After listening for a moment, Jones walked down the corridor and visited the English Classroom. It was the largest of the Nationality Rooms and was in the sixteenth-century Tudor-Gothic style of the Houses of Parliament. The Commons Chamber had been destroyed by Luftwaffe bombing in 1941. The British government had rescued several relics — a stone fireplace, hearth tiles, oak panelling, the entrance doorframe, lintels, etc. — and donated them to the Cathedral of Learning.
Under the ceiling trusses were four limestone corbels from the Commons Chamber carved with a Tudor rose. Stained-glass window medallions depicted the coats of arms of several English towns and cities, literary figures, scholars from Cambridge and Oxford, and the Houses of Lords and Commons. Portraits of Andrew Mellon, former Ambassador to the Court of St James, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, after whom Pittsburgh was named, flanked the stained-glass windows in the rear bay. A brick from 10 Downing Street, the residence and office of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, served as the room’s cornerstone.
As Jones admired it, he sensed someone staring at him from the entrance. Always attentive, he glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a woman a split-second before she hustled into the hallway. Her face was obscured by her shoulder-length brown hair and the collar of her green coat. Long legs and a slender frame were showcased in a snug pair of faded jeans that were tucked into stylish black boots.
Jones stood at once, realizing that this was the same brunette he had seen in the shadows of the Commons Room during Payne’s speech. Now she was watching him, too. He didn’t feel threatened — his gun and his training put his mind at ease — but he was intrigued.
Who was this woman, and what did she want? Suddenly his evening had become a lot more exciting.
Payne’s cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He looked at his screen and shook his head before he answered. ‘Don’t tell me you’re lost.’
‘Where are you?’ Jones demanded.
‘Why?’
‘I just spotted your stalker. Now she’s following me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Didn’t I just ask you that?’
Payne growled in frustration. ‘I’m in the Polish Room.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘It’s near the registration table.’
‘Then you better hustle. You’re on the wrong side of the building. She just left the English Room, number 144. It’s in the far corner. I’m not sure where she went, though. She blended in with all the white people.’
Payne walked into the corridor, trying to picture the layout of the Cathedral and the nearby streets. Fifth Avenue was to his left, Forbes Avenue to his right. Bigelow Boulevard was behind him, and Bellefield Avenue was on the far side of the building, much closer to Jones.
‘Take the hallway that runs parallel to Bellefield. I’ll take the one along Fifth. Those are the only two routes from your current position.’
‘Unless you count all the rooms and stairs.’
‘Worry about them later. For now, concentrate on the hallways.’
‘Just so you know, she’s wearing jeans and a green coat. She should stand out.’
Payne nodded in agreement as he passed several older couples who were dressed in formal attire. ‘Remember, this is a charity event, and she’s done nothing wrong. Try not to shoot her.’
Jones grinned. ‘No promises.’
‘And no running. I don’t want anyone else to worry.’
‘I know, and no sweets between meals. I got it, Mom.’
Payne smirked and hung up the phone, which was one of the only ways to stop Jones’s yapping. Some of the others included duct tape and medical-grade pharmaceuticals, neither of which Payne had in his tuxedo.
Jones smiled in triumph when he heard the click of his phone. That meant Payne was unable to think of a suitable retort and had hung up instead.
Keeping his phone in his hand, Jones shifted his attention to his surroundings. This was the same corridor he had strolled down minutes before, so its layout was fresh in his head. The French Classroom was on his immediate left, followed by the Norwegian and the Russian. Up ahead on his right was the Syria — Lebanon Room he had viewed earlier. After that, the hallway split: stairs to the left, elevators to the right, and several regular classrooms in the distance. Rooms on the first floor were rarely locked, giving students a quiet place to study. Unfortunately, it also gave the woman plenty of places to hide.
At this point Jones viewed her more as a curiosity than a threat. He had jokingly referred to her as a stalker because she had acted like one when he had spotted her — quickly retreating into the hallway — but he knew her reaction could be explained in several innocent ways. His best guess was she didn’t belong at the event. It was invitation-only, and she was obviously underdressed. Perhaps she had hustled away to avoid an embarrassing confrontation.
On the other hand, her behaviour had raised a red flag.
And for that reason alone, they were determined to find her.
5
François Dubois was a very bad man, who had impeccable taste.
Although he had been born into an upperclass family, his life of crime had started at an early age on the streets of Paris. During the week, Dubois had attended Lycée Louis-le-Grand (LLG), one of the best secondary schools in the city, known for alumni such as Victor Hugo, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Voltaire. On the weekend, he had run a gang that specialized in robbing tourists near the city’s biggest attractions. By the age of sixteen, Dubois had already killed three people.
Worst of all, he had enjoyed it.
Thirty years later, Dubois still had a taste for blood but preferred his minions to do the dirty work. That way, there was less of a chance of staining one of his custom-made suits. It also helped to insulate him from possible arrest, which was an important benefit for one of the most notorious businessmen in all Europe. Most law-enforcement personnel considered him a crime lord, but he didn’t have a record — other than a few juvenile offences that had been expunged.
However, Dubois had been detained and questioned more times than he could remember, especially in the early days when he was still laying the groundwork for his criminal empire. His interview sessions with the French authorities had happened so frequently he actually pencilled them into his weekly schedule. Of course, it helped that Dubois had many cops on his payroll who tipped him off ahead of time about impending interrogations.
That was one of the most important things he had learned early on: no matter how expensive, inside information was always priceless.
Over the years, Dubois had slowly realized something else about the criminal career he had chosen for himself. Even though he loved the culture and excitement of his home town, he knew his life would be cut short if he remained in Paris. Most of the cops recognized him, and so did many of the crooks. He knew he would eventually agitate the wrong person and find himself in jail, or dead, or both. And since none of those options appealed to Dubois, he decided to move his operation to one of the least likely places in Europe: Bruges, Belgium.
As a schoolboy at LLG, Dubois had watched a slideshow presentation on Bruges, the selfproclaimed Venice of the North, and had been captivated by its medieval charm. Later, when he finally had an opportunity to explore its scenic canals and historic Grand Square, he fell in love with the city. Although the pace was much slower than Paris, he felt at ease while walking the streets, something he was no longer able to do in France. Nevertheless, Dubois wasn’t reckless during his evening strolls. Bodyguards accompanied him wherever he went.