The Hunter

CHAPTER 30

Paris, France

Saturday

00:09 CET

Named after someone whose life had been filled with such complexity, Charles de Gaulle Airport’s stark simplicity always seemed to Victor like a deliberate irony. Even in the best of moods, passing through it could feel like a long walk to nowhere. The terminal was especially uncrowded, even for midnight, with only a few people anxiously checking the departure boards for news of their delayed flights. There had been particularly bad weather over much of western Europe. Either that, Victor thought, or the French air-traffic controllers were on strike again.

He’d seen no one at the airport whom he thought was a shadow, but he couldn’t be sure. At the airport he was safe from being killed if not arrested. There were armed and wary guards who would shoot anyone without a second’s hesitation who even looked as if they might pull a gun. Without a weapon he was safe from them, at least. As soon as he was in the city, everything would change, if he hadn’t been taken into police custody by then. In a city where murders occur daily, his own would barely warrant attention. He wouldn’t die easily though. If he was walking into a trap, then, for his enemies’ sakes, there had better be nothing short of a platoon waiting for him.

Making it through passport control had given him the confidence that the French authorities weren’t expecting him. It was one less thing to worry about. He would still be careful of the police and security services, but it was the CIA that was currently sitting at the top of his threat radar. He made straight for the exit, not bothering to do any countersurveillance. If there were people watching him, he wasn’t going to shake them all, and the more time he spent confined, the easier he was making their job. His best chance was to get into Paris as quickly as possible. In the city he could blend into the scenery, disappear.

He reached the exit without incident and went through the automated doors fully expecting to be gunned down the second he stepped foot outside. The sky above was black, the clouds angry, roiling. The bitter wind bit at his flesh, an almost visceral assault. The rain came down straight and hard. Victor saw the raindrops pelting the ground as a hail of bullets.

There were fewer than a dozen people outside, but any number of them could be a killer just like him. He’d come too far to turn back now. He’d made his choice, good or bad, and he was going to see it through. But no one shot at him, no one so much as made eye contact. If he was to die, it wasn’t going to be here in the rain.

It had been five days since the attack in Paris, and he would never have believed then that he would be back before the week was out. But a lot had happened in that time. The scratches on his cheek were as good as gone, but his chest still ached, and there were scabs on his hands and wrists. Victor wasn’t sure how many lives he had left. He climbed into a taxi and told the driver to take him to Paris and the closest pawnshop.

‘None will be open.’

Victor reached for the seat belt. ‘Just find one.’

They drove into the city, Victor silent despite the driver’s attempts to draw him into conversation.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Victor asked.

The driver shook his head.

It seemed a long time until the car pulled up alongside a kerb. The shop had a barred and meshed window, a reinforced door. Two of the letters in its yellow neon sign were black.

Victor told the driver to wait and went inside. He came out five minutes later, a few hundred euros lighter, but heavy one Benchmade Nimravus knife with a four-and-a-half-inch black tanto blade, two unlocked prepaid cell phones, and a car charger. He’d examined the knife in the store, checking its sharpness and balance before the scrawny owner’s staring eyes. Victor climbed into the back of the taxi and had the driver plug in the first phone.

‘Are we close to a bar?’

The driver smiled into the rear-view mirror. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘Yes,’ Victor replied. ‘It is.’

The driver took him to a nearby bar. It sat near an intersection. The road outside was busy with people and cars.

‘Take me to another one.’

The driver gave him a look, but Victor said nothing. The next two bars he likewise dismissed. The fourth was on a quiet street, no nearby intersections.

‘Better?’ the driver asked.

Victor reached for his wallet.

In the bar he bought a vodka and told a confused bartender he needed to borrow some tape. In a toilet stall he taped the knife, point up, onto the skin of his lower back. He tucked only the front of his shirt back in. It felt better to be armed. Now, at the very least, he could take some of them down with him.

He used the bar’s payphone. The line connected after just a few rings.

‘Are you at De Gaulle?’ were the broker’s first words.

‘I’m in the city.’

‘Write this down,’ the broker said. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

‘No, you come and meet me.’ Victor told her the bar’s address. ‘If you’re not here in thirty minutes all you’ll find is an empty glass.’

‘Hold on a second; this isn’t how this works. You come to me.’

‘We play by my rules or I’m on the next plane out. Decide.’

A pause. Then, ‘Okay.’

‘Wear something red.’

He hung up.

The bar was half-empty, just the serious drinkers who looked like they spent a lot of time there. He knew he’d been noted as an outsider, but it wasn’t important, no one here was going to go out of their way to volunteer information to the authorities. Most were too busy pickling their brains to even remember him.

Victor paid for his drink and stepped out into the cold. He looked both ways down the street. To the left, the road led into an industrial neighbourhood; to the right, it headed toward the freeway intersection. He couldn’t see a sign for the metro and didn’t think she would come on foot. There were sirens in the distance, but the rain seemed louder.

He crossed the road and found an alley where he could watch the entrance to the bar. At a time like this he would normally have taken out his gun, chambered a round, and flicked off the safety before putting it in the front of his waistband, to the left of his belt buckle, where he could get to the gun quickly. But he had no gun, only a knife. It wouldn’t be enough if they sent a kill team, but it was better than nothing.

He had some shelter from the wind and the incessant downpour, but the rain still found him, and the chill still pricked his skin. Victor didn’t care. It felt great.

Cold, wet, but still alive.

He had been standing for exactly twenty minutes and smoked one delicious cigarette by the time a white taxi pulled up outside the bar and left a tall woman standing on the kerb, a cloud of exhaust fumes disappearing into the air around her. She was dressed in an ankle-length grey coat. Dark hair tied back in a ponytail protruded from underneath a woollen hat. A burgundy scarf was wrapped around her neck.

The broker.

She took a moment to compose herself and went inside the bar. He was surprised the taxi had dropped her off right at her destination, even more surprised that she went in without even checking her surroundings. Either she had no idea what she was doing or was playing the part of someone who didn’t.

There was no evidence of a kill team on the street, the road clear, sounds of cars only in the distance. A man was walking down the street with a dog, but Victor discounted him. Too much insulation around the midriff. The dog was a Doberman, and the man strained to keep it in check. A kill team wouldn’t use a dog, even as a distraction.

Victor exited the alleyway quickly, head down, collar up, just a man who’d taken a short cut and was eager to be on his way. He stroked the Doberman before crossing the road. On the other side, he stood to the right of the bar’s entrance, his back against the wall. He kept his hands in front of him, outside of his jacket despite the cold. He lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly. He watched the roads.

The door opened five minutes later. She stepped out into the night. Before she knew what was happening he took hold of her arm.

‘This way.’

He heard the breath catch in her throat, but she didn’t resist. Victor took her west, further along the street, and turned into the first alley they came across. He pushed her against the wall and searched her. She took in big gulps of air.

‘I don’t have a gun.’

It only took a few seconds for him to know she was unarmed. He’d wanted to find a gun so he could use it himself. He led her out of the alleyway.

‘Where are we going?’

He didn’t answer her, just kept walking, his fingers tight on her arm, her legs working fast to keep up with him. He could see her looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look back. He kept his own gaze on his surroundings.

Victor led her to the end of the street and into the industrial area. The roads were wide, clear. Fences lined the sidewalks, beyond which factories stood. Some with lights on, others without. A car appeared, heading towards them. Victor’s hand moved to his back. At ten yards, if it looked as if it was going to stop, he’d slit the broker’s throat and throw her into the road in front of the car before he started running. Down an alley, he’d find a hiding place, ambush the last man, drive the knife through his spine, take his gun, kill the others or die shooting.

The car didn’t stop.

The broker said, ‘Tell me where you’re taking me.’

He didn’t respond, but she got her answer five minutes later, after they had circled through the deserted streets. The bar was farther along the road.

‘Why are we back here?’

He took her inside, ordered a drink for both of them, and took the table farthest from the door, near to the entrance to the rest-rooms. Earlier, on the other side, he’d seen a door marked staff only. There would be a back entrance somewhere on the other side should he need to use it.

It had thrown him before to find out the broker was a woman, and it threw him again now as he looked at her. She was younger than he would have thought. Thirty, maybe as young as twenty-eight. That meant she was good at what she did or they were using her to confuse him. He didn’t let his surprise show.

The broker was as wet as him now and didn’t look as if she liked it one bit. Not a field operative, then. She had a slim face, dark eyes. She sat with her fingers cupping her glass. She didn’t look at him much.

‘I didn’t bring anyone.’

Victor almost believed her. His natural suspicion didn’t sit well with the person opposite him. She was too young, too scared, and too stupid to be setting him up. Maybe she was just involved in something way out of her depth and was desperate for his help. He had no plans to do so unless it also helped him. Or maybe he was wrong. Either way her chances of survival were not looking good. He rested his hands on the table.

‘Why did you have me come back to Paris?’

‘Someone is trying to kill us both.’

It was tempting to be sarcastic but he resisted. ‘Because of Monday.’

She shook her head. ‘The Paris job isn’t what you think.’ She looked around the bar. ‘We shouldn’t talk here.’

She was so nervous she couldn’t keep still, checking the door every few seconds as though she’d seen the move in a film. She was drawing too much attention.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where?’

‘I have an apartment in the east of the city. It’s safe.’

Victor raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘I’ve been staying there since yesterday,’ she explained. ‘No one knows I’m there or I would have been killed already.’

It was a well-delivered point.

Victor downed his drink. ‘Take me there.’