The Good Thief. Judith Leon

bridge spanned the southern tip of Lake Geneva where the lake flowed into the Rhone River. A thick layer of ice created by winds gusting off the lake covered benches on the quay on the north shore in white. The famous Jet d’Eau geyser was, of course, turned off for the winter. Everything seemed pewter-colored, the buildings, the lake, the sky, the peaks of the Savoy Alps beyond Geneva. Despite the warmth of the cab and her black Cossack-style coat and boots, Lindsey shivered. The gray, cold day mirrored her mood.

      Her cell phone rang. Beatrix. Lindsey explained the traffic mess and added, “I’ll be no more than ten minutes late if I have to get out and run.”

      “You still wouldn’t make it. But I was calling because I must cancel. My lunch appointment is lasting longer than anticipated.”

      Lindsey clutched the telephone, her pulse accelerating. Remain calm. “Just tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you there afterward. I only need a few minutes, Beatrix.”

      “Do you realize that I could be fired just for being seen with you, if your line of work were discovered?”

      Beatrix was overreacting. Probably. “I’ll wait till your lunch meeting is over and—”

      “No, Lindsey, I’m sorry. It’s just impossible. I have to prepare for an—”

      “Beatrix, when you hear how important this is—”

      “Dear girl, I have all the high-priority crises I can handle, thank you very—”

      “R-JUV-8.”

      The connection between them fell silent. Last year, Lindsey, in a dicey contact, had stumbled onto a shipment of an antiaging serum claiming to be chock-full of human growth hormone but being instead a mix of herbal derivatives and an illegal new, and very dangerous, stimulant. She’d involved Beatrix, who then received credit for the confiscation of six million dollars’ worth of the product. Beatrix owed Lindsey a favor or three. Since Lindsey worked outside of legal channels, Beatrix was extremely nervous about dealing with Lindsey.

      “Are you there, Beatrix?”

      Beatrix sighed. She gave Lindsey an address in the Paquis district, one of the few interesting areas in this city, which was, for such an international population, pizzazz-challenged. Behind practical gray stone walls, powerful people met and conducted world affairs. World Council of Churches. World Intellectual Property Organization. Eurovision. All those banks. Virtually every major NGO, and, of course, the diplomats. Geneva was unofficially the world capital of bureaucracies. “We can meet there. No one I know eats there and I can return to work quickly.”

      The menu outside indicated that the steamy restaurant, Bistro Eidelweiss, offered typical Swiss and French food. The tiny lobby was crowded. Lindsey immediately spotted Beatrix’s brown chignon and on her way to Beatrix’s table she passed hot fondues and soups, onion tarts, crepes with all kinds of fillings. Her stomach growled. All she’d eaten on the jet was a health bar topped off with coffee.

      By the time an obviously overworked waiter signaled he’d soon be there to take Lindsey’s order, Beatrix had already listened to Lindsey’s story about the possibility of trafficking in genetically modified human embryos. She checked her BlackBerry, then shook her head.

      “Whatever it is, it’s monstrous,” Beatrix said. “I’m sorry I avoided you. I’ll help. We’ll just have to work around your…fascinating connections—even if it means I lose my job.” Her blue eyes sparkled with what looked like determination. “Kestonians are looking to develop human supersoldiers. Their new dictator, Vlados Zelasko, is a nut. The idea is outrageous and impossible. We log the movements and actions of Kestonians wherever they turn up. I can provide you with the names of all the labs we’re watching, but that’s all I have that could be relevant.”

      Human supersoldiers. Extra strong. Extra fast. Superhuman eyesight and hearing. Human weapons. Exactly the kind of thing that would bring a huge black-market price. And maybe no longer an impossible idea at all. “That’s exactly what I’m after—”

      “Oh, my God!” Beatrix blurted out as she hid her face with her purse.

      “What?” Lindsey said.

      “The man that just came in, he works with me.”

      “Shall I—”

      “Just leave, okay?”

      Lindsey reached across the table and squeezed Beatrix’s arm. “Done. You take care. And thank you.”

      No specific leads. No crepes. No fondue. She rose and made her way back to her coat and hat, her stomach demanding that she eat a mountain of pasta very soon.