Assassin

Chapter Twenty-Three

Paris

MONIQUE DELACROIX STOOD BY THE TALL FRENCH WINDOWS of the Ambassador’s study, dragging on a Gauloise while she watched the media circus. Preparations for today’s press conference in the embassy gardens had started at dawn. It had been a hectic morning. The French press as well as the FOX, CNN, SKY, and BBC crews had arrived at eight. Beyond the high walls surrounding the large embassy compound, she could see the forest of telescoping dishes mounted atop their various uplink video trucks. Delacroix, Ambassador Duke Merriman’s personal assistant for the last few months, had made all the press arrangements at Merriman’s insistence.

The event was scheduled to begin at noon, today, Saturday.

“Happy now?” Agent McIntosh asked her. She let the question hang in the air amidst her clouds of blue smoke. She knew he didn’t like her. He didn’t trust her. And she certainly didn’t like him. She resented taking orders from anyone but the ambassador. Especially this gruff bear of an American who’d suddenly appeared at the embassy. It was an awkward situation. The new chief of security wanted Monique out of this house every bit as badly as the ambassador wanted her in his bed. It was a battle of wills that, so far, Ambassador Merriman was clearly winning. DSS had, after all, only so much power over a bullheaded ambassador in love.

She knew McIntosh was “looking for dirt” on her, as the Americans say. Her friend, Noel, the chief housekeeper at the embassy, had overheard two of his agents in the kitchen talking about her. Let him look, she’d told Noel, she was a good girl of good Swiss stock from the Canton de Vaud. She had always had been a good girl. No?

The DSS Special Agent who’d been assigned to protect America’s ambassador to France and his family, Agent Rip McIntosh, was, on this warm June morning, not a happy camper. The leathery, sharp-featured man with the brush-cut grey hair was sitting across the room in a leather armchair, glaring at the woman in the sharply tailored red and black Chanel suit.

“I said, are you happy now?” he repeated.

“Unlike you, I am always happy, Agent McIntosh,” she said without looking at him. She expelled a thin plume upwards, lifting the bangs of dark hair off her pale forehead, a blithe spirit.

Rip McIntosh was happy now and then, on those rare occasions when all the hatches were battened down, all the guards were posted, the perimeter was secure, and everybody was accounted for, all snug in their wee beds. But Rip McIntosh was not happy now. There were any number of reasons, the foremost being that he definitely did not like the idea of this impending press conference. Even though he didn’t know exactly what Ambassador Merriman was going to say, he had a fairly rough idea.

“You could at the very least be a little more supportive, Miss Delacroix,” McIntosh said to the statuesque brunette, breaking the silence. “My agents and I are charged with the protection of the ambassador and his children. Not to mention all embassy personnel within these walls, including, God help us, you. And, by God, that’s what we’re going to do.”

“This ground, it has been covered, Monsieur McIntosh,” Delacroix said, her face still turned towards the sunny window. “I work for this man. And he say to me, Monique, arrange a press conference. I am supposed to say, ‘No, no, so sorry, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur. Special Agent McIntosh, he say it’s a bad idea?’ ”

“No, you say that the secretary of state herself thinks it’s a bad idea and that—”

“It is your problem, monsieur, not mine.”

“I keep forgetting. You’re French.”

“You keep forgetting. I’m Swiss.”

“Oh, yeah. Neutral. Great. Even better.”

At that moment two nine-year-old boys, tow-headed identical twins, roared into the room, both wielding tommy-gun shaped water guns. Ambassador Merriman, who had been widowed in September 2001, had his hands full with his two sons. Especially now that he, his children, and the entire embassy staff were all basically under house arrest by the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service.

The spring term at l’Ecole du Roi du Soleil had just ended, the boys were home for the summer, and it looked to be a long one. The children had grown accustomed to having the run of the three-acre embassy grounds and the many beautiful Parisian parks beyond their walls. Now, since the tragic events involving Ambassador Slade’s family in Maine, the boys suddenly found themselves confined to the house itself. It was a lovely old mansion just off the Bois de Boulogne in the heart of Paris; but it was not nearly big enough to contain Duncan and Zachary Merriman.

“You can’t run, you’re dead!” Duncan screamed as his brother dove for cover behind a large upholstered sofa. “Tu es mort, tu es mort!”

Zachary popped up from behind the couch and squeezed off a stream at his brother.

“Au putant! It was only a flesh wound,” Zachary laughed at his brother.

“Yeah, right,” Duncan grinned, “the flesh right between your eyes!” Duncan then charged, aimed his gun and fired back.

“Christ,” McIntosh muttered. He didn’t blame the kids. He’d raised two boys himself. Twins. Those long Wisconsin winters were a nightmare for a couple of cooped-up ten-year-old kids. He could escape to his ice-fishing hut out on the frozen Lake Wausau, but the boys—

“Duncan, enough! Ça suffit!” Mlle. Delacroix shouted, and McIntosh saw Duncan had nailed her, a big wet spot right on her red Chanel fanny. She turned and grabbed the back of Duncan’s T-shirt to prevent him from running away. “Behave! Both of you! What is the matter with you?”

“Cabin fever!” Zachary shouted from his hiding place behind the sofa. “That’s what Papa says we’ve all got! Cabin fever!”

Zachary popped up from behind the sofa and trained his weapon on Delacroix. “You let my brother go or I’ll blast you!”

“You can’t shoot her, son, she’s Swiss,” McIntosh said mildly, enjoying himself for the first time all day.

“Zachary Merriman!” a deep voice boomed from the doorway. “You come out from behind that sofa immediately! I told you no waterguns inside. And, Duncan, apologize to Miss Delacroix. You, too, Zach. Now!”

Duke Merriman strode into the room. He was lanky, six-five, and elegantly attired in an English bespoke navy three-piece with a dark tie. He had the same white-blond hair and bright blue eyes as his two sons. Born and bred Boston Brahmin from Beacon Hill and no mistaking it. “Zachary, you’ve got two seconds to come out from behind that sofa!”

“Oui, Papa,” the boy said, and edged his way out.

“Now, both of you, apologize,” Merriman said.

“Sorry, Mademoiselle Delacroix,” the boys said in unison, with a singsong cadence devoid of sincerity.

Duke scowled at his two boys.

“Now, both of you upstairs to your rooms and get dressed. Blazers and ties. White shirts. Hair combed. Nanny will help you. Daddy is giving a press conference in fifteen minutes and you two are going to be standing right beside me looking, hopefully, like proper little gentlemen. And you’re not going to say a single word, comprenezvous? Sans un mot.”

“Oui, Papa,” the boys said, and ran shouting and laughing from the room. “Sans un mot! Sans un mot!”

“Sorry about that, Miss Delacroix,” Merriman said, as he and McIntosh watched her twisting around and bending from the waist, trying to dry off her soaking wet derriere with a small linen handkerchief clearly unsuited to the purpose.

McIntosh, trying to hide a smile, got to his feet. “Boys will be boys, Mr. Ambassador, it’s only water,” he said. “We used to mix it with India ink when I was a kid. Now that would be a problem for Miss Delacroix here.”

He cast a quick glance at the pertinent posterior and earned himself a look from Delacroix. He ignored it. “Mr. Ambassador, at the risk of getting my ass kicked the hell out of here, I really wish there was some way I could convince you to reconsider this press conference. It’s not too late. We have some remarks prepared by Madame Secretary’s own staff that make your point but stop just short of—” He saw the look in Merriman’s eyes and gave up. “Anyway, sir, the Secretary herself called me early this morning and said—”

“With all due respect, McIntosh,” Merriman interrupted, “I know exactly what she said. God knows, she’s said it often enough to me. And I understand your position, and I actually sympathize with it. Your department has an outstanding record, and you are clearly just doing your jobs. However, I have deep convictions about this current situation and I feel it is my duty to our country to express them publicly. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Ambassador Merriman strode from the room on his long legs, not waiting for any reply. McIntosh sat back down in his chair.

Monique Delacroix grabbed the remote and flipped on the large-screen television mounted within the bookcase. She then collapsed into the armchair, crossing her long legs and facing the security man. They regarded each other in silence for a few moments.

McIntosh let out a long breath of air. “You know something, Miss Delacroix? I took a bullet for Secretary Albright in Uzbekistan back in 2000. I was attached to the SD then, the Secretary’s Detail. I’ve been around the planet fifteen times, foiled an attempt by Moroccan terrorists to dump cyanide in the water supply of our embassy in Rome, pulled smoking bodies out of three embassy bombings, and helped prevent about two hundred more.”

“The great American hero.”

“Yeah? Well. First time in the line of duty I ever got caught in a firefight by two American kids with friggin’ waterguns.”

“I am the one who got caught, not you.”

“Ironic, ain’t it? You being so neutral and all.”

They stared at each other in silence a moment, and then McIntosh, looking at his watch, said, “It’s almost noon. Turn on CNN and let’s watch this goddamn press conference.”

The camera went from a wide shot of the ambassador and his two well-scrubbed children to a tight shot of Merriman as he took the podium emblazoned with the Great Seal of the United States. The sun was shining and the red rhododendron bushes in the background made the embassy gardens a colorful backdrop.

“Bonjour et bienvenue,” Merriman said into the microphone and smiled, acknowledging a smattering of applause. He’d long been popular with the French press corps, primarily because of his unwavering candor and reputation for never ducking the issues.

“Freedom and fear are at war. And fear will not win. I’ve invited my two sons, Zachary and Duncan, to join me here in the garden this morning,” he began, “for a very specific reason. It’s the first time they’ve been allowed out in the sunshine in over two weeks.”

He paused here, looked back, smiled at his beaming sons, and then continued.

“The reason? Fear. As you all know, American diplomats and their families around the world are under attack. Five colleagues have died tragically in the last month alone. As a result of this unprecedented attack on America’s diplomatic corps, embassy and consulate personnel and their families have been forced to retreat behind closed doors. There is a wholly justifiable sense of fear among many. I have enormous sympathy for them. But I believe such fears are in direct conflict with all America stands for. Freedom. Autonomy. Free will. Independence. The simple everyday pursuit of happiness. The very people who represent those precious notions around the world have been forced to take cover. I find this unacceptable. I lost my wife on September 11th. My boys lost their mother. That is war. But, when American diplomats go into hiding, freedom has lost and fear has won this war. This American ambassador, for one, refuses to live in fear of the terrorists. I believe that it is the raison d’être of every ambassador to walk freely among the people of the host country, hear their concerns and understand them firsthand. My family and I will pursue our lives normally, we will not be cowed, and we will let the world see that the heart and spirit of the American diplomatic community remains unbroken. That terrorism shall not prevail. That we will walk in sunshine every day of our lives, and may God have mercy on those who would try to prevent us from doing so. Thank you all very much. Look up there, boys. Here comes the sun. Let’s go for a walk along the river.”

“Holy Christ,” McIntosh said, hitting the mute button on the remote.

Delacroix said, “Show me the American diplomat who hides behind his walls and his guards after this speech, and I show you cowards. It was brilliant.”

“No,” the DSS man replied, rubbing his face in his hands. “It was suicidal.” The secretary should have recalled the man to Washington. Now how the hell were he and his men scattered around the planet supposed to do their jobs? The task had just grown exponentially more difficult. McIntosh was suddenly tired beyond exhaustion.

“Suicide, Agent McIntosh?” she said, reaching into her purse and fishing around for her cigarettes. “Why do you say something so ridiculous?”

“Look, he’s taking questions. The press is going to have a field day.”

McIntosh grimaced, hit the mute button again and the sound resumed. The press was clearly excited, smelling blood here.

“Mr. Ambassador,” a Fox News reporter at the rear of the crowd shouted, “Your remarks are clearly a departure from what we’ve been hearing out of Washington. Does the secretary of state approve of your position? We are hearing, sir, that she definitely does not.”

“I have expressed my personal views to the secretary. I am sure—Excuse me. Something is—Jesus Christ!”

Merriman staggered back from the podium, bending as if to untie his shoes. There was thick white smoke around his feet, seeming to come from the sole of one of his shoes, his right shoe.

“Holy God!” McIntosh screamed at the television, jumping to his feet. “Willie Pete!”

“What?” Delacroix said.

“White phosphorus!” the man yelled over his shoulder as he crashed, shattering wood and glass, through the French doors leading to the garden. Delacroix remained seated, her eyes glued to the television. Like her own eyes, the screen was filled with madness.

Merriman rolled on the ground in agony. The DSS agents were screaming at the press and embassy staff to get back. Every agent knew white phosphorus, colloquially referred to as Willie Pete, when he saw it, knew it had a six-second fuse and a casualty radius of thirty yards or more. They also knew the chemical ignited upon contact with air and instantaneously reached a temperature of three thousand degrees, enough to burn through steel armor.

An aide, who’d been standing just behind the ambassador, had the large pitcher of water from the podium and was approaching Merriman. Zachary and Duncan were frozen in place, watching in horror at the sight of their father writhing on the ground, thick white smoke streaming from his shoe.

“No!” McIntosh shouted, racing towards the aide with the pitcher. “Water is useless! You have to smother it! Christ! Get those kids out of here! Don’t let them see this!”

Merriman rolled towards his boys, his face a mask of pain. Aides were desperately trying to cover their eyes and pull them away from him, but the boys were kicking and screaming to be let go, trying to pull their arms free, looking back and crying out to their father.

Daddy! Oh, Please, Daddy! Please don’t die, Daddy…

The only possible way to extinguish white phosphorus was by smothering it. Ripping his suit coat off, knowing it was probably already too late for that, Agent Rip McIntosh dove onto Merriman, rolling with him, trying desperately to smother the goddamn Willie Pete with his jacket and his body. McIntosh was slapping at the ambassador’s shoe soles, ignoring the flecks of phosphorus already burning gaping holes in his bare palms.

That’s when the white phosphorus packed into the heels of both of Ambassador Merriman’s shoes burned completely through. Once exposed to air, it ignited into a flash of searing flame. The two Americans rolling on the ground were instantly incinerated, their bodies unrecognizable three seconds later.

The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting to every corner of the globe the image of the two screaming boys being dragged away from the charred black sticks that had once been an American ambassador and his would-be savior.

The beautiful hashishiyyun extinguished her cigarette in the crystal ashtray that bore the engraved seal of the American State Department. She rose from her chair and plucked the sprig of lily of the Valley from the buttonhole of her jacket. Tossing the fragrant flower into the ashtray, she took one final look out into the garden and then strode from the room. She made her way through the embassy, past screaming and panicked staffers, and down the service hallways leading to the kitchen. There was a small vegetable garden just outside the kitchen door. She walked through the garden and into the sycamore trees along the wall. She flung her shoulder bag over the wall, and, in a matter of seconds, Lily was over the wall herself.

Twenty minutes later she was standing at the peeling double doors of a crumbling nondescript building at the end of a dark cobblestone allée on the Ile de la Cité. The door cracked open and a tall woman in magenta let her inside the shadowy foyer. It was the beautiful Aubergine. High priestess of the hashishiyyun safe house in Paris.