Perry hit him again, harder this time. “Oh, you have made a grave mistake, my friend. I don’t need footwear advice from uneducated louts whose idea of a good time is to play follow the leader in airports. You can call me names and insult my manhood, but do not—I repeat, do not—speak ill of my shoes.” A third thud with the gun was a little too vigorous, and the man’s body relaxed as he slipped into unconsciousness. “Well, damn,” Perry said. There wasn’t time to revive the thug and press him further.
Perry heard men’s voices just outside the door. He jumped up, grabbed the trash can from its place in the corner, and wedged it diagonally under the door handle. He quickly wiped the gun clean and dropped it into the second trash receptacle. By now, someone was rattling the door and cursing. Perry propped the bleeding man up on a toilet and pulled the stall door closed. Then he removed the trash can, opened the door, and smiled meekly at the angry man on the other side.
“Sorry,” he said. “Shy bladder.”
The man pushed past him with barely a glance and Perry hurried to his gate just as the attractive brunette at the podium pressed the button on the mic and invited first-class passengers to board.
By the time Perry was in his seat, his heart rate was back to normal. A short time later he breathed a sigh of relief as the engines whined to full power and the plane began to speed down the runway. Apparently, the angry man hadn’t found Dolph snoozing in the toilet stall, and no one else would know to associate the unconscious man with Perry. He waited for the seatbelt sign to turn off, then ordered a martini from the flight attendant.
He looked out the window, seeing the millions of lights that outlined metropolitan New York recede in the distance. He took a sip of his drink. Not in the same class as Ryan’s, but close enough for rock and roll.
“All right, Paris, you bitch. I’m coming,” he whispered.
Seven hours and twenty minutes is an awfully long time when you don’t want to think. For a while, Perry occupied his thoughts with the attacker. Why would anyone have known he was going to be in the airport, in the Delta terminal? He had heard about the bizarre turn of events Burke’s last assignment had taken when it was revealed that their boss, J. Carlton Moore, had been seeing a psychiatrist to help deal with depression, a psychiatrist who turned out to be a Scorpion operative who over several months of sessions managed through relaxation therapy and hypnosis to extract a good deal of sensitive information, including Burke’s assignment. But that loose end had been dealt with, and Moore was now far more careful about who he enlisted for psychological care.
Perry tried to piece together everything that had happened. Why was he followed and attacked by the Apollo Creed’s killer? Who knew he was at the airport?
Ryan’s offhand Bond reference flashed back in his head. The look he’d given Perry after the “shaken” comment seemed a little too knowing in retrospect. It appeared, at the very least, he’d made Perry and contacted the big guy to follow him. It was either a random case of a well-placed Scorpion operative getting lucky, or worse, an indication someone knew ahead of time he’d be flying out tonight. Or that the man had genuinely not liked Perry’s shoes. Whatever the case, Ryan was no longer Perry’s favorite bartender.
It all served as a reminder he could never let his guard down, never relax. He was aware of the two people who now lived inside of Perry Hall. One was the man whose life had lost all meaning, the other was the killing machine that never missed a trick. He needed to remain the latter, but as the adrenaline gradually metabolized itself from his bloodstream, the former began to emerge.
He caught the flight attendant’s eye, then held his empty martini glass up and wiggled it. While she was making him another drink, he opened the storage compartment next to his spacious seat and set his go-bag on the wooden counter top. He opened it and took out Trina’s picture. To this day, he could not believe any human being could be so beautiful. The girders of the iconic French Tower in the background reminded him that he would soon be in very nearly the same location he’d stood when he snapped the photo. Had it really been three years? One day tended to melt into the next when he wasn’t working, and he’d only been given three assignments during that time.
The last had been ten months earlier, and had ended successfully, even if a tad too spectacularly for Moore’s taste. Perry had located a pack of Scorpion terrorists operating in Singapore and locked them in lovely single story bungalow on the waterfront, which he proceeded to blow sky high with enough C-4 to destroy a city block. He had pushed the trigger button from a point so close he was thrown backward through the air, his hair and eyebrows singed by the heat. The two prior missions had also showcased Perry’s ruthlessness and complete absence of concern for his own welfare, which was why Moore used him only sparingly and only when the mission dripped with danger.
The last ten months of being idle had worn on him terribly. And although he woke up on the floor with Fleming more often than he should, he still told himself he hadn’t become a complete waste, only self-medicating into a blackout when his ability to cope with memories reached its end. In the brutal honesty that a transoceanic flight so often invited, he realized his ability to cope was waning.
By the time the sun rose over the Atlantic, indicating they were about an hour from Paris, Perry had followed the flight attendant’s advice and stopped drinking. He’d also attempted unsuccessfully to sleep, looked at Trina’s picture fifty-nine times, and promised himself that when the plane landed he’d be all business.
5
Perry stood in front of a half-wall, behind which stood a French airport officer in an inordinately ornate uniform and the crate containing Fleming. The man, who was rail-thin with a weak chin and receding hairline, shone a penlight into the door of the crate. He’d already gone over all the paperwork three times, and as he finally looked at the dog, he said, “Zut! Bulldog Anglais!”
Perry had grown weary of the man. “Yes, an English bulldog.”
The man turned to Perry with what was supposed to be a charming smile, but came off looking like a smirk in serious need of being wiped away…with a fist. “We do not get on well with the English,” he quipped. From within the crate a clear growl was heard.
“He doesn’t seem excited to meet you either. Can I have my dog please?”
Perry placed the hundred Euros on the shelf atop the half-wall. The man pretended to ignore the bill, took a quick look around, then reached for it.
“Franco-English relations have improved considerably,” he said, opening the door and waving Perry over to the carrier.
“Diplomacy wins again,” Perry muttered.
From there he went to the taxi stand, where he quickly got a cab and gave the directions to the Hôtel de Londres Eiffel, gritting his teeth as he did so. The ride was lengthy, and he took the time to open the door to Fleming’s crate and give him a well-deserved belly rub. The dog moaned with delight, attracting the attention of the driver.
“American?” he asked.
“Mm-hmm,” replied Perry, still paying most of his attention to the dog’s mid-section.
“Your dog, he enjoys, yes?”
“There are few things that get him excited. A good belly rub is one, and pretty French poodles are the other.”
“Eh! They are overrated as lovers!” the driver said, causing Perry to divert a little more attention his way. He wondered if the man was speaking from personal experience, but upon reflection, decided the comment was likely innocent. Nonetheless he didn’t pursue the conversation any further.
Paris traffic was only marginally better than its New York counterpart, but the driver seemed particularly skillful, and his promised shortcut—a term that usually meant the longest, most expensive route possible—turned out to be the real deal. He was in the lobby of the stylish Londres Eiffel a half hour after leaving De Gaulle.
“Reservation for Jarred Parker?” he said to the well-groomed woman at the desk, whose gold name tag identified her as Marie. He ignored the thorough
eyeballing she gave him before looking at her terminal.
“Ah yes, Monsieur Parker. Your suite is ready. You will be interested in our pet care services, no? We have groomers and walkers available.”
“Yes, thank you. Fleming doesn’t require much in the way of grooming, but I’ll be very busy and he will need some walking.”
“Of course. Simply dial 312 on your phone to set up a schedule. Oh, and I have a message for you.” She handed him a small envelope with “Parker” written on the front in very neat script.
“Merci,” Perry said. “Can you have Fleming’s crate stored for me? He’s had more than enough of it for now.”
“Of course.” She rang the old-style desk bell twice, once with a single tone, which summoned the bellman, and once with three staccato rings, bringing a man in a neatly pressed, powder blue jumpsuit, who collected the crate and gave Perry a claim receipt.
The bellhop, seeing Perry had only the go-bag, which he clearly had no intention of handing over, reached for Fleming’s leash. As they stepped into the elevator, the bellhop pushed the button for the fourteenth floor. When the doors slid shut, he turned to face Perry.
“My name is Piet, Monsieur Eagle. Your weapons and briefing file are in the night stand to the left of your bed. The handguns are a Glock .40 for your holster and a .22 revolver for your pocket. The briefing is on a secure flash drive. The password is Napoleon, case-sensitive, of course. The note you received will be from Duchamp. He is no doubt letting you know where and when to meet him. He will be your chief contact in Paris, though I will provide what assistance I can.”
“Thank you, Piet. Excellent work.”
The doors slid open and a young couple pushed past them onto the elevator as Perry made his way out. Piet began rambling in French about popular tourist spots and the best jazz bars on the West Bank.
The door to Perry’s suite was down the hallway to the right and the only one in that section. To the left, two doors faced one another on opposite walls. He was grateful he was not near enough to either room, assuming the young couple would be making noises he did not want to hear. For all its opulence, Perry remembered the Londres did not have particularly good soundproofing in the walls, a fact he and Trina had deduced from the angry frown of the blue haired woman in the room next to theirs, as well as by the knowing smile of her husband.
Piet slid the key card into the door’s slot, producing a quiet beep and turning the LED on the latch from red to green. He opened the door and led Fleming in.
The suite consisted of three rooms: a large well-lit bedroom, a small office and a kitchenette. Perry doubted he’d be getting much use from any of them, but Fleming trotted over to a comfortable cushion, which had been placed at the base of the king-sized bed, and laid down with a huff. Perry looked at Piet, eyebrow raised.
The bellman smiled. “Monsieur Moore let us know you would be bringing your companion, so I took the liberty.” He walked to the resting dog and, reaching into the pocket of his uniform, produced a small biscuit. Fleming accepted the offering happily, his tail stub expressing his appreciation.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Perry said. “Thank you.” He offered Piet a fifty euro note, which the bellman waived off.
“There is no one to see. The pretense is not necessary.”
“It wasn’t pretense. I’m genuinely grateful for you thinking about Fleming.”
“He has already thanked me with his tail, such as it is!”
Perry laughed and offered his hand instead, which Piet gladly shook.
“You have much work. I’ll leave you. If you require anything, call the front desk and ask for me.”
Once the bellman had gone, Perry went to the bedroom. He sat on the left side of the bed and opened the door that fronted the night stand. There, as he’d been told, were two handguns, the larger equipped with a suppressor. There was also a shoulder holster which had been modified to accommodate the attachment. He put the leather harness on and slid the Glock into it. Its weight felt good as he adjusted it for comfort and minimal signature once he slipped on his jacket. The .22 went into his pocket. After checking the mirror and seeing everything was to his satisfaction, he removed the blazer and hung it on the bedpost.
Tearing open the note, he read, “Café Marseilles, 1315 hours, Henrí.”
Henrí was Michel Duchamp’s cover and how Perry would refer to him. That or his codename, Lion.
Looking at his watch, Perry saw he’d neglected to adjust it to local time, and found an alarm clock on the opposite night stand, which indicated it was only 10 a.m. He reset his watch and stretched out on the bed, relieved he had a little over three hours before needing to meet Duchamp. From the bed, he spotted a well-stocked wet bar, but resisted the urge. It was time for clarity and focus. There was no room for self-medication until the assignment was completed. As it was he needed to finish working through the vodka from the airport and flight.
The bed was comfortable and he drifted off, later awakened by the alarm he’d set when he adjusted the watch. It was 12:15. He still had an hour, but the Marseilles was a dozen or so blocks from the hotel and he wanted to walk, having enjoyed the feel of the crisp autumn air when he’d arrived. A rather noxious smell from the base of the bed reminded him that he needed to make arrangements for Fleming. Walking across the room to the small table holding the phone, he said, “That’s how you react after one French dog treat? I think the food here may be a little rich for you.”
Fleming rolled on his side, and in response to the insult added more fragrance to the air.
“Oh my God, you stink!” Perry said, pulling back the curtain and opening the sliding door that led to the terrace outside the bedroom. The instant he did, something whistled past his ear and thudded into the opposite wall. He instinctively dropped to the floor and turned to see the bullet hole. The caliber appeared hefty and would have made rather a mess of his head had it found its mark. Peering out the sliding glass door, he saw several buildings from which the sniper could have nested, but didn’t see a shooter, or even an open window or terrace door. He reached toward the slider with his foot and, catching his toe on the frame, pulled it shut.
“I guess I’d rather deal with your farts,” he said to Fleming, “though they’re only marginally less deadly.”
Still on the floor, he crawled in a route that offered minimal exposure but allowed him to grab the curtain, which he closed with a jerk. Now confident the shooter would not waste bullets firing randomly at the door in hopes he was still standing there, he got up.
“Well, someone knows we’re here,” he said to Fleming, as he reached for the phone and dialed the number Marie had told him. After a two-minute conversation, a feeding and walking schedule had been worked out, as well as a promise that Fleming would have the opportunity to meet some local females.
A gun thug in New York and a sniper within hours of arriving in Paris, Perry mused. This was shaping up to be a fun-filled trip.
6
The twelve-block walk from the hotel to the outdoor café was pleasant and Perry found that, despite his typical dark mood and the recent brush with death, he was enjoying it. Every city had its own distinctive aroma, and Paris was no exception. Perry always thought it a combination of the water from the Seine, and, for some reason, fresh linen. In the autumn, there was an additional layer that may have been decay from the leaves. Whatever it was, it seemed to say “Adieu” while actually meaning “Bonjour.” Paris might be known as the City of Lights or the City of Love, but for Perry it was the City of Nostalgia—and Paris was nothing if not that. It was a city that made one long for centuries never experienced, and sad to be in one’s own time. It beckoned to the heart and imagination like no other locale on earth.
The Café Marseilles was a typical Parisian outdoor gathering place, almost stereotypical with its white tablecloths and baskets of baguettes. Perry spotted Michel Duchamp at a table, sipping a Chocolat l’ancienne. He’d worked with Duchamp in the past, though not in F
rance. They’d stood back to back in a particularly nasty fire-fight in Malaysia a few years ago, and he’d picked off the last shooter just as the gunman had gotten a bead on Duchamp’s head.
Duchamp saw him coming, and stood, a warm smile creasing his face. “Jarred, mon ami! I’ve thought of you often these past months!”
“As I have you, Henrí!” They embraced and, as they did, Perry felt Duchamp’s hand slide into his pocket. He felt the weight of some device as they separated. A waiter approached the table and Perry pointed to Duchamp’s drink. “One of those,” he said.
“Very good,” the waiter replied. He returned a moment later with the hot beverage. Placing it on the table, he disappeared and Duchamp leaned forward.
“Things have gotten worse,” he whispered. “I gave you a GPS showing a signal from Bart’s chip.”
“How is that worse? It could mean he’s alive.”
“It could just as easily mean the body part with the chip is no longer connected to the rest of him. The tracker Amanda was using also transmitted her location, and its last signal came from an alley in a seedier district, mostly warehouses and derelict factories.”
“Where is this signal in relation?” Perry asked.
“Much closer to the city center. It’s a block of apartments not far from the Place de la Bastille.”
“Why do you think they cut him up?”
“When Amanda’s signal went dead we sent someone to look for her. The alley from which the signal had been coming had no access points through which she could have gone. For the chip to have been broadcasting from there, either he was there or just the part with the chip was. If he’d been there, and by that I mean if all of him had been there, we think Amanda would have been far less likely to have been taken by surprise.”
“Where on Bart was the chip?” Perry asked, his stomach curdling a little at the thought of what was being suggested.
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