“His foot.”
“Yikes. Easy enough to separate.”
“Exactement.”
“Forgive me for being dense, but I guess that still doesn’t seem like the situation has gotten much worse. Moore already suspected they were both gone.”
“It is the bigger picture that is distressing. The fact that the chip is now broadcasting from a far more densely populated part of the city indicates that if our initial assessment that the nuke is no longer headed out of the country, then this might be where it is.”
“Probably doesn’t matter that much where it is,” Perry said. “If we don’t find it there won’t be much Paris left behind, wherever it detonates.”
Duchamp nodded gravely. “Oui. True enough.”
“Alright. I’ll head to the source of the signal and see what I can find. Do we have it pinpointed?”
“We do, and that is the next part of the problem. The building is owned by, and is the home of, Pierre Montemarche.”
Perry frowned. “I’ve heard the name.”
“Montemarche would be disappointed if you had not. He maintains a high profile, and is appallingly rich and powerful—a big player in real estate, oil, and technology. And we are quite certain he is more than a little connected to Scorpion. This last, of course, he does not broadcast, but neither has he tried very hard to hide it.”
“Wouldn’t the destruction of Paris be a little counterproductive, him being such a magnate and all?”
“His enterprises are located across the country, not just in Paris, but I think his ties with Scorpion indicate that the terror this would cause are of more value to him than any buildings and businesses he may lose.”
“Hmm,” Perry mused. “Probably pretty well insured anyway.”
Duchamp laughed at his friend’s cynicism.
Perry sipped at his drink. “I’m not really much of a chocolate guy, but this isn’t bad.”
“A hint of Grand Marnier added to get your blood pumping,” Duchamp said with a grin. “What do you say in America, ‘Don’t leave home without it?’“
“I was wondering what the orange flavor was. Should have known, you being such a lover of the finer things.”
“If we don’t find what we’re looking for, there’ll be no more finer things for either of us, unless you like the food in paradis.”
“Not sure that’s the restaurant where we’ll be dining.”
“Come now! We fight the good fight.”
“It’s not our motives I worry about, it’s our methods.”
“We do what we must.”
Perry stood. “On that note, I should get moving.”
Duchamp nodded. “Very well. The address is in your pocket, but I would check the tracker to see if there’s any movement.”
“Not likely it’s moving on its own, if you’re correct, but I’ll give it a look as I get a little closer.”
Duchamp stood and offered his hand. “Depending on what you find, the device in your pocket can also call for backup. I’d come with you now, but I’m not sure I haven’t been made.”
“Better to hang back then,” Perry said. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?”
Paris is a city of forty-one square miles, not a small parcel of land. And although it is capably served by various forms of public transit, many people choose to walk to their destinations. Perry always assumed it was because between any given points A and B there was so much to discover. Today, however, as he walked toward Boulevard Henrí IV, he noticed many people, especially the couples, seemed far more interested in each other than their surroundings. It was an observation he wished he hadn’t made.
His decision to walk was based upon a gut feeling that the distance between the café and the address Duchamp had slipped into his pocket, might somehow give him some sort of clue, something, anything to give him direction. He didn’t like the idea of possibly tracking down a foot, and would have liked to come across a better lead.
As he moved briskly along Rue Saint Jacques toward the Sorbonne he found himself experiencing the same uneasy feeling he’d had at JFK. Looking around as nonchalantly and tourist-like as possible, he tried to single out any faces that seemed to be within his sight upon multiple checks. After checking his fellow pedestrians for a third time, he noticed one person, a younger man with a mop of curly brown hair that spiraled upwards like an inverted ice cream cone. The man wore sunglasses, unwarranted on a cloudy fall day, and seemed to be keeping a constant distance at Perry’s five o’clock. To test the theory, Perry slowed his pace—the man slowed as well. Perry crossed the street—so did the man.
There was now no doubt in his mind his cover been compromised. If the sniper attack at the hotel hadn’t been proof enough of that, there was the airport in New York, and now, with another tail, things must be even worse than he’d first assumed.
He mulled his options as yet another check revealed the man was still there. The street was too crowded to take any action in the open. He began to look for a place into which he could duck, either to lose the tail or lure him to an environment more suited to violence. A small chapel up ahead looked promising. Not ideal, as beating people up in a church seemed a little uncouth, but it was probably empty at this time of day, and if this was indeed the third attack since leaving his apartment, he needed answers. Church or no, he was going to get them. Perry darted to his right and pulled the wooden door open. Without looking back, he stepped inside.
A quick glance around revealed that, as he’d hoped, no one else was in the building. The chapel was small, but decorated with all the trappings of a French église, including paintings of Bible scenes and so many crucifixes Perry couldn’t begin to count them. On a small table near the entrance stood a font of holy water and pair of heavy candlesticks. He blew out the candle and, standing to the side of the door, lifted the metal candlestick above his head.
A moment later, the door opened again and a head covered in curly brown hair poked tentatively inside. The candlestick came down heavily and a moment later Perry was dragging the stunned man into the chapel. He crammed the ornamental taper holder through the handles of the door, assuring there would be no additional worshipers.
The man was badly shaken, but conscious.
Perry leaned in close. “Time to talk. Who are you with? Why were you following me?”
To Perry’s surprise, the man answered in English tinged not with a French accent, but a drawl far more at home in Alabama than Paris. “Screw you. I’m not telling you anything.”
“Oh, how convenient,” Perry said cheerfully. “There’s this new torture technique I’ve been dying to try out. The guy who invented it said it hurts so much you’ll probably piss your pants right before telling me everything I want to know. Hope those aren’t dry clean only.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly, but he remained silent.
“Thanks for being such a good sport,” Perry chirped. “Let’s see how well this works.”
He rolled the man onto his stomach and sat heavily on his back. The rapid application of Perry’s weight on his upper body forced the air from his lungs, causing him to let out a whooshing moan. As he opened his mouth in an unwise attempt to breathe, Perry hooked a pinky into each side of his mouth, pulling back so hard the flesh almost tore, and producing an enormous, horrifying smile. At the same time, Perry dug his forefingers into each eye while applying enormous pressure on both temples with his thumbs. The combination of the three assaults to such tender areas at once was excruciating, and the man began to scream.
“Shush, now,” Perry said, leaning down close to whisper into the man’s ear. “You’re in church. Show a little goddamn respect. Who sent you to follow me? Oh, and before you answer I should probably tell you, I haven’t gotten to the part where I hurt you yet.”
With Perry’s fingers in his mouth, the man’s speech was a little unclear, but he managed to make himself understood. “No! No more!”
“Tell me, then!”
&nbs
p; The man did not answer immediately, leading Perry to engage in a demonstration of dexterity that would have turned even the most accomplished violinist green with envy. Placing a middle finger in each of his victim’s nostrils, Perry pulled them in opposite directions.
“I could tear your face in half, if you’d like. Or you can tell me what I want to know. Up to you. No pressure.”
In direct contradiction to this last remark, the man’s screams intensified. In a voice shredded with pain, he choked out the word, “Montemarche.” The French name sounded almost comical in his impeded drawl.
This was unwelcome news. Not only had he been made, but the man Duchamp had told him about only minutes before, the man whose building into which he would probably have to insert himself, was already on to him.
The entire time Perry had been sitting on his back, the man had kicked and writhed, trying to knock off his tormentor. But now his body went slack as the excruciating pain drove him to unconsciousness.
Perry stood up and looked around. There was a small closet to the left of the entry to the nave of the chapel, and he dragged the man inside by his unruly hair. A choirboy’s robe was hanging there and he took the golden chord that served as a belt and securely tied his victim’s hands and feet. Pulling a priest’s fascia from another hanger he shoved it roughly into the man’s already damaged mouth.
“By the way,” he said to the unhearing man, “your haircut is ridiculous.”
Satisfied he wouldn’t be causing any further trouble, Perry closed the closet, removed the candlestick from the door handles, and walked back into the gray autumn day.
He moved with renewed vigor, eager to reach the apartment block owned by Pierre Montemarche. If the man was already sending out a welcome wagon, the sooner Perry took him down the better.
7
The edifice was impressive, to say the least. It was the largest of seven conjoined buildings which made up an entire city block and painted a brilliant white. The entire structure beamed like a seven-story searchlight, even in the sunless autumn afternoon.
For a full thirty minutes, Perry stood and watched the entryway. The corner of the building reminded him of a castle tower, complete with a blue domed roof which came to a point. The top floor of the building, Perry assumed, is where he would find Montemarche, and he guessed his offices would be beneath the dome. For all the ominous nature of the building, it was quite lovely, as was the tree-lined boulevard.
Above the double doorway was a tasteful sign bearing the words Maison Montemarche in gold lettering. Below the sign stood a formidable looking individual in a dark blue suit that to Perry’s trained eye showed a slight bulge in the same place his pale gray sport coat did: right where the shoulder holster’s business section lay. The man’s smoothly shaved head added a luciferian balefulness to his already imposing appearance.
Perry turned his attention to the people passing along the street. He needed a distraction, something to pull the guard away from the door, at least long enough to slip through. There was no shortage of pedestrians, but for several minutes he saw nothing he could use to his advantage. Then the gods of rebellious youth shined upon him. On the side of the boulevard opposite the building he saw three young boys, probably twelve or thirteen, who should still have been in school. Being early September, school had just started, but these three were already cutting class. Perry saw this as a good sign. He walked over to where they were loitering. As they saw him approach they looked as though they might bolt, but he called to them in French.
“Who wants 10 euros?”
They stopped in their tracks.
The tallest, a gangly ginger with bad acne, spoke up. “What for? Nothing freaky!”
“No, I just want you to break a window.”
That brought a round of smiles, as he hoped it would. The delinquent nature of an early school term truant was universal.
“Do we have to get inside?” asked a shorter, stumpy boy with dirty blond hair, meaning, in this case, that his hair was literally filthy.
“Nope, just throw a rock straight enough and hard enough to smash it.”
“Where?” asked the ginger.
Perry pointed across the street.
In unison, all three shook their heads, a look of horror crossing their faces.
“Non! Non!” said the third boy, his brown eyes wide with fear. “You see that man standing there? He’d shoot us for looking in the window. Forget about breaking it!”
“You don’t have to stand around and wait for him to shoot you,” Perry said. “Just break the window and wait till he starts after you. You can’t outrun an old man like that?”
In truth, the guard looked like he might be a little younger than Perry, but he was banking on the fact that everyone over twenty looked old to a thirteen-year-old.
“Not for ten euros, we can’t,” said the ginger.
“Listen, you little shits. I’ll give you fifty. Split it anyway you want. Give the pudgy guy less, I don’t care. I just need that guy away from the door for a few seconds so I can get in.”
The stumpy kid frowned, but the ginger smiled. “All right. We’ll get him away from the door. Where’s the money?”
Perry forked over a fifty and they walked away. He watched tensely as they crossed the street, knowing they could just as easily run off as do the job. But they indeed walked in the direction of his target. As they approached, Perry realized there weren’t a lot of rocks laying around the streets of downtown Paris. This was the twenty-first century after all—the roads were paved with asphalt, not cobblestones. But he needn’t have worried, either about the boys finding stones or doing the job he paid them for. As he continued to monitor their progress, ready to hurry across the road and into the building, he saw them pause by one of the trees. Around its base was a square of earth, covered with white landscaping rocks. They each collected a few. Then things happened quickly.
They began to run and as they passed the guard, the stumpy kid yelled, “Hey, baldy! Do you shave your balls too?” He threw his stones—not at a window, but directly at the guard. The other two did throw at the windows and Perry heard the satisfying sound of shattering glass. With that they began to sprint in earnest. The guard, fuming, hesitated for a moment, causing Perry to fear that self-control might trump ego. Then the pudgy kid turned and yelled, “Can’t catch me, bare-nuts!” That proved to be the tipping point, and the guard reached inside his jacket and started after them.
Perry made his move and in ten seconds was across the street and inside the building. As he’d hoped, the guard posted at the door meant there was no one posted directly inside. The foyer had hallways leading off in two directions at ninety-degree angles down which he could see apartment doors. There was an elevator in the wall facing the doorway and next to that was a door leading to a stairwell. He made for the door, keeping a sharp eye out for more guards.
Once he closed the door to the stairs and began to climb, he took the tracker from his pocket. He’d looked at it once while casing the entrance and saw the signal was still strong, and it showed on the map near the round corner rooms which were directly above the foyer. He pushed a button on the side of the device, increasing the volume so he could hear the audible signal which accompanied the flashing red dot. Now as he climbed the stairs the signal began to speed up. By the time he’d reached the sixth floor, it was almost a constant beep, but to his surprise as he continued to the top floor it slowed again. Bart, or at least Bart’s foot, was somewhere on the sixth floor.
Perry muted the tracker. He looked one last time at the screen, which at this level of resolution told him the signal was coming from his right, and was between ten and fifteen feet away. He looked at the button on the opposite side of those controlling the volume, the one that would immediately call for backup. His finger hovered over it.
Assessing his situation, Perry was very frank with himself. I am in a Scorpion stronghold and, aside from the guard tricked into abandoning his post, I have no idea ho
w many additional guns I’m facing, but it has to be a substantial amount. And I’m fifteen feet from either a captured American, a dead American, or that American’s foot. No sweat.
Perry removed his finger from the panic button of the tracker and stuffed it back into his pocket. Then, as slowly and quietly as possible, he opened the doorway to the sixth floor.
For a moment, he did nothing more—simply held the door ajar and listened. When he was satisfied there was no one moving around, he opened it enough to poke his head through. As he did so, Perry involuntarily winced, preparing for the possibility that a bullet could slam into him before he even had time to take stock of the situation. When none did, he looked around.
This hallway, as had been the ones he’d scoped out on the first floor, appeared to be abandoned. He felt a tingle at the back of his neck. It was too easy. But despite a growing foreboding, he moved silently into the hallway and turned to the right.
He could see that the passage was long and lined with doors. Bart’s chip, whatever its current container, was behind one of them. With excruciating slowness, he moved toward the first door. A polished brass plate read, “Bureau de Sécurité.”
It was a stroke of luck. Depending on how many men were inside—and how quickly he could dispatch them—he might find moving further down the corridor a little more user friendly. When he’d poked his head tentatively through the doorway, the first thing he’d looked for were men with guns, and he’d seen none. The second thing were cameras, and on this score, he was less lucky. There were two, encased in darkened glass semi-spheres. Because of the dark covers, he could not tell if they were fixed or if they could pivot, but as he had moved toward the security office, no one had burst out firing in his direction, which led him to believe the cameras were pointing, at least for the moment, toward a different part of the hallway.
He reached for the door handle, deciding there was no point in attempting stealth this time. His good fortune wasn’t going to continue once the security office was breached. There were going to be men inside, and they were not going to be friendly. Pulling the Glock from its holster, he depressed the handle and pushed the door wide.
Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3 Page 12