by A. C. Fuller
“I’ll write a follow-up, but it’ll take a day. I honestly didn’t see David Fontes or the WTO as a target, and I don’t know how Kane benefits. I’m sure it’s there, but it’ll take time.” She sighed and stared again into the darkness.
Warren broke a long silence. “This morning while you were in the shower, I called Sarah.”
Cole turned, eyebrow raised. “And?”
“Back in the day, she and I talked about going to Paris. Said we’d go when Marina was old enough to remember it.” He shrugged. “Maybe seven or eight. Feels like shit to be going now, with you, to look into a murder.”
Cole shook her head. “More of a slaughter this time. The fifth murder, with a half-dozen bonus murders. Sloppy. Getting more desperate?”
Warren shrugged. “Or security is tightening, which they had to anticipate.”
There was irritation in his tone. Cole got the sense he wanted to talk about Sarah. “Sorry, what did Sarah say? She see the video of you saving that kid?”
He nodded. “Said, ‘Stop trying to be a hero. Marina misses you.’”
“What’d you say?”
“What could I say? She’s right. Instead of being a dad I’m… I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Cole brought up the Facebook App on her phone, then remembered something. “You didn’t ask her about Bakari Smith, did you? She know you figured out they’re dating?”
“I held back. Wanted to bring it up, but...”
“Good. That would have been… not good. Want some free advice?”
Warren raised an eyebrow.
“You want Sarah back, right?”
He nodded.
“Even though she’s been with Bakari, possibly others?”
His face grew pinched, but he nodded slowly. “I can force myself to get over that.”
“Good. Most women want to be with the father of their kids unless they’re real scumbags. You’ve been sober for a long time now. Four years?”
“A little over.”
“Right. You got your life back together.” His frown told her he didn’t agree. “Well, not exactly together, I guess. No job. Traveling around the world with a crazy reporter. But you’re sober, you love her, and you love Marina. When you get home, don’t tell her. Show her. Put everything you have into being stable and being there for Marina.” She paused. “I doubt she’s fallen in love. No offense to Bakari, but he isn’t in love material.”
Warren cracked a small smile.
The train’s trajectory shifted as it began its ascent. Light appeared ahead and they exited the tunnel.
“France,” Cole said. “Never been. Matt and I…” She trailed off. “Speaking of love.” She was back on Facebook, adding new posts to her fake profile.
Warren looked down at her phone. “You’re not gonna…”
“I am.”
She scrolled through Julio Lopez’s latest posts. More quotes from the Bible and a selfie at a soccer field that depicted him sweaty and smiling. Behind him in the photo stood a dozen men and women dressed in shorts and soccer cleats. The caption read, “Lucky to have a sunny day for our weekly game. No game next week, but come join us in the new year.”
The location tag indicated Memorial Park in Houston. A perfect opening. She sent him a friend request, then composed a private message:
Hey there! I’m new to Houston and, totally randomly, met someone who said you organize co-ed soccer at Memorial Park on weekends. I played in high school, but want to get back into it. I hear you’re an incredible keeper.
Cole looked up when she felt Warren’s eyes move from her screen to her face. “What?”
“Keeper?”
“It means goalie.” Her tone took on a defensive note. “It’s how real soccer fans talk. I looked it up.”
He shook his head. “You have no shame?”
“If he was in on killing Matt, no. Hell no. If he wasn’t”—she paused to consider—“still no.” She sent the message.
“Ask me,” Warren said, “totally wrong approach. Guys—unless they’re a rare breed and truly full of themselves, truly confident—are skeptical when a hot woman shows interest. Look at his profile. He knows he’s damaged goods. You need to be damaged too if you want him to buy it.”
She chuckled. “Damaged goods? That won’t be hard to pull off.”
Warren smiled. “I’d have chosen a less attractive woman for your picture.” He pointed down at the beautiful, black-haired woman on her profile. “No way Lopez believes a woman that hot messages him about a soccer game.”
“Two ways to view it.” Cole turned off her phone. “You could be right. But I think most men are led around by their desire to possess attractive women. They can’t help it. Sure, they fight the urges to function in society, but on a fundamental, animal level, they want nothing more than the attention of a beautiful woman.”
“You think that’s what I want?”
Cole studied his face.
He squinted at her, half frowning.
She squinted back. “Hmmm.”
A smile broke out over his face. “You tryin’ to read me, Cole?”
“I am reading you.”
“And?”
“No.” Her voice grew serious. “Most men never mature. You did. Maybe Afghanistan. Or losing half your leg. Or—”
“It was losing Sarah. Marina. Forced me to look at myself.”
She nodded. “In any case, you’re no Julio Lopez. He won’t be able to resist the possibility—no matter how slim—that a beautiful woman wants to play soccer with him. Bet I hear back in a couple hours.”
“What then?”
She shrugged. “I chat with him. Make him comfortable—get him to confess.”
“Just like that?” Warren looked skeptical.
“Yeah.”
“If it doesn’t work?”
“Plan B.”
They rode in silence along the coast as the English Channel drifted by outside the window to their right. The train turned southwest, passing through frozen countryside and small towns. They were almost to Paris.
“Another thing,” Warren said. “Your theory was basically that Ibo Kane is behind these murders for business reasons, not political reasons. If that’s true, and it’s also true he’s the General Ki…” He cocked his head to the side and trailed off.
He didn’t need to finish. Cole had been wondering the same thing. Though she was certain she was right about the fundamental facts, there were dozens of unanswered questions. And one stood out. If Kane’s motivations had nothing to do with the politics espoused by the extremists carrying out the murders, how had he convinced them to join him? Were they all in on it, or had he manipulated them?
The train arrived at the Gare du Nord station in Paris half an hour later. Cole handed Warren his bag from the overhead rack. “You reserved a place to stay?”
“Hotel. Three nights. I figure you go check in while I go to the Embassy. Maybe they can tell me something.”
He’d explained that a few Marine Security Guards were stationed at the U.S. Embassy in Paris. He hoped to get information about the Parisian shooter—possibly even a contact within the Paris police department. If he could somehow connect the dead shooter to Ibo Kane, it would be further proof of Cole’s theory. It might break the story wide open. If Kane could be clearly implicated in masterminding even one of the killings, that would be enough to force world governments to act.
“Think you’ll get anything?” Cole asked.
Warren shrugged. “Got a better idea?”
Cole pulled her bag from the luggage rack and stood in line in the aisle. “I guess I’ll return some of the media inquiries. Someone might have something to trade that’ll advance the story.” She’d gotten hundreds of pings since her story went live on The Barker. She hadn’t responded to any. The more she said, the more the story would evolve until it was about her, rather than Kane. A spotlight on her would only make her job harder.
The line began moving and Warren j
oined her in the aisle. Cole glanced out the window and stopped short. Two uniformed officers stood by the door, peering in as if waiting for someone. One was tall and slightly built. His eyes were narrowed on Warren, who fumbled with his bag. As Cole watched the officer, her stomach turned. His eyes moved from Warren to her. A look of recognition passed over his face. He nudged the officer next to him, who stepped forward.
“Warren.” She elbowed him gently in the side, eyes still on the officers. “They’re waiting for us.”
Warren shot a look behind him. The aisle was packed with people and luggage.
“We’re not escaping.” Cole pointed out the window behind them, where two more officers guarded the rear door. She and Warren dutifully inched forward as the line moved. “What do you think they want?”
Warren shrugged, his look stern—maybe fearful, too.
They reached the door and stepped onto the platform, where the slender officer approached and took Warren by the forearm. “Mr. Robert Warren?” He had a thick French accent.
“Yes,” Warren said. “What is this about?”
The officer ignored the question and turned to Cole. “Jane Cole?”
“Yes.”
Another officer stepped forward and put a hand behind her elbow, barely touching her but clearly indicating that she was to come with him. She flinched. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her hands felt clammy. She and Warren had shown their passports to get on the train in London. Cole expected they’d have to show them again in Paris, but tourists with American passports didn’t require a special visa to visit Paris.
Warren looked focused, but calm. She figured he’d been in situations much worse than this. “I’m sorry, what is this about?”
“I am Capitaine Abbé Bisset. You are being lawfully detained. We will explain. Come.” He nodded down the platform definitively.
Cole and Warren walked side by side with the two officers down the platform, up an escalator, and into a small room through a door marked Police.
Bisset pointed at two chairs behind a small desk. “Sit.”
They sat.
“I know my rights,” Warren said firmly. “What’s the problem here? Do you need to see our passports? Are we under arrest?”
Bisset sat across from them. “You are not under arrest. Not... exactly. You’re being held on the basis of a diffusion notice.” His accent made him hard to understand, and his voice was thin and wispy, like a trail of smoke from a chimney that could be dissolved by a slight wind.
Cole looked from Bisset to Warren, dumfounded. “What the hell is a diffusion notice?”
“Interpol.” Warren’s eyes dropped to the floor. “A red notice. Some country issued warrants for our arrest.”
“What country?” Cole asked.
“Don’t know. Could be any Interpol country other than France.”
“Why other than France?”
“Because if it was France, we’d already be under arrest.”
3
Bisset leaned forward and rested his elbows on the small table. He had big, hollow eyes and the skin was tight over his bony face. “You are a journalist?”
“I am.” Cole tried to sound calm, but her insides roiled.
The other officer had stepped into an adjacent room, though his voice was audible through the door. He was younger than Bisset and spoke French rapidly in a soft voice. Even had his voice been loud enough to make out individual words, Cole wouldn’t have understood them.
Bisset turned to Warren. “And you?”
“NYPD. Retired Marine.” Warren’s words had even more edge than usual.
Bisset smiled. “There is no need to be confrontational, Mr. Warren. I am just doing my job.”
“And your job in this case is?”
“As I said, a diffusion notice has been issued. France is encouraged”—Bisset raised a finger—“though not required, to comply. You are being lawfully detained as we contact the proper authorities.” He leaned back and laced his hands behind his head, seemingly content to take it easy as the other officer dealt with the phone calls.
Warren pointed at the other officer, visible through a window in the door. “What’s he doing?”
“Interpol is a complicated system. He is figuring out what to do.”
Warren put his hands flat on the table. The veins in his temples popped. “As a veteran, I have the right to contact the U.S. Embassy. I am formally requesting permission to make such a call.”
Cole put a hand on his thigh under the desk. She needed him to keep calm.
Bisset undersold it when it he said Interpol was a complicated system. Any country in the system could issue a Red Notice, essentially an international warrant for arrest. Partner countries could choose to honor the notice and extradite the suspect. If she and Warren had arrest warrants issued by an Interpol country, the last thing they needed was for Warren to commit a crime in Paris by leaping across the table and assaulting Bisset.
A voice came through Bisset’s radio and he stepped to the corner of the room. As he spoke, Cole whispered to Warren, “What the hell is happening?”
Warren shooed her away. He was listening to the conversation between Bisset and the man on the radio.
“You speak French?” Cole whispered.
“No. I heard ‘École d'économie de Paris.’ They’re talking about the shooting.”
The other officer returned from the adjoining room and whispered something to Bisset, who rubbed his chin, then sat.
Before Bisset could reply, Warren stood. “I understand you’re short staffed because of the tragedy at École d'économie de Paris. We are journalists, in Paris legally, writing about the nine murders case. Interpol can’t arrest us on a Red Notice, and we’ve committed no crimes in France. I’ll give you the name of the hotel we’re staying at. You’re free to monitor us there. But I demand a call to the U.S. Embassy.”
Bisset spoke into his radio and sat, then waved an arm at Warren’s empty chair. “Mr. Warren. Please.”
Warren sat.
“Ms. Cole, Mr. Warren. I am required to inform you that a diffusion notice has been issued by Chinese authorities for your arrest. A diffusion notice is a country-to-country notice. China is seeking your arrest for—”
“China?” Warren stood again, squeezed the desk with both hands, and leaned in. “China? The reason they issued a diffusion notice and not a red notice was to fool idiots like you into detaining us illegally.” He glanced at Cole. “A Red Notice goes out to all 194 Interpol countries. A diffusion notice is on the down low, from one country to another. Whoever is behind this knew we were coming to Paris. They didn’t want other countries to see it because they know it’s bogus.” He turned back to Bisset. “Captain Bisset. I’m telling you, give me a call to the U.S. Embassy. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Bisset walked to the next room where he whispered in French to the other officer. Cole only made out two words of their conversation. “Américains stupides!”
Eyes still on the officers, she said, “Ibo Kane. You think he has enough sway with Chinese authorities to get them to issue a diffusion notice?”
Warren nodded. “Or he has people in China who did it without him even asking. Jane, look at me.”
She drew her eyes slowly from the two French officers. Warren’s face was hard, but his eyes pleading. “We cannot allow ourselves to be sent to China. If we are, that’s it. They’ll hold us there for weeks, months. Eventually, they’d let us go. Or maybe no one would ever hear from us again. My guess is Kane—or people who work for him—saw your article and are trying to make us disappear. Getting us into China is the best way to do that. If they have enough clout with the French authorities, they can get us shipped to China before anyone notices.”
Bisset returned carrying a white land line telephone. “Make your call.”
“You’ll let us go?”
“I did not say that. Make your call, and if the Embassy sends representation for you, they can discuss this with my superio
r, who is ready to take the call.”
Cole watched the back of Warren’s bald head; his skin wrinkled in frustration. He’d been on hold for five minutes after being transferred around and around the U.S. Embassy. No one he knew was there, and he agreed to be transferred to someone who held the title “Diplomatic Liaison.” She wanted to tell him to relax, but his hand gripped the phone so hard his knuckles were white.
A few notices were pinned to the wall, written in French. A cork board similar to the one she’d used in London was pinned with surveillance images of wanted men and women. Through a small window, a large Christmas tree with white lights and silver bulbs was visible in the center of the train station. More lights were strung along a railing. People came and went with luggage and packages. Christmas Eve in Paris.
She stared again at Warren’s head and let her eyes go soft. The tension and immediacy of the moment faded. Assuming she didn’t get sent to China today, she’d wake up tomorrow to Christmas Day in Paris. She’d always wanted a Parisian Christmas, but not like this. She’d dreamt of coming with Matt. They were never big shoppers, but they’d talked about spending one day in the fancy Paris shops. They’d each make one extravagant purchase. A $1,000 purse for her, maybe. A $3,000 linen suit for him. One ridiculous expense they couldn’t afford, just to say they’d shopped extravagantly in Paris.
From the corner of the room, a security camera stared down at her. The two officers watched fixedly. Without warning, an unfamiliar feeling gripped her. She looked from the camera to the officers, then back to Warren. He stood motionless, coiled like a tiger, ready to pounce when someone came back on the line. For the first time, she realized how vulnerable they were. Even when she’d been held at knifepoint in New York and chased through D.C. and Miami, she’d felt in charge. Now, paranoia crept in. There was nothing she could do but hope for Warren’s success. Hope someone at the U.S. Embassy cared enough to work a little magic. She was at the mercy of an international legal system she didn’t understand and didn’t believe was on the up and up. If things went poorly, she’d be in a Chinese prison on Christmas.