The Phoenix Affair

by Paul Clark

  *****

  David Allen emerged from the subway stop at St. Michel, checked quickly behind him, and, not seeing LaPlante, dialed a number on his phone. He listened for thirty seconds, grunted, and snapped it back into the clip on his belt. Without hesitation, he spun round and headed back down the stairs. At the bottom he spotted LaPlante, coming toward him, but he pretended not to notice. Instead he affected a look of confusion, scanning wildly about for a subway system map, and seeing one, walked over to it and studied it for a moment. He dug into his pocked for a piece of paper, looked at it, and then back at the map, reaching up with his free hand to trace the Brown and then Purple lines from the Marais to St. Michel. Satisfied with his course, he turned again, caught LaPlante watching him from the stairs up to the street, and went straight for the escalator down to catch the train to Marais, his new destination the Hotel du Vieux Saule with LaPlante in tow.

  Fifteen minutes and he was there, coming up onto the street, a left turn toward the hotel that allowed him a peak to his left to see LaPlante falling in behind. He dialed his phone.

  “Yes?” It was Ripley’s voice.

  “I’m nearly there. Any change?”

  “No,” Ripley replied. “I’m there already, third floor, room 319. Call me when you get to the third floor so I don’t shoot you on the way in. Your friend still with you?”

  “Yeah. See you in a minute or two.” Allen rang off. He checked his watch as he crossed the street, it was one-thirty. A moment later he stepped through the hotel door, looking to his left, into the bakery as though looking at the sign for the shop’s hours. Once he was past the dozing desk clerk, he turned to the elevator, thought better of it, found the stairs and walked up.

  Ripley sat at the window, looking out at the street, waiting. He saw LaPlante round the corner just as Allen disappeared beneath him. The Frenchman walked slowly up the opposite side of the street and disappeared into the same dark doorway where he’d taken Salah just over three hours ago. He shook his head to wake up. “Gotta stay sharp.” His phone vibrated and he headed for the door, drawing the 10 millimeter S&W Pistol with the long silencer from its place at the small of his back.