again Sam felt anger stirring inside him. Lumping Sam with that man was grossly unfair. The circumstanceswere completely different. Tom Moore seemed to relish his life of intrigue and deception.He was willing to abandon his daughter at a moment’s notice for secrets and lies and danger. Sam, on the other hand, had been forced into it—blackmailed into a nightmare he couldn’t control.Tell her!It was on the tip of his tongue. Let Josh come and get him. At least he could die knowing he’d come clean with Gaia—

  “Maybe one day we can be friends again,” Gaia said.

  “Friends?” Sam asked, incredulous. Anger turned to rage. “Now who sounds like a soap opera? Gaia, come on. You and I canneverbe just friends. No matter—”

  “Stop it.” The toneless voice was back. “I’ve got too much on my mind.”

  “Too much on your mind,” Sam echoed.

  The energy drained from his body. His shoulders sagged. The full implication of Gaia’s words settled over him. This was a frivolous exercise. It would accomplish nothing. And he knew that he would never tell her the truth because he would never allow himself to put her life in jeopardy. Besides, it was very clear she didn’t even know how to act around him anymore. She was keeping a secret from him, too—and she had no intention of sharing it. Not with Sam Moon, anyway. He was no longer a priority for her. He was on the back burner. He’d put himself there by living a lie. And when all was said and done, it came down to this: Sam loved Gaia toomuch to save their relationship.He’d chosen to save her life instead.And he always would, until one of them ended up dead. End of story.

  “Later, Sam,” she said quietly. She turned and hurried under the Arc de Triomphe, vanishing down Waverly Place into the night.

  “Yeah,” Sam replied to the empty park. “Later.”

  Something occurred to him at that moment. Josh and his cohorts must have foreseen that this would happen. They’d used his love for Gaia against him, corrupting the one sacred relationship he had in this world. They’d made it very clear from the start that Sam had to stay away from Gaia—and when he wouldn’t, they’d driven a wedge between him and Gaia with lies and fear. Their breaking up was the inevitable result. . . which meant that once again,in the twisted game of chess that his life had become,he had been outplayed. He’d already lost.

  Bird Droppings

  “THE LEADS ON LOKI RAN COLD, AS you know,” Henrik was explaining. “But we’ve managed to trace another—” He stopped, shifted slightly in his chair. His gaze flutteredover Tom’s shoulder just for an instant. “Another potential leak,” he finished.

  Tom didn’t bat an eyelash. He got the message, though. The body language was subtle but unequivocal. Henrik had observed some potential danger lurking nearby.

  “Shall we?” Henrik said smoothly. He placed a few Belgian francs on the café table.

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  They stood up and moved purposefully but without hurry into the brasserie. Inside, it was smoky and warm, saturated with the delicious scent of espresso. None of the customers paid any attention to them— which meant nothing, of course. For all Tom knew, every single one of them could have been employed by Loki.

  “Follow me,” Henrik instructed, making for a back room.

  They strolled down a narrow corridor—and then suddenly they were out on a small cobbled street, striding away from the main square. “Through here,” Henrik directed. They approached an alley running parallel to a used bookstore.

  Tom used the back window of a parked car as a mirror to check behind them. There were no tails, at least none visible.

  “Your Agency thought they were close,” Henrik continued as they walked through a maze of smallstreets, past flower shops and chocolatiers. “But Loki was too clever for them.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Tom commented darkly.

  Henrik nodded, shoving his hands into his overcoat pockets. “He deleted his tracks, rerouted his accounts and contacts.” He shot Tom a wry smile that he didn’t return. “He is, as they say in English, laughing his way to the bank.”

  “That’s not funny,” Tom muttered. Instantly he regretted the brusqueness and impatience in his tone—but the familiar hard burn of frustration was gathering inside him. Loki was always one step ahead of him. Always. Which was why Tom didn’t feel he had the time to make light of his twin’s profiting from death and destruction.

  “Now, strictly speaking, Interpol can’t help you,” Henrik continued. “On the record, we have no information regarding Loki’s whereabouts, his finances, or his contacts—”

  “Can we just dispense with the red tape?” Tom broke in. He picked up his pace as they approached a district that he vaguely, half consciously recognized as the Sablon: mostly antique shops abutting Gothic churches. “I’m sorry, but the clock is ticking.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t care if it’s on the record or off. You said you had something for me. It’s Interpol’s duty to assist me in this matter.”

  “Theoretically, yes on both fronts, Tom,” Henrikreplied, adopting that tone of strained decorum common to diplomacy. “We do have information. Your Agency lost the thread once Loki changed course, but we think we’ve tracked his rerouting to a Swiss bank. Now, you’re well aware that Interpol doesn’t usually get involved with the Swiss. At least not openly. Such a thing can take months, even with an international security risk case as prominent as Loki’s.” Henrik paused to direct Tom down a narrow lane lined with junk shops. “Especiallywith one as prominent as Loki’s.”

  A minute later they emerged into a tiny park, overgrown and ill kept. It was also empty and private. Henrik led Tom through open wrought-iron gates, and together they sat down on a cold, rusted bench.

  “But I think we can solve this problem,” he finally added.

  Aha.Tom nodded, staring at Henrik with a combination of admiration and concern. He had gleaned the salient, unspoken point of Henrik’s little monologue: he was doing Tom a favor. Using Interpol’s resources to
work on the sly. It could cost him his job. If not more. But George Niven was a very loyal friend, and if Henrik owed him a favor, this might be the closest he could come to paying George back. By helping Tom.

  “Tell me,” Tom breathed.

  Henrik’s eyes darted over the park, then came to rest in his lap. “I have a team of younger agentsworking after hours on this,” he whispered. “They’ve hacked into the bank’s mainframe. They’re still working to debug the data. Some of it’s scrambled, but it looks like there’s a trail leading straight from Zurich to Moscow. It’s a Russian account.”

  Tom felt a prickle of excitement. After losing the German thread, this was good news indeed. At any rate, it was better—a lot better—than nothing. “How soon?”

  “We’ll have confirmation in a matter of hours, I expect.” Henrik looked him in the eye. “We’re going to get him, Tom.”

  “I know. I know.” Tom sighed.

  For a moment the two men sat in silence. Tom watched a pigeon land on the head of a bronze statue nearby. The sculpture was splotched white from bird droppings and badly oxidized into an eerie blue. Who was the artist? Or the subject, for that matter? It looked like a copy of a Rodin, maybe: a common man depicted in classical terms, as opposed to a hero or a historical figure. Yes, Tom decided, this was just a man, his head tilted up, hands in the air, as if beseeching God. A man in pain, looking for an answer. Or maybe he was just a man going mad. A monument to human suffering. A representation of Tom himself.

  He blinked, feeling the familiar, sandpapery itch of exhaustion in his irises.

  Gaia. . . kidnapping. . . terrorist. . . DNA.

  GaiakidnappingterroristDNAGaiakidnappingterrorist DNAGaia.

  Gaia.

  He’d run the disjointed words through his mind a thousand times since he’d heard them crackle on the train platform in Berlin. The missing pieces of the puzzle had been within his grasp, so close. And then the informant had been eliminated, leaving Tom with only a string of words, a snatch of some greater message that could be read a million ways. What did Loki’s operations have to do with Gaia? And DNA? Was that in fact a reference to the genetic code? Or was it an acronym for some nefarious terrorist cell? Or a code name for some operation?

  Kidnapping.

  Well, that at least was easy. And so Gaia was under surveillance, though of course she didn’t know it. Or at least Tom hoped she didn’t. Because if she did, she’d shed the protection like snakeskin. She would never allow herself to be watched. She was too smart.

  “You’re not safe at a hotel, Tom,” Henrik remarked. He removed a flat, silver case from his breast pocket. “You should stay with me. My wife, Charlotte, would be most pleased.” He smiled, offered Tom a cigarette.

  Tom shook his head. “You’ve gone to enough trouble-on my behalf. I’ll be fine.” He stood up. “Right now my matchbox room at the Pension Arboire sounds like heaven.” He smiled thinly. “At least no one wouldthink to look for me there. It’s all backpackers from Australia.”

  “No worries, mate,” Henrik joked. He stood up, unfolding his long frame from the bench, a smile creasing the corners of his clear eyes. “I’ll meet you there, tomorrow at 0900. We should have some solid information on your brother by then. If sooner, I’ll make contact.”

  As Tom gripped Henrik’s hand, he felt a swell of emotion so forceful, it almost overwhelmed him. He knew it was partially exhaustion. But that only magnified his genuine gratitude—a feeling he normally kept well hidden, like anyone else in the business. This man was putting himself on the line. Risking his job for someone he didn’t even know. Of course, that was the way it had always been among agents—and Tom himself had done the same thing before. But that didn’t detract from the fact that Henrik van de Meulen was helping Tom protect his child.

  “Thank you,” Tom murmured gruffly, averting his eyes. His wires were frazzled.

  “Glad to be of service. Any friend of George. . . .” Henrik left the sentence hanging.

  Tom stood and watched as Henrik walked through the wrought-iron gates of the park, rounded the corner, then disappeared. A light rain began to sprinkle. He wished he could get on the phone right now and thank George for putting him in touch with this man.But they’d agreed to keep communication minimal for Gaia’s own safety. And for Tom’s.

  Of course, even with the help of Henrik and his team, tracking Loki would be next to impossible. It was very likely Henrik wouldn’t find anything at all, much less by nine o’clock the next day. But George had promised that Henrik was the best man for the job. Tracking money was his specialty.

  Tom hurried from the park. He only hoped George was right.

  Snobs, Fruit Flies, Whatever

  “. . . THUS THE GROUNDBREAKING genetic sequencing of the fruit fly provides us with invaluable insight into who we are and what we’re made of,” the guest speaker intoned. “It’s a key to the past.”

  Gaia chewed her thumbnail as the man cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. He seemed nervous. And who could blame him? Most of the kids in this class would be psyched if he dropped dead. They were eitherthinking about lunch, wondering which rerun ofDawson’s Creekwould be broadcast tonight, ordaydreaming about sex.She’d be surprised if anyone in this room had heardhalfhis speech. She felt kind of sorry for the guy, actually—talking to a sea of bored, unimpressed kids. It didn’t help that he was a classic professor type: a tiny, spindly man with eyes magnified behind giant glasses. He looked a bit like a fruit fly himself.

  “Questions?” Mr. Dean, the new physics teacher, asked sharply. He cast a sour gaze across the room. “Dr. Forsyth has been generous enough to donate his valuable time to us. Now is your chance to ask a real biochemist about the Human Genome Project.”

  Gaia stared at her ragged fingernails.Please don’t call on me,she prayed silently.Please—

  “Yeah, I still don’t get what a fruit fly has to do with, like,anything.And no offense, but basically, they’re gross.”

  A couple of kids snickered.

  Megan Stein.Gaia rolled her eyes. She didn’t even have to look up. She would recognize that ditzy, irritating voice anywhere. Megan was the first and foremost FOH, Friends of Heather. A supersnob. A megabitch. And not to be cruel, but she wasn’t exactly an intellectual giant.

  “Megan, did you not hear one word of Dr. Forsyth’s lecture?” Mr. Dean snapped.For once, Gaiaempathized with his snippy, poker-uptheass tone.“All living organisms are connected. Mapping the entire genetic code for a living creature— the fruit fly—is the most important scientific endeavor since Einstein’s work on the theory of relativity. It’s what has enabled scientists to begin mapping the code of human life. It’s of monumental . . .”

  Gaia tuned the scene out.Snobs, fruit flies, whatever.She knew all about the genetic code. And Einstein’s theory of relativity, too, for that matter. She was only in school these days because it was the one place where she didn’t have to pay attention to anything. It was the one place where she could think—where she could sort through this mess with Uncle Oliver and figure out what the hell she was going to do with her future.

  And, of course, it was the one place where she could see Ed.

  She frowned. Actually, she could see Ed anytime, anywhere. But in school, surrounded by the usual cast of Village idiots, the awkward state of their relationship seemed to dissipate. A little bit, anyway. And she suddenly realized that she wasn’t being completely honest with herself. There was another reason she came to school: it was safe.Ironically, she could pretend to be normal here.

  Of course, it was all an elaborate charade. Drifting from class to class, listening to guest speakers, acting like things were okay, and going through bullshitdetails of life—all of it was based on denial. A waste of time, in the end. “Normal” life was for “normal” people. Like the fruit fly guy. Or Megan Stein. And even if abnormal people could occasionally partake of it, Gaia had no business being here. She was wastingotherpeople’s time as well. Nothing mattered except knowi
ng the truth about Oliver. And her father.

  “. . . a key to the past,” the professor said again.

  A key to the past.Gaia’s mouth twisted into a small, grim smile. She needed a lot more than a fruit fly to unlock the secrets ofherpast—at least, as to how it related to her uncle and her father. But where was she going to get her information? Whatever one said, the other completely contradicted. They were identical twins but the exact opposite. In some ways Gaia couldn’t even tell them apart anymore. She was too confused. As far as she knew, they mightbothbe “Loki,” the infamous terrorist.

  But no—she couldn’t give up hope.She couldn’t allow herself to fall back into that cycle of doubt, hope, and hesitation.She had to stick to the facts. Just as she’d told herself a hundred times. Besides, Ed had helped her decide to stay put for now. That was a decision she intended to honor.

  Maybe Oliver really did love her.

  Maybe.

  Gaia picked up her pen and absently scribbled the beginnings of a chart in her notebook:

  Oliver on Oliver Dad on Oliver

  loves me incapable of love

  scapegoat terrorist(“Loki”)

  victim pathological liar

  What the hell am I doing?

  The pen slipped from her fingers and rolled across the page. This was supremely stupid. It didn’t clarify a thing. She could go on forever and she still wouldn’t see any patterns, any way of discerning the lies from the truth. She glanced at the two columns. The left was as plausible as it was outrageous, the right as absolutely true as it was false.

  Pointless.

  Disgusted, Gaia slipped her notebook into her messenger bag. Both Dean and the professor were facing the blackboard. Without a moment’s hesitation she slunk silently out of the classroom, ignoring the curious, protesting stares of the other students. After all, she was just doing what they had been fantasizing about doing from the moment the class started.