The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

He adjusted the scope on the Barrett sniper rifle. Zero wind today. Three hundred meters. The dining area, with its tables and umbrellas, was off to the left, while the swimming pool was centered on the roof. Dozens of guests sunbathed in lounge chairs surrounding the water, but they got up and moved around sporadically. It would be an easy shot.

“These people want their money, don’t they?” Sirkal said.

“I wouldn’t show up. It’s obviously a trap.”

“Yes, but the bait is too appealing to resist.”

O’Connor took a long, annoying slurp from a can of Diet Coke. “I still think this is a risky plan. If they’ve figured out the location of Napoleon’s treasure from the clues in the diary and column, they might be about to go there to get it. Then we’re screwed.”

“Which is why this is the best option. If it works like Mr. Golov thinks it will, it should throw them off the track for days, plenty of time to complete Dynamo and get rid of the evidence.”

O’Connor shrugged. “I just work here, mate. Golov’s the brains behind this. Well, him and his smoking-hot daughter. Who’d guess that someone with a body like that could be a computer whiz?”

“That’s because you base people’s worth on what they look like, not what they accomplish. It’s why I keep you around despite your face.”

O’Connor choked on his drink. “Is that a joke, Sirkal? Did I actually hear you make a funny?”

Sirkal didn’t crack a smile. “I would stay away from her. There’s nothing he values more than his daughter.”

“No worries about that,” O’Connor said with a chuckle. He put the binoculars back up. “She’s radioactive to me. I don’t want to end up like the rest of the crew after . . . Wait, we’ve got movement toward our bait.”

Sirkal looked through the scope and saw an auburn-haired woman in a bikini top, a sarong, wide-brimmed hat, and huge sunglasses walk along the row of deck chairs nearest to him. A hotel employee with a towel draped over his arm followed her, carrying a standing umbrella that shielded his face. She pointed to the sun, and then at a chair she had chosen, and he began to set it up for her.

“My mistake,” O’Connor said. “Just some tourist trying to save her spray tan skin from UV rays. Speaking of smoking-hot, though.”

“Be ready,” Sirkal said. “They should be here any minute.”

He kept his eye on the umbrella, primarily because it was now blocking his shot.

—

Juan, who was wearing a dark wig to cover his blond hair, and, to complete the disguise, the borrowed hotel uniform, set down the large umbrella. He made sure that it was between them and the apartment building, and he continued to fiddle with it as though he were adjusting its position just so. The feeling that he almost certainly had a rifle trained on him made his skin crawl.

Gretchen took the chair next to a young blond woman in a white bikini. The woman’s horn-rimmed spectacles had been replaced by expensive sunglasses, but the pixie cut that Juan remembered hadn’t changed.

“Hello, Ms. Marceau,” he said, continuing to shield his face with the umbrella while he pretended to take drink orders. He had never suspected the involvement of Marie Marceau, the forensic analyst Murph and Eric had been crushing on back at Credit Condamine when they were deciphering the message left in the code. Of course, now it made complete sense. Who better for a hacker like ShadowFoe to recruit than the Monaco police’s top computer expert?

“No wonder you had trouble accessing the code that ShadowFoe left for us,” Gretchen said while she flipped through a magazine. “I’m sure you would have ‘found’ it eventually, but our people were just too efficient and discovered it early.”

Marceau gaped at the two of them for a moment.

Juan smiled. “You didn’t expect us to show up as ourselves, did you?”

“Why did you do it?” Gretchen asked.

Marceau put on her most innocent expression. “Do what? I’m just here on holiday. I’m simply surprised to see you.”

“Are you ShadowFoe?”

“Who?”

“We know the request for us to meet here was sent through the Sûreté’s servers,” Juan said. “And now you’re here. You don’t have to be a genius or a mathematician to add one and one.”

By now, her face had lost its golden tan and gone as pale as her bikini. Her eyes kept darting to the umbrella.

“Your friends can’t help you,” Gretchen said. “Why don’t you come with us to Interpol? I’m sure they will be willing to strike a deal with you.”

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”