Kill Shot

The big man immediately released Rapp’s arm. His hands shot to his own throat, his eyes bulging in shock. Alfred stood and began stumbling backward, knocking over a table.

Rapp ignored the pain in his shoulder and scowled at Luke. “Are you done fucking around? I came to you with a serious proposal and rather than doing as we agreed, you decided to bring along this halfwit, and then you try to strong-arm me.” Rapp brought his fist up as if he might strike him.

Luke flinched and then tried to hide his concern over the fact that Rapp had so easily bested his man. Alfred had tipped over another table and chair and then managed to bounce into a streetlight, which he was now leaning against clutching his throat and gasping for air.

“He’ll be fine,” Rapp said in an irritated tone. Trying to allay some of Luke’s concern, he added, “I didn’t hit him that hard.” A moment passed while they both watched Alfred lean over and gulp for air.

“You could have killed him.”

“That’s right, but I didn’t. Now are you done fucking around?”

Luke nodded, his eyes still a bit wide from the shocking turn of events.

“This was probably for the best,” Rapp said, taking a sip of wine. “I’m easy to deal with as long as you don’t try to fuck me.” Placing his right elbow on the table, Rapp looked into Luke’s still-shocked eyes and said, “This is serious business and it’s best to know right now where we stand. You are not afraid to resort to violence and neither am I.” Rapp opened his jacket just enough to give Luke a glimpse of the black grip of his pistol. “We made a deal, and I expect you to honor that deal. If you plan on screwing me, or don’t think you are capable of honoring our arrangement, you should get up and leave right now.” Rapp released the fold of his jacket. “I don’t really care. I will find someone else if I have to.” Rapp let a beat pass. “However, I’d prefer to get this done tonight. Everything is in place. The question is, are you going to be greedy or smart?”

Ignoring the question, Luke craned his neck around and studied Alfred. He seemed to find some relief in the fact that his friend was breathing more regularly. A couple passed on the sidewalk, and for a moment it looked as if they were going to stop and help Alfred, but once they got a good look at him they decided to hurry past. Luke shook his head and turned back to Rapp. In a voice full of suspicion he asked, “Who are you?”

For most people it would have been a fairly easy question to answer. You are who you are, after all, but for Rapp his life had become something far more complicated. There were times when even he wasn’t sure who he was. He had five separate identities that he used on a regular basis and several more that were tucked away in a safe-deposit box in Switzerland. His existence had become a lie within a lie. His own brother had not a clue what he was up to, nor did any of his friends. Over the last several years he had distanced himself from all of them. Not an entirely unusual thing after graduating from college, but his reasons were different.

The kid who had grown up in Virginia and played lacrosse for Syracuse University was gone. Replaced by a killer. There was no melancholy or regrets. He was on a path he had chosen. Rapp softened his hard stare and said to Luke, “I’m someone who could make you a lot of money tonight. All I need to know is are you in or are you out, and if you’re in, I need you to play by my rules.” Rapp sat back, fished out a fresh cigarette, and lit it. After he exhaled a cloud of smoke he asked, “So what’s your answer?”

Luke did not answer right away. Rapp watched him. He knew what the other man was thinking and answered his own question for him. “Luke, if I worked for the police, why would I go through all of this when we could simply arrest you for selling drugs? This is exactly what I told you it is. You either want to make a boatload of money tonight, for very little work, or you don’t, but I need an answer right now.”

Luke regarded Rapp for a long moment before nodding. “I’m in, but I’m warning you, I have friends with the police and a very good attorney. If anything goes wrong you will be the one taking the blame. Not me.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong, Luke. Trust me.”

“Famous last words.”

Rapp cocked his head, revealing a bit of surprise. “You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

“Maybe God is trying to send you a message.”

“I don’t think so.” Rapp took off his hat and handed it to Luke. “Here, wear this. If anyone sees you, they’ll think it’s me.”

Rapp fished out the keys and a piece of paper with instructions and the codes for the security system and the safe. He went over everything with Luke and answered his questions as patiently as he could. Alfred wandered back to the table at some point and Rapp showed just enough of the pistol to get him to back off. Luke told him he would meet up with him in a few hours. When Rapp was done he pointed to his watch and said, “You have one hour. Be on time. All right?”

Luke nodded and Rapp got up and left.

CHAPTER 29

THERE were days when his job truly sucked, but this was not one of them. Tonight Stan Hurley was a happy man. He had over ten grand in his pocket and a beautiful, classy woman at his side, who he happened to have fantastic intimate memories with. The food was off the charts and the sommelier had come through with two phenomenal bottles of Bordeaux. She’d aged a bit, but so had he, and on her it looked good. Her raven black hair was shorter now, just below her ears, and she’d added a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but in a strange way it made her even sexier. That a woman could age so gracefully was something that turned Hurley on. Whether it was due to genetics or some daily regimen, he didn’t care. The end result was all that interested him, and the end result was a gorgeous forty-four-year-old woman who had never tried to place any constraints on him. There were never any games with this one. No matter how long it had been since they had seen each other, they always picked up where they’d left off. Which was dinner, lots of laughs, and great sex.

Paulette was a refined metropolitan woman who oozed confidence. She was nearly ten years younger than the rough-and-tumble Hurley, but she had a wisdom about her that Hurley had found extremely unusual for a reporter. She had pegged Hurley for a spook from almost the moment they’d met in Moscow nearly twenty years earlier. Paulette LeFevre had been a reporter back then and was stationed in Moscow, where Hurley was running around doing all kinds of bad things for the CIA. Now she had risen to the position of chief editor of Le Monde, the left-leaning French newspaper. While it was easy to classify the political bent of the newspaper, LeFevre was more complex. She was too independent to march in step with any political party and she had a contrarian streak in her that, depending on her mood, made her either predictable or unpredictable. She had been raised an only child by two devout communists who had thoroughly indoctrinated her into the utopian ways of the Soviet form of governance. She was raised in a commune an hour outside of Lyon where she had grown up speaking both French and Russian. Her parents had taken her on multiple trips behind the Iron Curtain, and she had watched them lie to themselves and their friends about how much better life was under the benign, velvet glove of the Politburo. When she was eleven they were having a picnic in Gorky Park in Moscow with several families from the commune who were all extolling the virtues of centralized planning and shared sacrifice when Paulette’s mother announced that she needed to use the bathroom. She then asked one of their companions for the communal roll of toilet paper. The future reporter looked up at her mother and said, “If communism is so great, then why do we have to bring our own toilet paper everywhere we go?” It was one of Hurley’s favorite stories. He’d spent drunken weekends arguing with entrenched communists and gotten nowhere, but somehow an eleven-year-old girl had managed to break the debate down to the most basic level. How could one form of government be superior to another when it couldn’t even keep its public restrooms supplied with toilet paper?

Hurley smiled at her and thought back to their first meeting. It was at a party in Moscow hosted by the French Embassy. LeFevre, with shoulder-length shiny black hair, was dressed in a pair of form-fitting black pants, a white blouse, and a pair of black leather riding boots. From Hurley’s vantage she looked to have the nicest ass he’d ever laid eyes on. She was an intoxicating combination of simple and stunning at the same time. Hurley couldn’t resist her pull and began to make his way across the crowded room. Within an hour he had talked her into leaving the party. Unlike most foreigners, Hurley knew the local hot spots. One of the secrets of his success was that he understood the inherent economic need for a black market economy in the one-size-fits-all Eastern Bloc. Hurley specialized in getting to know the people who ran these underground markets. He’d done so in Budapest, Prague, and then Moscow. It was a world where American cash was king and the profit margins were enormous. Hurley helped these individuals set up new lines of distribution for goods, especially American ones, that were in high demand but extremely hard to come by. His wares ran the gamut from jeans, to music, to pharmaceuticals, to booze, to cars, and everything in between. The CIA was hesitant at first, but when Hurley explained that the venture would generate a profit and also enable them to find out which Communist Party officials were on the take, the powers that be back in Langley, Virginia, got out of his way.

LeFevre was amazed at the clubs he took her to. She did not think such places existed outside of Paris or New York—never in Moscow. After consuming large amounts of vodka they ended up back at Hurley’s apartment. Neither was very inhibited where sex was concerned, so they were naked within minutes. The next morning the reporter in LeFevre kicked in, and she began to ask a lot of questions. Hurley didn’t think his apartment was bugged, he knew it was bugged, and the people who bugged it knew that he knew. That was the way the game was played. After a few hand gestures he got her to understand that it wasn’t safe to talk in the apartment, so they went for a walk, and it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship that to Hurley’s great surprise ended up being about much more than just sex.

LeFevre was an intellectual dynamo with a tireless thirst for the truth and a mind that could quickly dissect the incongruities in an argument, movement, or philosophy. He remembered her saying on that walk, “If communism is so wonderful, then why must they force people to participate? If it is so wonderful, why do they control the press? Why do they have to spy on their own people?”

Hurley would have asked her to marry him right there on the spot, but he was already twice divorced and had come to the conclusion that marriage was not an institution he should participate in. His life was full of too many lies, too many late-night phone calls, too many sudden business trips where a long weekend turned into months away from his family, and worst of all too much death. LeFevre had somehow managed to make it work. She’d been married for eleven years and seemed to be happy, which sometimes irritated the heck out of Hurley.

He snagged a fresh cigarette and asked, “So how is your husband?”

Without bothering to look, LeFevre smacked him in the shoulder. “The last time I saw you, you promised you would put your jealous ways to bed.”

“I said I wanted to take you to bed. I never said anything about putting my jealous ways to bed.”

“You always want to take me to bed, so that is nothing new. As for my husband, he is fine.”

“And he’s home tonight . . . ?”

LeFevre folded her arms across her chest and leaned back. “Where he is, is none of your concern. I have told you before. We have an open relationship. He has his mistresses and I have you. As long as we are discreet there is not a problem.”

Hurley did his best to look wounded, and she laughed him off. “Are there any other men that I need to know about?”

“I have lost track, there have been so many, but you are definitely in the top five.”

Hurley felt his cell phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He snatched it out and looked at the caller ID. It came up as private. There was a good chance it was Stansfield. Hurley closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. He didn’t need HQ ruining a promising evening. Looking back at LeFevre, he said, “I’m sorry, where were we?”

“You were about to tell me about all the women you have been sleeping with.”

Hurley laughed. “There’s only you, baby.”

“I am not so naïve. I know you too well. You are a very thirsty man. It would be impossible for you to be so saintly in between our rendezvous.”

Hurley was about to reply when the phone began to vibrate again. He checked the small screen and again it came up as private. He grunted disapprovingly and silenced it again. These new phones would be the end of him. Hurley detested the notion of his bosses’ being able to get hold of him whenever they wanted. He was used to going days, weeks, and sometimes even months without checking in with them. These phones were nothing more than a leash, and he had known it the first time they gave him one. He closed the phone, stuffed it back in his pocket, and forced a smile on his face. “I’m sorry, darling. I hate these things.”

“You are a man of international intrigue,” she said with a thin smile. “I would imagine the call might be important.”

“Not as important as you.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.” The phone began to vibrate for a third time. The smile melted off Hurley’s face and his chin dropped in frustration.

“I don’t want to see you this way,” Paulette said. “Take your call. Get it out of the way. I will go to the washroom and when I get back you will be relaxed again.”

Hurley nodded, knowing she was right. If the phone kept ringing he might kill someone. “Thank you.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and watched her slide out of the booth. Flipping it open, he pressed the green Send button and said, “This had better be good.”

The metallic voice on the other end said, “Don’t be a prima donna. I didn’t send you over there to ignore my calls.”

It was Stansfield. “And I’ve done just fine all these years without you snapping my leash every time the wind blows.” Hurley listened to silence for a long five seconds. He hated these damn phones. The call had probably dropped. He was about to hang up when he heard an uncharacteristically angry Stansfield begin to speak.

“Things have changed,” the old warrior snapped. “I’m on my way over in the morning. I want you to pull Victor and the boys immediately . . . stick them in a hotel and tell them I don’t want them to move unless I say so. Have I made myself clear?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got things under control. I don’t need any help.”

“And I don’t need you second-guessing me. There are things you don’t know. I will explain in the morning.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing,” Stansfield said. “Consider it an order to be followed precisely, as you should have done back in Beirut all those years ago. If there are any decisions that countermand my order between now and tomorrow morning you are done. Am I understood?”

Hurley looked around the restaurant. Covering the phone and his mouth with his free hand, he asked Stansfield, “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll talk in person. Now carry out my order and give my best to Paulette.”

“How did . . .” The line went dead and Hurley pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the screen. How in hell did Stansfield know he was with Paulette? He stared at the phone for a long moment. Every instinct he had was telling him not to make the next call. Rapp was no good. He had broken every rule in their dirty little book and if he wouldn’t come in on his own, he needed to be dragged in. But Hurley had rarely if ever heard Stansfield more adamant. The individualist in him wanted to ignore his boss’s order and leave the men right where they were for another twelve hours, but Stansfield had made his intentions clear. After another moment of indecision, Hurley said, “Screw it.” He pressed the number 2 and held it down until the phone started to dial the number.

“Hello.”

“You’ve been yanked. Head back to the hotel and sit tight until I give you further orders.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Listen, dickhead. You think this is a debate club? If I wanted any shit out of you I’d come down there and squeeze your head. Pack everything up and get your ass back to the hotel, and do it now. Get some sleep, and I’ll call you in the morning.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing. Do what you’re told. End of discussion.” Hurley stabbed the red End button, flipped the phone shut, and dropped the small black device on the table. After two big gulps of wine he called the waiter over and told him he wanted a bourbon on the rocks. Why in hell would Stansfield be flying over here? he asked himself. He’d bring way too much heat. He was the damn deputy director, for Christ’s sake. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. The bourbon arrived before Paulette and Hurley took a big gulp. He was trying to sort through the different possibilities so he could put this thing out of his mind and focus on Paulette for the rest of the evening when a man approached the table. Hurley looked up, assuming he worked for the restaurant. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and was dressed in an expensive suit. As was his habit, Hurley sized up the fit of the man’s jacket for any bulges that might mean a concealed gun.

“Stan. It’s been a long time.” The man spoke in English with a French accent.

Hurley studied the face of the vaguely familiar man. It must have been the mustache. He couldn’t place him.

“I know,” the man said with an easy smile. “It’s been a long time and your reputation was far beyond mine back then.”

“I’ve been to a lot of places over the years. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Just then LeFevre returned from the washroom. “You two know each other? I should have guessed.” She eased into the semicircular booth and inched her way around until she was nestled next to Hurley. She pointed to the other side of the booth and said, “By all means join us for a drink. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.”

Hurley said, “I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea who this guy is.”

“Oh,” LeFevre said, surprised. “This is Paul Fournier. He runs the Special Action Division for the DGSE. The same spooky black bag stuff that you do. I would have thought you two would know each other.”

Hurley instantly knew the name, and it helped the face fall into place. “Shit,” he said to Fournier, “it sure as hell has been a long time. Vietnam more than twenty years ago. You were a virgin.”

Fournier smiled. “We all have to start somewhere.”

Hurley vividly remembered the brutal interrogation he’d conducted all those years ago. “You weren’t squeamish like the rest of those pussies.”

“That has never been a problem for me. The ends almost always justify the means.”

Hurley held up his glass and gave him a salute.

“Sit,” LeFevre commanded. After she flagged down a waiter, she asked for another glass and ordered another bottle of wine. “Paul,” she said to Fournier, “I get the feeling that you have some things you’d like to discuss with my friend.” She hooked her arm around Hurley’s.

“Men like us can always find something useful to talk about.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but I know you well enough that I think it highly improbable that you just happened to wander into this particular restaurant tonight.”

Fournier shrugged as if to say guilty as charged.

“I am very possessive of Stan. I do not get to see him often enough, so I am going to sit here and quietly listen to the two of you share state secrets. I give you both my word that none of what I hear will be published until I write my memoirs in thirty years. If you cannot abide by that, I suggest the two of you meet for breakfast tomorrow. Are we all in agreement?”

Fournier laughed. “Yes. We are in agreement. I would not want to ruin your evening. Although, Paulette, you do not have to go to America to find your lovers. There are plenty of men here in Paris who would jump at the chance to worship you. In fact I would place myself at the top of the list.”

The congenial smile melted from Hurley’s face. “Listen here, douche bag. I don’t give a fuck where you work. One more comment like that and I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth and shove it up your ass.”

Paulette squeezed his leg under the table and said, “Darling, there is no reason to get angry. Paul is merely trying to pay you a compliment. Aren’t you, Paul?”

Fournier did not answer. He remained locked in a staring contest with Hurley. He knew Hurley was capable of extreme violence, but then again this was not the jungles of Southeast Asia. This was Paris. It was his city. “As my friends will tell you, I am exceedingly polite. My enemies, though, will sing you a different song.” Fournier tilted his head to the side and asked, “Are you my friend, Stan, or are you my enemy?”

Hurley didn’t blink. “I stopped taking applications for friends years ago. I’m full up.”

“Surely you have room for one more . . . or at least a professional acquaintance.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you’re going to drop your little bullshit charade and get down to business, or keep blowing smoke up my ass.”

Fournier smiled. “Fair enough.”

The waiter arrived with a fresh glass and new bottle. He poured a taste for Fournier, and after it was approved, he poured more into the glass, set the bottle down, and retreated. Fournier took a drink and placed the glass on the white tablecloth, holding the stem between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Looking across the table at Hurley, he asked, “So what brings you to my beautiful city?”

“Just a little sightseeing, and Paulette, of course.”

Fournier laughed. “You’ll have to excuse me for being so blunt, but I think it is you who are blowing smoke up my ass.”

Hurley smiled in return, but inside he was boiling. Stansfield had pulled the plug on Victor, he’d announced he was flying over in the morning, and now this suit from DGSE had shown up. Individually, none of it was good, taken together, it was a mess, and now he had to dick around with this asshole for God only knew how long before he and Paulette could be alone. A night that had started out with such great promise appeared to be going to shit.

CHAPTER 30

THE alley was dark and narrow, six feet wide at one end and just four at the other. It was one of those antiquated paths that made sense before the invention of the internal combustion engine. Back in the day, a horse could have pulled a small cart down the alley to collect garbage and make deliveries. Today the garbagemen drove a three-wheeled scooter down the alley to collect the refuse.

Rapp had seen them do it and was fascinated by how they adapted. Growing up in the suburbs of D.C., all he’d ever seen were big lumbering garbage trucks with a massive steel maul in the back that swallowed and compacted the refuse as it rolled through the spacious neighborhoods. Paris was older and more cramped by American standards, but compared to many of Europe’s other gems it was downright spacious. At night, the space was like a tunnel, but Rapp wasn’t worried. This was a gentrified neighborhood, and if he happened to run into a criminal it would be the other man’s unlucky night, not his.

He took one last look around and then disappeared into the darkness. He had been in the apartment before. It had been a breach of protocol, or least not reporting it had been. In just one year’s time in the field Rapp had grown tired of the tedious aspects of his job. He also had a healthy skepticism of the one-way street that ran between him and his handlers in Virginia. While they kept him in the dark on a great many things, he was supposed to report to Kennedy the minutiae of his relatively mundane life. When he was on the hunt things were different, of course, but here in Paris, where he cooled his heels between assignments, his life was as boring as the average Joe’s.

Kennedy wanted weekly reports that contained, among other things, the particulars of any person Rapp came in contact with. Her fear was that another intelligence agency would target him for surveillance and possibly try to turn him or worse eliminate him. There was one other concern, but until recently, Rapp hadn’t thought it was possible. Kennedy feared that a terrorist organization, possibly with the help of a friendly state security service, would somehow ensnare him, torture him, and then show the world that the hated Satan employed assassins. The video would then end with them slicing his throat and Rapp drowning in his own blood.

Rapp reached the back entrance, and he could just barely make out Greta in the faint glow of the streetlights. He reached out and touched her arm, asking, “Any trouble?”

“No. I parked right where you showed me, waited until the right time, and walked straight here.”

“Good.” Rapp extracted the key and slid it into the brass lock with a steady hand. He turned, pushed, and stepped into a small back landing that smelled of equal parts garbage and bleach. Greta followed on his heels and the spring-loaded door closed quietly behind them. Rapp paused and listened for any noises that would tell him someone was moving about on the floors above them.

The next door was metal with glass on the top half. It had been painted the same cream color so many times to cover up the scuff marks from furniture, luggage, grocers’ carts, and garbage and whatever else people hauled in and out the service door that the paint was uneven and lumpy, especially at the bottom. Rapp nudged the door open and looked up the winding back staircase. There was another staircase at the front of the building and a small elevator as well. He was greeted with silence, so he motioned for Greta to follow and started up the carpeted stairs two at a time.

There was a simple reason he had decided to ignore Kennedy’s orders. If they could keep secrets from him, he could keep secrets from them. Besides, something had told Rapp that this place might come in handy one day. He reached the second floor and moved quietly but quickly down the length of the hallway to the last door on the right. The key was out and Rapp slid it into the old lock without hesitation. His greatest fear at this point was a nosy neighbor. He knew the key would work, because he had tried it before. The deadbolt opened with a faint click and Rapp turned the handle and stepped into the apartment. Greta was close behind. Rapp softly shut the door and did not reach for the light switch. Instead he stood there and listened. He was almost certain the owners weren’t home, but he wanted to know if anyone was moving about in the hallway.

Rapp had already filled Greta in on the owners of the apartment. It belonged to the McMahons, Bob and Teresa. Rapp had run into big Bob McMahon at Le Ponte Café five months before. A snobbish French waiter was doing his best to not understand McMahon’s simple order. Rapp had seen it before. Because he was fluent in French, it wasn’t a problem for him, but it was not uncommon for a bored waiter to pretend that he didn’t understand a thing that an American patron was trying to say. At first Rapp found it a bit amusing himself, until he thought about the number of Americans who passed through Paris daily and who by staying a bit, sightseeing and eating, pumped millions of dollars into the Parisian economy.

The big American looked as if he was about to grab the waiter by the scruff of the neck and drag him over the counter, so Rapp stepped in and translated McMahon’s order for him. The waiter snorted and marched off. McMahon turned to Rapp and asked, “What just happened?”

Rapp switched to English and said, “He understands English. He was just jerking you around. I told him to knock it off and get you what you wanted or I’d never tip him again.”

McMahon laughed, thanked Rapp, and then asked him where he was from. Rapp told him Orlando. It was part of his legend that Kennedy had meticulously prepared. Orlando was vanilla. People visited, but were hard-pressed to actually know anyone who grew up in the city that Disney had built. The metropolitan area had grown from several hundred thousand people to over a million in just two decades and it was still expanding. Tourism and retirement communities were the anchors of the local economy, and they both attracted a lot of workers from out of state. It was also home to the University of Central Florida, the second-largest university in America behind Arizona State University, which according to Rapp’s legend was his alma mater. The fast growth of the population and the transient nature of the workforce gave Rapp a near ideal cover.

The best way to protect a legend, though, was not to sit around and answer questions. You needed to turn the tables and be the one asking the questions. Rapp had found out Bob had helped build Target Corp into the successful company that it was today and that now he was retired with a boatload of stock options and a wife who wanted to live in Paris and travel across Europe. Bob wasn’t so keen on the idea, but then again she’d raised the kids and held the family together while he was off expanding one of America’s most successful retail chains.

Over the ensuing months Rapp would occasionally bump into McMahon and his wife, Teresa, or Tibby as she was known to her friends. More often than not Bob, bored out of his mind, would jump at the chance to, as he put it, talk to someone who was normal. They invited him over for dinner and Rapp was trying to figure out a way to get out of it when Bob pointed up and showed Rapp where their apartment was located. It was directly across the street from the front entrance to Rapp’s apartment. Even back then Rapp realized that this place could come in handy. The rest was easy. He showed up for dinner with a bottle of wine and some flowers and while they were busy finishing the meal Rapp made an imprint of the key.

He and Greta walked through the dark apartment to the living room and the window that looked down onto Rapp’s stoop. They stopped a few paces from the window and Rapp said, “We don’t want to get too close.”

“I know, you told me. Even though the lights are off, they might be able to see us.”

Rapp angled to the left so he could see down the length of the diagonal street where the surveillance van was parked.

“How do you know these people won’t just show up at their apartment?”

Rapp kept his eyes on the van. “Because the only thing Tibby loves more than this apartment is the fact that her first grandchild was born last week. They flew home for two weeks. Bob hopes longer.”

“How much longer?”

“Forever, I think.”

Greta moved behind him and looked around his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

“That van, halfway down the block.”

“The black one?”

“Yep.”

“You think there are men in it?”

“Pretty sure.” Rapp’s eyes were scanning the roofline across the street.

“So what do we do?”

“You’re going to go stand on the other side of the window so you have a good view of anyone approaching from the east, and we’re going to wait for the show to start.”

CHAPTER 31

BRAMBLE was about to shove his fist through twenty-five grand worth of electronics. Why the hell was Hurley pulling him? They were on the same page. He was as gung ho to catch the little fucker as Bramble was. Rapp was an arrogant, reckless little prick and Bramble had asked for point and Hurley had given it to him. He’d been waiting for more than a year for his chance and he sure as hell wasn’t going to fold up shop and go sit in some hotel bar and wait for orders.

What could have changed Hurley’s mind? Bramble wondered. He started sorting through possibilities, and pretty quickly realized that it wasn’t what, but who. It had to be someone high up on the food chain. In fact there was only one man Bramble could think of who issued Hurley orders. It was Thomas Stansfield, but the last Bramble had heard, Stansfield was on board with yanking Rapp’s leash.

That meant Stansfield had been given some information that they weren’t privy to, or someone had intervened on Rapp’s behalf. Bramble rapped his scarred knuckles on the small metal shelf that created the base of the surveillance console and sifted through the possibilities. His mind stuck on one person. She was a royal pain in the ass and Bramble couldn’t understand for the life of him why she had anything to do with their unit. He’d heard she was smart, but he had yet to see any proof of it. All she did was get in their way and thwart Hurley at nearly every turn. She was the one who had found Rapp, recruited him, and forced him onto the team. Bramble couldn’t understand it, and in a moment of frustration he’d asked Hurley why he put up with the stupid cunt.

Hurley’s reaction had been swift and decisive. He stepped toward Bramble without a hint of violence and kicked him so hard in the groin that Bramble collapsed into the fetal position and stayed there for five full minutes. After that, he never brought Irene Kennedy up to Hurley again. She continued to meddle in their training, selection, and deployments, though, and Bramble watched with increasing irritation as she seemed to have her way with every major decision. The only reason was that she worked at Langley and had Stansfield’s ear. After they were all placed on the sidelines and Rapp was given free rein to start taking out targets, Bramble was on the verge of quitting. He’d rather freelance, or move out to Hollywood and start tagging a little ass while pretending to protect some teenage superstar from imagined killers. He’d heard there was a lot of money to be made, but he also suspected he’d end up killing someone. It was one thing to smoke some turd in a Third World shithole. That was like going on safari. Do it in the United States, though, and he was likely to end up behind bars.

Fortunately, Hurley had talked him out of it. He assured him that Rapp would stumble, and more than likely, he’d stumble in a spectacular fashion, and when that happened they would move in and clean up the mess. And by clean up the mess, Bramble took Hurley to mean that he would be allowed to kill the little shit and end this dumb-ass experiment.

Bramble had heard the arguments between Hurley, Kennedy, and that faggot shrink Lewis. Kennedy had created this problem, and Lewis and God himself Thomas Stansfield had abetted her. The shrink was worthless. If any of them needed to talk about their feelings they were in the wrong line of work. Kennedy was nothing more than a glorified desk jockey with a hold over Hurley that he couldn’t understand. And Bramble had spent far too much time trying to figure it out. The only thing he could come up with was that Kennedy had caught Hurley doing something so embarrassing that he had no choice but to back down every time there was a confrontation. Ultimately though, it was Stansfield who was the problem. He was a damn relic from way back when. Rumor was he’d been OSS during World War II and had parachuted into France and then Norway, and Bramble could give a shit. So the guy knew how to cross-country ski, operate a ham radio, and live off pine needles and tree bark—big deal. The fossil needed to be put out to pasture and let guys like Hurley run the show.

None of it made any sense to Bramble, not then and especially not now. Based on what had happened over the past thirty-six-plus hours, Hurley’s order to stand down seemed downright stupid.

“Was that Stan?”

Bramble slowly turned his head to look at Steve McGuirk. “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

McGuirk smiled and asked, “Does that hurt?”

“Does what hurt?” Bramble asked.

“Thinking.”

Bramble was in no mood for McGuirk’s smartass attitude. He sprang from his chair and smashed the smaller man against the back of the driver’s carriage. “Did I somehow give you the impression that I was in the mood to listen to your bullshit today? Because I’m not.”

McGuirk was wiry and strong, but in such close quarters he was no match for Victor’s size. He wedged his right arm up under the bigger Bramble’s and pushed back just enough so he could breathe. “You need to lighten up, Victor.”

“I don’t think so. I think I’m done taking your shit. I think I’m going to tell Stan to cut your ass loose. What do you think of that? Or maybe I’ll just break your fucking neck right now.” Bramble felt something hard press against his back.

Todd Borneman, the third man in the van, held his silenced pistol against Bramble’s lower spine. “Take your hands off, Steve, or I’m going to lodge a hollow-tipped bullet in your spine, and you can spend the rest of your life wearing a diaper.”

Bramble slowly backed off, holding his hands up in the air. Borneman was former Delta, the kind of guy who measured his words very carefully. If he said he’d shoot him, Bramble wasn’t about to doubt him.

McGuirk sat up straight and said, “You’re a real prick, Victor. We’re on a fucking stakeout, for Christ’s sake. Take a joke.”

Bramble looked at McGuirk and then Borneman, who still had his gun out. “Sorry . . . I’m frustrated. Put that thing away,” he said to Borneman.

Borneman pointed the gun at the floor, but kept it out. “Who was that on the phone?”

Bramble considered lying but decided it would do little good. “It was Stan.”

“What did he want?”

“Nothing.”

McGuirk shook his head and said, “So you were pissed off about nothing. You’re so full of shit.”

Victor wished Borneman would put his gun away so he could slug the shit out of McGuirk. “He wants us to hang out here for another hour or two and then head back to the hotel and wait for orders.”

“And what could be so bad about that?” Borneman asked.

“This is our only lead. That little prick is going to show up eventually, and we need to be here. Not sitting on our asses back at the hotel.”

Borneman cocked his head an inch to the right and asked, “Why do you hate him so much?”

“Who . . . Rapp?”

“Who else would he be asking about, you mental midget?” McGuirk snapped. This time he was ready, sitting on the edge of his seat, ready to move if Victor came after him a second time.

Bramble stifled his anger and ignored McGuirk. Looking at Borneman he said, “It’s a long story. There’s a lot of stuff you two don’t know about. Stuff Stan hasn’t shared with you.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with him breaking your arm . . . would it?” Borneman hadn’t been there that day, but he’d heard the story. Victor was a real prick, especially to the new recruits. Hurley had come up with the idea to insert Victor among the recruits so he could gain their confidence and then trip them up. Supposedly Rapp had seen right through it, and when given the chance he removed Victor from the equation. As far as Borneman could see, Rapp had only done what everyone else had dreamed of doing.

“He should have been washed out because of that. Even Stan says so.”

“Did Stan say that before or after Rapp saved his life?” McGuirk asked.

“Don’t believe every rumor you hear. Stan was doing just fine on his own. If anything he saved Rapp’s life.”

“That’s bullshit,” Borneman said. “I was part of the extraction team. Stan was too fucked up to walk. Rapp saved his ass and all you two can do is bitch about him.”

“And I’m telling you,” Victor said, leaning forward, no longer caring that Borneman had a gun in his hand, “there’s a lot of shit you don’t know. I have orders to kill him if he so much as looks like he’s going to run.”

“And why haven’t we been given those orders?” McGuirk asked.

“Because you’re on the bottom of the totem pole.”

“Does Irene know about this order?” Borneman asked.

“How the fuck would I know? Stan doesn’t read me in on every aspect of every order.”

“This is going to be interesting.”

“What?”

“Kennedy’s on her way over.” Borneman checked his watch. “She’s due to land within the hour.”

Just the mention of her name soured Bramble’s already foul mood. That must be why Hurley was pulling the plug. If Bramble could only figure out a way to kill both Kennedy and Rapp. He was at the beginning of exploring that fantasy when the surveillance console began to beep. Bramble spun around in his chair, his heart already picking up the pace. His eyes flashed to the blinking light on the panel. The motion sensor in the front hallway of the apartment had been tripped.

Bramble’s eyes darted from one monitor to the next.

“What is it?” McGuirk asked.

“While you two ladies were asking a thousand questions and distracting me, someone walked up the front steps, climbed one flight of stairs, and is now poking around the apartment.”

“How do you know it wasn’t the back door?” McGuirk asked.

“I don’t, so why don’t you get over here and find out how he got in.”

McGuirk stood in front of the far side of the console and began typing in commands and winding dials. A few seconds later they had footage of a man walking up the front steps of the building and into the entryway.

“That’s him,” Bramble announced.

“Are you sure?” Borneman asked.

“I’d put a million bucks on it.” Bramble’s eyes danced over the other monitors. McGuirk and Borneman traded an oh fuck expression.

“Damn!” Bramble grabbed a radio and an earpiece. “You two shitheads stay right here and don’t move a fucking muscle unless I tell you to do so. Am I clear?”

Both men nodded, McGuirk a little more enthusiastically than Borneman.

“Good, and if I call for the van be ready to move!” Victor suddenly had the beginnings of a plan forming. He clipped the radio to his hip and ran a wire up the inside of his brown leather jacket. After wrapping the coil around the back of his ear, he wedged the little flesh-colored earpiece into position. Bramble turned up the volume and did a quick radio check. The last thing he did was tell them to give him constant updates on what was going on inside the apartment, and then he was out the back door of the van like a shot.

CHAPTER 32

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TWO suits from diplomatic security were posted at the front door of the five-story brownstone. Their black Suburban was parked directly in front of the house between two orange cones meant to keep the space available 24/7 for the men and women who babysat the secretary of state. Security here in the United States wasn’t a big deal. The biggest threat on a weekly basis was the Georgetown students who wandered past late at night smashed out of their minds. Always loud and short on common sense, they sometimes thought it was a good idea to stop in front of Secretary Wilson’s house and try to bait the security personnel. The men and women on the detail were professionals, but every once in a while they had to strong-arm someone on their way.

Cooke paid the two men more than a passing glance as he drove past looking for a parking place. If he became the director of the CIA he’d have his own security detail. As the deputy director he was on his own. Thomas Stansfield, who was his subordinate, had a security team, and while Cooke had never said a word to anybody, it irritated him that he didn’t have one, too. He outranked Stansfield, after all. Cooke had heard the reasons. The detail had been in place long before he’d become deputy director. It had something to do with the number of threats that Stansfield received and the consensus that he knew more state secrets than any other person in Washington and that it wouldn’t do to have him kidnapped and interrogated.

Having a security team in Washington was a real status symbol. Only the most important players received around-the-clock protection. The president and vice president, of course, the secretary of state, secretary of defense, director of the FBI, and Thomas Stansfield. From time to time other cabinet-level people would receive protection, but only if they’d received a specific threat. Cooke hated it that Stansfield was part of that rarefied club. He decided that the moment he became director he would yank Stansfield’s detail. And then with Wilson’s help, he’d force Stansfield to retire and put one of his own people in charge of Operations. Someone whom he could control. Someone who understood loyalty.

On his third pass Cooke gave up on finding a spot and decided he would wedge his Volvo into the short driveway that led to the heavy lacquered black garage door of Wilson’s house. He wasn’t blocking the street, but the back end of his wagon made the sidewalk nearly impassable. It wasn’t the ideal spot, but Cooke was in a hurry. He needed to have this meeting with Wilson, head back to the office to check on a few things, and then pack for France. They had an early flight. Cooke looked through his windshield at the two bodyguards on the front stoop. They both had brown hair, but one of them had more of it. Both men had casually opened their suit coats and placed their hands on their sidearms. Cooke knew he should have called ahead, but he wanted to surprise Wilson.

Cooke got out of the car. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a gray hooded sweatshirt that had Harvard Crew stenciled in crimson across the front. He put his right hand on the shiny red hull of the scull he had strapped to the hood of his car, looked up at the bodyguards, and said, “Guys, Deputy Director Cooke here. I need to have a brief word with the secretary. Is it okay if I leave my car here?”

The men exchanged a brief look and one of them said, “I’m sorry . . . who did you say you were?”

“Deputy Director Cooke.”

It was obvious by the way the two men looked at each other that they had no idea who they were talking to. “I’m sorry, which agency, sir?”

You’ve got to be kidding me, Cooke thought. “CIA,” he said with an impatient face. “Please tell the secretary it’s rather urgent.”

The one with more hair disappeared into the house while the other one stayed at his post. He looked down at the visitor and asked, “Do you have any identification on you, sir?”

Cooke shook his head and thought, How is it that these simpletons have no idea who I am? “Sorry, I don’t carry my wallet with me when I’m rowing.” Cooke patted his scull like a proud father. “And leaving it in the car isn’t very bright, is it?”

The man didn’t respond. He just stared at Cooke with a suspicious glare and wondered what kind of person drove around D.C. without any identification. A deputy director at the CIA should have more common sense. A few moments later his partner popped his head out of the door and the two exchanged a few words. The one who was losing the follicle battle motioned for Cooke to approach. Cooke swung around the back of his car and started up the steps. There were five of them, made out of the same brick as the house, and then a landing, a left turn, and five more steps. The front stoop was big enough for the three of them to stand comfortably, or at least so Cooke thought, until Mr. Male Pattern Baldness ordered him to raise his hands so he could frisk him.

“You’re kidding me,” Cooke said, irritated by the request. “I run the CIA. The secretary and I talk all the time.”

The bodyguard remained unfazed by the information. “If you run the CIA, where is your security detail?”

Now Cooke was really bothered. Who the hell did this rent-a-suit think he was, asking him questions? Staring the man down, Cooke lied. “I gave them the day off.”

The man considered the response for a moment. It didn’t make a lot of sense. The CIA was a serious place, with serious threats. Why would any sane man give his security detail the day off? “No disrespect, sir, but I don’t know you, you don’t have an appointment, and you don’t have any identification. My job is to protect the secretary, period. If I were to let a complete stranger into this house I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?”

Myriad retorts flashed across his mind, most of them involving Cooke putting the man in his place and insulting his intellect, but in the end he decided that making a scene on the secretary’s front stoop was unwise, so he raised his arms and allowed the guy to run his hands up and down his body.

When they were done checking everything but the deepest recesses of his groin, Cooke was escorted into the house. The second bodyguard told him they were to wait in the foyer. The two men stood on the black and white checked marble floor in silence for a few minutes until the secretary came down the long staircase. He was dressed in a pair of charcoal gray, wool dress pants, with a white button-down shirt, and he’d traded in the yellow cardigan from yesterday for a red one.

“Paul . . . two days in a row. Something must be very urgent.”

“Sorry, Franklin, but I’m off to Paris in the morning and I thought it would be a good idea if we discussed a few things.”

Wilson stopped on the far side of the foyer and eyed his visitor. He looked as if he might have been napping. “Paris . . . does this have anything to do with what we discussed the other day?”

“Yes.” Cooke gave the bodyguard a sideways glance and Wilson took the hint.

“Why don’t we go downstairs?”

“I think that would be a good idea.” Cooke crossed the foyer.

The two men proceeded down the long hallway to the kitchen. Wilson opened the door to the basement, flipped a light switch, and then motioned for Cooke to go ahead. The secretary followed and closed the door behind him.

Cooke watched the older man go through the same routine he’d been through the day before. He went behind the bar, opened a panel, and pressed several buttons. A few seconds later the sound of a string quartet drifted down from the ceiling speakers. After that Wilson grabbed two lowballs, tossed in a few ice cubes, and filled them with scotch. Cooke was about to protest. He had work to do, and the middle of a Sunday was no time to start drinking, but Franklin Wilson was not the type of man to be rebuffed. It was better to take the drink and baby it.

Wilson came out from behind the bar with a glass in each hand and gestured toward the two leather club chairs on each side of the fireplace. Apparently there would be no billiards today. “If I’d known you were stopping by, I would have had a fire going.” Wilson handed Cooke his scotch on the rocks and after both men were seated he asked, “So what’s on your mind?”

“As I said, I’m headed to Paris in the morning.”

“Yes, what’s that all about?”

“A couple of things. I want to see my people at our embassy and get a sense of their morale.” Cooke looked at his drink and added, “I also have a meeting with some of my contacts at the DGSE.”

“French Intelligence?” Wilson asked with an arched brow.

Cooke nodded. “As you can imagine, they’re not very happy about the current situation.”

“Have they told you who they think was behind the attack?”

“No,” Cook answered with a shake of his head, “but there are certain things in my business that we’re loath to discuss over the phone.”

“Of course.” Wilson took a gulp from his drink and sighed as it warmed his throat. “Do you have a sense, though, that they might have some leads?”

“Apparently it’s turned into a spook convention in Paris and everyone is a suspect.”

“And Stansfield?”

“He’s flying over with me.”

Wilson stared at his visitor for a moment. “Your idea or his?”

“Mine. I thought it would be a good idea to get him out of his element. I have some surveillance teams set up to follow him. If he does anything unusual or meets with anyone of interest we’ll know.”

“Sounds like a good idea. What else?”

Cooke took a tiny sip and said, “Hurley showed up.”

Wilson edged forward in his seat. “Interesting. Where is he?”

“Paris . . . DGSE has him under surveillance.”

“You’re good,” Wilson said with an admiring tone. “Has he done anything stupid?”

“Not yet, but knowing his history, there’s a good chance he’ll give the French a reason to arrest him before the week is over.”

Wilson smiled. “I hope you’re right. What else?”

Cooke nodded and then took his time. He took another small sip, set his glass down on a cork coaster sitting atop a small wood side table, and leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and folded his hands. “I’m not sure how to put this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Is there something between you and Stansfield you haven’t told me about?”

Wilson gauged that Cooke was in possession of some information that had caused him to ask the question. Being an attorney by trade, he did what all good attorneys do: Rather than answer the question he asked one. “What do you mean?”

“I mean some problem . . . some bad blood between the two of you?”

Wilson shook his head, gazed into his drink for a moment, and then said, “Other than the fact that I don’t trust the man, and that I think he should be tried and thrown in jail, no . . . there’s nothing I can think of.”

“Nothing specific?”

“Paul,” Wilson said, his tone turning testy, “if you have some information come out and say it. There isn’t anything that I can specifically think of that has transpired between Thomas Stansfield and me. He is my subordinate and has always been. When I was a senator, and I sat on the Intelligence Committee, we had our brawls, but so did every other senator. It was our job to push him, and in light of his uncooperative nature, there were a lot of heated moments.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“And now that I’m secretary of state, and one of the president’s closest advisors, he is, well, so far beneath me, he would hardly warrant a thought if it wasn’t for the fact that I fear he is ruining our relationship with one of our closest allies.”

Cooke nodded as if he only half bought Wilson’s explanation. “You might spend very little time thinking about him, but it doesn’t go both ways.”

“What do you mean?”

Cooked hemmed and hawed for a moment and then just said it. “I don’t think the man likes you.”

Wilson smiled as if he was proud of the information. “There are a lot of people in this town who are jealous of me. I don’t doubt for a moment that Thomas Stansfield is one of them.”

Cooke decided to push him a little. “Thomas Stansfield isn’t some amateur, and you’re not the first cabinet member to go after him. He’s outlasted more directors and presidents and Senate oversight committees than we could begin to count.”

Wilson shifted in his leather chair and straightened his back a few degrees. “Your point?”

“You’d be a fool to underestimate him.”

“I never underestimate my enemies and I have a strategy that will prevail.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to win because I will refuse to play Stansfield’s games. I don’t operate in the shadows. I work in the harsh light of day where the truth can flourish. These others who have gone after him were foolish enough to think they could beat him at his own game. I’m not so naïve.”

“Fine,” Cooke said, even though he was thinking the exact opposite. The only way to take on Thomas Stansfield was to plot so carefully, walk so softly, that he never saw you coming until you shoved the knife in his back. “Well, either you have him scared or you did something to really piss him off, because I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Like what?”

“I stopped by his office this morning to ask him about Paris.”

“And?”

“He denied any involvement, of course . . . not that I expected anything different.”

“So it was an unremarkable meeting?”

“I would say yes . . . at least until your name came up, and then he became uncharacteristically heated.”

Wilson liked this. He’d never seen so much as a crack in Stansfield’s sphinxlike demeanor. “What did he say?”

Cooke cleared his throat and started with his first lie. “He said that you should worry about managing all the dilettantes at the State Department and leave the espionage game up to us.”

Wilson didn’t flinch. “What else did he say?”

“Do you want the sanitized version or the unvarnished?”

“Unvarnished.”

Cooke had tried to figure out the best way to deliver this next part. With the right embellishment of Stansfield’s own words and a few lies, he would cut close to Wilson’s heart. “He said that you’ve turned into a bitter, angry man.”

Wilson laughed a little, thought about the comment, and then asked, “Why would I be bitter? I’ve had an amazing life. I’m one of the most powerful men in this country. What could I possibly be bitter about?”

Cooke tried his best to look uncomfortable. He stared at his own shoes for a moment and then he stared at Wilson’s. When he thought the proper amount of embarrassment had been conveyed, he said, “Your wife.” The words seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Cooke could see that he was on the right track. Just the mention of the wife had put Wilson on edge.

“What about my wife?”

“Well . . .” Cooke shook his head. “I don’t like repeating this, but as I said, it’s so out of character that I thought you must have done something to really piss Stansfield off.”

Wilson’s patience had hit a wall. “What did he say?”

Cooke cleared his throat. “He said you tossed her in an institution the second she became a political liability. That if you truly loved her, as you tell everyone, you would have kept her at home.” Cooke did his best to look embarrassed and added, “I’m sorry, Franklin.”

Wilson’s stately demeanor crumbled. His complexion turned ruddy, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and he looked at the wall to his right. In a wounded voice tinged with anger he proclaimed, “How dare he.”

Cooke was pleased with himself but did a good job concealing it. “This was a private conversation, Franklin, between the deputy director of Langley and the deputy director of Operations. If word were to get out that I shared this information with you, there would be some very upset people at Langley. Even so, I felt you needed to know. I myself was shocked that he would make such an insensitive comment. I had no idea he disliked you so much.”

“Trust me . . . the feeling is mutual, and I get your point. I won’t be saying anything to Stansfield that would put you in a compromising position. That’s not how we’re going to win this battle.”

“I’m sorry,” Cooke said again, shaking his head for dramatic effect, “but I felt that I had to bring this to you. If anyone had said anything like that about me and my wife I’d want to know.”

Wilson nodded but didn’t say anything, he just stared off into space looking wounded.

Cooke stood. “There’s a dark side to him, Franklin. He’s a very dangerous man.” When Wilson didn’t respond Cooke said, “I’ll keep you informed about what I find out in Paris.” Cooke still didn’t get a response, so he started for the door. Letting Wilson stew over his words could only serve his purpose. As he reached the stairs, though, Wilson called out.

“Paul, don’t worry . . . I’m not going to shoot the messenger. I appreciate your honesty.”

Cooke nodded. “Don’t worry, Franklin. He’s going to get what he deserves and you and I are going to be the ones to finally take him down.”

Wilson seemed to not hear anything that Cooke had said. “This is the part of this town that I truly despise. Where is the honor in going after a man’s wife?”

“There is none.”

“No, there isn’t, but I’m not going to let this distract us from our objective. Thomas Stansfield is a dangerous man and he needs to be dealt with before he brings the Agency crashing down around you. I appreciate your friendship, Paul, but I need to know that you are committed to seeing this through.”

“I am, sir. Thomas Stansfield has poisoned the CIA and the only way to right the ship is to get rid of him. Once he’s out of the way I can go about instituting the changes that will ensure the Agency follows the policies of the executive branch and the laws of this country.”

CHAPTER 33

PARIS, FRANCE

RAPP smiled. Luke was playing his role to perfection. He had his hands stuffed in both pockets of his jacket and every five steps or so he scanned the block to see if there were any signs of danger. It was not the way Rapp would have acted, but then again he’d told Kennedy that he’d been shot. It wasn’t a stretch for the men in the van to think that he was a little more jumpy than normal.

Rapp had a pretty good idea what was going on inside the van, and he wouldn’t deny that he was taking a certain amount of delight knowing that they were probably falling all over each other trying to figure out what to do. As to who was in the van, he didn’t have a clue, and until right now he hadn’t really considered the question. There were only a handful of people who had watched him closely enough to be able to tell the difference between him and an impostor. Even so, the street was dark and Luke had the same general build. In these situations they would see what they wanted, and that was Rapp returning to the safe house for something that he needed.

Of all the possible assets, Rob Ridley was probably the one who had the most practical knowledge of how Rapp operated. Kennedy and Hurley knew his movements well enough, but neither of them would be pulling surveillance duty. Hurley was too impatient. He needed to be moving, or at least have the option to move, especially after his abduction in Beirut. The man would never admit it, but there were some psychological scars that he still hadn’t dealt with. The most likely option would be Ridley, who specialized in surveillance and advance work. He and his people had done the advance work on the Tarek hit and then vacated the city the day before Rapp had killed the oil minister. Rapp didn’t know where they were headed, but Hurley would have had a day and a half to turn them around and get them back into position. It was possible, but Rapp had a feeling it was someone else.

It would all come down to the call he’d made to Kennedy and whether she was able to convince Stansfield that he’d been set up. If she had failed, Rapp had little doubt who was in the van. Hurley would be calling the shots and he would have his pet dog, that asshole Victor, on duty. Rapp had spent very little time at the farm over the past year, and the year before that they had gone to great lengths to keep his identity a secret from the other visitors. Over that time he’d seen a little over a dozen faces. Men who had returned from operations overseas and guys who were trying to make the team. One of those faces was already gone, killed in Beirut. Rapp didn’t like to think about that day. It was too stark a reminder that his life could go the same way in the blink of an eye.

Kennedy had said she was coming to Paris. How that would play out was obvious. Hurley would be pissed, and he’d tell her to go back to Langley and sit behind her desk and do it in very insensitive, colorful language. The only way she could make any headway was with Stansfield calling the shots. That’s what it came down to. He was the only man who could rein in Hurley.

Rapp stood behind Greta’s shoulder and watched Luke inch closer to the front steps of the apartment. He took a step back and moved to the other side of the window. The van was easy to spot. It was a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van. Boxy and tall, it offered the men inside room to move around and they were fairly common in most big cities, as workers used them to navigate the narrow, congested streets. What made this one stand out was the roof rack. The rack had a ladder and several tubes that looked like they could contain anything from rolled-up wallpaper to flooring. In truth they were part of a customized surveillance system that concealed cameras, antennas, and directional microphones.

His money was on Victor, but beyond that he had no idea who would be on duty. More than likely they had pulled assets from stations across Europe, although most of those men would be attached to embassies with official covers, and exposing them to someone like Victor would be a big gamble. Rapp put himself in Hurley’s shoes and decided he’d never do it. Hurley would grab some of his ex–Special Forces assets, guys who didn’t have squeamish stomachs and knew how to keep their mouths shut.

“Greta,” Rapp asked as he kept his eyes on the van, “what do you see?”

“The man in the hat. Nothing else.”

Rapp stepped back two steps and crossed over to Greta’s side of the window. Luke was roughly thirty feet from the front door. Rapp scanned the area beyond to see if there was any movement. There was none, so he went back to the other side of the window to keep an eye on the van. He thought he saw the van rock slightly but it was hard to tell from this distance.

“He’s going up the steps,” Greta announced.

Rapp didn’t bother looking. He was too focused on the van.

“He’s inside.”

In that moment, it occurred to Rapp that they might be waiting in the apartment. His eyes darted from the van to the second floor across the street. He counted three windows in from the corner. The shades were drawn on both the third and fourth windows. There was no way of telling if anyone was in there. Rapp grew a little tense. If they grabbed him, and interrogated him, they might come to the conclusion that Rapp was nearby watching them. “Greta, remember what I said to you. If I tell you I want you to head to your car, I don’t want you to argue with me.”

She took her eyes off the building. “But I don’t understand why you wouldn’t come with me.”

“We’re not going to argue about this,” Rapp said in a firm tone. “I need to know you’re going to do exactly what I want you to do when I ask you. Your safety is my first priority. If you’re not willing to do what I ask you to do, then you might as well leave right now.”

Greta shook her head and frowned. Taking orders was not her strong suit.

Rapp turned his eyes back to the van. Kennedy had told him they had the safe house under surveillance. The guys were either asleep in the van or they had men inside the apartment. If that was the case, Rapp expected to see some lights come on any second. Luke would be in for one hell of a surprise and likely a two- or three-day debriefing where he would literally have the shit scared out of him. Rapp didn’t feel good about it, but Luke would survive. His story would check out because Rapp planned on calling Kennedy and telling her what he’d done. They would be pissed that he had exposed a safe house by giving the keys and codes to a drug dealer. Rapp’s defense would remain consistent. Someone on their end had betrayed him. He’d been set up, and until he knew who he could trust they would have to excuse his paranoia.

Rapp checked his watch. Luke had gone through the front door nearly forty seconds ago. He looked down the length of the street at the Mercedes van and he finally saw some movement. The van rocked and then a moment later someone was moving up the sidewalk in a hurry. He was crouched down and running. Rapp caught glimpses of the man as he passed in between cars, and then as he drew closer he got a more consistent view.

It was Victor. Even in the poor light of the hazy street lamps he was easy to make out. He was half man, half gorilla, lumbering down the street as if he might run through a brick wall if he needed to. Rapp didn’t like Hurley, but he respected the salty bastard. Victor was another matter. Rapp loathed him, couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been drummed out, and spent a fair amount of time analyzing all the different ways he’d kill him if he was ever given the chance.

Rapp watched him hug the building as he got closer to the front door. The building across the street was a near mirror image of this one. There was a garden level on the main floor and each unit had its own entrance and a small patio that was four feet beneath the sidewalk and fenced off by a black wrought-iron fence and gate. The first floor was elevated above the sidewalk by eight feet, so the front steps were fairly steep and led to a pair of double doors. Victor positioned himself exactly where Rapp expected. He sank into the shadows beside the front stoop. Rapp squinted but it did no good. Victor was dressed in black. He was a shadow among shadows.

Rapp checked the lights in the apartment. They were still off. He looked at his watch. Luke had been in the apartment for close to two minutes. Rapp had timed it in his head. If he did exactly as Rapp ordered, he could be in and out in less than five minutes. Something told Rapp, though, that Luke might take a little extra time to see what else he could take.

“Who is that man?” Greta asked.

“The one I warned you about . . . Victor.”

Things settled into a slow pattern as Rapp continued to check the van, Victor’s position, and the apartment windows. For four minutes and twenty-seven seconds nothing happened, and then suddenly the moment was upon them. The front door of the apartment building opened and Luke stepped into the night air. He hustled down the steps and turned to the right just as Rapp had instructed. Victor suddenly materialized from the shadows and fell in behind Luke, just four steps behind him. His right hand came up and Rapp immediately recognized the length of black steel in his hand as a pistol with a suppressor attached to the end.

Rapp shook his head and under his breath mumbled, “What a prick.”

What happened next was completely unexpected. There was a muzzle flash followed by Luke’s entire body being propelled forward for one more step. Then he crashed to the sidewalk face-first.

Greta gasped and covered her mouth.

Rapp blinked just once and reached for his gun. In that split second he realized he had just witnessed what was supposed to be his own murder, and a second after that he realized he had caused the death of a completely innocent man. The realization filled him with embarrassment and rage and the absolute conviction that he would kill Victor.

CHAPTER 34

BRAMBLE had already scoped out the spot. That was the way his brain worked. He was a hunter, a natural-born killer, and a badass to boot, which was why Rapp didn’t stand a chance. Rapp was a college puke who hesitated. A pussy who’d been indoctrinated into the world of political correctness. His brain was filled with too much crap. Stuff that got in the way of millions of years of predatory evolution. It was his loss and Bramble’s gain. Rapp was probably the kind of guy who puked after he killed someone. Bramble had once watched a fellow Ranger do that after a mission. He’d never lost so much respect for someone so quickly.

The alcove next to the front steps was the perfect spot. Bramble’s heart was racing and he knew it wasn’t from the short run up the block. It was the anticipation of the kill. The adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. It was an amateur reaction and he chided himself for it. He forced himself to take deep, steady breaths. There was nothing to be tense about. His position was ideal. He was completely concealed by darkness and he was in a textbook spot to ambush Rapp when he came back out. His heart began to slow and then he realized he had a problem.

Two actually. What would he do with McGuirk and Borneman? They were about to watch him kill Rapp, and while he could easily explain to them that Hurley had given him the kill order, the problems would pop up later, when they got back to the States. They would all be debriefed and Kennedy would lose her mind when she found out that he’d killed her baby. Even Hurley might take it badly. He despised Rapp, but he wouldn’t take kindly to one of his men initiating a kill order on his own, especially after having been told to stand down. Bramble was scrambling to come up with an out when McGuirk’s voice came over his earpiece.

“He’s going for the safe.”

Of course he is, Bramble thought, and then he remembered an order Hurley had given him. He panicked and asked, “Did you guys empty the safe?”

“Why would we do that?” McGuirk replied.

“Because I told you to,” Bramble snapped.

“The hell you did. Todd, did Victor tell us to clean out the safe?”

Bramble listened to the one-sided conversation and then McGuirk told him he must be sniffing glue. “You never told us to empty the safe.”

Bramble swore to himself, looked back down the street at the van, and asked, “What’s he doing?”

“He’s got the safe open, and it looks like he’s emptying it.”

Hurley was going to freak. It was the first thing he’d told him to do. “Clean out the safe and don’t get any stupid ideas. Kennedy and I have an exact accounting of what’s inside,” he’d said.

“He’s closing the safe,” McGuirk announced. “It looks like he’s stuffing a bag down the front of his pants.”

“Shit,” Bramble mumbled. “What else?”

“Looks like he’s headed for the door. Yep, he’s in the front hallway and headed straight for the door. What do you want us to do?”

“Sit tight.” He was too focused on solving his problem. This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up, and if he did he’d kick himself in the ass for the rest of his life.

“Repeat that last order.”

Bramble recognized Borneman’s voice. He was going to be the problem. McGuirk he could deal with. “I said sit still. We don’t want to spook him. Just be ready to pull the van up and keep giving me updates.”

Bramble listened to McGuirk give him the play-by-play of Rapp’s exit. His chief tactical concern at this point was whether he was going to come out the same way he went in. A few seconds later Bramble got the confirmation he was looking for. He stood in the shadows, a huge smile spreading across his face. “You’re all mine, asshole.”

He heard the door open and he began to edge forward, his right arm extended, ready to fire. McGuirk kept giving him updates and Bramble could see Rapp coming down the steps in his mind’s eye. As soon as he heard that Rapp had taken a right turn, Bramble left his spot. He knew the monitors in the van didn’t exactly offer a crystal-clear picture of what was happening on the street and he was going to use that to his advantage. He stepped into the hazy glow of the streetlights and fell in behind his prey.

Rapp was standing right in front of him, only a few yards away and moving quickly. Bramble matched his pace, extended his gun, sighted in on the back of Rapp’s head, said, “Gun,” and squeezed the trigger. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The bullet entered the back of his head and exited his face with a spray of red mist. Rapp took one more step and then collapsed face-first on the pavement.

“Get that van up here. Chop, chop!” Gloating, Bramble stood over the body and said, “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” Behind him he heard the engine rev and the van race up the street. A second later it skidded to a stop on the other side of several parked cars and the side door sprang open.

Borneman jumped out, and the first thing Bramble noticed was that he had a gun in his hand. He ignored the gun and pointed at the corpse. “Grab his feet. We need to pack him up and get out of here before the cops show up.”

“You killed him,” Borneman yelled.

“That’s what this was all about. Sorry I couldn’t let you in on it, but Stan wanted it that way.” Bramble bent over and grabbed the back of the jacket with his left hand. “Come on, grab his feet. We need to get the hell out of here.”

Borneman hesitated for a second and then slid his gun into the back of his waistband. He grabbed both ankles while Bramble picked up the front end with one arm, as if picking up a suitcase. The corpse sagged between them. Bramble led the way between two parked cars and heaved the head and torso into the van.

Bramble looked at McGuirk, who was behind the wheel, and ordered, “Grab him by the hands and pull him all the way in.” While McGuirk jumped out of the driver’s seat and started tugging on the corpse, Borneman swung the legs into the back of the van. The motion left him leaning forward into the open cargo door. Bramble took advantage of the opportunity. He stepped back, swung his pistol up, placed it a few inches from the back of Borneman’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

Borneman’s upper body fell into the van. Bramble looked at a wide-eyed McGuirk and said, “God, I’m good.” And then he shot him in the face. The velocity of the bullet caused McGuirk to stand up for a second, but it wasn’t enough to knock him over. He hung in the air motionless for a second and then he fell face-first on top of the first corpse.

Bramble was grinning from ear to ear. He’d get a medal for this one. Rapp had gone haywire and killed both McGuirk and Borneman, but he’d stepped in and killed the little shit. And then to really show how big a superstar he was, he’d managed to contain the fallout by stuffing all three bodies into the van before the locals showed up. This was the CIA, not the FBI. His job was to destroy evidence, not to preserve it. There would be no crime scene investigators and detectives. Hurley would take him at his word and be grateful that he’d cleaned up the mess.

Borneman’s legs were still hanging out of the van. Bramble was about to grab them when a voice called out to his left. He slowly turned his head and saw two men in suits coming toward him. They were fifty to fifty-five feet away and their guns were drawn. Bramble knew they were close to fifty feet away because he’d fired over twenty thousand pistol rounds at that distance. He was willing to bet these two hadn’t fired a fraction of that amount.

Bramble’s French wasn’t great, but he got the sense they were asking him to put his hands up. He obliged by putting his left hand up a little ahead of his right and then as he began to raise his right hand he casually swung his gun into position and fired two quick shots. The relative still of the night air was shattered by one of the men firing his gun. Since the weapon wasn’t suppressed, it cracked like a thunderbolt. Bramble heard the snap of the bullet as it whistled harmlessly past his head.

Both men were down, and Bramble did what he often did in the aftermath of a near-death experience. He began to laugh. Not a giggle or a chuckle, but a belly-splitting roar of a release of tension and an absolute euphoric embrace of victory. He was the king of the hill, the last man standing, a man among children. Five bullets and five bodies. “Shit,” Bramble said, “they should write a song about me.”

Bramble heard a moan and turned to see that one of the men fifty feet away was moving. “Damn it.” He liked the idea of five bullets for five men. It sounded like an Eastwood movie. Six bullets for five men had no ring to it. No flow. Bramble was pretty sure he’d hit the first guy in the face. He’d rushed the second shot a bit. It was always possible that the guy had a mortal wound and was simply in his final death throes. He started walking toward him and remembered that he had his knife on him. If he needed to he could save the bullet and slit the guy’s throat. It would still be five bullets for five men—kind of.

Bramble was right about the first shot. He’d caught the guy square in the middle of the face, right between his nose and upper lip. “Now that’s a hell of a shot.”

The second man was clutching at his chest. His pistol was five feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. There was a little blood at the corner of his mouth and he was looking up at Bramble with pleading eyes. Bramble smiled at the man, raised his gun, and was about to pull the trigger, when for the second time in as many minutes a bullet zipped past his head.

CHAPTER 35

THEY stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only a prolonged moment. The van pulled around and Rapp saw a man get out. He was one of Hurley’s ex–Special Forces guys, and by the look on his face he was none too happy about what had just transpired. It looked as if he was yelling at Victor, and Rapp could tell by his body language that he was on high alert. Victor said something that appeared to calm the man down, and then the two of them grabbed Luke’s body and carried it to the van. They both disappeared for a moment, and then Victor stepped back into sight. Rapp saw him raise his right arm, smile, and then there was a quick flash followed a few seconds later by another.

Greta asked, “What just happened?”

Rapp shook his head. “I think he just shot the two men.”

“Who?”

“The two men he was with.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question. I think I’m going to go find out.” Rapp already had his gun in his right hand. “Greta, remember the plan. Go out the back door, get in your car, but don’t start it. Wait for five minutes and not a second longer. If I’m not there, leave. I will either call you at the hotel, or meet up with you by tomorrow morning.”

“But—”

Rapp cut her off. “Don’t! You promised me. No more questions. I can take care of myself.”

Greta bit her lower lip and nodded. She looked out the window, and Rapp could tell by the expression on her face that something was going on.

Rapp turned to see what she was looking at. Two men were coming up the sidewalk with their pistols drawn. Rapp knew what would happen next. Victor was not the kind of guy who would surrender. “Come on.” He grabbed Greta by the arm and pulled her toward the door. “Go straight to the car. Don’t stop for anything, and if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning, I want you to tell your grandfather what you saw. Tell him it was Victor.” He got the sense she was in a bit of shock so he added, “Now tell me what you’re supposed to tell your grandfather.”

“It was Victor. Victor killed everyone.”

“Good.” Rapp opened the door and they stepped into the hallway. She had tears in her eyes. “There’s no time for that, honey. Don’t worry, I can kill that fucker and still get to the car in five minutes and I don’t even need my good hand.” Rapp kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll see you in five minutes.” Rapp pushed her on her way. “Get going.”

He then turned and raced down the stairs. There were ten steps and then a landing and then ten more steps. Rapp burst through the first set of doors, and beyond the glass of the second doors he saw Victor with his damn gun pointed at what he assumed was a man on the ground. And he had that stupid grin on his face again. Rapp wondered what kind of nut job took such perverse joy in killing another person. Rapp knew he didn’t have time to strategize or get cute with this, so he burst through the second set of doors, raised his pistol, and fired. The silenced round whistled through the air and Rapp heard it slam into the building across the street.

“Victor, you asshole,” Rapp yelled as he bounded down the steps and squeezed off another round. This one hit the side window of the car in front of Victor. “You killed the wrong guy, you stupid prick.” Rapp hit the sidewalk and cut to his right. He had surprise on his side, but he needed to get Victor away from the men or man whom he was about to execute. Victor had dashed out of sight but even so Rapp squeezed off two more rounds. One of them hit the building and the other skipped off the trunk of the car Victor was hiding behind. Rapp moved down the sidewalk, putting more distance between himself and Victor and keeping his mouth shut. It worked. A gun popped up above the trunk and Victor fired three shots in the direction of the front door of the apartment building. Rapp swung around the back end of a big four-door Mercedes sedan and lay down under the trunk.

With his gun stretched out in front of him, he searched for movement under the cars across the street and to his left. Rapp saw part of a leg next to a rear wheel. He sighted in on it, fired two shots, and was rewarded with a howl and a string of expletives. Rapp rolled out from under the trunk, ignored the pain in his shoulder, and sprang to his feet. He looked over the trunk of the Mercedes and then darted across the street, moving one more car to his right. It was the basic rule of a gunfight: Fire and move.

Rapp found refuge between a small two-door Peugeot and an even smaller Ford Fiesta. This next part was the biggest gamble. He was about to place himself in a shooting alley with Victor, and he had no idea what kind of weapon the guy was carrying. Waiting was not to his benefit, though, so he shaded his right eye around the rear bumper of the Peugeot. Victor was moving as fast as his crippled leg would carry him toward the van. He was already two-thirds of the way there and a good eighty feet from Rapp.

Rapp broke from his cover and gave chase. After about ten steps he passed the two men on the ground, and he could see Victor was going to beat him to the van by a good distance, so he raised his gun and started firing one steady round after another. Victor’s running crouch made him a poor target. Rapp expended his last round and was in the midst of changing magazines when Victor dove into the open side door of the van.

Rapp swore to himself as he seated a fresh magazine and released the slide. He pressed forward and then skidded to a stop when the black barrel of a submachine gun popped out of the side door of the van. The night erupted with the loud blasts of over twenty bullets fired on full automatic. Rapp dove for cover behind a parked car and made himself as small as possible. Several more bursts were fired and then Rapp heard the sound of an engine revving and wheels squealing on the pavement. Rapp reacted quickly and moved into the street. He sighted in on the back left door of the van and started unloading rounds as fast as he could fire them. A body fell from the side door of the van and a second after that he was empty. The van turned right and disappeared. Rapp eyed the body, but didn’t bother to investigate. It was one of Hurley’s SF guys.

Rapp turned and ran back to the two men on the sidewalk. They were both in suits. The one on the right was shot in the face and obviously dead, but the one on the left was alive and gasping for air. A few feet away his FN pistol lay on the ground. Rapp grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he knelt next to the man and started searching for his wound. He heard it before he saw it. A chest wound makes a strange sucking noise that once heard, is never forgotten. The man was wearing a black dress shirt and a dark gray suit. Rapp grabbed his shirt and ripped it open. The wound was right there on his right side of his chest. He might live, but not without some immediate medical attention.

Rapp remembered the small medical kit that he carried. The pull to flee was strong, but he knew if he didn’t help this guy, there was a good chance he’d die. Grumbling and fighting the urge to run, he pulled the pack from the small of his back, set it on the ground next to the man, and went to work. He had only one packet of Quickclot. He ripped open the top and held the open packet right above the entry wound. He sprinkled half the powder around and down the hole and used his fingers to push as much of it into the wound as possible. Rapp then rolled him onto his stomach and yanked his jacket and shirt up around his shoulders. He put the rest of the powder in the exit wound and grabbed a square adhesive bandage with a plastic backing. He placed it over the hole, flipped him onto his back, and bandaged the entry wound. Rapp listened for a moment and was relieved when the sucking noise subsided.

Sirens were suddenly wailing in the distance. Rapp got close to the man’s face and looked into his eyes. He saw genuine fear. In French, Rapp told the man, “You’re going to be all right. Do you understand me?”

The man looked into Rapp’s eyes and gave him an anemic nod while weakly trying to grab his arm.

“Don’t give up. They’re going to be here any minute.” Rapp looked at the ground and saw his bloody fingerprints on the remnants of the medical supplies. He frantically collected the backings and spent packages and stuffed them into his pack. A leather ID case that had fallen from the man’s jacket caught Rapp’s eye. He grabbed it and flipped it open. He didn’t recognize the seal but he sure as hell had heard of the Direction Générale de la Securité Exterieure. The DGSE was France’s version of the CIA. “Victor,” Rapp muttered, “what in the hell have you done?”

The agent clutched at Rapp’s arm and said, “Don’t leave.”

Rapp stuffed the ID case in his jacket. The sirens were growing louder. “You’re going to be fine,” Rapp said, even though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Don’t give up. They’ll be here any minute, and remember . . . the asshole who did this to you . . . his name is Victor.”

Rapp looked up, and there, standing thirty feet away, were two men. The one on the right was short and stocky with thick black hair and a beard. The man on the left was tall and skinny with sandy blond hair. They were staring right at him. Rapp could hardly shoot them, so he did the only thing that seemed normal. He yelled at them. “Get over here! Hurry up! I need your help.”

The tall man hung back, but the stocky man rushed forward.

“Get down here,” Rapp said, “and put pressure on this bandage. Hold his hand and keep talking to him.” The man knelt and did as Rapp instructed. The tall man was still standing a good five paces away. Rapp screamed this time. “Get over here! Take that scarf off and put it under his head. Lay your jacket over his stomach.” Rapp stood. “Hurry up! I’m going to run and get help.”

And with that Rapp was sprinting down the street, hoping that the two men were not good at remembering faces. Just before the next intersection he crossed the street and kept moving at a full clip. The sirens were growing louder, but they were still far enough away, so he kept running full speed. He’d grabbed the gun because he could use the extra firepower, but he knew he might have to dump it sooner than he’d like. The same was true with the ID case, but he had to clean it first. He couldn’t leave his fingerprints on it.

Greta’s car was three blocks away, and up ahead there looked to be a crowd of people gathering. They had probably come outside to see what the commotion was. Rapp stopped running. There was no quicker way to attract attention than running in street clothes at night when gunshots had been fired. The sirens were much closer now. At the next intersection a police car came skidding around the corner. Rapp’s training kicked in. He stopped and stared directly at the two policemen in the front seat. That’s what innocent people did. Guilty people looked away, hid their faces, and even ran.

He spotted Greta’s Audi and had no idea if his five minutes were up or not. Some internal clock told him they were, but he also knew Greta would sit there for an hour. She’d disregard everything he’d told her and hold on to hope. He traveled the last block at a brisk pace and tried the passenger door, but it was locked. Greta practically jumped out of the front seat. She unlocked the door and Rapp climbed in.

“Let’s go,” Rapp said, breathing heavily. “Drive the speed limit and act normal.”

As they were pulling out, another police car and an ambulance raced past them, going in the other direction. Rapp thought of the DGSE agent and prayed that he would make it. Two more police cars raced past them.

Greta kept her eyes on the road until they’d passed, and then she looked over at Rapp. “You’re bleeding.”

Rapp looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. Both literally and figuratively. “It’s not mine.”

“Did you . . . did you kill someone?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then where did the blood come from?”

“A man I tried to save.” Rapp stared straight ahead. “We can talk about this later. Right now I need to think.”

“Where should I drive?”

“Just keep heading east. We’ll find a new hotel. Sit tight for the night and figure out what to do next.” He sank down in his seat. Kennedy had warned him to stay away from the apartment. She’d tried to save him, but someone else had ordered his death. What a bunch of ungrateful bastards, Rapp thought. They have no idea who they’re fucking with.

CHAPTER 36

THE eastern horizon was orange with the premorning light. Kennedy stood on the concrete tarmac and watched the private jet bank and settle in on its final approach, the sun glistening off its skin. She was in a dark brown pantsuit and cream-colored shirt. The morning air was a bit chilly, but it didn’t faze her. She was too preoccupied with what had transpired the previous evening. It had been an unmitigated disaster that could mushroom into something serious enough to set the CIA back decades. There would be hearings on Capitol Hill and then trials in federal courthouses. Good people would lose their jobs and more than likely a few more people would die.

As Kennedy watched the plane touch down her mind was swimming with details, innuendos, and God only knew how many deceptions. Stansfield would want answers, and unfortunately she was running short on them. She had been in the country only a few hours when Hurley had called her with the news that the safe house had been compromised, and worse, that there had been casualties. He then said the words that she still found impossible to believe.

“It was your boy. He ambushed them.”

Kennedy replied by saying, “I thought your men had been pulled?”

“They were, and that was when your broken toy struck. I warned you this would happen.” In typical Hurley fashion he hung up on her before she could ask more questions.

Kennedy had no idea who was dead, or how many, and after an hour of trying to find answers, she gave up and drove to the safe house.

The police had cordoned the entire block. At each end of the street curious neighbors and reporters pressed against the barricades. It was easy to tell the reporters from the locals as they carried Dictaphones or steno pads and some of them had cameramen attached at the hip. Unlike the locals, they were shouting questions at the police. Kennedy stayed away from the press and began canvassing the locals. Her French was flawless, so no one gave her a second glance. The stories varied from person to person, but a common theme emerged; at least two people were dead and another had been rushed to the hospital. The bombshell came later when she overheard two police officers talking. The man who had been taken to the hospital was DGSE. If this was true, Kennedy instantly understood the dire implications. It was highly unlikely that a Directorate agent had accidentally stumbled upon a gunfight in this little Parisian enclave. Kennedy could think of only two reasons for the DGSE to be on this block. They’d either discovered the safe house or followed Hurley’s men. Either road led back to the CIA.

Kennedy returned to the Embassy, called Stansfield on a secure line, and told him everything she knew. He listened patiently, then told her he was moving up his travel plans. Stansfield immediately understood if he couldn’t put a lid on this, and do it quickly, it would irreparably damage U.S.-French relations. Kennedy then sought out Hurley and the sparks started to fly. Over the ensuing hours it seemed that he lost it every thirty minutes. Hurley was stuck at the Embassy, knowing if he left it was highly likely that his new friend Paul Fournier would snatch him off the street and conduct a thorough, not very gentle interrogation. After his sixth or seventh tirade, Kennedy had reached her limit. She told Hurley, “I’ve listened to you for the past two hours, and I haven’t said a thing. But let me give you a little advice. You’re putting a lot of faith in a man who has some serious flaws. Chet Bramble is no saint. He’s a narcissist and a proven liar, and I don’t believe anything he says, so here’s the deal. If you’re right . . . then I’m done. I’ll resign and you’ll never have to deal with me again. But if you’re wrong, you’re done. Your ranting and your raving and all your other bullshit, it’s over. You resign, you walk away from all of this, and you admit to me and everyone else who was involved in this that it was your fault for not supervising your stupid goon.” Kennedy didn’t stick around for his answer.

She left the basement office of the Embassy and moved to the rooms that were reserved for CIA operatives in search of a bed. She found one, but she didn’t sleep. The best she could do was close her eyes and ask herself the same questions over and over. In the end she knew there was only one way she would get any answers that would satisfy her. She needed to sit down with Rapp and hear his side of the story.

The next morning, after having slept only a few hours, she was standing on the flat tarmac hoping Stansfield would for once put Hurley in his place. Three black Range Rovers were idling bumper to bumper. The Gulfstream IV taxied to a stop 150 feet from the trucks. The stairs were lowered and a customs agent walked out to meet the plane. The head of Stansfield’s security detail presented him with the proper paperwork. The man looked at the forms and then the passports and applied the appropriate stamps. Two secured diplomatic pouches were presented and the man gave them a consenting nod. Kennedy kept looking over her shoulder to see if some of their friends from the DGSE had shown up.

Stansfield finally appeared with another security officer behind him. He was in a suit and tie and a gray trench coat. The boot at the rear of the plane was opened and four small roller bags and some black cases were offloaded by the crewmember. A fourth man exited the plane and Kennedy tried to figure out why he looked familiar. Stansfield spoke to him briefly and then he walked over to Kennedy.

Kennedy opened the rear door of the middle SUV. “Good morning, sir.”

Stansfield nodded, climbed in, and closed the door. Kennedy climbed in the other side and the head of Stansfield’s detail got in the front seat. The other bodyguard got in the first vehicle and the fourth man got in the last vehicle with the luggage. The convoy started to roll toward the gate.

The deputy director of Operations leaned over and peered through the front windshield. “Any new fallout?”

“It’s hard to say. A lot of people have been asleep and are going to wake up to some rather ugly news. The Directorate will be understandably upset.”

“I’d say so . . . And Stan?”

Kennedy decided to leave out all the melodrama of their late-night argument and keep it to the facts. “He’s safe, but not by much. He was with Paulette. A few minutes after he left she had her door kicked in.”

Stansfield nodded. “Have these vehicles been swept?”

Kennedy shrugged. “The Embassy claims they’re checked on a routine basis.”

Stansfield frowned and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. They’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. He placed a lighter in the center cup holder in case he needed to act quickly and destroy the notes. “Where is Rob?”

Kennedy knew he was asking about Rob Ridley, one of their top field operatives. “He’s in the city.”

“I need to speak with him this morning. How does the Embassy look?” Stansfield asked, and then started writing.

“The Directorate has the front and rear entrances covered.”

“We’ll have to figure something out. I want Rob to personally sweep everything, and I have a little job for him.” Stansfield slid the pad over and showed her what he’d written. “Mitch?”

Kennedy shook her head. “Nothing so far.”

Stansfield scribbled, “Message Service?”

“I’ve been checking.” Again she shook her head.

“Victor?” Stansfield wrote.

Kennedy shrugged. She didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth, but he was going to hear it from Hurley, so she reasoned she might as well give him the latest. She was about to speak, and then she reached for the pen and paper. She began printing in neat block letters. “Claims Mitch sent a decoy into the safe house and then ambushed them. Killed McGuirk, Borneman, and two DGSE agents.”

Stansfield was reading as she wrote. “Oh, my God.”

Kennedy kept scratching. “V in the process of destroying surveillance van, and the other incriminating evidence. Claims he had to flee for his life and Borneman’s body was left at the scene.”

The deputy director of Operations kept his composure despite the fact the situation had just become drastically worse. He grabbed the pad from Kennedy. Held the pen for a moment and then wrote, “Do you believe him?”

Kennedy shook her head vigorously.

“Are they looking for him?” Stansfield asked.

“Not that we know of.”

The deputy director scratched out another question. “Have they ID’d Borneman?”

“We have no idea. The police are handling the investigation and the Directorate isn’t exactly known for their cooperation.”

“Unless it’s to their advantage.” Stansfield put the pen to paper again, “What was DGSE doing there?”

“Not sure, but if I had to guess I’d say they followed V and his people there.”

“Why do you say that? They could have known about it beforehand.”

“Stan and Paulette had dinner last night.” Kennedy grabbed the pen. “Paul Fournier showed up unannounced and joined them for a bottle of wine.”

“You think they had Stan under surveillance?”

“Yes. I was followed all the way from the airport to the Embassy when I arrived last night.”

“And this morning?”

“There was a car. It’s probably behind us right now.”

Stansfield nodded.

“Does Deputy Director Cooke have any idea what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Did you let him know you were leaving?”

“No, I ordered another jet. His will be waiting for him when he gets to the airport in another six hours.”

“And when he asks where you are?”

“I have Waldvogel flying over with him. He’s going to tell him I was forced to make other travel arrangements.”

“And if he digs?”

“The Brits wanted to meet with me about something.”

“And if he checks with the Brits?”

“He’ll find out that I had breakfast at the British Embassy this morning.” Kennedy’s eyes narrowed, revealing tiny wrinkles.

“He could probably verify that if he wanted to.”

“And he can go right ahead.”

“We’re having breakfast at the British Embassy?”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask why?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

They rode in silence for a while and then Stansfield wrote, “You need to convince Mitch to talk to me.”

“I can’t even get him to talk to me.”

Stansfield tapped the pen on what he’d already written.

“I know. I’ve been trying to figure something out, but he doesn’t exactly trust us at the moment.”

“He’s going to have to start, Irene, or I’m going to be left with no other choice.”

She took him to mean that he would issue a kill order. She’d seen it done before. A dossier would be put together, a price would be determined, and then the usual suspects would be contacted. Certain assets within Langley would also be used, but this type of stuff was usually handled with outside contractors. Rapp was good. He could probably last for a year or two, longer if he was willing to undergo plastic surgery, and there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that he would eliminate the first man or two who were sent to deal with him. She was suddenly reminded of what Dr. Lewis had said to her only a few days earlier. If there comes a time where you need to neutralize him, you’d better not screw up. Because if he survives, he’ll kill every last one of us.

The thought sent shivers up Kennedy’s spine. What if she’d already lost control of Rapp? What if Victor was telling the truth? She refused to believe it. She knew better than anyone. He wasn’t just another one of Hurley’s heartless killers. She needed time and she needed to convince Stansfield. Lewis could help with the latter. Looking at her mentor, Kennedy said, “I need you to talk to our good doctor this morning. He has some observations you need to hear.”

“In regard to what?”

“Who.” Kennedy grabbed the pad and pen and wrote down Victor’s name.

“Fine,” Stansfield said. He knew what was going on here. His two chief lieutenants were both going to champion their men. He should have never let it get this far. There was too much bad blood between Rapp and Bramble. He should have cut one of them loose a long time ago, and despite the current evidence against Rapp, it was Bramble whom he would have dumped. He was Stan’s man, though, and what Stan wanted he almost always got. Unfortunately, what Stan wanted right now was a dead Mitch Rapp.

Stansfield stretched his legs and leaned against the door’s armrest. He couldn’t allow his personal bias to interfere. Rapp was far more likable. Bramble was an obtuse brute, but he had his purposes. If Rapp didn’t come in and tell him exactly what he’d been up to, Stansfield would be left with only one choice. He would have to order the execution of perhaps his best operative.

CHAPTER 37

THE crane moved the heavy magnet into position and then the cable was played out and the rusty steel disk dropped until it was a few feet from the van. The magnet was turned on and the rear tires of the van levitated off the ground until the roof was pinned against the steel disk. The power was increased and slowly the front end, weighted down by the engine, began to inch upward. When the roof was firmly immobilized to the underside of the magnet, the big diesel engine on the crane revved and belched black smoke and then the thick steel cable moaned until it had the van twenty feet off the ground and swinging toward the industrial-sized compactor.

Bramble watched as the van was not so gently placed inside the three-sided metal box. The magnet disengaged, leaving the van in place, and moved clear. Steel jaws swung into place above the van and the crushing began, top to bottom first for a few feet and then the sides. It went back and forth like that for several minutes. When the van was finally smashed into a four-by-four-foot cube, Bramble noticed a red liquid leaking from the base. It was expected. There were two bodies inside, after all. There should have been three, but Borneman had been lost along the way.

The man next to Bramble held out his hand and said something in his gruff native Serbian tongue. Bramble didn’t understand a word of any of the Slavic languages, but he didn’t need to. They had an agreement and the man wanted to be paid. Bramble had already counted the money, twenty-five hundred dollars in advance and twenty-five hundred when they were done, and the guy was going to throw in a piece-of-shit two-door Renault that he would drive back to Paris.

Bramble had wiped the prints from his gun and left it in the van to be crushed with all the other evidence, the bodies, the surveillance equipment, and most important, the recording of him shooting the man he thought was Rapp. It had all appeared to be going perfectly. Rapp was dead, and he’d dealt with Borneman and McGuirk. All of that he could have explained to Hurley. They were pulling out when Rapp ambushed them. He killed Borneman and McGuirk and then Bramble jumped in and put a bullet in the back of Rapp’s head, end of story. But then those two Frenchies showed up. Bramble still had no idea who they were. More than likely cops, or maybe French Intelligence, either way it wasn’t good. Bramble was still proud of the shot. He bet there weren’t more than a dozen men on the planet that could have hit that first guy square in the face, as he had. They’d been stupid in how they came after him, no cover, and they were standing too close together. In Bramble’s mind they had gotten what they deserved.

Bramble handed the man the rest of the cash, and the dirty mutt gave him the keys to the Renault. In his broken French, Bramble did his best to convey the fact that he’d be back in two days, and if what was left of the van wasn’t melted down he’d be sticking some people in the compactor. He’d never come back, of course, but Bramble only knew of one way to conduct business—threaten.

Limping, Bramble walked across the yard toward his subcompact piece of shit. He folded himself into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, and gunned the little four-cylinder engine. The car was a stick shift and under normal circumstances Bramble wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but he had a bullet hole in his right calf and a bullet lodged in the brawny triceps muscle of his right arm. Driving one-handed was not possible, so he engaged the clutch, bit down hard, and jammed the stubborn stick shift into first gear. The bald front tires spun on the gravel and then bit, and the car lurched forward, Bramble acutely feeling every bump and pitch.

He had a few bruised ribs as well, courtesy of that pussy Rapp lodging four slugs in the back of his bulletproof vest. If the dumbass had used a .45 caliber like Bramble he may have succeeded in killing him, but his little 9mm slugs couldn’t do the job. Bramble shifted the dusty car into second gear and popped the clutch a bit too early. The jolt made him wonder if one or more of his ribs weren’t broken. It was all good, he decided. The more beat up he was the more believable his story.

After fleeing for his life, Bramble had stopped five blocks later and closed the van’s side door. He flipped over the man he’d thought was Rapp and shook his head at his own stupidity. A canvas bag was peeking out of his waistband. Bramble grabbed it and looked inside. The cash and diamonds might come in handy. Rapp’s fake passports were worthless. Bramble wasn’t thrilled about losing Borneman, but it was all going to be laid at Rapp’s feet, so he guessed it didn’t matter. His immediate problem at that point was to get clear of the area. His wounds were not life-threatening, but Rapp was. Bramble needed to get his story straight and do it fast and then get hold of Hurley. As he put distance between himself and his handiwork, he began to refine his lie. By the time he was out of the city proper he felt that he had things about as good as he was going to get them. He dialed Hurley’s cell phone five times but got no answer. The last time he left a cryptic message with enough innuendo that Hurley would get the gist of what had gone down.

He didn’t know the exact location of the scrap yard, but Hurley had mentioned it in the premission briefing. He apparently knew the ugly mutt of a Serb from something he’d done in Yugoslavia back when Yugoslavia was a country. Hurley had helped the man emigrate to France, where he became very involved in organized crime. Hurley said for the right amount of money the Serb could be trusted. It was past ten in the evening when Hurley finally called back. Over an unsecure line it was impossible to give all the details of what had happened, but Hurley still got the gist. Bramble explained that the van was a piece of crap and that he needed to scrap it. Hurley took the hint and told him where to go and after that he told him to check the message service for instructions.

Bramble went straight to the scrap yard. It was just over an hour from Paris. The rear of the van was riddled with bullet holes and he had no idea if the police had a description of it, so he made the cautious decision to get off the road as soon as possible. There were only two problems: The scrap yard was closed and there were two bodies in the back. The second part didn’t bother Bramble so much. He’d been around bodies and they weren’t bad, at least until they started to smell. The problem was being caught with them if the police showed up.

Bramble had backed the van in near the gate so the bullet holes would be concealed and then covered the bodies with a tarp in case a cop decided to take a look. He wiped down his .45 caliber Colt and placed it in McGuirk’s lifeless hand so it would have his prints on it. Bramble stuffed the weapon under the dead man’s body and then took McGuirk’s sissy 9mm Beretta 92F. He hated the Italian piece of garbage but it was better than nothing. The same gun Rapp used.

Next he dug out the magnet from the LED box under the surveillance console and ran it in circles around the surveillance videotapes. It was standard practice in situations like this: Destroy all evidence that could tie you to the crime. It just so happened that it also suited his needs. It wouldn’t do to have footage of him sneaking up on the man he thought was Rapp and shooting him in the back of the head.

With that done, Bramble dug out the first-aid kit and tended to his wounds. The calf was easy to deal with, the triceps, less so. And as far as the ribs went, the only thing he could do was try to relax and not move. Bramble reclined the driver’s seat, ignored the pain, and thought about Rapp: how he would react, what kind of story he would try to tell, and who he would try to tell it to. Every way he looked at it, he figured Rapp was screwed. He was the one who had failed to check in after he’d fucked up the original job. He was the one who had sent a decoy into the apartment so he could ambush them. Hurley was going to be all over this. Kennedy could piss and moan all she wanted, but her little golden boy was going to be hunted down.

Bramble fell asleep with those happy thoughts, only to be awakened by a dirty man missing at least half of his teeth knocking on his window. Bramble sat up too quickly and immediately regretted it. His ribs screamed with pain and the rising sun was shining directly in his eyes. He rolled down the window halfway and tried to make sense of what the man was saying. His French was somehow worse than Bramble’s, which was no easy thing. Eventually, he got the gist that this was Hurley’s formidable Mafioso friend.

Bramble pulled the van into the yard and the gate was closed behind him. He looked around the yard and realized immediately that he was at the right place. Once they fired up the equipment the van would be cubed and stacked amongst all the other trashed vehicles. The negotiation, however, proved to be more difficult. The Serbian wanted to look in the van, and Bramble most definitely didn’t want him looking in the van. There was sensitive surveillance equipment in there, two bodies, and some guns and a rifle that Bramble wanted destroyed.

In the end Bramble knew he’d been played, but he didn’t really care. The money wasn’t his, and it wasn’t even his responsibility. He paid for the demolition and all of the evidence inside with Rapp’s money. He took a certain amount of pleasure in the irony of the whole thing, but he didn’t have time to enjoy it. He needed to get his head screwed on and he needed some medical attention. Getting his story straight was the first priority. The CIA could be very thorough, and even though he had destroyed pretty much all the evidence, they would put his story through the wringer and that would involve both human and mechanical lie detectors trying to trip him up. By the time he got to that juncture, and it would begin almost immediately, he would have to believe his own BS.

A few miles down the road, Bramble found a pay phone, parked, and climbed out of the car as if he were an eighty-year-old man. He grunted and moaned and then stiffly walked over and plugged some money into the slot. When he got a dial tone he punched in a long string of numbers and his personal code. Hurley’s voice played back a specific coded message. Bramble listened intently and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized they wanted to bring him in. And “in” specifically meant the U.S. Embassy in Paris where a real doctor would treat him. Bramble dialed the second message service and again punched in a long string of numbers and a different code. There was no code or hidden meaning in this message, just a straightforward order. Bramble looked at his watch. Depending on what happened at the Embassy, he might be able to make it work, but that would be up to Hurley.

Bramble shuffled back to the car. He would have to get patched up and convince Hurley to put him back on the street so he could hunt down Rapp and finish the job. Rapp had surprised him last night, but that was stupid luck. Bramble wouldn’t let it happen again. The next time he saw Rapp, he’d finish the job, and if he got lucky, maybe he could take Kennedy out at the same time.

CHAPTER 38

NEVILLE was dressed for the cameras: black pumps, dark gray tights, black skirt, and a cerulean silk blouse. She’d called it a day after her confrontation with Fournier. The encounter had left her in such a foul mood that she had told Martin Simon she didn’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day. She’d gone home to an empty apartment and remembered that her husband had taken the kids to see his parents. The bare apartment only served to worsen her mood until she realized that with a two-and-half-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter, she needed to take advantage of a little solitude. She drew a bath, lit some candles, turned on some jazz music, got in the tub, and began to plot the destruction of Paul Fournier.

Neville had been a police officer for sixteen years, and she’d developed a very good ear for lies. Fournier was one of the best liars she’d ever met. He demonstrated none of the telltale signs. He could lie without blinking if it served the moment and he could do it while frowning or smiling, or with a completely passive face. The only thing that was safe to assume was that when his mouth was moving, he was lying. As accurate as she knew her assessment to be, she needed more than a hunch to get her bosses to move. She was going to have to present some evidence. By the end of the long bath she had done a 180. What she needed to show was that the DGSE had no place in a police investigation. And then with Simon’s help she needed to share their opinion that someone from the Directorate had manipulated evidence. If she could get her bosses to believe Fournier and his minions were interfering with her investigation, it could start a turf battle and people might push back.

It was the kind of juicy governmental tidbit that the press would fall all over. The Directorate had no business playing their games inside the borders of France. Their mission was abroad. Inside France it was the National Police. The National Assembly and the Senate were filled with politicians who would be furious at the mere perception that the Directorate was up to its old games. That was where Neville knew she had to take this. Fournier was like a vampire. He could only operate in darkness. Expose him and sic the politicians and press on him and he would crumble.

Neville arrived at her office early to help prepare for her meeting and the first press conference that was scheduled to discuss the massacre at the hotel early Saturday morning. She found her deputy, Martin Simon, sitting at his desk looking as if he hadn’t been home in two days, which turned out to be the case.

“What do you mean you stayed here last night? What could have possibly happened in the investigation?”

Simon smoothed his red hair and said, “There were two murders last night, and one of the deceased is an agent with the Directorate, or I should say was.”

Neville was incredulous. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because you told me you didn’t want to be bothered. You said you needed to be left alone so you could figure out how you were going to handle your ex-boyfriend.”

Neville lifted her hand as if she might slap Simon. “I told you . . . do not call him my boyfriend. If you do it again, I’m going to hurt you.”

“Don’t be so sensitive. I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I can’t remember which of your ex-boyfriends I can still refer to as your exes and which ones I must call by their first names. It’s all very confusing.”

“What else do you have?”

“A second DGSE agent in the hospital. He’s in critical condition. And a deceased unidentified Caucasian.” Simon opened the file on his desk and showed her the crime scene photos.

Neville gave them a quick glance. “So this guy shoots these two DGSE agents and the wounded agent shoots back and kills him.”

“If only it were that simple. This guy,” Simon said as he pointed at the corpse in the street, “was shot in the back of the head at point-blank range . . . less than a foot away. Gun powder residue was all over his head, but his hands were clean and his gun was not fired.”

“So he didn’t shoot the two DGSE agents.”

“That’s the assumption so far.”

“Have you talked to the wounded man?”

Simon gave her a bitter laugh. “What do you think?”

Neville thought about it for a second. “They won’t let you anywhere near him.”

“You got that right.”

“I’m so sick of this bullshit. Was Fournier there last night?”

“He was there briefly to issue some orders and then he disappeared.”

Neville folded her arms across her chest and studied the crime scene photos. She tapped the photo of the man in the street. “No wallet . . . no ID. Nothing.”

“No, but I just left the morgue an hour ago and our people found something very interesting. They think his dental work looks American, but the big break came when they inspected the body. They were using the UV black light to check for gunshot residue, and they found faint traces of a tattoo that the man had had removed.” Simon found the photo and showed her.

Neville read the words aloud. “Rangers Lead. What does that mean?”

“Rangers are U.S. Army Special Forces. Rangers Lead is their motto.”

“Ballistics?”

“That’s where things get really interesting. We found shell casings from four different weapons, only one of which was recovered at the scene. It belonged to the deceased DGSE agent, and he only fired one shot. The rough count on shell casings is sixty-two.”

“Sixty-two,” Neville repeated, not really believing the number.

“And we found five different types of blood at the scene.”

“Three bodies and five different types of blood.”

“So we can assume at least five people were involved, and my guess is more than that.”

“And the DGSE isn’t telling us a thing.”

“That’s right.”

Neville shook her head in disgust. “Anything else?”

Simon glanced down at the file. “There is one other slightly odd piece of information. The first two witnesses on the scene were Americans. I’ve already checked them out. One of them is a network TV correspondent and the other one is his cameraman. When they showed up there was a man delivering first aid to the wounded DGSE agent. He yelled at the two Americans to help and then he ran off to get help.”

“And he never came back?”

“That’s right.”

“Was he French?”

“They think so.”

“Have the Americans given us a description of the man?”

“Yes, but it’s pretty generic.”

Neville shrugged and said, “Could be nothing.”

“Or it could be the key to everything.”

“The key is to get in and talk to that DGSE agent before Fournier has him shipped off to Polynesia.”

“Good luck with that.”

The thought of having to butt heads with Fournier again was enough to make her decide she would assign the case to someone else. They had their hands full. She looked at Simon and said, “We need to get upstairs for the meeting with Mutz.”

Simon pictured Michael Mutz, the newly appointed prefecture of police. He had a high, sloping forehead, a hook nose, and an ample body that was soft in all the wrong places. “And why would I want to go see Mutz with you?”

“Want has nothing to do with it. I’m ordering you.”

Simon rose and followed her to the stairs. The top cop’s office was only two floors up. Simon followed in silence, and was thinking how nice it would be to get through this meeting without having to speak. Mutz was a political creature who cared more for the pomp and circumstance of the office than the sometimes dirty nature of police work. When they reached the outer office Simon got his first hint that this wasn’t going to be an easy meeting. The prefect’s secretary gave them a nervous look and told them to head in. Neville was so focused she missed it.

It was a large corner office, fitting both the title and the ego of the man who occupied the space. There were four floor-to-ceiling windows, two on each of the outer walls, and twelve-foot bookcases filled with dusty tomes, antiques, and dozens of photographs of Prefect Mutz and the rich, famous, and notorious. Simon picked up on two clues the moment he walked into the office. The first was the absence of coffee and pastries. Mutz loved both and he’d never been in the office without both items being offered. The second clue was more obvious.

Not only was Prefect Mutz waiting for them, but his boss, Director General Jacques Gisquet, and his boss’s boss, Minister of the Interior Pierre Blot, were waiting for them. Neville saw this as a sign that they were taking her accusations seriously. Simon saw the potential for something very different, but before he could stop his boss, she started in.

“Minister Blot, good to see you. Director Gisquet, thank you for coming. Prefect Mutz, thank you for taking the time to hear me out.”

Simon didn’t say a word. He watched as Neville charged in, unaware that the mood in the room was anything but welcoming. She began to present her case, explaining to her three superiors the strange behavior of Paul Fournier and his uncooperative nature. She was building toward the tampered evidence when Director General Gisquet waved her off.

“Commandant Neville, I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you. Minister Blot received a rather serious call last night from the prime minister.”

“The prime minister,” Neville said, not understanding what this could have to do with Paul Fournier interfering with her investigation.

“Yes, the prime minister. He received a very serious complaint from the minister of defense that you have been harassing one of his top people.”

“Harassing,” Neville said in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Blot said, “Paul Fournier.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Unfortunately, I am. Fournier claims that the two of you dated briefly a number of years ago and that when he broke it off you became despondent and threatened suicide.”

“Suicide,” Neville repeated, her mouth agape. “I caught him cheating on me. I was the one who broke up with him, and I was happy to do it. The man is a selfish prick, but that’s beside the point.”

“He alleges that you have been stalking him for several years.”

“I haven’t seen him in five years.”

Blot cleared his throat. “He has sworn testimonies from three women who claim you intimidated and harassed them because they were dating Fournier.”

Neville was on the verge of losing it, but fortunately Simon asked, “May we see the file?”

All three men looked at Simon with disappointment. There was a long period of silence, and then Blot said, “I saw the file last night, but I was not allowed to take it with me. It looked genuine. Very damning.”

“And why do you think you weren’t given a copy?” Neville asked. “Because it’s all made up. It’s fake. Fournier is the very man who has been interfering in our investigation. You don’t find it a little strange that the night before I’m going to bring you a formal complaint, a file magically appears that says I’m the problem?” Neville looked at each man and asked, “You don’t smell anything rotten here?”

Director General Gisquet answered her question. “I don’t like any of this. I don’t trust Fournier, I don’t believe that this file magically appeared, but there isn’t a lot we can do right now.”

“You can demand that he bring the file and his accusers down here right now. File a formal complaint.”

Blot cleared his throat. “The DGSE would prefer to keep this under wraps. They have no desire to adversely affect your career. All they are asking is that you be reassigned from your current case and you stay away from Deputy Director Fournier.”

“And why do you think they want me assigned away from the hotel massacre? I’ll tell you why. Because I caught Fournier and his people tampering with evidence. I’m telling all three of you, the DGSE was involved in what happened the other night. I don’t know how deeply or in what way, but they were involved.”

Blot twisted his wedding ring and asked, “Were you at the Hotel Balzac yesterday afternoon?”

Neville had a bad feeling that the little confrontation had been twisted and blown out of proportion to serve Fournier’s purpose. “Yes, I was there.”

“Deputy Director Fournier has sworn statements from five individuals that you accosted him.”

“Accosted him! I asked him why he was interfering in my investigation.”

“The file says you yelled at him and made a scene. To make matters worse, he was conducting a meeting with a foreign intelligence asset.”

Neville was thunderstruck. “Am I the only person who sees what’s going on here? The Libyan oil minister is assassinated in our beautiful city the other night, the prostitute lying next to him is killed, two hotel guests are killed, a hotel employee is killed, and so are the minister’s four bodyguards. There’s only one problem. The minister was traveling without security. We can’t find a single person who saw him arrive or leave the hotel with a security detail, yet these four men magically appear in the middle of the night, and with silenced weapons.” Neville zeroed in on the minister of the interior. “You travel with security. When was the last time your men carried silenced weapons?”

Blot let out a heavy sigh. “These are all interesting points and I’m sure they’ll be sorted out by someone, but it won’t be you, Commandant Neville. We are removing you from the investigation. Prefect Mutz will be reassigning you this morning. If you handle this with grace, I can promise you that none of this will go on your record and there will be no formal investigation. Your career will continue to progress based on the merits of your work.”

Neville was speechless for a long moment, and then Prefect Mutz spoke up. “Francine, this is for the best. I’ll give you an extra week. Take the kids and go visit your parents. When you come back all of this will be over.”

Two things were ringing in her mind. The first was that it wouldn’t be over in a week and the second was that Fournier must be really nervous to pull a move like this. That knowledge gave her the strength to speak to her bosses in a way she would never have dreamed of before today. “So this is how we do things now. A sneaky little agency like the DGSE, which has no business doing anything inside the borders of this country, can pull in some favors with well-connected politicians, make some wild, completely unfounded accusations, and the mighty National Police of France surrender.”

Prefect Mutz gave her a stern look. “Francine, you’re out of line.”

“No, she isn’t,” Director General Gisquet growled. “This entire thing stinks. Paul Fournier is a snake and he’s playing us. I don’t like it one bit . . . but . . .”

“But what?” Neville asked, hoping that there was still a chance.

Gisquet looked her in eye and said, “For the moment, we have to play this game, but I promise you, Francine, this is not going to hurt you. We need to follow through with this request because it came from some very serious people and then in a few weeks when things cool down, we will take a good look at the facts.”

“In a few weeks,” Neville said, her impatience showing through. “You mean after Fournier and his goons have destroyed all the evidence and eliminated any witnesses who could help us solve the case.”

“I’m sorry, Francine, but it’s the best we can do right now.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Neville looked at each of her bosses, stopping with Minister of the Interior Blot. “I’m sorry that you men don’t have the balls to stand up against an agency that has no jurisdiction in Paris. Why bother with laws? I’m sure the people of Paris will appreciate the fact that their police department is afraid of an asshole like Paul Fournier.” Neville turned and started for the door. At the last second she turned and said, “Are the two of you aware that two DGSE agents were shot last night? One of them is dead. The other one is in the hospital, but Mr. Fournier will not allow the police to question him.” She could tell by the startled look on their faces that this was the first they’d heard of this. “Over sixty shots were fired. In addition to the DGSE agents we have an unidentified American with a Rangers tattoo. The media are going to be all over this and I sure hope for your sake they don’t find out that you were complicit in covering up whatever the hell it is that Paul Fournier is up to.”

Simon couldn’t follow her out the door fast enough. Halfway down the first flight of stairs he said, “Well, I’m glad I came along for that. I think it’s really going to help my career. Thank you for bringing me with you.”

“Sorry,” Neville tried to say with some sincerity despite the anger that was flowing through her veins.

Simon followed in silence for a while and then said, “You know, they might be doing you a favor . . . if what you said up there is true.”

“How so?”

“They just removed you from the front lines of a battle that looks like it’s going to end badly. The press will devour anyone involved in this.”

“The press?”

“Yes, the people who write for newspapers and magazines. They do news shows on this thing called television. As a group they’re often referred to as the press.”

Neville was so used to his smartass personality that she ignored him. “The press conference.” She checked her watch. “It’s supposed to start in twenty minutes.”

“I think it’s probably going to be canceled.”

“Maybe.” Neville stopped at their floor and looked down the stairwell. “I bet they’re all gathered right now. Waiting for it to start.”

“I’m sure Mutz is going to have it canceled, or your replacement will get up and read a brief statement.”

“What about me?”

“They’ll probably say you had to take a leave of absence. Your cramps are really bad this month. You know, something nice and misogynistic.”

“Stop being such a smartass for a second. I think I should make a statement.”

“I don’t think you could come up with a worse idea.”

“It’s the perfect idea.” Neville turned for her office. “I need to gather my stuff.”

“I think you should, because they’ll probably fire you and throw you out of the building.”

“They can’t fire me for telling the truth, Martin.”

“Sure they can. People do it all the time. Especially the police.”

Neville had her mind made up. She grabbed her jacket and purse and on the way out closed and locked her office door. “You can come along if you want,” she told Simon, “but I won’t blame you if you stay up here and hide under your desk.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. The opportunity to see one of the brightest minds in law enforcement destroy her career in front of an entire nation. It’ll be pure Schadenfreude.”

CHAPTER 39

RAPP’S feet glided along the pavement, beating out a steady five-and-a-half-minute-a-mile-pace. His shoulder throbbed, but he did his best to ignore it, and when he couldn’t ignore it he told himself he deserved worse. A man was dead. Luke Auclair, an innocent man who had been minding his own business, living his own life, until Rapp had sought him out and included him in his great miscalculation.

It had been a rough night. They’d traveled to the outskirts of Paris, where they’d stopped for gas and Rapp scrubbed the dried blood of the DGSE agent from his hands. He still had no idea if the man had made it. Maybe one life could be saved from the debacle. After that, they drove north a bit and checked into one of the big chain hotels by Charles de Gaulle Airport. The place was run-down, one of those five-hundred-room behemoths for business travelers who were willing to sacrifice service and cleanliness to be near the airport. The place was in dire need of remodeling, but Rapp barely noticed. He wasn’t in shock, but rather a bit jumbled from an evening of unexpected events.

He and Greta sat in near silence as they ate a late dinner, and then they went up to the room. She was good enough to not ask too many questions. She could tell he was trying to sort through some very heavy questions. Around midnight, with them both tossing and turning, he started to talk. The part about Luke weighed the heaviest on him. He was an innocent, a noncombatant, and the first rule of his job was to never harm noncombatants.

“But you didn’t know they would act the way they did,” Greta said. “You were testing them.”

“It doesn’t matter. I should have never involved him.”

Greta was quiet for a moment and then said, “But if you hadn’t it would have been you down on the street.”

“No,” Rapp said with self-loathing, “I knew better than to go into that apartment, and even if I had, I would have gone out the back door and my gun would have been ready and I would have been on guard. No one could have snuck up on me like that.”

They talked for a while longer and then Rapp kissed her on the forehead, told her he loved her, and said, “Let’s try to get some sleep.”

He held her with his good arm, and was grateful when he heard her breathing settle into a sleep pattern a short while later. Rapp continued to stare at the ceiling, replaying the events that he had watched from Bob and Tibby McMahon’s apartment as if it were a box seat at the theater. He dozed off a few times, but not for long. Sleep was rarely a struggle for him, and the more elusive it became, the more restless he grew. He ran through every conceivable scenario to determine who could have betrayed him. He pictured each face and then considered the possibility that they’d all conspired to have him killed. Had they decided to kill him based on bad information, or some information he wasn’t aware of? He slid his arm out from under Greta and decided he had to trust Kennedy. She had warned him to stay away from the safe house. She knew Victor was there, but did she know he’d been ordered to kill Rapp?

He finally fell asleep for a few hours and then woke just before 7:00 a.m. More restless than ever, he got out of bed and dug out his running shoes and some sweats.

Greta woke sleepily and asked, “Where are you going?”

“For a run. I need to work a few things out.” Rapp could tell she wasn’t pleased at the idea of his leaving, but she didn’t say anything. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in an hour and then we can have some breakfast and make some decisions.”

“What kind of decisions?”

“I’m not sure.” Rapp had been struggling with that question all night, but he felt that a good run would give him the clarity to see the best path forward.

He asked the front desk if there was a decent place to run and was directed to a park a kilometer from the hotel. Running at an easy pace, he found the park with little difficulty and then pushed himself. In hindsight, it was all brutally clear. His cavalier attitude had gotten a harmless man killed. Now, an inner voice he did not recognize told him Luke was nothing more than a piece-of-shit drug dealer. That the world would be a better place without him. That he needed to suck it up and push on. The last part was right, but the first two weren’t. Rapp fought the instinct to rationalize his mistakes and his stupidity. This was a lesson that needed to be imprinted on his brain and never forgotten. Rapp knew if he failed on that front he would be on the express track to become Stan Hurley II, and he would sooner jump off a bridge than allow that to happen.

As he circled the park, pushing himself harder and harder, the clarity he sought began to emerge from the chaos. Kennedy was the one person he could trust and the one person he wouldn’t harm. Victor was as good as dead. Rapp didn’t care where he saw him next, but he hoped it was face-to-face. He wanted to look him in the eye when he pulled the trigger. It occurred to Rapp that it was unlikely that Victor would make such a bold move all on his own. He wasn’t smart enough, and that meant Hurley was the one calling the shots. The big question mark was Stansfield. Of the three people who directly managed him, he knew Stansfield the least.

In large part that was due to the man’s job. As deputy director of Operations he had more than a thousand people working under him. He received hundreds of calls and cables every day from his station chiefs at various outposts around the globe. There were deputies down the hall and all over the building who wouldn’t move without his guidance, and Rapp was just one cog in a very big intricate wheel, although he was a very important cog. Rapp got the impression Stansfield was heavily involved in the decision to turn him loose and it only made sense that he would be equally involved in the decision to terminate him.

All of Stansfield’s authority, however, could be ignored by the most stubborn man he’d ever known. Hurley was the problem, and yes, Rapp was biased when it came to him, but that bias was based entirely on how the man had behaved since he’d met him two years ago. He was everything that he accused Rapp of being and then some. The man was egomaniacal, reckless, disrespectful, dictatorial, and petty. Rapp concluded that Hurley was more than capable of issuing the kill order without Stansfield’s knowledge. But why have Victor kill the other two guys on the team? What were they guilty of?

Rapp knew his running pace almost to the second, and after three miles, he nudged it to an even five-minute mile. Two miles later his shoulder was stinging and his lungs were burning and a thought struck him like a lightning bolt. Rapp’s legs stopped pumping and he slowed to a stop. His chest was heaving, his lungs working extra hard to pull in oxygen. He stood as upright as possible and looked off in the distance at three cooling towers for a nuclear power plant. He kept running the idea over and over in his head, and the more he did so, the more it became the only thing that made sense. Victor thought he had killed him, and then he turned his gun on his unsuspecting fellow team members. Why would a man do such a thing? There were only two possible reasons. Either they’d done something seriously wrong, and had been targeted for elimination, or they were killed because of what they’d seen.

It was as if a bad picture had suddenly come into focus. If the other two guys had done something wrong there were much better, and quieter, ways to get rid of them. Rapp was suddenly convinced that they’d been killed because they saw Victor shoot a man they thought was Rapp in the back of the head. Victor and Hurley had made it brutally obvious that they didn’t approve of him. Were they willing to frame him to get rid of him? Victor was incapable of accepting blame, which meant he would have to blame the other deaths on someone else, and that someone else was going to be Rapp.

Rapp turned and started running back in the direction of the hotel. He needed to get hold of Kennedy, and in order to do that he’d have to be mobile and, if at all possible, keep Hurley out of the loop.

CHAPTER 40

KENNEDY accompanied Stansfield into the Embassy while everyone else stayed with the vehicles. Rollie Smith was waiting for them and escorted them through security with only a word. Kennedy had heard a great many stories about Smith over the years. He had a substantial mustache that he kept perfectly trimmed and waxed. He had started growing it in his early twenties to help diminish his overbite, and over the years it became his signature trait, that and his bow ties. Smith prided himself on being the consummate British gentleman. He was a lifelong member of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as MI6. His father had been a midlevel diplomat for Britain’s Foreign Office, and the young Smith and his two sisters had spent almost their entire youth living on the Continent. Their father’s longest posting was in France, but he’d also spent time in Belgium, Austria, and Germany.

Smith was eighteen and living in Belgium when Hitler rolled into Poland and kicked off World War II. The following spring the Nazis did their famous end run around the Maginot Line and the family was recalled to London. The father recognized that young Roland was going to join the war effort with or without his permission, so he pulled a few strings and got Rollie placed with MI6. Four years later he met an American who had spent the greater portion of the last year of the war behind Nazi lines.

Over the following decades, as the Cold War heated up, Thomas Stansfield and Rollie Smith shared a common passion—they both wanted to destroy the Soviet Union. Sometimes they were stationed in the same cities, their embassies often only blocks from each other. Other times they were continents away, but the distance never mattered. They remained the closest of friends and confidants.

The two men greeted each other with solid handshakes and warm smiles. They were stoically and unapologetically from a generation in which men did not hug men.

Smith turned his charm on Kennedy. “What a nice surprise to see you, Dr. Kennedy.”

Kennedy smiled. “And you as well, Sir Roland.” For some reason, Kennedy couldn’t help but think of George MacDonald Fraser’s hilarious character Flashman whenever she encountered Smith.

Smith was either in a hurry or more than likely shared the same fear that was common with intelligence officers the world over. Talking in transient, unsecure places was never a good idea, unless you wanted to be heard. As was the case with the U.S. Embassy in Paris, MI6’s secure offices were located in the second subbasement. They took the stairs, and when they got to a heavy steel door with a camera above it, Smith punched a code into a cipher lock and they entered. He greeted a man behind a desk but didn’t bother with introductions. They continued down a long hall with ugly cream-colored walls and linoleum floors. Unlike the rest of the Embassy, this area had missed the big remodeling.

Smith opened a door on the right and motioned for Kennedy and Stansfield to enter. Kennedy felt immediately familiar with the type of room. The floor was rubber and the walls and ceiling were covered in gray acoustic foam. This was where the MI6 gang would hold their most delicate meetings. The table had four chairs on each side and a chair at each end. At the far end a very small man dressed in black was seated and smiling at her. She smiled back and guessed his age to be somewhere close to ninety.

Kennedy noticed the white tab at the front of the man’s collar. She approached him, extended her hand, and introduced herself.

The man continued to smile and in French said, “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Kennedy. I am Monsignor Peter de Fleury.”

Stansfield asked, “I’m not going to have to kiss the back of your hand now, am I?”

“Yes,” the old priest said, “and my bony white butt while you’re at it.”

Kennedy was caught completely off-guard. Her boss never joked.

Stansfield and Smith were now laughing like schoolboys.

“Your Eminence,” Stansfield said, “it is such an honor to be in your holy presence.”

De Fleury smiled and said, “I should have you excommunicated.”

“You probably should, and then I’ll just join the Church of England like Rollie here.”

“And you will burn in hell with Rollie and all the other pagans.”

Now all three of them were laughing, and they continued their ribbing for another few minutes until they finally settled down. De Fleury looked at Kennedy and said, “I’m sorry you have to put up with such childish behavior, but you should have seen these two at the end of World War II.” The monsignor turned his cloudy eyes on Smith and Stansfield and said, “Remember the time I had to save you from that whorehouse when the—”

“Hey, hey,” Stansfield shouted, “don’t start telling lies, or I’ll be forced to hand my secret files over to the Vatican. You’ll be stripped of that new fancy title and live out your final years in shame.”

“Go ahead,” de Fleury replied. “It would be the most exciting thing those old peacocks have read in years.”

There was another round of laughter and more stories. Kennedy had never seen her boss like this, and it made her view him in a different light. With his relative youthfulness and sharp mind it was easy to forget that he had served in World War II. When the men had finally settled down and were done teasing each other things took on a more serious tone.

Smith turned to Stansfield and said, “I wish things were different right now. I would love nothing more than to spend an evening with the two of you telling lies about each other, but I’m afraid in light of what happened last night that is not going to happen on this trip. The DGSE will be harassing you, no doubt.”

Stansfield was unfazed. “Once you’ve run a station in Moscow, the DGSE isn’t so intimidating.”

“True,” Rollie said in a reflective tone, “but this new man they have running their Special Action Division is not someone to take lightly.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Peter will fill you in on something very important in a moment, but first I, too, have something rather important to share.”

This was not a surprise to Stansfield. He had taken a call from Rollie at home on Saturday. A few coded words were dropped into the conversation and when Stansfield arrived at the office he found a secure cable from his London station chief waiting for him. It was a request for a face-to-face meeting. The topic to be discussed was the murder of the Libyan oil minister. “I appreciate you reaching out, Rollie.”

“That’s how you and I do things. We look out for each other.” Smith drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then said, “The Libyan oil minister, Tarek al-Magariha . . . he was on our payroll.”

Stansfield didn’t seem surprised. “I thought that’s what this might be about.”

“There’s a slight wrinkle, however. He was also on the DGSE’s payroll.”

This time Stansfield was surprised. “Who had him first?”

“They did.”

“And then you turned him.”

“Not me personally, but yes, my people did.”

Stansfield took a moment to measure what he had learned and then he asked the most obvious question. “Did the Directorate know?”

Smith shrugged. “Probably.”

“Probably is the best you can do?”

“We have nothing definitive, but Tarek’s handler said he was growing increasingly nervous. He wanted us to bring him in. He thought the Directorate had become suspicious and then he was sent abroad for this most recent trip without any security. He told his handler that they were going to kill him.”

“They?”

“I’ve been told he was more afraid of his Islamic associates than of the Directorate.”

Kennedy’s heart was beating a little fast as she thought of Rapp’s words. That it was a setup. That they had been waiting for him. “Did you say they sent him abroad without any security?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the papers said four of his bodyguards were killed.”

Smith turned his attention from Kennedy to Stansfield and gave him a hard stare.

Stansfield cleared his throat and said, “Rollie knows, Irene.”

“Rollie knows what?”

“He knows about Mitch. He knows he was there the other night.”

Kennedy didn’t move a muscle, but she felt blood rushing to her face. Before she could respond Stansfield gave an explanation of sorts.

“We have no better ally than Rollie and MI6. They have access to areas that we don’t and vice versa. I trust Rollie more than a good number of people in our building.”

Kennedy nodded. “I am in no position to judge, sir. You don’t owe me an explanation. You just caught me off-guard.”

“There is a tendency,” Smith said, “in this business to hoard information. We all know why. We don’t want certain people to get their hands on that information, but as you’re going to learn this morning, when you trust certain people, they can help fill in gaping holes that you would be incapable of filling on your own.” Smith turned to de Fleury and said, “Right, Peter?”

“That is very true.”

Keeping his eyes on Kennedy, Smith said, “Monsignor de Fleury was very active in the French Resistance during the war. He was so successful that after the war he was awarded the Legion of Honor by General Charles de Gaulle in a private ceremony. Over the ensuing decades he has helped French Intelligence and both our services when he can.”

“Don’t listen to him,” de Fleury said, “I have grown old and worthless, but there was a time when I did my part.”

“And you are still doing your part as they will soon find out.” Smith prodded him. “Tell them what you were witness to Saturday night.”

De Fleury smiled at Kennedy and said, “My church is Sacré-Coeur Basilica . . . you have heard of it?”

“Of course.”

“It is a very busy place. Lots of tourists. Lots of people coming and going. It also happens to be the perfect place to hold certain meetings for the Directorate. Such a meeting took place on Saturday night.” De Fleury reached inside his coat, fumbled for a moment, and retrieved several sheets of white paper folded once the long way. He placed the papers in front of Kennedy. “I took notes. My mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. A man named Paul Fournier who works for the Directorate set up the meeting. The other men were wicked. Or at least two of them were. I’ve been around evil before and these two men were evil. They were killers. They were Muslims and they were very rude. They complained about meeting at the church.”

Kennedy nodded.

“The third man was polite. He was dark-skinned, but his French was much better than that of the other two. His name was Max. They started talking about the murders at the hotel. Fournier said to one of the angry men . . . I can’t remember his name but it is in my notes. He said, ‘You came here to kill one man and now I have nine bodies to deal with.’ Fournier said, ‘I gave you this assassin on a silver platter and you fucked it up so badly I spent the entire day cleaning up your mess.’ ”

“You were there while they talked about this?” Kennedy asked.

“No.” De Fleury smiled. “They were in the crypt. I was above them, in the church. There is a vent that carries their voice as clear as day to one of the confessionals.”

Kennedy nodded and said, “Please continue.”

“Things became very heated, with the terrorists blaming Fournier for setting them up and Fournier blaming them for ruining their best chance to kill this assassin. Fournier blamed this Samir, that was his name, for killing three innocent civilians as he was leaving the hotel.”

Kennedy and Stansfield shared a quick look and then turned their attention back to de Fleury.

“They threatened Fournier, and he threatened to drown them in the ocean. That was when they said that Libya might begin to divert some of its oil and that maybe they would start setting off bombs in France again. Fournier laughed at them and told them he’d hand the files he had on them over to the assassin and he would hunt them all down. They threatened to inform his bosses. Fournier told them his bosses knew all about their arrangement. It went round and round like that until the one named Max stepped in. Then they talked about the assassin some more and the crime scene.” De Fleury’s eyes became unfocused, and he looked at the far wall for a moment. “After that . . . I can’t really remember what they said.” His eyes focused again and he looked at Kennedy, saying, “It’s all in my report. I checked it several times. It’s all there.” He nodded. “It’s just not all up here anymore.” De Fleury tapped his head with a near translucent finger.

Kennedy didn’t realize it, but her mouth was hanging open in disbelief. She blinked several times and then looked down at the papers in her hands and quickly shuffled through them. There were eight handwritten pages, all in beautiful flowing cursive. They felt like the greatest gift she’d ever received. Everything Rapp had said was true. “Thank you, Monsignor.”

“And that,” Rollie Smith said in a jovial voice, “is why we share information.”

CHAPTER 41

PAUL Fournier was reclining on his office couch with a cold compress on his forehead, his top shirt button undone, his tie loosened, and his shoes and jacket off. He rarely had headaches, but this morning was an exception, so he’d just taken three Extra Strength Tylenol and told his number two, Pierre Mermet, that he was not to be disturbed. Fournier had worked through the night trying to manage the damage that had been done. One dead agent and another in critical condition was not good. His bosses were going to be extremely upset. If a DGSE agent was killed abroad, no one batted an eye. If one was gunned down on a Sunday night in Paris, however, it was a big embarrassment for a lot of people.

The press was going to be asking a lot of questions, and Fournier did not like talking to reporters, at least en masse. They were too unruly, too hard to manipulate when they were in a feeding frenzy. One on one was his preferred method. He found them incredibly easy to manipulate. So many of them were insecure and in constant need of validation. He’d slept with more than a few of the female reporters in Paris and had stayed on good terms with them.

Fournier played out every conceivable development. The key would be to keep the police confused, and his play with the minister of defense would go a long way in slowing the police down. Having Neville removed from the case would send a message to all of the other investigators that they needed to be careful where they stepped. The case would take on the aura of a place where careers went to die. He was amazed at Neville and her naïve ways. He had hoped she would be smarter, but in the end she had asked for it.

At least in that regard, Fournier was pleased with himself. The bigger issue would be the CIA. He had surveillance photos of Hurley and his goons entering the country and driving to the very street where the shootings had taken place. Fournier’s orders to have his men follow them were completely within the charter of the Directorate. They were not monitoring French citizens, they were keeping an eye on foreign intelligence assets who had entered the country a little more than twelve hours after the massacre at the hotel.

The delicate part for Fournier would be withholding that information, so he could use it as leverage with the CIA. Turning the photo of the dead American agent over to the police would be a waste. If he could keep it private he could force the CIA to make some concessions and a fairly sizable cash transfer as well. They would be left with no choice, once presented with the photos of Hurley and his men. The conclusion was obvious. The DGSE men were not shot by some local criminals. They were too good for that. It was Hurley’s trained assassins who had been involved in the shootout. Fournier had other questions as well. Why were Hurley’s men on that particular street? Who were they looking for? Was it possible that it was the American assassin? Fournier had been working very hard for the past year to learn the man’s real identity. The closest he had come was a list of targets. His source either didn’t know the assassin’s identity or was playing him for better terms. His two men being shot would change all of that.

Fournier and his source shared the same pragmatic opinion: that it was not good for either America or France to have a killer poking the volatile nests of terrorists who ringed the Mediterranean. Fournier had deftly managed the moods and fanatical beliefs of the various groups, with one goal in mind—to keep the carnage out of France. His superiors, all the way up to the president, had given either silent approval or verbal commitments to the plan. As to the tidy sum he had collected along the way, no one in government would begrudge him for that. Even some in the press would understand, but none of them would ever find out. Fournier was convinced he’d covered his tracks. There was no way anyone would be able to find his money.

Fournier was thinking of his next move when his assistant burst through the door without knocking.

“You’re going to want to see this.” Mermet went straight for the TV and a few seconds later the TV showed a room full of reporters asking questions.

Fournier removed the cold compress from his head and turned his attention to the TV. The screen was filled with the charming face of Francine Neville. Questions were being shouted in the background and Neville was nodding.

“Yes, that is correct,” she said. “I have been removed from the case that I was assigned to barely forty-eight hours ago.”

“You’re talking about the murders at the Hotel Balzac.”

“That’s correct. Shortly after my investigators arrived at the crime scene, several DGSE employees showed up. One of them was Paul Fournier, who runs the Special Action Division for the Directorate. You’re going to want to make sure you write that name down . . . Paul Fournier. I thought it was strange that he was there, but he told me that the death of the Libyan oil minister was very much the business of the Directorate. He and several of his men had access to the crime scene for a little over an hour. The next day we discovered that certain key pieces of evidence were missing from the crime scene. We had reason to believe that it was one of Fournier’s men who took the evidence. I informed Mr. Fournier that I wanted to talk to this man, as well as several other people associated with the case.” She paused. “Thus far Mr. Fournier has proven to be very uncooperative.

“Yesterday I informed my boss, Prefect Mutz, that I needed to meet with him this morning to discuss the fact that the Directorate was interfering with a police investigation. When I arrived in his office a short while ago, Director General of Police Jacques Gisquet and Minister of the Interior Pierre Blot were in attendance. I took this as a positive sign that they were taking my accusations seriously. I soon found out that they were there for an entirely different reason. Minister of the Interior Blot had received a call last night from the minister of defense, who said he was in possession of a very detailed file that claimed I have been stalking and sexually harassing Paul Fournier for several years.” She paused again and looked around the room, giving the reporters a chance to catch up. “Full disclosure . . . Mr. Fournier and I dated briefly four years ago and we parted amicably. In the years since then I have married and have two beautiful children. I have not seen nor have I spoken to Mr. Fournier during this time. Somehow, though, this file contains statements from three women who claim I was threatened by their relationship with Fournier and that I stalked them.

“When I asked to see this file, I was told by Minister Blot that he had not seen the file, but he and the minister of defense had decided it would be best for the short term if I was removed from the case. In all my years with the police I have never been removed from a case. I have not received so much as a tiny mark against me. I am routinely ranked among the top commandants by my peers and I am often given very high-profile cases. I demanded to see the file and was told that was not going to happen. That the best thing for my career would be to simply step aside and let someone else handle the investigation. I was not given a choice in the matter, so I am stepping aside, but I am not going to do so quietly. I’m going to file an official complaint, and I want to see this fabricated file that Mr. Fournier used to con the minister of defense. And I’m also asking all of you to look into the Directorate’s involvement in this case. Their charter is to operate outside France, not to manipulate and interfere with police investigations here in Paris.”

A reporter shouted, “Can you confirm that two Directorate agents were involved in a gunfight in Montparnasse last night?”

Neville paused for an instant and then said, “Yes, I can. One of the agents was killed, and the other one I’m told is in critical but stable condition at a local hospital.”

The room erupted with questions coming from dozens of reporters. After about ten seconds Neville held up her hands and quieted the group. “I suggest you track down Mr. Fournier and ask him your questions. He is probably sitting in his office at the Directorate’s headquarters at 141 Boulevard Mortier plotting his next deception.”

Fournier was now up sitting on the edge of the couch. His eyes were locked on the TV as Neville stepped from behind the podium and left the room. He could hear his phone ringing from across the office but he made no effort to see who was calling. His mind was racing to find a way to limit the damage done by the stupid bitch. If she’d only just taken her banishment with grace he could have spared her the public embarrassment he’d now have to put her through. He quickly decided he could weather this minor storm. It would come down to he said she said, and he could provide fake evidence from now until the end of time. Neville had made a drastic miscalculation.

A woman with a flustered expression poked her head in the outer door and said, “Sir, the minister of defense is on line one and the director is on line two. They both want to speak with you immediately. They seem very upset.”

Fournier looked at Mermet, who merely shrugged. Fournier turned to his secretary and said, “I’ll speak to the minister first. Tell the director I’ll call him back as soon as I can.” Fournier rose from the couch and felt his headache begin stabbing at his temples. He picked up the handset on his desk, punched line one, and started to lie.

CHAPTER 42

THE interrogation room was used most often for debriefing assets, but occasionally it had been used for rougher stuff. The walls were painted off white and the floors were plain concrete. A six-by-four-foot metal table was anchored in the center of the room. Hurley sat on one side and Victor on the other. As much as Stansfield was inclined to authorize the screws being put to Victor, he thought there was a better way to proceed, so he calmly looked through the one-way glass and watched Stan Hurley walk Victor through the events of the last fourteen hours.

Kennedy approached the glass and said, “Sir, I think you need to hear what Thomas has to say.”

Stansfield looked at Kennedy and nodded. Dr. Lewis joined them at the glass and asked, “Have you been reading all of my reports?”

“Most of them.”

With a thorough man like Stansfield, that meant that either his reports had ceased to be important or that he was swamped with other work. Lewis took this in stride. “Have you read my most recent reports on Victor?”

“No.” Stansfield watched Victor’s face and listened to his voice as it was played over the ceiling speakers.

“Bramble, or Victor as most of the men call him, has become increasingly difficult to deal with.”

“Most of the people in this outfit are difficult to deal with,” Stansfield said without a hint of humor. “But continue.”

“He is not well liked.”

“I assume you mean by Mitch.”

“Yes, and pretty much by everyone else.”

“That’s not true,” Stansfield interjected. “Stan and Victor get along fine.”

“That’s because Victor is his trained dog,” Kennedy said.

“And Stan would say the same thing about you and Mitch.”

“Victor and Mitch are very different people.” Looking at Lewis she said, “Explain.”

Lewis nodded and turned his focus on Stansfield. “In my last report I outlined several serious concerns about Victor. I have noticed an extensive contempt and abuse of the rights of others. He is deceitful and lies to his colleagues with ease, especially if it will lead to his own personal gain. He is extremely irritable and aggressive and is prone to fighting even at the least hint of a slight. He has a reckless disregard for the safety of others, often manifesting itself in practical jokes that only he finds humorous. He shows almost no remorse when he hurts one of the recruits . . . in fact I think he takes a perverse joy in inflicting pain on others.”

Stansfield drummed his fingers on the ledge in front of the glass for a second. “You just described a good portion of the men I’ve worked with over the years,” he lamented.

Lewis cleared his throat. “On the surface it may sound like that, and you undoubtedly have worked with many tough men who share one or two of these qualities, Stan being chief among them, but I can assure you, there are seven traits that outline antisocial personality disorder and Victor has all seven.”

Stansfield looked away from the interrogation and regarded the doctor. “How many does Stan have?”

“Three . . . maybe four.”

“And me?” Stansfield asked with a straight face.

“Only one,” Lewis said, and then with a slight smile he said, “but then again I would need more time to properly observe you . . . but I wouldn’t worry. As a general rule you need to have at least four of the traits to be classified with the disease.”

“And Mitch, how many does he have?”

“Just one or two.”

“This assessment of yours . . . how serious is it?”

“Very.”

“And you’re confident that if I brought in someone else for a second opinion that person would reach the same conclusions.”

“Very confident.”

“Can this problem be resolved with treatment?”

Lewis waffled for a second and then shook his head. “It would take a great deal of time and effort and the patient would have to be willing.”

Looking through the glass Stansfield asked, “And do you think Victor would be willing to undergo treatment?”

“No.”

Stansfield stared through the glass and said, “Stan’s not going to like this.”

“No he isn’t, but he’s blind to the realities of the problem. This is far bigger than Stan and who he likes or dislikes. I put all of this in my report. People like Victor are extremely volatile. They usually end up in jail, or financially ruined, or both.”

Stansfield stepped back from the glass. “We don’t recruit Boy Scouts to this work. You two both know that. The Boy Scouts are all over at the FBI. We need guys who are willing to bend the rules . . . do certain things that your average mentally stable individual would never consider.”

Lewis nodded and said, “And you hired me to keep an eye on things . . . to make sure we have guys who know not to cross certain lines, and I’m telling you Victor will cross any line as long as it helps him get what he wants.”

“You know I called Stan last night and I told him to pull Victor and his team?”

Lewis nodded.

“Victor claims they were in the process of packing up when Rapp sent in the decoy.”

“I’m aware.”

“Do you believe him?”

Lewis measured his response. “I’m not sure I believe anything Victor says.”

“Anything else?”

“It’s one thing to have him down at the farm brutalizing recruits . . . but turning him loose in Paris . . .” Lewis shook his head. “That was a bad idea.”

“And why didn’t you bring this to my attention sooner?”

“I did put much of this in my most recent report.”

Stansfield turned his cold, gray, calculating eyes on the doctor. “I receive a lot of reports. Why didn’t you come to me?”

Lewis sighed and said, “I wasn’t there when he was recruited, but over the past year, I’ve grown increasingly concerned. And then there’s Stan to consider.”

“What about him?”

“The two of you are very loyal to each other.”

“We have a history, Tom, but I know how Stan ticks.”

“Permission to be brutally honest, sir?”

Stansfield knew this was the Green Beret coming out in the doctor, and he also knew that if he was asking for permission it was to say something that would be highly critical of Stansfield. He had never been afraid of the truth so he said, “Permission granted.”

“You have a blind spot where Stan is concerned. I have tried repeatedly to bring certain things to your attention and so has Irene, but you brush us off. I understand that the man has a storied career, and he undoubtedly has his uses, but putting him in charge of the recruiting and training of these men, I fear, was a huge mistake. And Victor is exhibit A. The man should have washed out years ago.”

Looking back through the one-way glass, Stansfield asked, “So what do you recommend I do about this problem?”

“Send Victor packing and do it as quickly as possible.”

“And if he doesn’t want to quit?”

The blue-eyed shrink and former Green Beret hesitated for a second and then said, “You should have him eliminated.”

This was far more serious than Stansfield had expected. He knew Lewis as a thoughtful man who was very thorough about his recommendations. This was the first time in three years that he had suggested such a thing. Stansfield had no illusions about who he was. He’d killed men before and he’d ordered men killed. It was part of his job description. “I’ll take all of this under advisement.” Stansfield left the mirror and then stopped and looked back at Lewis. “And what would you have me do with Stan?”

Lewis had some very strong opinions on the subject, but he was not so presumptuous as to think that he should offer them to Stansfield. “You know him better than any of us, sir. I think you are more than capable of making that decision on your own.”

The faintest of smiles creased Stansfield’s mouth. “You’re a smart man, Tom. I appreciate your honesty.”

CHAPTER 43

JIM Talmage had his equipment set up in the observation room where he could monitor Bramble via cameras and sensors that were attached to various parts of the subject’s body to measure blood pressure, pulse, skin conductivity, and respiration. Talmage knew he could fool a polygraph 100 percent of the time and he knew Hurley could as well, because they’d practiced on each other. Having operated in Indian country for much of their careers, it was a job requirement should they be dragged in by another intelligence agency or worse, a terrorist organization. Being able to trick the polygraph could often mean the difference between life and death.

Stansfield appeared at Talmage’s side. “How’s it going?”

Talmage shook his head. “Not good.”

“He’s lying?”

“I’m not sure . . . that’s the problem.”

“Is he being evasive?” Stansfield asked.

“Yeah, but it’s more than that. I think he knows just enough to beat the machine, and it’s not helping that Stan’s doing a shitty job.”

“How so?”

“I’ve seen him press a lot harder than this. I can usually predict his next question. You need to get the guy thinking about one thing, get him leaning in a certain direction, and them slap him in the face with an accusation, try to trip him up and see how he’s going to react.”

“And he’s not doing that.”

“Nope. He’s letting this guy tell his story. Every once in a while he’ll go back and review something . . . ask him for clarification.”

Stansfield was no novice when it came to polygraphs. He’d been given more of them than he could count and he’d ordered thousands. There were a lot of different techniques. Talmage had just described a technique they called giving the subject enough rope to hang himself. “That doesn’t sound unusual.”

Talmage shook his head and frowned. “Some people do it that way, but I can’t even count how many of these I’ve done with Stan. This isn’t his style. He’s like a street fighter. Nothing’s off-limits. Once he starts, he attacks and keeps attacking until he’s got the guy so flustered he wouldn’t dare lie to him.”

Stansfield considered the situation and then asked, “Should I pull him?”

Now Talmage got really uncomfortable. “That’s up to you, boss, but if there’s any criticism it better come from you. I don’t feel like getting my head bitten off.”

“Got it.” Stansfield didn’t show it, but he was extremely unhappy that he’d let Hurley create an environment in which everyone was afraid to express an opinion. He turned to Kennedy and Lewis and said, “Why don’t you two go check your voicemail? I need to have a word with Stan.” He patted Talmage on the shoulder and said, “Tell him to take a break.”

Talmage leaned forward and pressed the Transmit button on the microphone. “Guys, let’s take a break. Victor, can we bring you anything?”

Victor asked for a black coffee.

Talmage looked through the glass at the big oaf. He should know better. “You know we can’t give you coffee.”

“Fine,” the voice came over the speakers, “I’ll take water.”

Hurley got up and left the interrogation room. A moment later he joined Stansfield and Talmage. He looked at Talmage and said, “I think it’s going pretty well. How do the readouts look?”

“Like shit.”

Before Hurley could respond, Stansfield said, “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“What are you talking about? I’m trying to get the truth out of him.”

“I don’t think you are,” Stansfield said, without any extra emotion.

Hurley’s face twisted into a pissed-off scowl. “Listen, this ain’t my first rodeo. I don’t stick my nose in what goes on in the rarefied air of the seventh floor at Langley. Just let me do my job like I let you do yours.”

“Let?” A touch of anger crept into Stansfield’s voice. “You seem to be confused about something, Stanley. I’m your boss. I’m your superior. I’m the one who gives orders. I don’t just let you do your job, my job is to manage you. You don’t let me do anything. You’re my subordinate. Do you understand that?”

“I don’t understand what the fucking problem is. I’ve been warning you for two years that Rapp was going to blow up in our faces and lo and behold it happens, and now everyone’s pissed at me. I don’t need this shit. Victor is telling the truth. It’s obvious, and the rest of you better wake up and figure it out.”

“We don’t know if Victor is telling the truth, because you’re going so easy on him, Jim can’t get any readings that are worth a crap.”

“What the fuck would you know about interrogating someone?”

Stansfield stared right through him, didn’t speak for at least ten seconds, and then said, “Here’s what you’re going to do, Stan. You’re going to go upstairs and get some fresh air, have a smoke, and then you’re going to come to one of two conclusions. Either you’re right, we’re all wrong, and you have all the answers, or you’re going to figure out that you’ve become an insufferable ass whom no one can work with.”

Hurley lifted his chin and said, “You know I don’t need this crap.”

“You’re wrong again. We’re all sick of taking your crap. We’re all sick of your attitude, so remember, I’m your boss. If you go upstairs and fifteen or thirty minutes from now, you still think we’re all idiots and you’re the only smart guy, then I want you to walk out the front gate of this Embassy and never come back. I don’t care where you go as long as you stay the hell out of Virginia. But if you can somehow get it through your thick head that you don’t have all the answers, and decide that you’re going to stop biting people’s heads off, then come back down here and we’ll get serious about this interrogation.”

Hurley had known Stansfield for nearly thirty years. He had never seen his friend this upset, and it bothered him. He took a step back and uttered a word that rarely left his lips. “I’m sorry. I think my nerves are a little shot.”

Stansfield nodded. “Go upstairs. Clear your head and then make your mind up.”

Hurley left the room sullen and dejected, and for once Stansfield didn’t care. He looked through the glass at Chet Bramble and thought about the man’s dossier. Stansfield had read it years ago, but he still had it memorized. Much of what Lewis had deduced was already in that file. Bramble had major issues with authority and rules. It was what had eventually gotten him bounced from the army. Stansfield was of the opinion that highly moral, well-balanced individuals would never do what his team did for a living, so he was willing to look the other way with regard to certain personality faults. Now he feared he had let his standards slide too far, or he’d at least given Hurley too much latitude. Either way, the blame lay squarely on his shoulders.

Lewis and Kennedy were good people. They had sound judgment and were in control of their emotions. Bramble most certainly wasn’t. He was a brawler like Hurley. They were the type of men who could be trusted to handle very dirty jobs. The results weren’t always pretty but they got the job done. Rapp, on the other hand, was measured and precise. All of his kills until now had been minimalist in the best way. Stansfield was still in the process of comparing the two men when Kennedy came bursting into the room. “Sir,” Kennedy said, “you need to listen to this.” Kennedy grabbed the handset of a secure phone and began punching in a long string of numbers. “I just received a message on my service.” She handed him the phone. “It’s Mitch.”

Stansfield grabbed the handset and listened. “We need to meet. I finally figured out I can trust you. Don’t believe anything Victor says. I sent someone in my place last night. I wanted to see how he would be treated. I had no idea how bad the reception would be. I thought at worst he’d be roughed up. Unprovoked, Victor popped him and then did the same to the guys he was working with. Two locals showed up and he popped them, too. My guess is he’s blaming me for all of this. His word against mine . . . well, there’s only one problem. I have a witness. Someone your boss knows and trusts. I want to come in, but I don’t want to see anyone other than you. Leave me a mobile number where I can reach you and have the boss ready to hear me out. And this is my only offer. If I see Stan or Victor anywhere, I’m done, and if anyone tries to find me a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

Stansfield handed her the phone. “Where is Ridley?”

“He’s in the city.” She checked her watch. “He and his team are prepping the vehicle and hotel for Cooke’s arrival.”

“Was he here last night?”

“Yes.”

Stansfield thought about Rapp’s message. “That must be who he’s talking about.”

“The witness.”

Stansfield nodded and turned his attention back to Victor, who was leaning back in his chair drinking from a water bottle. “Call your service and leave him a number. Use your handler code. Get this set up as soon as possible, and then call Ridley and find out what he knows.”

Kennedy had started punching numbers into the bulky secure phone.

Stansfield considered the overall situation and then added, “And tell Rapp I’m coming with you.”

Kennedy punched in two more numbers before she realized what Stansfield had said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Stansfield did not want to believe that Stan Hurley had betrayed him, but it was a possibility he had to face. At a bare minimum it sounded as if someone had given Fournier the list of targets. It was possible that it could have been electronically intercepted, but to the best of Stansfield’s knowledge the list had never been sent via secure cable, Internet, or phone, or in any other known form. It had been compiled by Stansfield, Kennedy, and Hurley. The list was then destroyed. Stansfield had a photographic memory, as did Kennedy. Hurley did not, and there had been a few times earlier in their careers when Stansfield had had to chide Hurley for writing down stuff that should never be written down.

Stansfield studied Victor through the glass. He seemed relaxed, even confident, either that he was in the right, or that he was going to get away with what he’d done. As Lewis had pointed out, Victor was a man who would do whatever served him best. Rapp, on the other hand, had given them nothing but hard work and results.

The deputy director of Operations looked over his shoulder and said, “Yes, I think it’s a good idea. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”

Kennedy left the number for Rapp and then called Ridley on his mobile phone. When she had him on the line she said, “Hold on, Thomas wants to talk to you.”

Stansfield took the receiver. “Rob, you were in town last night?”

“Yep. Got in about four in the afternoon.”

“Did you happen to run into a mutual friend?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Were you with one of our colleagues last night . . . did you witness anything?”

There was a prolonged pause and then Ridley said, “I’m not following, sir.”

“Never mind,” Stansfield said. “You have everything in place for our guest?”

“Almost done. Maybe another thirty minutes.”

“Good. Call me when he shows up.” Stansfield hung up the phone and turned to Kennedy. “It’s not Ridley.”

“Then who in the world could it be?”

“I don’t know, but let’s not worry about it. We have bigger issues to deal with. Have the document people put together a diplomatic passport for Mitch. I don’t want any glitches if we get stopped by the Directorate. And how are we for vehicles?”

“I assume the Range Rovers are too high-profile?”

He nodded. “No bodyguards. Just you and me. Let’s use something from the motor pool that will blend in. We’ll send the Rovers out first. Dr. Lewis can take a nice scenic drive around Paris with the DGSE trailing him.”

“Good idea,” Kennedy said. “I’d better get upstairs, my cell phone doesn’t work down here.”

“I’ll go with you.” Stansfield then said to Talmage, “I’m going to initiate a lockdown on this floor. No one enters or leaves without my knowledge.”

“Understood.”

Hurley came bursting into the room with his small clamshell phone in his hand. “My phone doesn’t work down here,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“I know. Irene just said the same thing.”

“Well,” he started with a shake of his head, “I completely forgot that I had ordered two assets to relieve Victor and his team last night. Remember Bernstein and Jones?”

“The reporter and the cameraman,” Stansfield answered.

“Yeah, they’re the ones.”

Stansfield gave a disapproving frown. “They don’t seem like the right choice.”

“It’s a longer story than we have time for right now, but I asked them to work their contacts with the police. Beyond that, Victor and his crew had been working all day without a break, so I sent them over to sit in the van and relieve the guys for a few hours.”

Stansfield didn’t think this was the brightest idea, but he got the sense that there was something more important that Hurley was trying to get to.

“I was down here all night and all morning and when I went upstairs, my phone started beeping like crazy. Bernstein had left me four messages so I called him back. He said that when they showed up last night two men had been shot. Turns out it was the two Directorate boys. One dead and one alive. He tells me there was a guy who was administering first aid to the wounded agent. I asked him to describe the guy. He said the guy was midtwenties, thick black hair, fit, and he’s pretty sure he was French.”

“Why?” Kennedy asked.

“He said he spoke French like a native. Started barking orders at Bernstein and Jones. Told them to sit with the agent while he went and got help.”

“And?” Stansfield asked.

“He never came back. Bernstein, who’s been in almost as many war zones as I have, said this mystery man used Quickclot on the wound and field bandages to stop the bleeding.”

“You think it was Mitch?” Kennedy asked.

Hurley couldn’t speak for a moment. He looked at the floor, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on. It sounds like it could be him, but why the fuck would he shoot a DGSE agent and then patch him up?”

Kennedy and Stansfield shared a quick look, and then Stansfield said, “Because he didn’t shoot the agents. Someone else did?”

All eyes turned to the man sitting in the interrogation room. There was a lengthy silence and then Stansfield said, “Stan and I need a moment alone. Irene, I’ll meet you upstairs. Jim and Tom, stay close. This isn’t going to take long.” Once they were all gone Stansfield said, “I need an honest answer from you.”

Hurley nodded.

“I need a verbal commitment. You need to look me in the eye and swear that you are going to answer this question honestly.”

Hurley hated being penned in like this. “Fine,” he said, looking his old friend in the eye. “I won’t bullshit you. Ask away, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

“Remember when we made out the list of targets?”

“Yeah.”

“And we memorized them, and then I shredded the list and put it in my burn bag?”

“Yeah.”

Stansfield could already tell by the way Hurley was fidgeting that he’d done something wrong. To strangers or adversaries he was a world-class con artist and liar, but when it came to his closest friends he was lousy. “When you got back down to the farm, did you by chance re-create that list?”

“How do you mean?” He took a half step back and folded his arms across his chest.

“By writing the names down again?”