One for One (John Flynn Thrillers Book 3)

by A. J. Stewart

  The flashing lights and sirens came from everywhere. So fast the door to the jet wasn’t even open before a convoy of vehicles sped onto the tarmac. Some stopped by the hangars, others raced across to the Avro and more still sped across the middle of the airfield to the marooned jet.

  Members of the GIGN—the elite anti-terrorist tactical unit of the French Gendarmerie—streamed across the fields, weapons drawn. Several Interpol badged vehicles hit the scene. Even the local police got in on the act, arresting the guys loading the Avro.

  The jet door was opened and the contents inspected. EU officials arrived within the hour to shuttle the refugees to a new facility in Paris. The officials had been given reason to believe that a warrant existed for the arrest of the man called Betesh, on charges of crimes and against humanity, homicide and genocide. He was taken into custody.

  The tactical unit found a Chevrolet Suburban crashed into the boundary fence of the airfield, with no driver inside.

  A man called Thierry arrived at the airfield and announced himself as the head of security for Monsieur Jean Loup, a victim in the accident. Monsieur Loup was allowed to return to his estate pending investigation. Loup was on the phone to the director-general of the Gendarmerie before Thierry had the Mercedes off the base.

  The ownership of the Dassault Falcon 8X and the BAE Avro RJ-100 aircraft were not immediately established, but the pilot of the jet was taken for alcohol and drug screening.

  Flynn watched the lights flash the colors of the rainbow across the airfield from the rooftop.

  “How many people did you call, exactly?” he asked.

  “All of them,” said David. “The local Gendarmerie, the national terrorism hotline, Interpol, my local member for the European parliament, and the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime.”

  Gorski patted him on the back. “Nice work.”

  “How did you go?” Flynn asked Elyse.

  “I have a lot of work to do. This will be big.”

  “I saw Loup drive away,” said David. “Does the rich guy get away again?”

  “Not if I can help it,” said Elyse. She looked at Flynn. “What do you think?”

  “Look for the thing that they treasure most, and aim true.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The morning came on foggy and cold, like the wider world had turned its back. Flynn slept soundly on Monsieur Pepard’s sofa, Gorski in a bed in the spare room. The house was chilled without a fire, but no one mentioned it.

  Elyse stayed up all night writing. In the morning Monsieur Pepard made eggs and blood sausage. He asked how the frozen blood he had given Flynn had worked for him, and Flynn told him it had been the difference between selling the ruse and not. Flynn had been in the rafters when Loup had arrived in the empty stables and seen the alleged horse blood. The trick was always in the little details.

  When Flynn asked Elyse to borrow the car, she barely flinched, she was so deep in her writing. He drove Gorski on a heading northeast toward Geneva, but he pulled off at the kilometer mark Gorski pointed out, and along the road and into a farm with a large shed. The bus that had transported the refugees waited in the shed. Flynn and Gorski accepted their hosts gracious offer of coffee, and then Gorski got in the big vehicle and pulled it out, and followed Flynn back toward Saint-Suliac-de-Bugey.

  They stopped at a farm before the village, about 3 kilometers from the Pepard farm. There they enjoyed more coffee with their hosts, and then the refugees who were traveling on the underground railroad came out of a barn, including the girl who had been taken from the bus in northern Italy. Flynn stood by the door as they got on board, and each one touched him on the shoulder as they embarked.

  They left Elyse’s car and said farewell to Monsieur Pepard, who gave them pate and cheese and bread for the road. Then Flynn took a seat in the front row, and Gorski took the wheel, and the headed north toward the Netherlands.

  The trip to Maastricht took eight hours. It was dark and raining when they arrived. There they were met by a woman from a charity involved with the small Syrian community. She had arranged for people to take the newcomers in, at least for a night or two. Then she said they would begin the process of applying for asylum. The community was tight knit. They knew what the newcomers were fleeing, and why. They knew that they didn’t want to be in the Netherlands, that Syria was their home, but for now, they would be Dutch. They would find homes and jobs in community. They would learn English and Dutch.

  They didn’t know if they would ever be able to go back.

  Gorski sat in the driver’s chair and Flynn stopped by the door to the bus, and again, one by one, they disembarked, touching each man’s shoulder as they slipped past, into the rainy night.

  Gorski parked the bus on a cobbled street near Maastricht University and left the keys in the ignition. Then Flynn and Gorski walked away with their packs on their backs, looking for a cafe.

  Jean Loup stayed at his estate in Ain. His personal and corporate lawyer, Pierre Robert, flew down for counsel. Alain Beaumont called in on conference from Paris. Loup was assured that the issues would blow over. There was nothing tangible, but the say of a few illegal immigrants. Loup’s media friends had stories ready to run, about the thieves and villains amongst the incoming refugees.

  Loup slept poorly. He dreamed of sailing in the North Atlantic, of crashing into invisible icebergs, and sinking. But the boat would continue on without him, sailing away, leaving him as the water turned into a python, and slipped down his throat and into his lungs. He would wake in a sweat, unable to breathe. Dry in the mouth but afraid to drink. He had been tortured, and now the torture continued, and he vowed to find the man who had done this thing to him.

  When the morning came foggy and damp and low, it suited Loup’s mood. He was drinking coffee in the library when one of his security detail came in to tell him that he must come, right then, that minute. In his dressing gown, he followed the man out, onto the patio overlooking the lawn. The fog enveloped the woods such that they looked as if they weren’t really there at all, but the security man pointed and assured and told him to watch. It’s magic, he said.

  So Loup watched, as out of the fog, ever so gradually, he saw the form of an animal nibbling at the grass. A deer, he thought, at first. But then another stepped forward. Tall and majestic. No kind of deer.

  A horse. With a rush that almost saw him faint, he realized he was looking at his horses, sauntering out of the woods from which they were taken. Not apparitions, not dreams. He stepped down to the path and across the lawn, the cold moisture soaking his slippers. He ran his hand along El Jefe’s neck, soft and smooth, the gentle giant responding to his touch with a whinny. Loup ran his hand across the champion stallion, his legs, his hind quarters, looking for the source of the blood that had scarred the stables. But he found nothing. He wrote it off to a miracle.

  Loup led each of the horses back into their stables and arranged them food, and once settled, he called the stablehand to pass on the news, and to have him arrange for the veterinarian to visit.

  Then Loup went and showered and put on fresh clothes. The spring was back in his step. A miracle had been visited upon him, and he would not be deterred and he would not be defeated.

  Der Spiegel ran Elyse Huber’s story on the front page. Arms trafficking in return for the currying of favor in business dealings in markets from West Africa to South East Asia and the Middle East. Jean Loup responded with bold words and a lawsuit.

  Elyse released many of the supporting documents online, for the public to judge themselves. Media outlets were owned by other rich people, but the internet was a labyrinth of islands, each under individual sovereignty. It wasn’t just about Wikileaks anymore. Her documents were on a thousand websites within hours, never to be silenced.

  The reports brought more people forward, and more intel to sift through. The second story covered refugees for profit, and the conditions. Questions were asked in the French parliament, and in Brussels.

  Jean
Loup released a statement denouncing the lies of a cheap hack.

  Then the third story ran. The Der Spiegel website crashed and for a time it was thought the work of hackers, but in fact it was just the weight of visits from across the continent and across the world.

  Jean Loup, billionaire. Captured on film loading rocket propelled grenade launchers onto one of his own aircraft, with a flight plan filed for oil rich Angola. Fleeing in a personal jet full of refugees, destined for Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

  And then the fourth story.

  Jean Loup, on video, demanding that an unknown man, believed to be a business rival, be murdered by his chief of security.

  The Swiss banks were the first to go. Cunning and devious but conservative as hell. They called in loans and cut off credit accounts. Then the French banks followed. Calls to foreign business associates went unanswered. Heads of state failed to reply to emails and messages. Loup put in a call to his lifelong friend and school mate, Alain Beaumont. Beaumont worked in the Prime Minister’s office, a position Loup had ensured Beaumont got. He had been Beaumont’s best man at his wedding. But Beaumont, he found, was busy. He would get back to Loup, when he could. He did not.

  Loup left the final calls for last. He called two other numbers. Should they answer, should they call him back, he intended to warn them. About the two strange men who tortured him. Should they not answer, then no warning would be necessary. Because above all, they must answer. They must return his call. It was the protocol. In all ways they were rivals, often bitterly so, but the one firm protocol was that they always answered each others calls, and if they were in the air or out of reach, the first call returned was theirs.

  Loup took his jet down to the family estate without his wife or daughter. He drank to glasses of Cognac, as was his custom, and then he checked his messages.

  There were none.

  He told his new chief of security that he would take a walk around the compound, no need to accompany him.

  Jean Loup wandered into the stables at the edge of the property. He patted each of his horses, gave El Jefe a kiss on his long nose. Then he stepped across to an empty stall, opened the gate and stepped inside. It had been cleaned and smelled faintly of antiseptic. Jean Loup faced the wall, took a deep breath and then put a revolver to his head and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Hamburg, Germany

  Gorski and Flynn sat at the restaurant on Jungfernstieg, overlooking the fountain on Binnenalster Lake. They sipped coffee as they watched the people walk around the smaller of the lakes in Hamburg. Flynn saw Elyse walking along the footpath by the water. She had changed her hair, lighter and a little longer. She wore a coat, for there was a chill on the air in Hamburg in early spring.

  Elyse saw them and waved. As she arrived they stood and each offered her a kiss on the cheek. Flynn let Elyse order more coffee and some food. His German was never that great.

  “So Der Spiegel have offered you a desk?” Flynn asked.

  “Yes, they have.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I kind of like being freelance, but the pay is pretty good, and I like this town. Maybe it’s time to settle down.”

  Their coffees came with sandwiches of smoked ham. For a while they ate, watching over the ducks splashing on the lake. Flynn enjoyed the the scenery and the company and the food. But he was ready. He had waited in France over the ensuing weeks to watch events unfold, so he told himself. He had been waiting, again. Waiting for the roof to fall in on Jean Loup. Should it not, he was ready to ensure that it did. But now, even for a man accustomed to waiting, he was done. There was nothing to wait for. It was never his intention that Jean Loup’s life be ended. His chess game was wider. Loup may have been a king but he was only one. There were others.

  “How do you feel?” asked Elyse.

  “About what?” said Flynn.

  All of it. You were in this for what? Revenge?” She said the last word as if she didn’t wish to offend.

  “Protection.”

  “And you found it.”

  “I think the people I know are safe. As safe as anyone, I suppose.”

  “So you’re happy Loup is dead?”

  Flynn could see that the idea of Loup’s death troubled her in a way that it didn’t him.

  “You’re not responsible for him, Elyse.”

  “Why do I feel bad?”

  “Because you’re human. You give a damn. It’s the other side of the coin that makes you risk your life and your career to help these refugees, people who are strangers to you. You care about your fellow humans. And the rub is, you can’t just turn that off.”

  “I don’t care about Jean Loup after what he’s done.”

  “Except you do. You don’t condone him, and you want him punished, but you’re not sure how to live with his death.”

  “How do you do it? You care, even if you pretend you don’t. You helped those people as much as I did. Maybe you risked more. But Loup doesn’t trouble you.”

  Flynn considered telling her about the compartments, about filing things away in mental cages, locking them down so he could function with some sense of normalcy. But he didn’t. Normal people didn’t understand. Neither did the textbooks, or the professionals. They all felt that talking it out was the best medicine. But what they failed to consider in the equation, was themselves. Because when you laid your sins out to bare, someone had to bear witness, and that someone never looked at you the same way once they heard it all. So sometimes it was better processed within, tucked away from the world, and taken out in private, when one was alone with his demons.

  “Loup was a coward. He did what he did, not you. He chose to checkout when the going got a little rough, and he chose to leave his family, and all the loose ends he left behind. And everything falling down around him? That was the angels shaking their fists at the devil.”

  Elyse watched Flynn and then turned to Gorski. He nodded and said nothing. She looked back at Flynn.

  “You know what my editor said?”

  What?” He bit into his sandwich.

  “We don’t slay giants, we slay hubris.”

  Flynn nodded. He said nothing. He could see the turmoil in her untouched lunch. She had many questions but feared the answers. And that was never a good state for a journalist. She would find a way to cope. People did. Perhaps she would legitimize her actions by demonizing the actions of those she wrote about. Perhaps she would look deeper than that.

  Flynn tossed some euros on the table and stood.

  “I have a train,” he said.

  Elyse nodded and stood. She moved, and then paused, and then hugged him briefly.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps one day we will need each other.”

  Gorski stood and hugged her, and kissed her cheek, and then she turned and walked away, back along the river. They watched her until she was lost in the crowd. Then Gorski picked up his half eaten sandwich.

  “You have a train?” Gorski asked.

  “Probably. Or maybe I’ll walk.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Flynn looked across the small lake. Beyond was the larger of the Alster lakes. And then the North Sea.

  “You know what’s out there,” said Flynn.

  “What?”

  “Denmark. I have an old friend from Denmark. I think he’s still there. Maybe I’ll go visit.”

  Gorski stood and brushed his hands. Then he picked up his pack.

  “He’s still there,” said Gorski, slipping his own pack on his back. “You mind if I tag along?”

  “Sure. You’ve got the address.”

  Flynn slipped his own pack on his back and stepped out onto Jungfernstieg. The post lunch crowd was thinning, but there were still plenty of people on the lakefront.

  Flynn started marching.

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  Also by AJ Stewart

  John Flynn series

  The Compound *

  The Final Tour

  Burned Bridges

  Miami Jones series

  Three Strikes *

  Stiff Arm Steal

  Offside Trap

  High Lie

  Dead Fast

  Crash Tack

  Deep Rough

  King Tide

  No Right Turn

  Cruise Control

  * Three Strikes and The Compound are only available to members of AJ Stewart’s readers’ crew. Click here for details.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to all my readers who send me feedback.

  Thanks to the betas and early readers.