Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3

by Craig A. Hart

  He now turned his attention to Montemarche, but to his amazement he saw the man press one of the jewels inlaid in the upholstery of the arm, causing the throne to move back rapidly. A hatch hummed open and revealed a metal slide, not unlike those found in playgrounds. The Frenchman jumped from the chair onto the slide. Before Perry could react, the hatch was sealed over by a thick metal plate which shot out from under the throne.

  Perry ran to the trapdoor and kicked it viciously, but didn’t even leave a dent. “Is this seriously happening right now?” he said aloud. “Did I just see a madman escape via kiddie slide?”

  There was no reply to his question. Aside from the two corpses, Perry was quite alone.

  Now that he was standing and his life was no longer in immediate danger, he was able to examine the room more thoroughly. Upon doing so he saw the tracking device he’d been carrying was laying on the seat Montemarche had recently evacuated. He grabbed it and pushed the key to call for backup. An instant later he heard Duchamp’s voice.

  “Eagle, your twenty?”

  “I’m in Maison Montemarche, exact location unknown. Getting out of here is not going to be easy.”

  “Hold on, Eagle. Your device transmits as well as tracks. You appear to be on the seventh floor. Can you make your way to the roof?”

  “The roof? Up higher in this building is not the direction I want to be going right now.” Even as he spoke, Perry heard helicopter blades slicing the air through the device’s speaker.

  “We’ve had the chopper on standby. We’re two minutes out.”

  On the floor behind Montemarche’s throne, Perry found his own guns, carelessly tossed aside. “These cretins really thought they were done with me.” He chuckled. “Amateurs.”

  He grabbed the weapons, pocketing the .22 and keeping the dead boxer’s gun in his other hand. Then he ran to the door. Throwing it open, he saw he was near the corner of two hallways. A round wall with a door at its center was probably the corner office he’d spotted from the ground, the one in the domed tower. As much as he’d like to have gotten in there and poked around, he need to find a way to the roof. Then in a moment of clarity he replayed Montemarche’s escape. Obviously, he was a man who enjoyed a quick exit. Perry ran into the round room. As expected, the curved walls were so covered with photos demonstrating Montemarche’s superstar status that it was difficult to tell the color of the paint. Near one of the most enormous desks he’d ever seen was a metal ladder, bolted to the wall and leading to a hatch in the ceiling. Next to the ladder was a floor to ceiling painting of the god Zeus, only with Montemarche’s face on the thunder-hurler’s body.

  “Good Lord,” Perry muttered. Into the tracker, he said, “Montemarche has a roof access ladder in his office. This guy’s slippery.”

  “That is, at the moment, good news for you. Get your ass topside.”

  As Perry approached the roof ladder, the door to the office burst open. He wheeled, firing off a quick volley of shots which soon had the entrance to the room piled with bodies. He scrambled up the ladder and yanked on the handle. The hatch opened downward and he pulled himself through. Much to his delight, the chopper hovered just above him. He jumped and grabbed its skid, then grasped Duchamp’s offered hand.

  Moments later they touched down on another rooftop landing pad, this one on a much friendlier structure: a safe house in the suburbs to the south of the city. Perry climbed out of the bird and drew a deep breath.

  “That’s as close a call as I’m hoping to run into for the rest of this mission,” he said.

  “The way your luck runs—” Duchamp began.

  “Don’t say it,” Perry replied emphatically. “Don’t say a word.”

  9

  A medic at the safe house examined Perry and gave him an injection. Within minutes the residual effects of the gas he’d inhaled were gone, apart from the sore throat.

  Duchamp smiled at him. “So, you fell for the old ‘Here’s what you came for, now breathe deeply,’ trick, eh?”

  Perry grimaced. “I got a little cocky once I’d taken out the security room—and its occupants. I’m thinking now it was all a setup to get me into the room with the bodies, and the gas. Man, I’d like to get my hands around that bastard’s neck.”

  “Did any of your teachers ever mention you don’t play well with others?”

  “I think you’ve missed your calling,” Perry said, once again grimacing. “It’s not too late to give up saving the world to go into stand-up comedy, you know.”

  Duchamp ignored the retort. “At any rate, Montemarche is not going to let your bad manners go unpunished. He casts a very wide net over Paris.”

  “A wide net over a city he intends to destroy.” Perry shook his head at the irony. “Fortunately for us, he turned out to be one of those, ‘You’re about to die so I’ll brag about my plans,’ type of maniacs. We know they intend to detonate the bomb near Point Zero.”

  “There are many significant landmarks in that area,” Duchamp began.

  “I don’t think he cares,” Perry interrupted.

  “Let me finish. There are many landmarks, all of which are under significant security protection. He will not be able, for example, to get a nuke into the Cathedral. In fact, there is probably nowhere on the Ile de la Cité that would be suitable for such a thing,” Duchamp said, naming the island on which Notre Dame was built, from which the city radiated out in all directions. The actual Point Zero was denoted by an octagonal brass plate set into the concrete of the public square in front of the cathedral.

  “I see,” Perry replied. “So we need to find a less famous place in the area.”

  “Oui. Unfortunately, there are thousands.”

  “So, reason with me,” Perry said. “Montemarche is a very successful man and has no doubt served Scorpion in such a manner that they are willing to offer him some autonomy. He’s free to make decisions that could, if he’s successful, alter the way in which Scorpion operates.”

  Duchamp concurred with a nod.

  “He’s also bat-shit crazy,” Perry continued. “I’m sorry, but big-picture ulterior motives or not, anyone who is willing to flip the switch on a megaton nuke in the middle of a world capital is nuts.”

  Duchamp nodded again.

  “So, does his clever operative side or his wannabe super-villain side take the lead?”

  “Please explain,” Duchamp said.

  “The megalomaniac is going to look for someplace with some significance, a symbolic gesture, if you will. You’re right that the really big landmarks aren’t going to work. But perhaps a smaller symbol for his equally grand statement. What else is near Point Zero that might attract attention?”

  “Directly across the Seine from the Cathedral is Plaçe René Viviani.”

  “I know the spot,” said Perry. “Statue of the WWI Prime Minister in the center of a mid-sized court. Too open, don’t you think? No place to stash it. Because even a smallish bomb like the one they have is too large to escape notice, not matter how pretty you wrap it up. The name ‘suitcase-sized’ device is a bit of a misnomer.”

  “You are right. It would be an obvious aberration in the square.”

  “Think. Is there anywhere else?”

  “There really is not, Perry,” Duchamp said. “As I said before, there are thousands of buildings into which they could conceivably find a reason to move a large crate, but nothing that stands out as a symbol.”

  “Then perhaps the pragmatist will be calling the shots after all. Maybe detonating near Point Zero is sufficient. In which case, any of those thousand buildings would work for him. Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “What if both evil sides were given control? What if he found a practical solution to his impractical need for a dramatic statement?”

  “Ah, Perry! You’ve lost me again,” said Duchamp, smacking his own forehead, frustrated at his inability to follow.

  “What if he were to move the bomb in plain sight, and float it right next to the
cathedral?”

  “A barge!” Duchamp exclaimed, in a flash of epiphany.

  “A barge,” Perry repeated. “Timed properly it could appear to be innocently making its way along the river, only to detonate at a place as close to Point Zero as the water would allow.”

  “It is so obvious!” the French operative said, but then his expression fell. “It does not help us much, however.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are almost as many boats on the Seine as there are buildings lining it. How do we know which one holds the device?”

  Perry frowned. “Hmm. Of the hundreds of boats on the river at any given time, none will have quite the radioactive signature that ours will. But scooting from craft to craft with a Geiger counter might be a little time consuming.”

  “Not to mention a bit obvious to any unfriendly eyes that could be watching.”

  Perry pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Damn! There has to be a way to get to Montemarche.”

  “He indicated a time frame?” Duchamp asked.

  “No, he said nothing of the ‘when’ only the ‘where.’ What I wouldn’t give to have just a few minutes to talk to him, to see if I could draw him out a little more. He loves discussing his brilliance so much, it wouldn’t take long to make him slip up.”

  Just then Perry’s phone began to vibrate.

  “Parker,” he said, remembering to stick to his cover.

  “Mr. Hall,” came a smooth French voice.

  Perry’s face darkened. “Montemarche, you coward! Did you enjoy your ridiculous trip down the garbage sluice?”

  “I will ignore your continued insolence for now,” the Scorpion agent said. “I am calling with good news. I have asked an old friend of yours to assist me in, shall we say, re-collecting you.”

  “No friend of mine would ever assist you in anything, except maybe easing you out of life and into whatever comes next.”

  Montemarche chuckled. “This is not the time to discuss the metaphysical questions of life and afterlife. This is the time to rekindle old acquaintances. Here, I will show you.”

  Perry heard Montemarche hand the phone to someone. For a moment, there was silence. Then a voice that chilled Perry’s blood came through the speaker. It was a voice he’d heard a thousand times as he played the security recording over and over, the recording made on the night Trina died.

  “Perry. How nice to speak to you. I’ve thought about you often since the night I killed your wife.”

  “Flick.” Perry’s voice was simultaneously flat and deadly as he uttered that single word.

  The killer didn’t laugh, but a smirk entered his voice. “None other. You need to know I’m heading to your suite at the Hôtel de Londres. I’ll wait for you there until 1700, then if you do not appear, I will kill the last remaining piece of your beloved Trina: your fat, stupid dog.”

  “Don’t you dare mention her name.” Perry’s voice had lost the flatness and now wavered with barely controlled fury. He felt as if he might go insane and kill everyone within reach, whether friend or foe.

  This time Flick did laugh, and the sound turned Perry’s insides into molten rock. His vision blinked red and swam before his eyes.

  “And why not?” the killer said. “She and I shared such an intimate moment. I don’t believe two people can be any closer than the instant at which one dies.”

  “Bastard! I’ll tear you to pieces with my bare hands! Do you hear me? I will kill you for days!” Perry continued screaming into the phone for minutes before he realized the line was dead.

  Duchamp waited patiently, knowing better than to intrude on Perry’s anguish. But finally, he spoke. “I’ll drive you back into the city.”

  “He’s not going to hurt my dog,” Perry said. “Fleming’s all I have left.”

  Duchamp looked carefully at his friend and saw he was very close to losing control. He stood and walked to a small table by the wall, where a bottle of Scotch sat unopened. He knew giving Perry a drink at such a fragile point might lead to places the American should not go. But he also knew what a shot of whiskey could do for a man whose nerves were about to erupt. He poured a shot and set it on the table in front of Perry.

  Perry sat and stared at the amber liquid for a full minute. Then, looking up at Duchamp, he pushed the shot glass away. “Not today,” he said. “Not when Flick is this close.”

  Duchamp nodded, picked up the glass, and downed it in a single gulp. “If you don’t need it, I sure as hell do.”

  10

  They arrived at the Hôtel de Londres at 4:25 p.m., over a half hour before the time Flick said he would wait for Perry. He raced up the stairs to the fourteenth floor, not willing to wait for the elevator. Duchamp was tight on his heels.

  There was no way to unlock the door without alerting anyone who might be on the other side. The lock emitted its distinctive beep when the key card slid through the reader, but Perry wasn’t concerned about being covert at this point. He burst through the door, gun drawn.

  Duchamp, anticipating the worst, stood to the left of the doorway, ready to follow if needed. When no shots were heard, he walked in behind Perry, who was moving slowly down the entry hall toward the two doors which led to the office and the kitchenette. Both were opened, and he pointed the gun into each, only to find they were empty.

  A sound from the bedroom caused both agents to whirl and point their guns in that direction. But it was only Fleming, waddling happily toward his friend. He was clearly unharmed. Duchamp moved past Perry as he knelt to pet the dog, and a moment later called from the bedroom. “It’s clear. He’s not here, Perry.”

  “Good…and bad,” Perry said.

  “Oui. Your dog is fine, but Flick is somewhere else. Doing what?”

  As if in answer to Duchamp’s question, Perry’s phone began to buzz.

  “Flick,” he said into the phone.

  “Not very sporting, Perry,” he said in his vague accent.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why, I told you to come meet with me, but you’ve brought a friend. I assumed you understood you were to come alone.”

  “Sorry, scumbag. You don’t get to call the shots,” Perry said.

  Flick chuckled. “I was definitely calling the shot when you opened your balcony door yesterday.”

  “So that was you. Seems a bit unlike you to use a sniper rifle when you’d so much prefer your blade.”

  “Ah, Perry. We are professionals, you and I. And as a professional you know we must sometimes work outside of our chosen milieu. You, for example, would prefer to kill with your bare hands, but since arriving in Paris you’ve been using your gun often, and to profound effect.”

  “I’d prefer to kill you with my bare hands,” Perry snarled. “Which is precisely what I intend to do.”

  “I kill you, you kill me. So much talk about killing. This is Paris. Let’s talk about love.”

  “Alright, I’d love to kill you with my bare hands.”

  Flick laughed again. “You miss my point,” he said, waiting to see if Perry would catch his double entendre.

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Perry said.

  “I think our shared history proves exactly that. You wouldn’t know me if you tripped over my foot—which in my case is still attached—yet we are intimately connected. You know nothing about me, and I know everything about you. Yes, Perry. I am very clever.”

  “Clever people die as hard as dumb ones. Sometimes harder because they were too clever.”

  “Why don’t we put that notion to a test. I am going to do you a favor now. Actually, the third favor I’ve done for you.”

  “You’ve done two favors already?”

  “Yes. I did not kill your dog, though I could easily have done so. And I intentionally missed your head when I fired at you yesterday.”

  Perry looked down at Fleming, who stared lovingly back at him.

  “You didn’t kill my dog. I’ll give you that. But a
s far as the shot, I’m going to say you missed because you’re a lousy sniper.”

  “Have it your way, then. In either case, here is the third favor: I’m going to tell you exactly where I am. You can come and get me, if you’d like. You can even bring your friend. It matters not to me at all.”

  Perry walked to the sliding glass doors and pulled back the curtain just enough to survey the buildings visible from his suite. Any number of them could have been the one from which Flick took his shot at him, not that knowing so was helping him now. But just as he was about to let the drapery fall back in place he saw a glint from the window of a balcony on a building with a very direct line of sight.

  “Did you see it?” Flick said. “That’s your only clue, my tiny flick of light.”

  “I saw it,” Perry said, disconnecting the call. There was nothing more he wanted to say to the assassin until he was looking him directly in the eyes.

  Duchamp was checking his Colt .45 Commander, already heading toward the door.

  “Wait a second,” Perry said, picking up the hotel phone.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Parker. How can I assist you?”

  “I need to speak directly to Piet.”

  “The groom?”

  “The bellhop, yes. I need to speak to him at once.”

  “One moment.”

  Perry tapped his foot impatiently, but in under ten seconds he heard Piet’s high register voice. “Monsieur Parker?”

  “Piet, I need someone to keep an eye on Fleming for me. Right away.”

  “I will see to it myself,” the bellhop said.

  “Good. Merci.”

  “De rein.”

  Perry popped the magazine out of his Glock, gave it a quick inspection, then jammed it back into the gun. “Ok, now we can go.”

  One of the esoteric oddities one learns as both a law enforcement officer and as a spy is how to determine which room within a building corresponds to the balcony outside, and do so with speed and accuracy. Although the mirror glint lasted only a second, Perry determined it came from a room near the center of either the ninth or tenth floor. As he and Duchamp ran across Rue Augereau, Perry pointed upwards.