The Hunter

CHAPTER 18

Paris, France

Tuesday

23:16 CET

Kennard flipped his phone closed and considered carefully for a moment. He was at the killer’s hotel with the complete crimescene report, doing a walk-through, trying to get an accurate picture of everything that had happened in case they’d missed anything. The French police were still pretty damn unhelpful, but at least they left him to it.

Now that Alvarez had briefed him about the situation in Germany, Kennard abandoned what he was doing. He hurried through the hotel and out onto the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore. It had been sealed off in front of the hotel from junction to junction on the previous day, almost immediately after the killings. Kennard remembered watching the harried-looking policemen at either end of the cordon as they tried their best to divert the angry morning traffic.

Now it was as if nothing had happened. The only barriers still in place were within the hotel itself. Outside, Parisian motorists whizzed too fast down the road in their pathetically small cars, hitting their horns each and every chance they had. It seemed not to matter if there was real cause.

Kennard hated the French, hated everything about the country. The people, the language, the so-called culture. Even the food was bullshit. Sure, if he paid a month’s salary he could get something half-edible, but greasy omelettes, tough bread, rank cheese, and meat that smelled rotten was not his idea of fine eating. He’d take a quarter pounder with good old freedom fries any day of the week.

He continued to walk along the sidewalk, going past where his car was parked. A group of drunk executives were heading his way, failing miserably to walk in a straight line. No doubt they had been celebrating a deal of some sort. They looked the type.

As they drew closer one of them shouted something to him in French. Kennard recognized the aggression. Maybe the Frenchman had noticed the antipathy in Kennard’s face, or maybe he was just looking to have some fun.

The man was just taller than Kennard and twenty pounds heavier, most of it around the gut, but beneath his suit Kennard wasn’t the soft guy he looked. He would have liked to have demonstrated that he was no easy target, but instead he averted his gaze and moved out of the group’s path. He couldn’t afford to get into any trouble. He heard laughter and jeers from behind him as they walked away. Lucky for them that they did.

Kennard crossed the street. His face remained blank, but he could feel the pressure of blood in his temples. Alvarez had given him a host of urgent tasks to complete, tasks that could not wait, but Kennard wasn’t returning to the embassy. He had something more pressing to do first.

After another minute walking, he turned into a side street. He found the pay phone again and had to wait a difficult thirty seconds before the young woman inside had finished her call. Kennard entered the booth and took out his cell phone to check the latest number. He pushed the buttons quickly but carefully. He would wipe down the surfaces he had touched when he was finished.

The back of Kennard’s collar was damp. He wasn’t supposed to make phone calls that were not prearranged, but after Monday’s disaster news like this couldn’t wait. The phone didn’t start ringing immediately, and, when it did, it seemed to take forever before someone answered. He coded in.

There was a long silence before anyone connected. When the voice on the other end of the line spoke, it practically dripped disdain.

‘This had better be important.’

Kennard took a deep breath before continuing. ‘It’s been confirmed. He did go to Svyatoslav’s apartment in Munich, but he’s long gone. We’re pretty sure he flew to the Czech Republic. After that, we don’t know yet.’

There was a long pause. ‘Okay,’ the voice said. ‘This is what we want you to do…’