A little over an hour after we entered the house, we’re on our way. Our clothes are dry, and Grant’s suit survived in good enough shape, even if it is a little rumpled.We leave the house in relatively good order. The owners will be quite surprised to find the parachute when they open up the laundry room, though – plus a couple of thousand dollars from the backpack.We walk down the road in the dim light before dawn and find the Mercedes Grant mentioned. It’s got to be at least 20 years old. I heard once that Mercedes in Europe are like Hondas in America: one of the most common cars on the road. I silently hope that’s true, because it would work in our favor during the drive to Paris.Grant easily opens the car door, but then he directs me to sit in the driver’s seat. “Put it in neutral and take off the parking brake.”“What? Why?”“Because I’m going to push it away from the house before I start it up.”It takes a little while, but the road is flat and Grant is strong, and he’s able t

Montparnasse is a surprising neighborhood to find a criminal mastermind. By that I mean that I expected one of two extremes: either an enclave of the super-rich, or a seedy little neighborhood with lots of shady characters.Montparnasse is neither. It has its fair share of 17th and 18th century buildings, for sure, but it has a lot of modern touches, too, including a 60-story black skyscraper that sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the Louis-the-Whatever style of buildings. There are also plenty of cell phone stores and fast food places, although they tend to be located in the fanciest buildings you’ve seen this side of a Saks Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. The blend of old and new gives it the feeling of an upper-crust, bustling, business-oriented neighborhood.Grant gives me a mini-tour as we drive along the tree-lined boulevards, just like he did back in New York City. He throws around the terms Rococo, Neoclassicist, Beaux Arts, and Art Nouveau like I would say ‘Sunset’ and ‘San

“What the fuck, Grant?” I whisper angrily.Grant gives me an amused grin. “Well, well, well. Somebody’s jealous.”Now I want to punch him in his perfect little face.“I’m not jealous,” I protest, a little too heatedly.“Look, you don’t have anything to worry about.”“I’m not worried,” I protest again, way too heatedly.And I’m not, I tell myself. Why would I be worried? I don’t have any right to be worried. We’re not married. He hasn’t promised me anything. He doesn’t owe me anything. We haven’t even talked about what ‘this’ – our relationship, if you can call it that – is. I’m not his girlfriend, he’s not my boyfriend. We can sleep with whomever we want.I don’t voice any of that aloud, though – especially not that last sentence.Still, the thought of him and Dominique together, naked in bed, is enough to tie my stomach into knots.It’s kind of funny, in a fucked-up sort of way. A few hours ago I was telling myself I wasn’t in love with Grant, that I couldn’t fall in love with him, t

Grant is sitting around without anything to do, so he asks a lot of questions and make a lot of blanket statements, like, We’ve gotta be proactive and We’ve got to get out ahead of Epicurus on this. I imagine when he does that sort of stuff around his employees they all nod their heads and act like he’s said something profound, but to me it’s just annoying. I tune him out – hacking takes concentration – but he does ask me some pointed questions every once in a while, which I answer directly and then get back to business.“Can you find out how the local police knew we were on the plane?” he asks.“Maybe. But their system is probably all in French, so I’d need somebody to translate, and that could take forever – and potentially be dangerous.”JP shrugs. “I could make a call, if you want.”I stop what I’m doing, and both Grant and I stare at him.JP looks at us like we’re a couple of wolves eyeing a chicken. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he asks defensively.“Who are you going to call?” Grant d

JP and Dominique come back a couple minutes later. He looks pissed; she looks pissed and dejected.They’re each carrying a couple of parcels wrapped in brown butcher paper. JP has a three-foot long one that might have conceivably held a giant bouquet of flowers. I didn’t notice them before because, well, I was more concerned about being caught having sex.They put the packages on the dining room table and rip off the paper. There are guns inside: two semi-automatic pistols, one assault rifle, plus six boxes of bullets.“That’s it?” Grant rages. “That’s all we get for ten grand?”“No, apparently you get to fuck on my canapé, too,” JP says in a surly tone of voice.Grant looks at him like he’s about to strangle him.JP rolls his eyes. “Calme-toi. He will get more rifles, and some explosives, but it will take time. Besides, these? These are very rare in France. Very expensive.”“If this is what five or six grand gets you, I don’t doubt it.”Grant picks up a pistol, pops out the clip, sla