Dark Return

by DV Berkom

  “Holy shit!” The man Leine had tackled shakily climbed to his feet and offered her his hand. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Leine said, her ears ringing. She accepted his hand and got to her feet. An engine coughed to life. She looked up as a black delivery van sped past.

  “I should probably thank you for saving my life,” he said. “I thought you were just some crazy—”

  Ignoring him, Leine tracked the van as it sped away, memorizing the phone number of the flower store stenciled on the side. It seemed odd that anyone driving a delivery van would leave the scene of a bombing, knowing that it would likely be commandeered to deliver the wounded and dying to the local hospital.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him, the realization of what just happened sinking in, hitting her hard.

  “Yes, I think so. I’m just happy to be alive. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He checked his phone, and apparently finding that it wasn’t damaged, ran toward the destruction to film the aftermath of the bomb.

  A woman nearby struggled to rise, but her leg collapsed under her and she fell back onto the ground with a stifled cry. Leine scanned the square, searching for Manuel as she made her way to the woman to see what she could do. She spotted him, still alive, sitting on the ground with a dazed look on his face, not far from the cathedral entrance. Sirens filled the air, echoing off the buildings as first responders grew near and skidded to a stop at the landmark cathedral.

  “Don’t try to get up,” she urged the woman. “Looks like your leg is broken. They’ll come and get you as soon as they can, all right?”

  The woman nodded, her eyes wide. “Is it over?”

  “Yes,” Leine assured her, already headed across the square to help Manuel. “It’s over.”

  His leg was bleeding heavily from a piece of shrapnel embedded in his thigh. She had her jacket off by the time she reached him, and quickly bent to cinch it around his leg.

  “Looks like it nicked an artery,” she said, unsheathing her knife to use as leverage to tighten the handmade tourniquet. She secured the hilt so it wouldn’t unwind and flagged down a medic. “You’re going to be fine, Manuel,” she assured him.

  Once she was certain that he would be well taken care of, she made her way to another victim, and then another, busying herself with helping however she could, ignoring the drumbeat of her conscience telling her she’d made a horrible mistake.

  24

  “IT WASN’T YOUR fault, Leine,” Lou assured her. They were speaking via a large screen in the conference room at SHEN’s office in Paris’s Latin Quarter. Jack Ferguson had joined them and was sitting in one of the chairs near the conference table. “There’s nothing you could have done to prevent what happened.”

  Coiled tight, Leine paced the room, the double espresso in her hand temporarily forgotten, unwilling to take the out he offered. “Yes, there is. I should have seen it when I picked her up in Tripoli.”

  Lou shook his head. “You couldn’t have. She didn’t act alone. Chessa was doing what she’d been trained to do. It’s Not. Your. Fault.”

  She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Six people died because I was too blind to see the signs.”

  “What signs are you even talking about? That she refused to take off her veil? That’s nothing. She’d been forced to take the veil for months or she would most likely have been beaten. That isn’t easy conditioning to discard.”

  “Not just that, Lou. It was a combination of things. The veil. Her bitterness toward her recruiter. Her anger at being given as a prize to an older Izz Al-Din supporter. Her calm reaction to my killing the gunman in the apartment. I should have seen it—should have put it together.” She threw back the espresso and set the cup down on the table.

  “I know you. You don’t miss things.”

  Leine resumed pacing. “But I did. I’ve rescued dozens of women held captive by terrorists. Most of them were practically comatose from the abuse they’d suffered. If not that, they were ashamed of what happened and afraid to go back to their families. Many were immensely grateful to be rescued. Chessa was none of that. She was angry and raw. And out for revenge. And let’s not even mention the rookie mistake I made at the cathedral.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The guy I tackled to the ground. He was Middle Eastern. He had a cell phone. I came to a conclusion, but it wasn’t based on fact. It was based on an old memory and the profiling of an innocent man.”

  “What the hell else were you supposed to do? You said he was filming the scene while everyone else was running away. You didn’t profile anyone. You acted on instinct, which is what I would expect of any of our operatives.” He sighed. “Let me tell you what I think happened.”

  “It wasn’t instinct, Lou.”

  “May I speak?”

  Lou’s patience was wearing thin, she could tell. She stopped talking and stilled. To his credit, Jack Ferguson didn’t say a word, allowing the two friends to have it out.

  “Chessa’s handlers intended for her to be rescued. They’d brainwashed her into believing that it was her destiny to take their jihad to the West. It wouldn’t have mattered what you did, or what her family did, what her story was. She would have bided her time, waiting for someone or something to activate her to do what they’d trained her to do.”

  “I still should have seen it, Lou.” She started moving again. It was the only way she could think. “Should have seen her for the anomaly she was. At the very least, we could have watched her to see how she’d react to re-entry.”

  “How could you know she’d put on a suicide vest the day after she arrived in France? You’re not psychic, Leine.”

  “And why did she only text me?” Leine said, ignoring Lou’s comment. “Why not her mother or father?”

  “Maybe she wanted you to watch,” Jack said with a shrug. “She wasn’t in her right mind, Leine. Who knows what she thought?”

  “You know her mother died in the blast? Decapitated by a piece of shrapnel from her daughter’s vest.” Leine shook the visual from her mind. Don’t dwell, Leine. It doesn’t do any good.

  “Yeah. I heard,” Lou said.

  “How the hell did she even end up there?” She stopped pacing and folded her arms.

  “She told her husband she thought Chessa would go to Notre Dame.” Lou took a deep breath and let it go. “Apparently, the two of them always went to services together on Good Friday and they’d talked about visiting the cathedral together someday. He offered to go with her, but she insisted on doing it alone.”

  Leine closed her eyes. She should have saved Adrienne, not tackled an innocent man. Shake it off, Leine.

  You know what you need to do.

  “What did you find out about the black delivery truck?” Leine had given the name of the florist and the phone number to Lou to track.

  “Your suspicions were right. The florist shop is a front that belongs to a terrorist splinter group called The Way of Allah out of Tunisia. It’s located in the suburb of La Courneuve.”

  “So Izz Al-Din’s outsourcing their handlers now?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Good to know.” Leine grew quiet.

  Lou leaned forward, his head filling the screen. “I know that look. You’re figuring out a way to take the fight to the enemy.”

  Startled, Leine glanced at her old friend. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you know me as well as you do.”

  Lou’s mouth pulled at the corners in a resigned smile. “It’s not like we’ve known each other since you were seventeen.”

  “Good point.” She walked to her satchel that was on the table near Jack and checked for her burner phone. It was in the front pocket and had a full charge. “I’m going to do a little recon of that flower shop. See what I can dig up. You can get me on the burner if you need me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Lei
ne waved off his concerns. “You worry too much, Lou. I’ll be fine.”

  “No, you will not.” Lou slammed his hand on the table, his patience obviously exhausted. Leine flinched at the sound, amplified by the speakers. “You’ve been away from home long enough. I reserved a seat for you on an Air France flight out this evening. You will be on it, goddammit.”

  Bristling, Leine straightened and crossed her arms. “Or what?”

  “You need to be on that flight, Leine.”

  “Are you threatening to fire me?” Anger and guilt from the mistake she made bubbled to the surface. “Be careful, Lou. We may be friends, but this time you’re going too far.”

  “Hold on, you two. Let’s decompress a little here,” Jack said, his voice even.

  “No, you’re the one who’s gone too far, Leine. If the dark circles under your eyes and that fifth espresso are any indication, you haven’t had any sleep recently. You’re not in any shape to continue this operation. You’ve been in the field too long. It’s time to come home. Now.”

  Leine shouldered her bag and walked up to the video screen. Lou tracked her movements with his gaze.

  “Are you going to be on that flight?” he asked.

  She hit the off button on the console. Lou’s face dissolved into a blank screen.

  “Nope.”

  She turned and strode past where Jack was sitting, headed for the door. He took his feet off the table and stood.

  “Mind if I come along?”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He followed her out to the elevator. “Can I say something without getting my head chewed off?”

  Ignoring him, she jabbed the down button. When the elevator didn’t come immediately, she jabbed it again.

  “I get it. You think there was something you could do, maybe save one of those innocent lives. But from what you both told me, there was nothing you could have done. Nothing.”

  She stared straight ahead at the doors, willing them to open. She needed to move, now, or she’d implode.

  Jack leaned over, trying to get her attention. “C’mon, Leine. You’re not seriously going to ruin a friendship of over twenty years because of guilt? I thought you used to be an assassin for chrissakes.”

  She looked at him coolly and took a deep breath before she replied. “Who the fuck are you to say what I should or shouldn’t do? And what the hell do you know about my life?”

  Jack raised his hands and took a step back. Leine advanced toward him, gathering a full head of steam.

  “The next time you think you know a person on any level, you might want to check your assumptions at the goddamned door.” With that, the elevator pinged and the doors opened. She stepped inside before pivoting to face him. “Thanks for the ride,” she said as the doors slid closed.

  When she reached the ground floor, Leine left the building and walked two blocks toward the Boulevard St-Michel. Then she caught the Metro and headed west.

  25

  LEINE EXITED THE train on the outskirts of Paris, in a neighborhood of run-down warehouses and worn block apartments. Meant to be modern accommodations, the crumbling facades and graffiti-covered buildings only served to accentuate the neglected feel of the community. This was the other Paris, the one tourists rarely experienced.

  And home to the thriving business of her contact, Henri.

  Henri was the man who could find anything an operative could want. Need a machine gun or a tank? How about an attack helicopter or a vial of undetectable poison? Depending on the item, it would cost, but Henri was the person to know. Operating on the fringes of one of the most visited European cities, he flourished in the shadows. Word of mouth was the only advertising required.

  There was just one catch.

  Henri had been known to play both sides against each other unless a gratuity was involved, and his loyalty wasn’t cheap. As a result, only those organizations and individuals with money to burn were able to effectively use his services. This limited his clientele to wealthy nation-states, well-funded terrorist groups, the occasional drug cartel, and billionaires hell-bent on ruling his or her tiny piece of the world.

  Leine no longer operated under the auspices of the old, well-funded agency she’d once worked for—and hadn’t for several years—the news of which would have certainly reached him and his cronies. Whether he’d welcome her presence or treat her with suspicion remained to be seen.

  She turned down a side street, avoiding a urine-soaked mattress shoved up against a chain link fence, and headed toward a nondescript gray metal door attached to an equally nondescript three-story block building. A Sprinter van and a small compact sedan were parked next to each other in an adjacent lot.

  The security camera blinked at her from the same place as before, although the actual device was a newer, more high-tech generation of surveillance equipment. She stood directly in its path, allowing her features to be electronically mapped and recognized. There was a brief lag before a sharp snick and the lock disengaged. Leine opened the door and entered the building.

  The hallway before her hadn’t changed in the decade-plus since she’d been there last. Although sterile-clean, the butter-yellow and white walls were as dull as ever, uninterrupted by art or visual stimulation of any sort—although the hairline cracks in the battleship gray concrete floor were new. Three cage lights stood sentry at equal intervals along the corridor, illuminating the visitor’s path and nothing more. It was oddly comforting to know that although countries’ loyalties and alignments changed with the wind, and technology raced ahead to be the world’s next god, Henri didn’t feel the need to change his décor.

  She followed the hall to the end where it took a sharp turn to the right, leading to a four-inch-thick steel blast door. The wonders that lay beyond were indeed worth protecting, and he wasn’t one to skimp on security. In addition to the blast door, another security camera light blinked above her, recording her every move. A digital security interface had been embedded into the wall on her right.

  She touched the green button on the interface panel and waited.

  “Your name, please,” a feminine voice said in French.

  “Leine Basso. Open the goddamned door, Henri.”

  There was a pause before a series of loud clicks echoed through the narrow hallway as the locks disengaged and the massive steel door swung open.

  Henri stood at the entrance with his arms flung wide and a salacious grin on his meaty, bearded face.

  “If it isn’t my favorite assassin who has come for a long-awaited visit. This is truly a joyous occasion!”

  They kissed cheeks and Leine allowed him to wrap her in a massive bear hug.

  “This calls for champagne. Valerie!” Henri waved at a young woman standing next to an ancient wooden desk on the other side of the cavernous warehouse. An expensive laptop and several machine gun components graced the desk’s surface. “Champagne!”

  Valerie nodded and disappeared through a doorway into the back room. Leine surveyed the arms dealer’s workshop, noting the myriad guns, knives, and explosives on display in clear Lucite cubicles, each with its own spotlight. It was a far cry from his early days, when he’d kept everything in wooden crates that had to be pried open before viewing. She assumed he maintained the bolt hole accessible through the supply room in case of an assault on the shop.

  Henri took a step back and held her at arm’s length, his gray eyes twinkling. Charming as ever, he looked much as he had when she first met him years ago, if not for the twenty extra pounds and the thatch of gray hair on his head and shot through his beard.

  “To what do I owe this immense pleasure? I am delighted that you have graced us with your presence. Are you reviving The Leopard?” he asked sotto voce, using the nickname she earned as an elite assassin.

  She smiled. “Not exactly.”

  His eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing into his widow’s peak. “Then you are no longer working for Scott Henderson? I thought after tha
t business with the Russians that you and he were back on speaking terms.”

  “I see your sources are as thorough as ever.” The only way Henri could have known of General Tsarev’s ambitious plan to pit the United States against the Russian Federation and her role in the operation to stop him was if he still had contacts in the upper echelons of one or both governments.

  Henri chuckled, affecting a humble mien. “You are kind to say this. I am but an old man with very little influence in the world today.” He shrugged a Gallic shoulder and sighed dramatically.

  “I think we both know better than that.”

  Henri beamed at the compliment as he led her deeper into the well-planned, spotlessly clean space. There was one thing about Henri—he was meticulous with his inventory and his shop.

  “I’m curious as to why you are here, if not as part of an operation for the agency.”

  “I’m here on my own, Henri.”

  He arched an expressive eyebrow. “Oh?” He brought her to a small conversation area defined by an expensive-looking Persian rug, flanked by a comfortable couch, two wingback chairs, and a gold leaf metal and glass coffee table. Two large potted palms framed the couch. “Please, sit.”

  Leine chose one of the wingback chairs and sat down. Valerie reappeared, carrying a tray with three crystal champagne flutes and a bottle of Henri’s own champagne made by a well-known vintner rumored to have fallen into arrears with the weapons supplier. She set the tray on the coffee table and had a seat on the couch while Henri poured. He handed each woman a glass and held his high.

  “To beautiful and deadly women,” he intoned, bowing first to Leine and then to Valerie.

  Leine studied the young woman as she sipped her wine. Fine-featured with delicate bones, Valerie had the bored confidence instilled in Frenchwomen from birth. But there was something else—something deeper that intrigued her. Valerie raised her glass and returned her gaze with an enigmatic smile. Leine did the same and returned her attention to Henri, who had been studying them both with a calculating gleam in his eye.