Page 49 of Blood Game

“All my contacts are in there!”

“Exactly.”

She grabbed him by the sleeve. “Exactly what?”

There was something in his expression that she'd seen before, on that long drive from the airport at Edinburgh, something just beneath the surface, something dark and edgy that had her taking a half step back.

“Your contacts,” he explained. “Every call, every text message you've made and received—your London office, Brynn Halliday,dates, times, appointments, every person you've spoken with, every place you've been since you first arrived, including that first text message from Cate.”

She stared at him. “You think my phone has been hacked?”

“Someone has been following you from the beginning. The airport, the Tavern, your meeting with Brynn Halliday.”

“There are other people who had that information,” she pointed out.

It was weak and she knew it. She was still trying to take in everything he was telling her as the uniformed crew returned to the sanitation truck.

“Insurance,” he repeated as he picked up the shattered phone and pitched it into the back of the sanitation truck.

“Let them follow that for a while.”

Was it possible?

She knew the answer.

Cell phones. E-mails. Anything and everything on-line, access at a keystroke. It was possible. And if Cate's phone had been hacked into, how difficult was it to hack into hers?

Just follow the link, the calls Cate made, the messages she sent. Her stomach knotted at the thought.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they returned to the rental car.

“We need to get off the street for a while,” he replied, hitting the door lock of the rental car.

“Some place out of the way until Innis gets back to us with that information.”

He slid behind the wheel. “We're going to play tourist for a while.”

She looked at him as if he'd taken a serious step away from sanity as she buckled the seat belt.

“Tourist?” she asked as he angled the car through traffic at the center of the Caen.

When the spires of the Gothic church came into view, she was certain he'd lost it. They rounded the park across from the church and parked along a side street.

“Feeling the need for confession?” she asked as he cut the motor, still trying to deal with the possibility that whoever had tried to run her down at the Blue Oyster might have followed them to France. Possibly the university, and the hotel.

“Haven't you heard,” he replied as he got out of the car. “Confession can be good for the soul. How is your soul, Kris McKenna?” he asked, then answered his own question.

“That's right, you don't believe in such things.”

All right, shot taken, she thought, as they approached the carved doors of Eglise Saint-Pierre.

Photographs displayed at the entrance showed the recent history of the church, along with photographs of the damage that had been done during the Allied bombings of World War II. The massive restoration after the war had included recreating ornate stone work, a new façade and new stained glass. The carved cornerstone revealed that original construction had begun in 990 AD, with expansion from the 13th to 16th centuries.

“That was during a great expansion of power by the Church in Rome,” Kris explained. “Power and wealth.” She made no attempt to disguise her contempt.

“Medieval powerbrokers—kings who paid loyalty to the Church, expansion of the Church into the Middle East, playground for the Templars and the Crusades, and the conquest of Jerusalem.” A war that was still being fought in the Middle East, and on the streets of the western world centuries later.

“Step inside,” she commented. “Confess your sins, and all will be forgiven.” She pushed open the ornately carved door and stepped inside the church.