Bait (19 page)

“You gonna make her guess?” Mace asked. “Play twenty questions?”

She threw an appreciative grin at the team sniper. “Someone fill me in.”

“The rifling on the bullet that killed the second tango matched the rifling on the bullet they dug out of the wall of Le Monnaie Opera House.”

For a moment, the words made no sense. When it finally clicked, her eyes rounded. “Jansens was the shooter in Brussels? But . . . why?”

Gabe frowned, fists on his hips. “He's on the take? He shot at them in Brussels, then found out we were coming to Grasvlakten and came here to finish the job?”

It was on every one of their faces. She finally said the words. “And missed? Killed one of his own teammates instead of Ronnie or Julian?”

Mace made a clicking sound with his teeth. “No way. I was about to lift and shift locations when those men came out of the trees. He had a better angle than I did, but it was a damnably tough shot. He had night vision goggles, but everyone was moving fast. And he only fired once. If he'd missed his target, he would have fired again. And, his sniper rifle is a good one. A professional one. An amateur couldn't have made that shot.”

Christina flopped into an unoccupied chair, mind racing. “An amateur who flubbed an easy shot in Brussels. A professional who hits a target cleanly here, but shoots one of his own instead of me?”

“Two ­people?” Alex offered. “One rifle, two shooters?”

“Maybe,” Gabe said slowly, drawing out the word. “And maybe he hit exactly what he was aiming at both times.”

Yeah, the thought rattled through her mind, too.

Deni stood and began to pace. “That would mean, correct me if I am mistaken, that it was this man, this police commissioner, who shot at Princess Véronique in Brussels? And deliberately missed?” A hand rose, as if in supplication. “But why?”

There were a lot of bewildered looks and head shaking all around.

Christina said, “If Jansens deliberately missed in Brussels, and hit his target here, that means he wasn't trying to kill Ronnie. Or Julian. He was protecting one or both here, but trying to frighten them in Brussels?” She shook her head. It made no sense.

“Fuck.” Gabe made a noise that was halfway between a groan and a laugh, but held not one whit of humor. He pulled his phone from his pocket, held up a finger as he punched in the numbers one-­handed, and put the call on speaker. “This is Gabe Morgan. You need to question Aart Jansens. Ask him about the conference on Geothermal Exploration in Vienna next month. Ask him point-­blank if the attack has something to do with keeping Ronnie—­Princess Véronique—­away from the summit. Ask your prisoner if Jansens hired him.”

Chief Van Den Nieuwenhuyzen's voice came briskly onto the line. “What would be the purpose of keeping her away?”

Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. “She's speaking, and she's got influence. She's the driving force supporting oil drilling in Concordia.”

Christina sat forward. “So, by that logic, if Jansens was trying to get me to stay away from the summit, why kill his own man? They were trying to kidnap me, but maybe he changed his mind at the last minute? Or he felt it would be more convincing if he came away the hero, but still frightened me enough to go to ground?”

“Who benefits the most if the princess misses the summit?” Gabe asked, but it was clear he already knew the answer. “Groups opposing new drilling.”

“Bonnet,” Christina said. “Émile Bonnet.”

The police chief didn't miss a beat. “I will question Lord Bonnet. I will telephone you when I know something.” He hung up.

“Fuck that,” Gabe said. “I'm going down there.”

“Me, too.” Christina darted into the bathroom, found her bra, and tugged it on while the others chimed in. When she emerged again, Gabe skimmed a look over her breasts with a pained expression.

She giggled.

 

Chapter Nineteen

I
N
THE
END
, Gabe, Gavin, and Deni made the trip. It hadn't been easy convincing his little hothead that she needed to remain behind.

“I'll change,” she said. Her stretchy top and cutoffs emphasized her slender curves, but they were Christina's clothes, not Véronique's.

“It's not prudent,” he said gently. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue when she'd come out wearing that tight top without a bra. Ho-­ly Jesus! He'd gotten hard so fast, the tightness inside his jeans nearly ripped his balls off. “We need to limit your interactions with the locals, remember? There's too much potential for disaster if you go into that police station.”

“Because I'll screw up?” she said bitterly.

“No.” He wished they could have this conversation in private, but the entire team looked on. “Not at all. You've done a first-­rate job every step of the way.”

Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him.

“Look, I owe you an apology,” he continued doggedly. “A public one. I said the other day that you showed poor judgment in trusting Brum . . . Julian. I had no right to say that. You've acted professionally from the start. You've been a good asset to my tea . . . you're part of my team. I value your input.”

She stood frozen, her body tense, and her eyes so wide he could see into her soul.

“I need you to wait here because you don't speak Dutch, okay? They'll fuss over you if you go. Their princess, in their little town? It's a big deal.”

Slowly, her mouth closed. Her shoulders relaxed. He knew he'd won.

“All right. I'll stay here in the room,” she said. “Don't keep me in suspense, though. Call me when you know something.”

“I will,” he promised. “Deni, if you would keep Christina company?”

“I can lend some authority to the proceedings,” Deni said. “Let me help.”

Gabe hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Let's go.”

The Grasvlakten police headquarters squatted in the center of a row of one-­ and two-­story buildings crammed together on one side of the street. A metal plaque screwed to the side of the brown brick building identified it in Dutch, French, and English. The three of them trooped past the desk sergeant and up the narrow steps to the second floor, earning them startled looks from the few officers at their desks. The town was small enough that the police station boasted only two jail cells and one interview room. Unlike their counterparts in the States, there was no observation room with video and sound. Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen reluctantly allowed the three of them into the interview room.

“You will remain silent, of course,” the chief said. “I will ask the questions. You will observe.”

The modest room seemed to double as a storage area, considering the number of accordion file boxes stacked around.

“We are digitizing our records,” the chief explained. “It is a slow process.”

Aart Jansens stopped pacing the floor as they filed in. A spate of French followed.

“We will conduct this interview in English, out of respect for our guests,” the chief said evenly.

Jansens glowered. “If I must. Why am I here? You should be giving me a medal, not dragging me in here like a common criminal.”

“I invited you, rather than arresting you,” the chief said. “Out of respect. Nevertheless, I have questions.”

He seated himself on one side of the pitted, scarred metal table, and gestured for Jansens to sit on the other side. The others stood.

Aart Jansens relaxed into a faded blue plastic chair. “I told you what happened the other night.”

“Tell me again.”

Jansens looked like he wanted to argue, but instead leaned forward and set his clasped hands on the table. “I knew Princess Véronique would be at Viscount and Viscountess Nabourg's anniversary ball. The private secretary's office announced she wouldn't attend, but I was told this was misinformation, planted to throw off any potential attacks. If I could find this out, so could others, if they knew who to ask.”

“Who told you?” The chief pulled his worn-­out notebook from a pocket and opened it to a fresh page.

“A
commissaris
in the ministry.”

He was lying; Gabe could feel it. The chief narrowed his eyes. Gabe felt better that he seemed to know it as well.

“We ran ballistics against your rifle,” the chief said bluntly. “We know you shot at Princess Véronique and Lord Brumley in Brussels. We know you shot at them again here in Grasvlakten.”

Jansens didn't blink. “I would never harm Her Royal Highness.”

Gabe stepped forward. “You have a damned funny way of showing it.”

The chief pinned him with a warning look. He forced himself to deflate.

“You deny your involvement?” Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen didn't seem surprised. “And yet you were caught on the scene with a sniper rifle.”

“Protecting Her Royal Highness. I told you.” Jansens crossed his arms and lifted his chin toward Gabe. “He botched it. I'm the only reason she survived.”

“That's bullshit. You tried twice. You failed twice.”

The chief gave him a long look, then flicked his eyes meaningfully toward the door. Gabe backed off, figuratively and literally.

“How do you explain your involvement in Brussels?” the chief asked.

Jansens lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Someone must have used my rifle and then returned it. There must be a cop involved.”

There is a cop involved, Gabe wanted to say. But he clamped his mouth shut.

Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen evidently thought the same thing. “So you're asserting that one Special Units officer tried to kill Princess Véronique, and another—­you—­then tried to save her?” Skepticism rang in his voice.

“I did not try. I succeeded.”

Deni clasped her hands together. “Do you know who I am?”

Jansens hesitated, but then nodded. “You are Dame Van Praet, personal secretary to Her Royal Highness.”

“In Brussels, you fired at the crown princess and her fiancé, and missed deliberately,” she said, steel in her voice. “Why?”

“I didn't shoot at them.”

This interrogation would go a lot faster if he were allowed to punch the man in the face a few times, Gabe thought.

“You hit the wall next to the princess's head,” Deni said. “You hit what you aimed for. Correct?”

Jansens gave her a long look. “Why would someone shoot to miss?”

The chief slapped a hand on the metal table, causing a loud clang. “That is the question we are here to answer. You will cooperate, or you will go to jail. You choose which.”

A knock on the door interrupted him. The chief shoved back his chair and stalked to the door, yanking it open and glaring at whoever was on the other side. Gabe could feel the man's patience eroding. Good. Maybe they could get some answers now.

A brief murmured conversation culminated with the chief grabbing a file folder, locking the door, and whirling on Jansens. He slammed the folder on the table.

“Now, Commissaris Jansens. How do you explain that the same handguns used to attack the princess on the road to Grasvlakten were also used in the attack at the Nabourg villa?”

Jansens's head came up fast and his arms dropped. “Another attack? That's not possible.”

Gabe forced himself to slouch against the wall. The man's surprise felt genuine. What the hell was going on here?

“But it happened. You say it is not possible because you were responsible for the other attacks. And I will prove it, and arrest you.”

Aart Jansens looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end sat back, hands in his lap.

“Here is what I think,” the chief said. “You lied about the minister of internal affairs sending you. So who told you where Princess Véronique would be?”

Clamping his mouth shut, Jansens glared around the room.

Without warning, Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen lunged around the table, wrapping his hands in his prisoner's collar, and hauled him upright. He shook Jansens. “Who told you?”

“Let go of me, you diseased idiot.” Jansens tried to pry the chief's hands off his collar.

“When you start telling the truth. How did you know Princess Véronique would be in Grasvlakten?”

Jansens hesitated. “A friend in the private secretary's office.”

“Now we're getting to the truth.” Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen released his hold and glanced at Gabe. “So you were right about internal security breaches. It's good you didn't trust anyone close to the princess.”

Deni stiffened. “I must insist you tell me which member of my staff gave you this information.”

Surprisingly, Jansens gave her a name. “Truthfully, he wasn't one hundred percent certain Princess Véronique would make the trip to Grasvlakten. I'm glad I was there to save her.”

Deni looked down her nose at him. “As am I, if you did not also hire those men to frighten my princess. What was the objective of shooting at her in Brussels, and again, as you intended, at the estate? To keep her from attending the Vienna Summit on Geothermal Exploration?”

Jansens didn't answer.

“It's no use denying these allegations,” the chief said. “The evidence is too overwhelming. All I want to know is why.”

Gabe also wanted to know who. “Did Émile Bonnet hire you?”

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in the depth of Jansens's eyes. “I don't know who that is.”

“Of course you do.” The chief returned to his seat and jotted something in his notebook. “Lord Bonnet, then. I will be interviewing him next.”

Jansens leaned forward abruptly. “There's no need to involve him. I admit it. I fired the shot in Brussels.”

Gabe blinked. The sudden turnaround surprised him.

“I acted alone,” Jansens continued. “But I meant Her Royal Highness no harm.”

“No?” the chief scoffed. “How not?”

Jansens wiped his palms on his pants. “I'm a patriot. I would never have injured Princess Véronique. Concordia has my complete loyalty.”

“Concordia might have your loyalty, but who holds your paycheck?” Gabe asked. Calmly.

“I am a patriot,” Jansens said again. “My allegiance is to Concordia's best interests and future well-­being. I defended her. I saved her.”

The chief nodded. “It seems so. But why Brussels? And why were you on the roof at the villa?”

Jansens grew quiet.

“Who decides what is in Concordia's best interest?” the chief asked. “Is it in Concordia's interests to prevent Princess Véronique from speaking at the Vienna conference?”

Jansens blanched.

“I'll take that as a yes. And Émile Bonnet hired you to frighten her?”

“No,” he blurted. “No one paid me.”

Gabe's lip curled. “No way this was your idea. Bonnet wanted the princess out of the picture, and paid you to get it done.”

Jansens threw up his hands. “All right, yes. Lord Bonnet asked me to help. I didn't get paid. I agree with him; oil exploration in Concordia isn't the right approach for our economy. Oil exploration is invasive. It will destroy natural resources in the mountains. For our future generations, the damage to the land must outweigh a temporary influx of capital. Princess Véronique is wrong. Without her presence, Lord Bonnet felt he could turn the vote.”

Now they were getting somewhere. They had the why; now they needed the rest of it.

“The group who attacked us the other night,” Gabe said. “Who were they? Yours?”

“Not mine,” Jansens said at once. “I didn't recognize them. But when one of them put a gun to my princess's head, I acted.”

The room grew quiet. Finally, the chief shifted in his seat.

“Do you think Bonnet hired a second group? A contingency, in case you failed?”

Jansens looked suddenly small and gray. “It's possible.”

“Chief, has your other prisoner said anything useful?” Gabe asked.

The chief stood. “He's said nothing at all.”

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, Federal Police escorted Émile Bonnet to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The minister himself questioned the earl, who confessed his role in the effort to prevent Véronique from supporting oil drilling in Vienna. His arrest burst across Concordian news ser­vices, reverberations rolling through the country like a tidal wave.

The minister then informed Trevor, politely, that the special operators' ser­vices were no longer required in his country. Their crown princess was safe. They were welcome to depart at their earliest convenience.

“He's kicking us out?” Gabe sounded outraged. “What about the second team? Have they confirmed Bonnet sent it?”

“No,” Trevor said over the phone. “He won't discuss it with me. Won't confirm or deny anything Bonnet might have said. I think he's anxious his ruse isn't discovered. The faster he can get Christina out of the country, the less likely it is that someone will suspect something.”

“So we're done here.” Christina could hardly believe it.

“Yeah.” Gabe searched her eyes, but she had no clue what he was thinking. “I guess the minister thinks we've eliminated a second threat. Two are dead and one's in custody. I wish we could confirm Bonnet sent them, though. This feels incomplete to me.”

The team gathered back in her suite for an after-­action review. Gabe sat next to her, including her in the discussion. At least for the next hour, she still counted as a member of his team. They dissected the sequence of events, what succeeded and what hadn't. The operators spoke bluntly about where things went wrong, and how they could do better next time. The mutual respect was absolute.

At last, they were done.

Gabe slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “All right, boys and girls. Let's get this place put back together. Pack your gear. We'll leave the state car. The Nabourgs are lending us one of their sedans, and the butler, Rietveld, is going to make sure the limo gets back to Parvenière.”