Old Bones - Douglas Preston Page 0,1

down the walkway. Nobody but the two lovebirds, now dwindling into the distance. “Let’s have a look.”

The other grabbed his backpack and unzipped it, revealing additional mud and something covered in layers of plastic tarp, bubble wrap, and soft chamois cloth. A nasty smell arose. The suited man took out a penlight and carefully examined what lay within. Then he gave a grunt of approval.

“Well done,” he said. “How long did it take you to bike over here?”

“About ten minutes, using back streets.”

“Well, we’d better not hang around longer than necessary.” The man leaned over and unsnapped the leather bag between his knees. The top sagged open, and something inside gleamed briefly in the indirect light.

“What’s that?” the biker asked, peering. “I don’t take plastic or precious metals.”

“Nothing. Your money’s here.” He patted the breast of his suit jacket.

The cyclist waited as his companion reached into his suit pocket. Then the man, hand still in his pocket, glanced up sharply.

“Hold it a minute!” he said in a whisper, leaning in close. “Someone’s coming.”

Instinctively, the cyclist leaned in, too. His companion put a hand on the man’s shoulder, signaling intimacy while also helping conceal their faces from the passing pedestrian. Except there was no pedestrian; the walkway was empty. His other hand came out of the suit jacket holding a Spyderco Matriarch 2: a tactical knife whose thin, reverse-S edge was designed for one purpose only. The Emerson wave feature built into its spine meant the blade was already locked open by the time the knife was out of the jacket.

The weapon was little more than a black blur as the blade slid between the second and third ribs, its edge going deeper as it traveled, severing the major arteries above the heart before it slipped back out again. The suited man quickly wiped the blade on the biker’s trunks and returned it to his pocket in a smooth gesture. It all took no more than two seconds.

The biker remained motionless in a combination of surprise and shock. Although his thoracic cavity was already filling with blood, the wound itself was so small that very little was dribbling from the rent in his jersey. Meanwhile, the other reached into his Gladstone bag and removed a heavy length of steel chain and a padlock. The rest of the bag was empty, save for a padded rubber-and-latex liner. Standing and making sure no one had come into view, he grabbed the steel scooter, folded it, pressed it against the biker’s chest, then wrapped the biker’s unprotesting arms around it and fixed them in place with the chain. He pulled the ends of the wrapped chain tight and padlocked them together. After one more glance along the walkway and across the river, he pulled the cyclist up and dragged him into the darkness beneath the bridge, to the edge of the water. Heaving the man’s legs over the curb, he released his grip and let the body slide gently into the river.

Another ten seconds had passed.

Breathing a little heavily, the man watched as the body sank out of sight, weighed down by the chain and scooter. Then he walked back to the bench, carefully transferred the wrapped object from the backpack to his Gladstone bag, and closed them both. He paused to straighten his tie and smooth down his suit jacket. Then he started briskly down the walkway, up the stone staircase, and past the bicycle, dropping the backpack in a nearby trash bin as he went.

He lit another Gauloise and readjusted his grip on the bag before flagging down a cab at the Place Saint-Michel.

2

One hour later

CLIVE BENTON SLOWED his vintage Ford Falcon to the side of Wild Irish Road, pulled into a turnoff, and eased the car along a dusty track until it was no longer visible from the thoroughfare. He got out of the Falcon, put up the top, and hoisted a small day pack onto his shoulders. Taking out his phone, he loaded a hiking app and located his position, found a bearing, and set off through the forest. The tall fir trees and lodgepole pines were widely spaced, providing an open forest floor that made walking easy. Despite the season, there wasn’t even a nip of cold: the air was still deceptively heavy with a drowsy kind of warmth. Looking eastward from between the trees, Benton could see the foothills rising to the distant peaks of the Sierra Nevada, gray teeth against blue. They would soon be covered in