[JJ06] Quicksand (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

Pampering me with everything from extra pillows to melt-in-your-mouth warm cookies and free-flowing champagne, the flight from San Francisco to the Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris should have been the most relaxing eleven hours I’d spent in months. But even first class wasn’t enough to make me forget about the strange circumstances of my visit.

Part of my apprehension came from the fact that I hadn’t made up my mind about what I was doing. I was going to see Lane with an open mind, but on my own terms. Since I didn’t yet know if I’d stay in Paris longer than a day, or whether I’d be spending my days eating at romantic French restaurants, researching inside library stacks, or trekking through the wintery outdoors, I didn’t know what to pack. Instead of packing everything, I packed very little. This was France, not rural Kashmir (which, for the record, you need to pack well for). I shoved a few items of clothing, a pair of running shoes, and toiletries into the well-loved brown leather backpack my father gave me years ago. I figured I could get whatever else I needed once I got there.

From the back of my closet I’d pulled out the long black coat I bought when I was living in London to complete my dissertation, and a small shoulder bag for items I didn’t want to fall to the bottom of my father’s old backpack, including my magnifying glass and music player. I didn’t want to be helpless, so I’d downloaded an intensive French-language program to listen to on my headphones in the days leading up to the trip and on the flight.

In the airplane seat, I kicked off my three-inch-high black stilettos, noticing that my choice of shoes wasn’t so out of place here in first class. In those shoes, I’m just shy of five foot three. Still shorter than almost everyone besides kids, but tall enough to maneuver in a world that’s made for people much taller than me. The first class seat was especially spacious, but try as I might to pay attention to my French lessons, I couldn’t stop myself from trying to puzzle out the meaning of this invitation.

Lane Peters was an art historian, so it made sense he could have been looking into one of the many artistic treasures plundered by colonial powers. Undersea divers periodically recovered treasures from sunken Company ships, but oceans were so vast that there was still a lot of history out there to be discovered. A few decades before, a sunken ship had been found off the coast of the Cape of Good Hope. The ship held “Lord Clive’s Gold,” the treasures of Robert Clive of the British East India Company. I couldn’t remember anything recent, and a news search before I left San Francisco told me there hadn’t been any new discoveries of note.

But why would Lane have been looking into something like that? He’d been forced to leave his graduate program, which had been his attempt to start a new life. If he’d started anew, he’d managed to keep his name off the Internet. There was no way to find out more before I saw him in person in a few hours. I willed myself to concentrate on my French.
Je m’apelle Jaya Jones...

Lane hadn’t said anything about meeting me at the airport, so I wasn’t expecting him there. But in the area where we were herded like cattle as we exited Customs, a man in a suit held up a sign with the name “Jaya Jones” printed on it.

His cold brown eyes made me hesitate to approach him. This wasn’t someone I wanted to share a car with. Was it a cultural difference, I wondered? No, that wasn’t it...I instinctively looked straight ahead and kept walking, caught in the flow next to a large Indian family whose patriarch had an especially ample belly that shielded me from view.  I wasn’t sure if the driver had been shown my picture, but I didn’t want to find out.

I don’t believe in signs, but I trust my intuition. I’m good at martial arts, especially jiu-jitsu, courtesy of my father who insisted on getting me lessons when I hadn’t yet reached five feet in high school. One of the first things you learn is that it’s best to never get yourself into a situation where you need to use your fighting skills.

I figured Lane must have been caught up in the research he mentioned in the letter and therefore sent a car service to pick me up. The driver was probably harmless, but it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe. I took the Paris metro to the hotel.

A dozen illuminated globes hung from the high ceiling of the hotel lobby. Above them, the ceiling was lit with pin pricks of light in the shape of constellations. At the front desk, two hotel employees were speaking to each other in rapid French, but they broke off their conversation when they saw me approach. A clean-cut man with sandy hair greeted me with a wide smile.

“Bonjour,” I said.

“Checking in?” he replied in English with a thick Australian accent. My accent clearly needed some work.

I gave my name and he handed me a key card. The room had already been paid for. I declined the offer of assistance to help with my small bag, and stepped into the mirror-lined elevator. I felt odd letting myself into the room where Lane was presumably staying. After locating the room, I took a deep breath—okay, five of them—then knocked on the door.

My knock was greeted with silence. I double-checked the number the Australian desk clerk had written down for me. This was the right room. A moment later, I heard footsteps followed by the sound of a lock unlatching. The door opened, and Lane Peters stood in front of me.

He looked nearly the same as when I’d seen him last—the tall, lanky figure, and the handsome, angular face he hid with glasses and floppy hair. Time stood still in that moment as relief flooded through me. The last few days hadn’t been a dream. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. It was a single room, but couches and a table formed a living room in front of the king size bed.

“Jones?” he whispered. His eyes lit up and his lips formed a priceless smile, but the reaction only lasted a couple of seconds, cut short by the sound of another voice.

“Oh good,” the voice said. A man in a tailored suit stood by the window. His accent was neither French nor American, but upper-class British. “Dante called to say he didn’t see you at the airport. I was worried.”

“The driver?” I asked, seized by confusion. 

“You sent
Dante
to get her?” Lane asked, then shook his head. “Of course you would.”

“You’re proving to be every bit as intelligent as I imagined you to be,” the man said to me. “I anticipated nothing less.”

“Lane, what’s going on?” I asked.

“You shouldn’t have involved her,” Lane said to the Englishman. I had never before heard such raw anger in his voice. It scared me.

“
You
invited
me
.” My voice shook with anger and confusion.

“What?” he croaked out. The word was barely above a whisper, and his eyes were earnest. He had always been skinny, but he’d lost weight. “I’m sorry, Jones.”

“Fine,” I said, swearing under my breath. I turned to go. I was ridiculously curious as to what on earth was going on, but my pride won out. I wasn’t about to stay there and listen to Lane explain h
ow he was so busy with whatever he was doing that he’d forgotten about me.

“Miss Jones,” the British stranger said. “I don’t think you’ll wish to leave when you hear what we have to say.”

“Let her go,” Lane said. “I’ll do it.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t I be free to go?”

“Nobody is holding anyone against their will,” the British man said. “Why don’t you two relax and have a drink while we talk? I don’t think you’ll be so eager to leave once you’ve heard what I have to say.”

“Who
are
you?” I asked.

“Forgive me. My friends call me North. I hope you’ll do the same. I’m an associate of Lane’s. We go way back.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Lane said to North. “I told you I’ll do the job.”

“I’d feel much more convinced in the strength of your word,” North said, “if there was more at stake that you care about.” His gaze shifted to me.

A wave of panic washed over me, starting in my gut and radiating to every inch of my body. I knew what those words meant. It was what Lane had been afraid of. When he turned his life around, he broke all ties with his old life—his life as an art thief.

But breaking ties with the past hadn’t worked. Because of me, they’d found a way to get to him.

CHAPTER 5

“If you’re talking about me,” I said to North, “you’ve got the wrong girl. Lane doesn’t care about me. I haven’t heard from him in over five months.”

“I know,” North said. “That made it quite difficult to find his weak spot. I had to dig deeper into his activities than was convenient. He tried to deny it at first, but for someone who’s such a good actor, he failed in this part. He couldn’t cover up his feelings for you.”

“Wait, Lane really wrote the letter about wanting to see me?”

Lane groaned. “That’s why my shopping lists disappeared before I left Berkeley. I didn’t think I’d thrown them away.”

“It was much easier to obtain handwriting samples,” North said, “in the days when people wrote letters and kept journals on paper. Luckily, Lane considers himself a cook, so he writes nicely detailed lists of ingredients along with recipes he’s trying out.”

“He’s a forger,” Lane said. “A forger and a con man.” Behind his glasses, his eyes were full of so much sadness that it took some of the sting out of knowing I’d been tricked. “I’m so sorry, Jones. I had no idea he was bringing you here.”

“That’s what was wrong with the letter!” My shoulders slumped as I realized my mistake. “I
knew
there was something off about the letter, even though it matched your handwriting perfectly. I told myself I must not have known you as well as I thought I did, because the tone sounded off. But that wasn’t it. It was what you called me in the letter. You call me Jaya in casual conversation, but when there’s emotion involved—”

“Jones.” Lane grabbed my hand. “I’m sorry to all of your names, Jaya Anand Jones.” He pulled me closer, but stopped short of holding me close.

“I feel like a third wheel,” North said. “Terribly embarrassing to have gotten in the middle of a lover’s quarrel. I have one last thing to ask of Jaya, and then I’ll let you two get caught up.”

Lane gripped my hand tighter.

“No need to worry, Lane,” North said. “I merely wish to have Jaya authenticate some old documents from India that have fallen into my hands.”

“No need for euphemisms,” Lane spat out.

“Quite. Now then, I’ll leave you these documents I
acquired
.” North paused and picked up a stack of worn pages in protective plastic sleeves. “I’ll return in thirty minutes.”

In spite of myself, the sight of the worn, faded papers sent a little thrill through me.

“Not a chance,” Lane said.

“It’s okay,” I said. I wasn’t planning on telling North whatever it was he wanted to know, but if he had historical documents, I wanted to see them.

“You can look at them,” Lane said. “But not here. I know North. Whatever we say in this room, he’ll hear it.”

A flash of anger crossed North’s face, but the emotion disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He tossed back his head and laughed heartily. Deep laugh lines creased his forehead. This was a man used to enjoying himself. I wondered how long he’d been in this line of work. He had a full head of dark brown hair that was starting to grey around the temples. I placed him in his mid-forties, about ten years older than Lane. If he hadn’t been manipulating me, I would probably have described him as quite handsome.

“You mean the room is
bugged
?” I asked.

“I knew I chose the right man for the job,” North said, wiping a tear from his eye as he got control of his laughter.

I felt on the verge of hysterical laughter myself. Here I was in an opulent hotel in Paris where I’d been lured under false pretenses, having a civil conversation with an ex art thief and a forger, unsure of whether I was free to go, all while under surveillance. It was one of those situations where I really needed to laugh so I didn’t cry.

“Of course the room is bugged,” North said. “But I don’t see any harm in letting you two catch up in private before we get to work. If you’ll leave your cell phones with me, you can choose any location you’d like that’s nearby—within reason.”

“Jones, you choose,” Lane said. “North knows me too well. Anywhere I can think of, he might have already bugged.”

North barked out another burst of laughter.

“The rooftop,” I said.

“It’s windy and cold,” Lane said. “And...”

“You never would have suggested it? Then it’s perfect.”

North thought for a moment before nodding. “If you can find your way up there, I don’t see why not. Oh, and Lane,” he added, all levity from his voice gone as he spoke the name. “Convince her. I don’t want to destroy her life.”

Destroy my life? What an odd way to phrase a threat.

North handed me the stack of documents in exchange for my cell pho
ne, and walked behind us on our way to the elevator. He punched the button going up to the top floor, then waved goodbye as the doors closed behind us.

In the short ride to the hotel’s top floor, I thought Lane and I might share a quick kiss to take the edge off of the stressful situation. Instead, he took the plastic-covered pages from me and held them up to the light.

“Nice to see you, too,” I mumbled to myself.

“One second,” he replied distractedly, running his fingers along the edges of the plastic. “Unless technology has progressed exponentially in the last few years, there’s no way these are bugged.”

He handed them back to me, and I tucked them gingerly into my shoulder bag, careful not to bend them.

After getting off the elevator on the top floor, which dropped us in front of the hotel’s restaurant, Lane scanned our surroundings.

“This way,” he said, leading us to a service door. A red slash on a sign indicated people weren’t to enter, but the door wasn’t locked. We climbed the last flight of stairs leading to the roof of the hotel.

A burst of cold air hit me as we opened the metal door. It was apparent why the door below had been unlocked. Dozens of cigarette butts lined the space next to the door.

Though the roof was flat, it was covered with chimneys and other obstructions. Lane took a few minutes to circle the roof. I didn’t know if he was making sure we were alone or looking for surveillance devices.

Standing near the ledge, I could see for miles across an overcast Paris. The city was full of so much life and so much history. A living history I was now part of. I was so entranced by the sweeping views of the snaking Seine river with its stone bridges, the modern buildings mixed with ancient ones, and the famous Eiffel Tower rising lower into the heavens than I’d imagined, that I was surprised by Lane’s presence back at my side.

I was even more surprised when he pulled me into a kiss that I felt through my whole body. My shoulder bag nearly fell to the ground as he swept me into his arms. The scent of his aftershave and the feel of his strong lips took me back to where we’d left off all those months ago. My lips welcomed his, and I felt myself lost in this moment I’d fantasized about for all these months.

But at the same time, I felt a small tinge of uncertainty stir within me. The last man I’d kissed had been Sanjay, under circumstances that had never been resolved. He was drugged, and he didn’t remember kissing me. Before that accidental kiss the previous summer, I never imagined I could have romantic feelings for my best friend. I knew I loved Sanjay, but I was almost certain it was in the same way I loved my brother.

As Lane continued kissing me, all thoughts of Sanjay faded away. I was vaguely aware there was something else I should have been thinking about, but at that moment I didn’t care. It was Lane who pulled away, snapping me back to reality.

“I believe we have twenty three minutes,” he said, “before North joins us.”

“I can barely believe we’re here together on this rooftop.” A cold burst of wind blew my bob of black hair around my face. It was colder than it was when I’d arrived. Being ten flights from the ground made a difference. “You’re all right?”

“Better now.”

“That’s not what I meant, you know. I mean you, life—everything that’s been going on the last five months! I didn’t know what to think.”

“I hoped the Ganesha figurine would put your mind at ease.”

“You mean the statue that barely fit through the door.” I couldn’t suppress a grin. “He’s perfect.”

Lane cleared his throat. “I wish we had more time to catch up, but North—”

“I know, I know. Scratch that. I
don’t
know. What exactly is going on?”

“Since we don’t have much time, before you look at these documents, you need to understand something.” He was no longer smiling. “North is a very dangerous man—”

“Then why don’t we use a phone in the restaurant below us to call the police? God, unless he’s got spies everywhere...Why don’t we find a fire escape and climb down?”

“Let me finish. North isn’t dangerous in the way you’d expect. He doesn’t hurt people—not physically. He’s much more clever than that. He ruins people’s lives.”

“What do you mean,
he ruins people’s lives
?”

“Exactly that.” Lane swallowed hard. “I know one man who’s living out his days in a Moroccan prison because North tipped off the authorities. North was displeased with the man’s perceived disloyalty, so he planted extra evidence to be sure he’d be convicted. Another one of our associates had every single one of his hidden bank accounts disappear and his identity erased—aside from a few damning pieces of false evidence left for his wife to see. You need to trust me that the police can’t do anything. No, I should clarify that statement. The police can’t do anything to help
us
. They might very well arrest me if I don’t do as North asks, based on ‘evidence’ North charitably provides.”

“Wait,” I said slowly, the implication sinking in. “You’re going to be an indentured servant thief for the rest of your life?”

“Of course not.” He ran his hands through his hair, visibly frustrated. “This is a one-time deal. If I do one last job for him, he’ll leave us both alone.”

“What could he possibly do to ruin my life? I’m not a criminal, and I don’t have a family to embarrass.”

“If you look at the papers he handed you, you’ll see what he’ll do to you if I don’t cooperate.”

Pulling the stack of papers from my bag, I noticed that there was a stapled set of typewritten papers separate from the historical documents inside protective sleeves. It was these papers that made up the bulk of the stack North had given me.

A gust of wind threatened to steal the papers from my grasp, so I led us to a nook that provided some shelter. I sat down and looked over the peculiar assortment for a minute, confused. They were copies of the front pages of research papers I’d written, but my name wasn’t on them. Not only that, the dates and sources were all wrong. In addition, notes about other people’s work in my handwriting, only I didn’t recall writing those notes. Taken together, the collection appeared to be my work, but attributed to other people long before I’d written it.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “This makes it look like I’ve plagiarized everything I’ve ever written.”

“It could be worse,” Lane said. “North created a trail that makes it look like you’re a plagiarist, not a criminal. You won’t have criminal proceedings against you, but you’ll lose your position at the university. And you’ll lose any credibility to be a historian anywhere.”

“This will ruin my life,” I said, speaking the words slowly as my confusion turned to discomfort, and above all—panic. He couldn’t be serious, could he? If North hadn’t created such an elaborate ruse to get me to Paris, I wouldn’t have believed it. But now? Lane sensed my fear. He took my hand in his.

“With one word from North,” Lane said, “your life as you know it will be over.”