by Lynda Filler
“RB. Get into the computers at Jack’s Foundation. We designed the security, but Jack will show you any modifications they’ve made. Find out what exactly we’re up against. We should be able to access the doctor’s files. Co-ordinate time and dates and see if you can match video surveillance to the time in question when this all started. We’re on full alert. This is happening in our town, in our country and we have to stop it now.”
Everyone nodded.
“Alright, we need to move quickly. Jack told the doctors’ assistant to get to his cottage in West Seattle. But if she’s got her phone with her, she can be traced. I’ve sent a security team out there already.”
15
Paris, France
LUCI’S NEWEST PASSPORT was scanned at the Charles de Gaulle VIP check-in. She politely refused a chauffeured limousine driven by one of Raven’s buff security team. Instead, she headed towards the main terminal to take the RER public train into Paris.
She’d fallen in love with this great city many years ago. It was one of the few places where she’d ever been able to forget she was an assassin. Several years—before Alice—she’d announced to Mossad she was taking a timeout and attended the prestigious Sorbonne University. She studied History, Architecture, and advanced level languages. For a short period in her life, she pretended she was normal. She’d even begun to heal from the murder of her parents.
On the flight from Whidbey Island, she studied everything she could find on the current events in Paris. The city she knew and loved was under siege from an upsurge of Islamic terrorism. She felt for the handle of her knife easily accessible yet carefully concealed on the side of her Prada knapsack. She took strange comfort in knowing Luke would have every weapon she might need in the flat near Parc Monceau.
The commuter train screeched through the suburbs. Luci got a good look at the dingy graffiti-covered buildings. The streets teemed with foreigners even in the late evening. Tents were strewn haphazardly along the avenues close to the air vents warmed from the subway line. Young people milled around eating and smoking. On Luke’s fact sheet one critical statistic jumped out at her: the youth unemployment rate was at fifty percent. How could they survive? How would Paris, or France for that matter, withstand the weight of this refugee crisis?
The train pulled into a station. She was nowhere near the 17th. She needed to feel the energy and emotion of the city in the distressed areas. Luci grabbed her carry-on, slung her backpack over one shoulder and blended into the throngs of street people. She inhaled the familiar scent of diesel mixed with the exotic spices of the Middle East and Africa. Families roasted food over open charcoal fires in beat-up metal drums. She was ready mentally but not emotionally for the sadness she felt for those who no longer had shelter nor a country to call home.
She felt a tingling on her neck and turned around casually. Three youths stopped in their tracks and pretended to converse with each other. Their hands gripped what might appear as work tools to an untrained observer, but Luci knew they would use those as weapons against her. She clasped her backpack closer, surreptitiously removed her stiletto, and took a left down a side street. She noticed a dumpster about a hundred feet up the block. Most people in this quieter area were having dinner or putting their kids to bed. She made a big deal about turning after the dumpster as if she had somewhere, in particular, she was going. Then Luci stopped.
She waited, her stiletto in one hand her carry-on leaning against an ancient brick building. Garbage pails lined the narrow empty corridor. She could hear men arguing in French and pots and pans being slammed on counters. It was very dark in the dead-end-alley, and Luci realized she probably should have taken a different route.
They rounded the corner, exuding confidence amongst themselves. The men must have spotted Luci's designer knapsack. Before they could grasp what was happening, Luci attacked. The first guy got a kick to his groin and bent over double, crying. The second took an elbow on his chin that broke his jaw. He screamed like a little girl. And the third turned and ran leaving his comrades to fend for themselves. Luci hardly broke into a sweat.
She grabbed her carryon, adjusted her backpack and put her stiletto away. If she could avoid killing, she would. This had all been about teaching a lesson anyway.
The street was now almost empty and other than the moans of her victims, not much was going on. She made her way back to the main boulevard and signaled for a taxi. An African male pulled over and checked out her all-black attire and non-aggressive stance before releasing the door lock. She was more than ready to leave the aggressive suburbs. She slid into the back seat, her neck tingling, aware of someone watching her. As they pulled out into traffic, she noticed a Mercedes limousine parked, motor running. The driver looked familiar.
Damn! Raven had eyes on her the whole time. He must slipped a chip into some part of her gear. Maybe her new passport.
Once they crossed the overpass and entered the 17th Arrondissement, the graffiti disappeared, and the elegance of Paris returned. She waited five more minutes, calculated where she was and asked the driver to pull over. She had a good idea where she was from the app on her phone,
Luci nonchalantly walked along the wide boulevard, blocks away from her destination. Occasionally she stopped to admire a dress or handbag in a store window. Luci purchased a jus d’orange and continued strolling. Up ahead she could see the ornate gold leaf entrance gate to Parc Monceau and the familiar limousine parked and waiting. A woman passed by pushing an infant in a stroller and turned the corner past Le Petit Bateau children’s shop. Nothing felt out of place. Nor did anyone in this neighborhood seem aware or concerned about the wretched poverty and sense of desperation in the northern suburbs.
She stopped for a petit café at the end of Rue Logebach and casually pulled out a tourist map. All the while her eye was on the entrance of number 74. She pulled up her iPhone, tapped a message and waited for confirmation. Fifteen minutes later, she keyed in a five-digit code at the porte-cochère of the early 19th century Haussmann building and followed the cobblestone driveway into the courtyard. Raven’s unit was in the back facing the park.
She exercised, showered and prepared for dinner with Simone and Pablo.
She slipped into a chic Dior little black dress, added custom Louboutin heels and secured her black hair in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck. She didn’t need makeup. Her enticing almond shaped jade eyes were distracting enough. She removed an elegant pearl necklace from a velvet pouch on her dresser and imagined Luke’s long fingertips stroking her neck as he closed the antique jade clasp. She wondered if Raven had chosen her wardrobe. For a brief moment, she wished he was here, beside her, in Paris.
She studied her appearance in the antique full-length mirror and added the ultimate accessory, her Glock, to her oversized Louis Vuitton bag. Raven’s proposal was the last item she placed in her tote. She went over the details in her mind, ensuring she would be able to answer any questions. The idea was brilliant, but then she shouldn’t have been surprised. It came from Raven.
The Mercedes limousine was waiting at the entrance to Parc Monceau. Luci took her time walking the three blocks from the safe house occasionally stopping, reaching down to adjust her shoe, a casual look in the window of a local brasserie—a typical Parisian on an evening stroll. When she was sure she was not being followed, she crossed the street and stood back from the vehicle on the driver’s side. She casually turned on the device in her hand while transferring her bag with her documents to her shoulder. She was reassured when its screen showed the weapons in the vehicle were located precisely where they should be.
The young lean driver exited the limousine, observed her stance and recognized a fellow professional. He held his hands loosely at his side. He matched the photo Luci had received on her cell from RB. He nodded for permission to open his suit jacket. She responded in French that it wouldn’t be necessary. He opened her rear door and stood back his eyes looking everywhere but at Luci. She slid into the luxurious l
eather seat in the back of the vehicle.
The bodyguard took his time easing in and out of traffic, made his way down Blvd Malesherbes and headed in the direction of Place de la Concorde. Luci shivered as she always did when driving through this area. She could feel the angry crowds lusting for the blood of Henry XVI and could imagine the sharp blade of the guillotine. She closed her eyes for a moment and shook off the images. And then her thoughts took her to her Jewish grandparents, and the mix in East and West that resulted in the woman she faced in the mirror each day. She didn’t know enough about her heritage. She’s spent too many years focused on the present. One day, she would Take Alice to Israel and start from there.
The driver glanced at her from time to time through the rear-view mirror. She knew from the fresh haircut and his stance at Parc Monceau that he was a well-trained Raven operative. Considering Luke’s predilection for SEALs, he was probably ex-French Commando. His eyes looked ahead and to the side, observing anything or anyone that might be out of place.
Suddenly two motorcycles came up on either side of their vehicle. Luci gripped her Glock and pushed herself down low on the floor of her car. The driver maintained a steady pace and called back to Luci.
“Sorry Madame, ça va bien. I should have warned you. Raven requested extra security as we go through the most likely terrorist venues.” Luci returned to her seat. She kept the weapon in her lap. If Luke wasn’t taking any chances neither would she.
“Is that a Glock ma’am?”
“Yes. But I change my weapons like I do my clothes.”
They both laughed, breaking any tension left by the event.
“Here, Ma’am.” The driver passed a key between their seats. “This is a gift from Raven. He suggested you check under your bed if you get bored with your own toys!”
“Hah! And I suppose he told you about my Parkour habit?”
“Yes. If you’d like company, Ma’am, I’m an expert on the 17th, and the 16th. We have amazing Parkour rooftops and buildings to scale. It would be my pleasure if you get restless after dark.” He smiled in a way that broke all the tension and had Luci laughing and shaking her head.
“I might take you up on that!” A little double-entendre never hurt anyone.
In five more minutes, they pulled in between two special-forces-manned turn-of-the-century granite buildings and slowly maneuvered the limo down the back alley of Brasserie La Rotonde.
Several GSPR, French Special Forces, outfitted in tactical gear, face guards, armored vests, and carrying HK MP5’s focused outwards to the surrounding area. One stood ready to investigate the President’s guest. Luci had already advised Simone that she would be armed. The Special Forces officer raised a Gaelic eyebrow in obvious appreciation of a beautiful woman, nodded at Luci and opened the restaurant door for her.
A waiting plainclothes security woman acknowledged Luci, “Follow me, Madame.”
Before Luci could get a step further, Simone embraced her.
“Samaar, it’s so good to see you!” They hugged and laughed, each lost in the memories of many evenings such as this spent in the cafés surrounding the chic parts of Paris.
Simone ushered Luci to a more private space towards the back of the brasserie.
“Come. Pablo is waiting. I ordered your favorite moules and frites! I remembered. And we will have champagne, or would you prefer a Kir Royale?” Samaar smiled. Food first. Business second. It felt so good to smile and laugh.
She would try to forget that it was necessary to surround this elegant café by one of the most elite military forces in the world. Terrorism strikes everywhere and everyone. But if at all possible, not on Luci’s watch.
16
Somewhere in Eastern Europe
THE PREDATOR OBSERVED the woman struggle, stumble and fall. The child tumbled with her. Someone helped her get up, but he could see she would be weak and in need of medical help. He smoked his hand-rolled Hungarian cigarette and thought about this latest group of victims. He scratched his pockmarked face. His beard was spotty not entirely covering scars that were etched along his jaw and down under the collar of his worn wool jacket. Anyone looking him in his one good eye would turn away quickly, hoping they’d not capture his attention.
She looked as good as any of the stragglers forming lines along the chain link fence. Her boots were of excellent quality but of course poor condition, her coat of sturdy material and her child was dirty but well dressed. After all, sizing people up for their monetary value was his specialty.
He followed at a discreet distance, mingling with the others, carrying a distressed gym bag that bulged as if it held all his worldly possessions. He kept his head low, his eye on his prize and made sure she had no protector. She trudged along the pathway to waiting buses.
Rasha tried to ignore the pain in her arm. She probably needed to find a doctor in the morning. But right now, she wanted to rest. But her mind wouldn’t stop worrying. What could they do about the recent border closing? If they were stuck on the Serbian side, it could be months before they might get to France—or not at all. She would run out of money for sure. She must look to the bright side for the sake of her daughter. At least here there would be food from the NGO aid workers. The two of them wouldn’t starve. If she could just reach a phone, she could try to call her family in Paris.
They squeezed into a seat on the bus, Amira on her lap and an old couple on her right.
“Do you know where they’re taking us?”
The old man was too tired to speak, his skin pale, his breathing labored. His wife shook her head. Rasha could see the couple might not make it. Where were their children? Who would look after them? She turned away. She no longer had the luxury of worrying about anyone but herself and Amira. What were they going to do?
The stranger was at the refugee drop off when she disembarked. Yes, she was weak and tired. The perfect victim. He would wait until she was asleep, away from the crowd, then he’d move in and take her money. Experience taught him the bulge beneath her coat was a money belt. Maybe she’d have jewels too. These Syrians were not all poor people. There were stories of families paying $10,000 US dollars to board the trains. She would have more money. And what was hers would soon be his.
17
West Seattle, WA
“WE’RE AT THE house in West Seattle. There’s no sign of the woman. I’m standing in the kitchen looking at the backyard and the ocean beyond. I found her phone. It’s sitting here on the counter with numerous missed calls.”
“Any signs of disturbance?” Luke held his breath. Jack felt sick.
“No, nothing. I’ve sent two men down to the dock.”
Luke held on, thinking of his next move.
“Wait. Luke, I see a kayak coming towards the boathouse!”
Luke held on.
“I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman. But it must be her because she’s spotted my men and taken a turn back out towards the sound!”
“Go after her. Now!”
Luke disconnected his cell.
“We’ve found her Jack. She’s in a kayak but saw my men and change course out into the Sound. You heard?”
“Yes.”
“We could have handled this better, but it’s too late now.”
“Maggs, get the Sikorsky ready.” He looked towards Jack. “Let’s go for a ride.”
18
Serbia/Hungarian Border
AFTER A TWENTY-minute bus ride, Rasha disembarked with Amira by her side. They followed the crowd to a makeshift receiving area inside a high school gym. There were signs everywhere in a language Rasha didn’t know, but someone had overwritten the instructions in Arabic.
A volunteer handed out water bottles. She pointed to a line, one of many, that held about two hundred people. Rasha was exhausted, from vigilance more than anything, and ready to cry. But she kept herself together for the sake of her daughter. At least it was warm in here.
She stumbled along, her dejected shoulders too weary to carry anything
except despondency. It was strangely quiet. It felt almost as if everyone was ready to surrender to whatever they were running from. Even the usually active toddlers were subdued. Amira tugged at her mother’s coat.
“Momma. I’m hungry.”
Rasha looked around. A commotion was taking place back towards the entrance. Three women were struggling with a portable contraption that held colossal cooking pots. Amira must have smelled the delicious aroma of meat and vegetables stewing. All of a sudden, the tired refugees came alive. Smiles and prayers of thanksgiving were muttered amongst this newest wave of displaced people. Some stepped out of line to help the women distribute the containers of food. It became like a giant street party. And once again, through the kindness of strangers, Rasha found the will to continue on her journey.
After an hour she reached the front of the line. She displayed her papers and was given directions to a room down the hall. Before she left the table, she asked about a telephone. “I can pay.”
An aid worker looked up at her with compassion and offered his cell phone.
“First we will eat baby.”
“Thank you so much. I’m calling my family in Paris. They will come for me, I am sure.”
She grasped her map and asked the man to mark exactly where they were located.
“Wait, let me get the coordinates from Google Maps.” He left the table for a few minutes and came back with their location written on a piece of paper. Amira and Rasha quickly finished their meals. For the first time in days, she felt hope. How could anyone remain in this place for weeks, maybe months, waiting for the borders to re-open?