Private Paris (Private 10)

Louis handed me an iPad. The screen showed the France 4 television website and a photograph of the letter in a hodgepodge of font sizes and styles clipped from various newspapers. In that respect, it loo

ked different from the one Ali Farad had received at Private Paris, but the text was the same as I remembered it, word for word.

“AB-16 is trying to light that powder keg you were talking about last night,” I said to Louis, handing him back the iPad.

“Most definitely,” Louis replied grimly. “And Fromme is petrified of that happening. I would not be surprised if—”

The doorbell to the suite dinged.

I glanced at my watch: 5:15 a.m.

“Here we go, Jack,” he murmured, drawing a Glock, which carried a stubby sound suppressor. “Back-to-back.”

In our stocking feet, we crept out into the living area. Louis followed me into the entry hall, walking backward and watching the balcony, which we’d left lit.

I smeared myself into the wall on the hinge side of the door. Knowing that someone as ruthless as Whitey might shoot through the peephole the second they saw a shadow appear, I held up the room key card in front of it.

Nothing.

I glanced at Louis, eased over, and peered out into the hallway.

Randall Peaks, the Saudis’ security guy, was staring back at me, looking as though he’d recently developed an ulcer.

What the hell was he doing here? And at this hour?

Peaks reached over impatiently and rang the bell again.

“We’re good,” I murmured to Louis. I stuck the gun in my waistband and opened the door.

“How many men can I hire through you?” Peaks asked.

“When?” Louis said.

“Now,” he replied. “Can we speak inside?”

I let him in and closed the door behind him.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m missing a princess,” Peaks grunted.

“Never a good thing,” Louis said.

The Saudi security chief glared at Louis. “This is bad, Mr. Langlois, and I need Private Paris’s help finding her as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you need. Which princess?”

Peaks hesitated and said, “This has to be handled discreetly.”

“I gather you’re the client?”

He nodded. “I don’t want the other princesses knowing. No one can know.”

“And heaven forbid the dad back in Riyadh,” Louis said. “Which princess?”

“Mayameen,” he said, showing us his cell phone and a picture of the young princess I saw in the Plaza’s breakfast room a few days before. “She’s just turned sixteen.”

“When did she disappear?” I asked.