The minute they land, Marta knows something's wrong.
She knows because she can see the way Sophie strides from the forward cabin to the rear, an intense expression on her previously cheerful face. She knows because she sees the equally penetrating look on Nicky's face.
"Mrs. Seward, we've received word that Customs and Immigration requires your presence in the main building."
Marta inhales sharply. "But I thought they'd meet us here?"
She completely forgets to speak French. Sophie does not react, walking quickly past their table, going straight to the closet where she hung Marta's bag and put away Nicky's hat. "Yes, Madam, that's normally how it's done. However, French authorities have indicated that Mrs. Seward and Mrs. Sevigné are to disembark and proceed to the airport. An escort will be at the entrance to meet you."
Marta looks at Nicky. Nicky, despite being quite alert, does not look panicked.
"Sophie, arrangements have been made?" she inquires calmly, standing up. To Marta's confusion, Nicky reaches behind to unzip her dress.
Sophie is pulling two garment bags out of the closet. "Yes, Mrs. Seward."
Nicky turns to Marta. "Get out of your clothes."
"What?" Marta stares, mystified as Nicky shrugs out of her dress, taking one of the garment bags Sophie is holding, laying it down on the table between them and unzipping it. She removes a three piece gray and blue outfit. Dropping the jacket and trousers on her chair, she pulls on and buttons up a crisp white cotton shirt with rounded collar.
"Madam, you must hurry," Sophie urges Marta. She unzips the bag she's holding in front of Marta. Inside is another matching uniform, the words "Private Air Aviation" embroidered over the left breast pocket. She lays it down on the table in front of Marta.
Nicky is already pulling on the slacks. Sophie is crouched on the ground, picking up Nicky's discarded dress, draping it on the empty hanger. She tosses Nicky's Louboutin heels into the bottom of the garment bag and zips it up.
Of course. For a double PhD, I'm pretty slow, Marta chastises herself, pulling her rumpled shirt over her head.
Since arriving two days ago, they've been holed up in a private mansion in the 7th arondissement, where Sophie had taken them after they'd cleared Immigration and Customs at Charles de Gaulle airport, in guise as private charter airline employees. At the airport, Sophie had hustled them into a car which had driven them to the terminal. Nicky had pulled out two new passports, along with a General Declaration for Private Air Aviation – a company document which declares how many crew members are traveling, along with their details.
While clearing through customs and immigration Marta had seen two women who look like her and Nicky: a couture-dressed blonde in the company of a ginger-haired woman in loose trousers and linen shirt. They were being escorted by two officious looking men and speaking to several customs and immigration officials. Another Private Aviation Air attendant was by their side.
"Nicky," Marta had whispered.
Nicky had looked over. "Keep your head down."
They left quickly, following Sophie as she led them directly to a discreet black sedan. Sophie had deposited them at this elegant hotel particulier, a honey-colored, three story building with sky high ceilings and windows galore. A quiet, capable butler had greeted them, taken their bags and escorted Marta to the third floor, ushering her into a sumptuous room.
Nicky hasn't bothered sharing much in the way of detail: to Marta's inquiries, her answers have been short. The house belongs to a friend. They cannot go to the rendezvous point yet. They need to stay out of sight and hidden until the appointed meeting time.
So they're here in this freaking mansion, Marta ever more intrigued by the mystery of Nicky Parsons.
After receiving Aaron's daily text check-in the night before, Marta had a light meal in her room, then fell asleep, her Circadian rhythm completely thrown off.
When she'd awakened an hour ago, she was informed by the butler that Mrs. Seward had left, but had asked that she remain in the house.
The butler had led her to the sun drenched sitting room, adjacent to a magnificent library, offering her a light meal, which she'd declined in favor of a croissant and coffee.
Marta gets up from the comfortable chaise on which she has been nestled (with the cashmere blanket she stuffed into her duffel bag – much to Nicky's brief amusement), walking to open doors leading out to the gorgeous private garden.
Her phone beeps with an incoming text message.
ETA: 14:30 tomorrow.
Marta sighs in relief when she sees Aaron's text. He is disciplined about communications, checking in only once a day from his burner phone. She does not answer, as per their agreed operating protocol.
It's nearing noon.
Where the hell is Nicky?
The corporate offices situated at 73 rue de Faubourg St. Honoré are located in a Lutetian limestone building in palest cream. The five story building is classically structured, tall windows on every floor, terraces and balconies aligned in uniformity with the adjacent buildings which serve as the headquarters of several haute couture fashion houses. The elite and expensive neighborhood also houses several embassies, the French Ministry of the Interior and the Élysée Palace, which accommodates the French president.
Nicky strides through the double height, double width doors, blending in with the other fashionably dressed Parisian women returning from déjeuner – their perfectly tailored outfits are appropriately corporate but distinguished by Gallic flair. She's dressed in a simple navy blue linen dress, the fit and flare silhouette set off by a pleated neckline. The severe color and line are softened by the flirty movement of the skirt as she walks. A vintage Hermès scarf is wrapped over her blond hair, and classic Ray Ban Wayfarers hide her eyes.
Nicky flows into the elevator along with phalanx of workers; no one notes her. By the time she reaches her floor, she's the only one left, because this is the executive floor. She exits and pauses in the foyer, looking to her left at the front reception lounge, where two attractive young women are answering phones and making notations. Three people are seated in the reception lounge, a dark-haired woman and two men, one balding, the other whose brown hair is cut short. There's something boyish about the dark haired man's features; but Nicky knows how quickly that face can get hard, those dark blue eyes steely, his entire demeanor chilly and brusque. She drops her head slightly, and does not falter in her step, nor does she draw attention to herself by walking faster. She simply walks to the opposite hall and makes her way to the corner office which overlooks one of Paris' most revered fashion houses.
No one challenges her, no one notices her; no one thinks to demand credentials. She slips into an empty, elegantly appointed office and quickly locks the two doors: the entry she just used, and the other door which leads to an adjoining conference room.
With practiced familiarity, Nicky goes to the electronic console embedded in the panel by the door, presses a few buttons. Electronic shades automatically lower over the windows, darkening the room, while across from the elegant Empire-style desk, a screen lowers. The image flickers for a moment, but then Nicky is able to view the long oval rosewood conference table that's in the adjoining room. The camera is situated to allow her a facing view of the table. In a video conference, she would be addressing a cohort of people looking back at her. But this is a one way feed: she can see and hear them; they cannot see or hear her.
Which is perfectly fine, because a few moments later, one of the receptionists is leading Colonel Eric Byer, and two other people into the room. She remembers seeing them at NRAG but can't remember their names. The woman's name is Mandy or something like that.
Byer looks tired, irritated.
Nicky observes that they all look jet lagged. No doubt they are. They've probably flown all night to get here today. Instead of taking seats, they stand behind the plush, executive chairs.
They do not wait long; a woman walks into the room, her stride purposeful.
Then
"Tell me something true."
David's soft words breaks the silence between them, barely audible above the roar of the ocean. It's never really dark in Paris as in any other large city. But here, on the beach, the sun having set several hours ago, stars are overhead, shining down on the wide expanse of the ocean.
Nicky sits between David's legs, his arms wrapped around her. A blanket covers their outstretched legs, warding off the evening chill. David's got a jacket on and his body is warm against her back. His face has been resting against her head for most of the last hour. They've been here for a few hours, watching the light of day diminish, immersing themselves in the darkening, deepening night.
During the day, the beach and Coleville-sur-Mer are crowded and busy, as tourists visiting Normandy and the World War II memorials overrun the place. But there are few people left this evening, just locals who enjoy the beach.
"My last name isn't Parsons."
He laughs, startled, delighted by the revelation.
"It's Parish. Still close enough to be church going."
"Why the change?"
"Nicholas Parish."
"The billionaire? The one implicated in the Middle East arms deals ten years ago?"
"Not implicated. Convicted. Federal prison time arms dealer." He hugs her tight. "It was hard to be associated with that name when it was going on. I legally changed my name when I was in college. My mom helped me do it."
"That wasn't a red flag with your clearance at the CIA?"
"It might have been if the then Director who approved my recruitment hadn't been my mother's friend."
"Your mother sounds fascinating."
"That is one word used frequently to describe her, yes."
"You've never talked about her before."
For a moment, Nicky doesn't answer, lifting her face up for his kiss. He kisses her lightly at first, gently; but then deepens his caress, lingering as she presses closer to him. When they part, Nicky turns back around to watch the rushing, roaring waves.
"I love you," she whispers.
His face is close enough to hers that even the brontide rumbling of the water cannot drown out the words or the feeling in them.
"I love you, too," he answers just as softly.
David kisses her hair. When they are together, he does that frequently. "I imagine she must be tough as hell if she had to deal with the fallout of your father's dealings."
"By that point she was used to the matching string of mistresses to go with the lies and the polo ponies so it didn't affect her personally. Notice she never got tarnished with the same brush in the press. They gave her wide berth. Heidi Parish is like that…" she says, nodding toward the ocean. "Beautiful, expansive, enveloping. But don't ever fuck with her because she'll drown your ass."
Byer and his cohorts turn when the woman enters the room.
Heidi Parish is tall, reedy, and patrician. Dressed in a bespoke pale cream Chanel dress edged in navy blue, a coil of perfect pearls around her throat, she is the epitome of quiet and powerful wealth, a grande dame. Her age is uncertain, her face aged but barely lined. At first glance there is little about her that recalls her daughter, except for the eyes. Her features can be only described as haughty: high cheekbones, straight nose, thin lips. Her silver hair is cut in a severe and sharp angled bob that curls against her jawline, baring a graceful neck. Delicate brows are perched above the same chocolate brown eyes her daughter possesses.
Those eyes are fierce and mistrustful as they take in Eric Byer.
Nicky inhales sharply, eyes filling with tears as she stares at her mother on the screen. She hasn't seen her mother in more than a year, and she can see the weariness that drapes Heidi's mien.
Byer holds out his hand. "Mrs. Parsons, I'm Eric Byer. I'm with –"
Heidi ignores his hand, her voice chilly. "I know who you are, Colonel Byer. My lawyers made certain of it when you…demanded this meeting."
"Requested, ma'am. Of course. Mrs. Parsons – "
"It's Parish, Colonel Byer. 'Parsons' is the name Nicolette adopted in college to give herself anonymity." She speaks with a boarding school New England accent, the vowels rounded and slow. "Close enough to Parish to still be church going. Surely you knew that?"
"Yes. Yes, I did."
"Then why the pretense? Let's stop the bullshit," Heidi orders, the curse word surprising and at odds with her refined demeanor. "I took this meeting out of curiosity since I understand you were adamant about speaking to me. What do you want?"
Nicky can't help smiling. On the screen, it's clear that Byer is out of his element. Whatever he thought he was getting with Heidi Parish, Mummy is completely throwing him for a loop. And for Byer, this can go either way: it either puts him at a disadvantage, or it makes him more dangerous.
Byer gestures to the tall balding man by his side and the dark-haired woman, who have been silent so far. "These are investigators with my organization, Zev Vendel and Dita Mandy. May we sit?"
Heidi gestures to the chairs at the conference table. The three sit, Vendel and Mandy flanking Byer. Heidi walks to the head of the table, remains standing, arms lightly crossed.
Nicky has a perfect view of all of them on screen.
"I'm sure you're aware that several nights ago, your daughter was seen in Ho Chi Minh City."
"Yes, I've been made aware of it by our lawyers, who were apparently contacted by several federal agencies."
"Then you can understand why we've come," Byer continues.
Heidi interrupts. "Actually, I cannot, Colonel Byer. My daughter cut contact with me nearly a year ago, after the alleged incident of her helping a man wanted by the CIA in connection with certain events in New York City."
That's right, Mummy. State the facts without lying.
Heidi continues, her tone almost conversational. "To tell you the truth, despite the fact that I and our lawyers have asked repeatedly for a full filing of the charges against my daughter, none have been forthcoming. Perhaps you could shed some light on that before we continue this conversation? Because it's unclear to me which agency wants my daughter for which charges."
"Mrs. Parish, your daughter's work at the CIA means that many of her activities are classified. But she helped a wanted and dangerous criminal escape and we are seeking her in connection with that fugitive," Dita Mandy interjects.
"Yes, we got those basics, but we've had little in the way of facts or evidence or even non-redacted documents that might be useful in mounting a defense for my daughter. In fact, Colonel, it's unclear to me which agency you're affiliated with and what jurisdiction you might have?
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, you must understand it's classified –" Byer starts.
"I don't have to understand a goddamn thing, Colonel, apart from my daughter having been denied her due process."
Byer refuses to engage further, going straight to the matter at hand. "Mrs. Parish, your daughter resurfaced three nights ago in the company of a woman who was known to be helping another wanted fugitive. This woman was responsible for stealing a nerve toxin from the lab in which she worked. She was the sole survivor of a work place massacre which we have reason now to believe that she might have engineered to steal those toxins."
"Jesus Christ, Colonel. What kind of outfit are you running that you have multiple dangerous escapees running around?"
Byer's eyes narrow dangerously. He presses on. "The thing is, ma'am, one of your companies paid for private charter jet from Ho Chi Minh City for two women the morning after your daughter and this woman were photographed together."
Heidi's bark of laughter is anything but humorous. "I don't pay for private charter jet, Colonel. I own a private charter jet company. Am I expected to know all of the customers in my subsidiary companies?"
"Mrs. Parish, I'm sure you can see that the timing…seems suspicion."
"I see no such thing," Heidi says smoothly. "I'm certain I could produce passenger manifests from around the world in which two women took off in a private jet. I'll bet there were plenty of flights on PAA out of Ho Chi Minh City that day or the next day with women on them. But if we're to talk coincidence, let's do. As it happens, my niece, Alexandra Seward maintains a residence in Ho Chi Minh City – and has for nearly two years. She acquired sculptures for my Paris flat and originally intended to ship them to me; but then decided to accompany them to Paris instead. If you looked into her travel habits you'll find that she frequently travels between Asia and Europe aboard my planes. And sometimes at last minute, too."
Byer's eyes are cold, hard. "Mrs. Parish, was your daughter aboard that plane?"
"Did your sources provide you with the passenger manifest?"
Good, Mummy. Don't answer his question directly.
Byer's response is equally soft. "Mrs. Parish, have you been in contact with, or have you helped your daughter in any way?"
Heidi keeps her eyes locked on Byer as she presses a button on the complicated Octel conference phone on the table. A voice answers immediately. "Yes, Mrs. Parish?"
"Is Alex Seward here?"
"She is, ma'am. She's waiting for you in the blue conference room."
"Send her to me now. And her assistant."
"Yes ma'am."
Heidi walks toward the three of them, pulls a seat away from the table, and sits on the edge of the conference table. She says nothing, keeping her gaze fixed on Byer.
They're like prize fighters, both silent and thoughtful, each assessing the other, probing for weaknesses. Neither says a word, and on either side of him, Vendel and Mandy begin to fidget uncomfortably as the silence becomes oppressive and hostile.
The glacial quiet in the room is broken a moment later when the door opens and a blonde dressed in clingy black DVF wrap dress and Louboutin heels sweeps into the room, trailed by a ginger-haired woman in loose slacks and a fitted shirt with an inexplicable Peter Pan collar, who is carrying several large artists' portfolios. The blonde is in her late twenties or early thirties; it's hard to discern given the flawless complexion and the dramatic makeup. Her chocolate brown eyes take in the the people in the room and she frowns.
"Darling, I thought you were ready for me," protests Alexandra Seward, nodding toward the three people who have turned to fix their attention on her. She turns back to the ginger-haired woman. "Hélène, veuillez laisser les dessinés et les portfolios là bas." She points to the far end of the table. "I've got the sketches and the color boards ready, darling."
Hélène ambles over to the opposite end of the table, unzipping the large leather cases, pulling out boards with sketches and water colors of several rooms, as well as mood boards featuring color samples, fabric swatches and notes.
"Shall I come back?" inquires Alexandra.
"Colonel Byer, Mrs. Alexandra Seward and her assistant, Hélène. Do you wish to interview either?"
"Heidi?" asks Alexandra curiously, her posh accent lifting in query.
Mandy looks at her tablet, then lifts her head, scrutinizing the two women. Finally she sighs, and hands Byer the tablet. He glances at the tablet, then at each woman. He compresses his lips, his expression frustrated.
Nicky knows they're looking at a photo taken at the airport. The women look exactly like the ones in the image taken at Charles de Gaulle airport. Because they're the same women.
Heidi's expression is impassive.
Byer knows. He knows. On the screen, Nicky can see the doubt, the conviction on his face. He knows a shell game has been played. He can't prove it. The chain of custody is too detailed, too documented; he can't refute it.
Byer shakes his head, the movement jerky.
Heidi looks at Alexandra. "This won't take much longer."
Alexandra's eyebrows raise. "All right. Hélène, vas-y."
Hélène leaves her sketches and follows Alexandra out the conference room.
Byer's voice is cold, harsh. "Mrs. Parish, has your daughter contacted you?"
"Colonel, are you listening to me? Good. Let me say this one final time: my daughter cut contact with me a year ago. I've been trying since then to find her, to find out if she's alive, where she's been."
"You aren't answering my question." He stands too, leaning forward, his face close to hers. "So let me make something clear to you. Your daughter's association with this…very dangerous man is the reason every law enforcement agency in the world is looking for her. But she is also now mixed up with a potentially even more dangerous person. For her safety, the best thing she can do is turn herself in. You clearly have the means to aid and protect her and I'm certain, given the situation in which your family found itself ten years ago that a woman of your stature wouldn't want the authorities…focusing more…carefully…on your activities, or looking into your enterprises."
A sibilant sound escapes Heidi. It is slightly inhuman and wholly unnerving – at least it is for Byer's compatriots, who are ill at ease and pull back.
"Are you threatening me, you little prick?" Heidi snarls.
Byer's eyes widen.
Mummy, oh Mummy.
"Shall I pick up this phone," Heidi's manicured finger points at the conference phone, "And call General Gallagher, the current head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? Or maybe I should call Admiral Hepplewhite, the future head of the Joint Chiefs, who's due to take over in four months? Or should I call my old, dear family friend, the Secretary of Defense and ask any of them why a low level intelligence worm is in my office making idle threats? Who the fuck do you think I am, you pathetic maggot?"
Heidi pushes the last few inches until she's in Byer's face, her brown eyes wide and enraged, all but spitting in his face. "My daughter has been missing and on the run from you, from me, for almost a year. Now you come to me when I've had my first confirmation in nearly a year that she's alive and possibly well, and you're here to accuse me of committing a criminal act?"
Mandy and Vendel physically recoil from Heidi's towering rage, the twist of fury on her face, but Byer holds his ground, his expression neutral though his eyes are narrowed and suspicious.
"Where is my child?" Heidi roars, enunciating each word distinctly. Heidi is one of those women who speaks low in her diaphragm, her voice a baritone; when she shouts, it is not shrill or high pitched; it is deep, powerful, and fucking frightening.
Nicky can't stop the squeak that escapes her. Jesus Christ, Mummy.
For a split second, on Heidi's face there is despair, fear, harrowing concern; the expression of a mother driven to the brink of dread for her child. It is so human, so real a moment, so convincing and adamant that Byer seems momentarily nonplussed. But then that jaw hardens.
He knows. He knows. Nicky can see.
But for the moment, he's willing to concede defeat in this round. "Mrs. Parish, your daughter is a wanted fugitive. If she contacts you, we expect that you'll alert the proper authorities."
The camera cannot hide the contempt on Heidi's face. "My lawyers will ensure we're in compliance. But the next time you wish to speak to me, you will speak to them. Now get the fuck out of my building."
With that dismissal she presses another button and barks even before her secretary can answer: "Have security come up immediately to escort Colonel Byer and his companions out."