“All right, Denny,” the chief warden said with a knowing chuckle. He nodded to the sergeant. “Take him down and have him released. Note in his record that he was cooperative with us.”
“What’s that, sir?” Denny asked, puzzled. “I wasn’t cooperative.”
“Of course, you were, Denny. You told us the truth, didn’t you?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean, you didn’t believe me, did you?”
“What difference does it make?” the chief warden replied, all warmth vanishing from his voice now. “The office trusties will see the record and pass the word out next visiting day, but if you’re not INF, the ones who get that word will know you couldn’t have told us anything.”
“Then why do it, sir?” Denny all but implored.
“As a reason to release you, Denny. The prison’s too crowded. Go along now.”
The sergeant started to take him out, but Denny pulled back. “Wait a bloody while, will you?” He wet suddenly dry lips. “Supposin’ I was to give you a name, what then?”
“Then I’d think you were lying and I’d have your file noted that you were most uncooperative and you’d be thrown back in isolation for another week or so, then released.”
Agitated, Denny quickly thought it over. “All right,” he said after a moment. “There’s a man named Grimaud. He has an antique shop on the Rue de la Scala. He launders currency for the INF. That’s all I know.”
The chief warden and Tyrone Buchanan looked at Harvard, who nodded.
“That’ll do,” said Harvard.
Driving Harvard back to his hotel, Tyrone asked, “You can’t stay for just a few hours? I’d really like you to meet my family—”
“Sorry, Ty. I’m on a tight schedule, remember? That ransom is now due to be paid in less than forty-eight hours.”
“Of course. Stupid of me. Promise you’ll come for a visit when this mess is over?”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Tyrone dropped Harvard back at the Midland and the two former roommates said goodbye. In his room, Harvard called the Hotel de Paris in Monaco and asked for Georgette at the concierge desk.
“This is James Harvard. I’d like you to do me another favor. Find out everything you can about a man named Grimaud who has an antique shop on Rue de la Scala.”
Georgette agreed to help him further, but Harvard could detect a nervousness in her voice when she did. He had her transfer the call up to Henry Marshall’s suite, where it was answered by an aide. “Tell Mr. Marshall that James Harvard called,” he said. “Tell him I may soon have his daughter located. I’ll call back when I have news.”
Quickly then, he packed his carry-on and hurried down to the lobby to check out. Leaving the hotel, he settled into the back of the first taxi in the queue and said, “I need to get to the airport as quickly as possible.”
“I know a good, fast shortcut, sir,” the driver replied.
The taxi swung into the flow of traffic. Behind it, a panel truck pulled out and followed.
The taxi driver avoided the busy express highway that led to Aldergrove in favor of a two-lane asphalt road that cut through a rural area and was virtually traffic-free. “This’ll save us fifteen minutes, sir,” the cabby assured him.
Resting his head back, Harvard tried to formulate in his mind some kind of approach to use on the antique dealer, Grimaud. Denny Yougal had said Grimaud was a money launderer; maybe offering him a cut of the fee from Henry Marshall was the way to begin. If that failed to tempt him, perhaps a threat of reporting him to French authorities would work. And if that failed—
Harvard’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the panel truck speeding up alongside the taxi, and the muzzle of an automatic rifle suddenly appearing in the lowered passenger window.
“Driver, look out—!” Harvard yelled, throwing himself to the floorboard as a burst of gunfire strafed the backseat of the taxi.
In what seemed like only a split second, the taxi had left the pavement and slammed to a complete stop against the buttress of a culvert running alongside a wide field. Harvard’s shoulder smashed into the car’s right rear door and he was spilled half out of the vehicle when the door opened. From the ground he saw steam spewing from the taxi’s cracked radiator. Scrambling to a crouch, he peered into the front seat and saw that the driver was bent over the steering wheel, groaning, with what looked to be a broken nose. Looking up over the edge of the road, he saw that the panel truck had come to a stop and two men were hurrying back to the crash site. There were no other vehicles in either direction.
“Stay put,” he said to the driver. “They’re not after you.”
Scrambling down the grade, Harvard began running in a low, painful crouch along the bottom of the culvert. Sweat streamed into his eyes, burning them, and something thicker than sweat ran over his top lip. Reaching up, he found that he too had a nosebleed. Pausing for a second, he looked back and saw that the two men, guns visible in their hands, had now reached the taxi and were scrambling down to it. At the same time, across the culvert, he saw a storm drain that ran under the road.
Sucking in a deep breath, Harvard got inside the drain and began duck-walking toward the circle of light at the other end, balancing himself with both hands on the curved inside walls of the drain. In less than a minute, he emerged on the opposite side of the road. He was just in time to hear one of the men yell, “The bloody bastard ain’t here!”
“He’s got to be out in the field somewhere,” shouted the other. “Come on!”
As the two men, squinting against the sun, moved tentatively into the field, Harvard doubled back in the culvert across the road and hurried toward the point where their panel truck was pulled over. If he could just get far enough away from them in the opposite direction from where they were looking, he might have a chance—
Abruptly, he stopped. As he was about to rush past the panel truck, he suddenly became aware that the vehicle’s engine was idling. The fact struck him like a fist. They didn’t turn the ignition off!
Harvard peered down the road. The two men were at least fifty yards away. Taking another deep breath, he scurried out of the culvert and raced to the truck. Leaping inside, he was momentarily surprised to find the steering wheel missing. But it was merely on the other side, and his harried mind snapped back to the fact that he was in Ireland and vehicles had right-hand drives, not left. Sliding over, he shifted gears, eased onto the road, and drove off.
Behind him, in the rearview mirror, he saw the two men scramble back up to the road and stand there helplessly as the truck moved farther out of their range of fire.
Within an hour, Harvard was on a commuter flight back to London. He had lost his carry-on bag in the wreck, but his plane ticket had been in his inside coat pocket, along with his passport and wallet. After abandoning the panel truck on the airport parking lot, he had brushed himself off good, then gone to a men’s room and cleaned up even more. A cold, wet paper towel had taken care of his bloody nose and made him presentable enough to board the plane. After a ninety-minute layover at Heathrow, he was on a flight back to Nice. It was just dusk when he got into his rented convertible for the drive from the Nice airport to the Hotel de Paris, but he felt as if he had traveled ten thousand miles and not slept in days.
Georgette saw him the moment he entered the lobby and hurried over to him. “Are you all right?” she asked with genuine concern.
“I think so. Did you get any information on Grimaud?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. He is a fairly well-known antiques dealer, has a good reputation, in business for about ten years, apparently is very prosperous. Incidentally, your friend has been here twice this afternoon looking for you—”