As his gut suspected, the address had been a fake, a ruse given by Allyson to throw him off. She’d placed the call to Frank, knowing full well their boss would call Evan and tell him where to go. While Evan did not intend to tell Frank he or his boss had made an error, he did tell Frank that Allyson had led them astray.
It was that information that put Frank Shaw on full alert with her.
“If I had to guess, the alliance must have happened in Zurich. It was the only time when your girl wasn’t under my constant supervision.”
Frank didn’t appreciate the way Evan called her “his girl,” but it was a minor infraction. After all, it wasn’t entirely false.
The difficult question now was, what to do next? That was part of the reason Evan was on the phone with him now.
“Where are you now?”
“One of the districts outside of downtown Paris. They went into some fat man’s house.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“Not yet, but I can have that information within the hour.”
Frank scratched his chin and thought for a moment.
Evan waited for the reply on the other end.
If the two women were to be executed right now, Frank’s competitor would know. It was entirely possible that the Belgian had put his own surveillance on the other woman. He wondered if that person or persons had interfered the way Evan did. It didn’t matter. The game was still on, and there was still the chance that Allyson could deliver, even if her plan was to double-cross him.
“Sit back, and wait for now. See where they go next. They may lead you to the final painting.” He paused for a second. “In fact, they may lead you to all three. When they do, kill them both, and take it.”
“What about your bet?”
It was a question Frank already had an answer for. “He doesn’t know who my thief is. It could be Allyson. It could be you. And the rules are clear. If one of our combatants kills the other, they can be replaced. This sort of thing happens all the time. He won’t raise a fuss. Well, other than the fact that he didn’t get all three paintings, which I know will get deep under his skin.”
“Sir, if I may suggest an alternative, the two women are at a mansion here in Paris. The person who brought them here is a known commodity in the art underworld. It could be that instead of me following the two girls, I could get the information out of their connection and go get the painting myself. After I eliminate them, of course.”
It was an option. But not one Frank was particularly fond of. Evan was useful, of that he was certain. Detective work? Yet to be seen. Killing the two women would simplify things on one hand. It would complicate things on the other. If there was one thing Frank detested, it was losing. And right now, he was losing badly. Being in the club required a certain degree of honesty with the other members. What could it hurt, though? If Evan got involved and failed, it might at least hurry things along. Besides, the gears in Frank’s mind were already turning. It was time to end this whole charade. He would pull out all the stops.
“See what you can do, Evan.”
Frank ended the call and placed the device on his desk. He shook his head. Even though he’d already figured out Allyson’s deception, he was still disappointed. He’d given her a life better than a gutter rat like her could ever imagine. It pained him that she had to die. Then again, that had been his plan all along.
He stood up and sauntered over to the bar on the other side of the room. His ice bin was empty, something he’d address with his butler at a later point. Frank preferred to have it kept full with fresh cubes whenever he was in the house, just in case he wanted to have a drink. Granted, it was early for scotch, but given the circumstances and the call he was about to make, maybe it was a few hours too late. He reached through a collection of crystal and glass decanters and found the bottle he wanted.
“If I’m going to have a drink in the morning, it might as well be a Macallan eighteen year old,” he said to himself.
He removed the stopper on the bottle and picked up one of the whiskey glasses to the left, pouring with a heavy hand until the glass was almost half-full. He set down the bottle and took a long, slow sip. The smoky flavors of peat, vanilla, and a hint of wood splashed over his tongue. There was only a slight burn as the warm liquid cascaded down his throat.
Frank let out an appreciative, “ah.” He’d been right. If there was a scotch made for brunch, Macallan 18 was that scotch.
Returning to his desk, he set down the glass and picked up his phone. He swiped through his list of contacts until he came to the number he needed. It wasn’t one he’d memorized. There’d been no need for that. The person on the other end was to be called only in the case of an emergency. His finger hovered over the icon that would dial the number. He hesitated. Evan was in play and could likely handle the situation. But what if he couldn’t? He’d underestimated what the other woman was capable of so far. He didn’t know enough about her, which scared him. And nothing scared Frank Shaw. Well, almost nothing.
Whoever the Belgian had brought in to do his dirty work was clearly a pro of some kind, whether he knew that or not. Allyson had served Frank well over the years, but this was to be her last hoorah. He didn’t want to eliminate Evan, but collateral damage or friendly fire was a risk Frank was willing to take, even if the young man had been loyal. Evan had failed, though. And the price for failure in Frank’s world was death. There was too much to lose. The friendly wager between billionaires had got out of control, and it was time to bring things to a screeching halt. Better to end the game in a stalemate than in total loss.
His finger pressed the icon, and the phone began to ring.
7
The three guests stepped into an enormous sitting room. High-backed chairs, upholstered in red and gold with ornately carved woodwork, were positioned in strategic spots to provide the best potential angles for discussion. They rested atop an expensive-looking carpet that spanned most of the sandstone tile floor. Paintings from various creators hung along the wall, surrounding visitors with a barrage of styles, colors, landscapes, and portraits.
“I’m terribly sorry for the mess,” Harry said, waving around a nonchalant hand. “The maid doesn’t come back until tomorrow.”
Both women looked around the room. It was immaculately clean, as was the atrium they’d come through. When Lester said Harry was a little obsessive about keeping his house tidy, that may have been the understatement of the century.
He motioned for them to sit and asked if they’d like anything to drink. Remembering her coaster comment, Adriana declined, as did the others. She was half-surprised that the seats didn’t have plastic covers to protect the fabric. Then again, he was a clean freak, not tacky.
Harry found his way to a chair in the corner and slapped his hand across it a few times as if it needed dusting. Satisfied it was clean enough, he eased into it and crossed one leg over his knee. “I also have to apologize for my being so rude at the door. I have to make myself somewhat unavailable to the public.”
Adriana wondered why and asked, “Because of the nature of your work or scope of knowledge?”
“Ah, I wish that were the case, my dear. Actually, my biggest problem comes from having the same name as a man who served in World War I. A Harry Drinkwater wrote a diary during that time about spy work during the Great War. It became quite popular, and as a result, people assume I’m some kind of relative of his. At least twice a week, historians, or even just ordinary people who were interested in his story would come by and try to talk or get an autograph. It was quite annoying. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t part of why I left England to move to France.”