AT 9:23 P.M., A MAN wearing a business suit walked into the hotel and looked around the small reception and parlor area. He nodded to a man and woman seated on a couch, posing as a couple; they were undercover officers of the Paris police force. They all made eye contact but nobody spoke.344Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeDKw8dUfYy
The man said something to the pimple-faced teenager behind the counter, who at this point was fully aware of what was transpiring. It was not twenty minutes ago that a French police officer had stopped in to see whether an American named Audrey Becker had checked into the hotel. Since then, officers had waited at the two exits----the front door and the rear staircase----while they waited for undercover agents, and the DCRI, to respond.
The man pushed the button for the elevator in the lobby. When it opened, it was empty. Then he went through a door at the rear of the lobby, which led to the back staircase running throughout the hotel. Another undercover officer nodded in recognition. The man took the stairs down to the basement and pushed open the outside door. Coming down the ramp from the street level to meet him was a team of ten agents of the RAID squad, dressed in black combat gear and carrying Beretta pistols.
He held the door from them and they streamed in. They took the staircase, moving in a standard formation upward until they reached the sixth floor.
They quickly moved down the hallway and surrounded the door that was the third on the right, room 617. One of the officers slipped a key card into the door. It made the familiar whiny, automated sound of a latch opening and they burst into the room.
It was empty.
The overhead light was off, but the bathroom light was one. A wet towel hung from a bar in the bathroom and a glass had been used by the sink. The fruity smells of shampoo and soap filled the room. She hadn't left anything behind----not clothes or a bag, nothing. Not two hours after checking in, she was gone, and it sure looked like she wasn't coming back.
Mischa jumped at the burst of new light appearing through the window. She counted the number of windows from the end to make doubly sure that, yes, it was indeed her hotel room she was seeing. Someone had turned on the overhead light in room 617. The police, she assumed, or LaForge's people with French intelligence.
It could have been the hotel clerk who made her, after she botched that whole encounter. But she didn't think so. Pimple Face didn't strike her as the discerning type.
Drake, damn him! Drake had given her up.
He handed her a chance to escape and somehow knew that she hadn't taken it. Now all bets were off. If he had ever been on Mischa's side, he sure as hell wasn't any longer. "Go to Paraguay and give yourself a chance," he'd said. "Or stay in France and die."344Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC5QgDsaAFY
She lowered her binoculars and dropped them in the gym bag. So much for Audrey Becker. And now LaForge knew Mischa was in Paris. This area was going to be crawling with law enforcement any minute now.344Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl5zkfJQ14X
It was time to move!344Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ58i1m8A97I
