17
TRISTAN
When the alarm on my phone went off at seven, I could barely open my eyes, let alone find the damn thing to turn it off. Talking with René into the wee hours, I’d learned more about my past and planned more for my future in the last twenty-four hours than in the entirety of my thirty-three-years.
Rolling out of bed, I shuffled to the bathroom. I needed a shower to wake up. Then I was flying on the Lebleu jet to Paris. It was only a twenty minute flight, but when I explained my plans to René late last night, he insisted I take the plane and not the hour long train into the city.
Turning on the hot water, I made a laundry list of calls. General Michaels, Peter and Nick. I stepped into the steam and recounted everything my father had explained to me. At the end of the long night, he told me how sorry he was. I knew he was genuinely remorseful for what happened, and at the same time, I was angry at my mother. I was livid with Simone over the lies and deceit. I was furious she’d put our lives in danger so many times—all to prove her point to René. He’d hurt her—she wanted to hurt him back. René wouldn’t allow me to disparage her name last night. In his eyes, she was ill—she didn’t know what she was doing.
I washed up and got out of the shower without shaving. I put on the clean clothes left for me on the bed last night. My suite was clean when I returned, the sheets changed and any and all remnants of the beautiful moments I shared with Henry erased. I was disappointed the pillows no longer smelled of her perfume. She was gorgeous, stunning even. And she had the kind of personality I found even more attractive. I hated myself for walking away from her last night.
I stared at the suit hanging in the corner—the new shoes had been boxed and bagged as well. I was leaving them behind. I wanted my father to know I was coming back.
Staring at the unmade bed, I wondered if Henry and I would’ve made love a third time last night—that is if I hadn’t become so belligerent over the family business.
A knock rang out at my door, echoing off the walls of the room. I thought for a moment perhaps it was her, coming for my apology. Then I realized Henry and I were too much alike. So much so, she would never come looking for an apology. Neither would I.
“Who is it?”
“Monsieur Lebleu. It’s Jacques Duval.”
“Oui, Jacques.”
I opened up and invited him in, shutting the door. After last night, I didn’t know who was up to what. Moving forward, I was no longer taking chances—with anyone or anything. Jacques was René’s faithful valet. My father trusted him, so I did too.
“Here is the information on your home in Paris.”
“My home in Paris?”
“Oui. Your father keeps an apartment near the Champs-Élysées. It’s one block from the Tuileries. Here is the address and the keys. They will be expecting you.”
I knitted my brow.
“The staff,” said Jacques.
“Oui. Merci.”
“There’s a car waiting for you outside. It will take you to the airport when you’re ready. The jet is on stand-by.”
“Merci beaucoup, Jacques. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I am at your service, monsieur.”
He started out the door and I stopped him. “Jacques?”
“Oui monsieur?”
“You haven’t by chance seen Henry this morning, have you?”
“No monsieur. Would you like me to find her? Or would you prefer to leave her a message?”
I thought about what I would say. Sorry I was an ass, but you were one too. “Non, merci.”
I stomped on my last motorcycle boot and slipped my arms into my leather jacket, taking one last look around the room. Throwing the duffle bag over my shoulder, I walked out, closing the door behind me.
I’d said my goodbye to René last night, but promised to return. There were loose ends to tie up, and I wanted to spend at least one more day with my father before he passed from this world. I knew it would be soon and now that we’d met and reconciled, it would be too soon.
I hurried down the stairs and out the main entrance of Chateau Lebleu. The car door was open and waiting for me. It was the same black Bugatti Henry used to pick me up.
The driver closed my door and we were out the front gates of Lebleu before I could bat an eye. I’d only arrived yesterday, but in twenty-four hours I’d gained access to more information than I ever knew was possible, and because of that, I felt like a new man—a newly empowered man.
“Bonjour, monsieur Lebleu. I’m Jean-Luc. I’ll have you at the airport quickly.”
“Merci, Jean-Luc. No need to rush.”
I slipped my sunglasses over my eyes and pulled my phone from my pocket, dialing the States where it was one thirty in the afternoon.
“Are you back yet?”
Agent Daniels knew my number and always found it silly to start the conversation with, hello. He thought it wasted time. “No.”
“On your way?”
“No. We talked about this, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, Thursday?
“I’m not sure.”
“You wanna explain why the hell not?”
“Not really.”
“You know you’re really starting to piss me off. For the last two years I’ve known you were up to something outside of the Bureau—something over my damn head. But for the love of Jesus, can you either leave me the hell out of it or just bring me up to date?”
I laughed.
“I’m glad you think this is so fuckin’ funny. I don’t find anything about it amusing. You jerk me around like I’m your subordinate, Bleu. You fucking work for me, understand? I don’t care where your orders are coming from, your ass is still mine! You get me?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
“Now why in the hell don’t you have a plan to come back to New Orleans?”
“My father doesn’t have months or weeks. He has days.” I wasn’t lying.
“Well hell, man. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Listen, there’s some heavy shit coming down around here. There’s so many leaks, we’re plugging holes constantly just to keep from sinking. If the press gets wind of what’s been going on, we’ll all be out.”
“Sir?”
“I’m not saying you’re up to no good, Tristan. I’m just saying right now you should trust no one. And I mean no one.”
I paused. I was on Nick’s short list of possible leaks at the FBI. I was a perfect fit. I came and went as I pleased while posing deep cover, and I hadn’t really reported to my superiors or Nick in nearly two years. If he was trying to flush out the mole from the inside, he was barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t agree or disagree but only said, “Yes, sir.”
When he hung up without so much as a good-bye, I was certain he suspected me.
Changing the sim card in my phone, I dialed General Michaels. He didn’t answer. “Shit,” I murmured under my breath. I’d send him a cryptic photo as soon as I made it to Paris. One of the ways we communicated, it was a message buried behind the guise of a jpeg image I’d pull from the internet. Then hiding it under layers of the same photo and color distortions, he could peel back the overlays and find my transmission. After the unsuccessful call to Michaels, I switched the SIM card again. With one phone wet and useless from my fall in the pool house, I’d need to buy a second in Paris. My to-do list was getting longer by the moment.
As soon as the phone was synched again, it rang out with a text message from Peter.
PETE: Where the fuck are you?
TRISTAN: France.
PETE: FRANCE? Are you kidding me?
TRISTAN: I don’t kid.
PETE: Dude. Shit is going down here. Daniels is on a rampage. He’s pissed and wants info on AF mission. We need to inform Michaels it’s getting hot.
TRISTAN: I just talked to Daniels. I know.
PETE: Whatever you’re doing, do it fast. I need my partner.
TRISTAN: Understood.
PETE: This is serious. Don’t trust anyone.
“Monsieur Lebleu.” Jean-Luc called to me through the partition.
“Oui?”
“We are here, monsieur. The plane?”
I blinked hard. We’d arrived on the tarmac and I’d not even noticed—too caught up in business back home.
“Merci, Jean-Luc. Au revoir.” I grabbed my leather bag by the handles and donned my shades.
Climbing up the door of the jet, I took one look back. What a difference a day had made.