Dark Return

by DV Berkom

  “Perfect.” Leine rummaged in her pocket and pulled out an envelope containing a stack of euros. “I wasn’t sure about your fees, since it’s been so long. This should take care of your time.” She handed the envelope to Melanie, who looked inside and grinned.

  “You always were generous.” She slipped the package into her pocket. “Thank you.” She prepared to go, but Leine put her hand on her arm. Melanie stilled.

  “One more thing.”

  “Of course.”

  “Lou Stokes may contact you. Whatever he says, please know that this job isn’t affiliated with SHEN, and he has no authority over what I do.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It’s not. I’m freelancing at the moment, and he doesn’t have access to the operation.”

  “No problem. I’ll tell him I haven’t heard from you.” She patted the pocket containing the money Leine had given her. “You just bought a truckload of loyalty.” She rose to leave. “I always liked you, Leine. You’re one of the good ones.”

  Leine stood and they shook hands. “Thanks for that, Melanie. I appreciate it.”

  MELANIE WAS GOOD TO her word and met Leine at a different bench along the Seine later that evening.

  “The Libyan number pinged off of a cell tower about two hours southeast of Tripoli. That’s as close as I could get it. Coverage is notoriously spotty in that area. At the height of the war, Izz Al-Din erected a bunch of towers throughout the Libyan-Tunisian borderlands, but the army destroyed every one they could find, and there aren’t many left. The closest active settlement is a refugee camp. I should probably tell you, too, that the number is no longer active.”

  “What about the private number?”

  Melanie shrugged. “A Paris prefix. The call came from somewhere near the eleventh arrondissement. I would need special permission to get a more accurate location.”

  A chill worked its way up her spine. “You’re sure it was the eleventh?” The bar where she’d met Spencer the night before was in the eleventh.

  “Absolutely. Why?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Your face doesn’t look like it’s nothing.” Melanie handed the phone back to Leine with a concerned look. “Be careful, okay?”

  Leine flashed her a smile. “Always. Thanks, Melanie.”

  The two women parted ways. Leine turned and headed north to the eleventh arrondissement to have a talk with her old friend, Spencer.

  31

  JINN MADE HER way to Ebrahim’s store, pausing to check if she was being followed. So far, she was alone. Escape from the dorm room she’d been assigned to at SHEN had been easy. The rescue agency didn’t normally need to prevent kids from leaving. Once she’d seen the breaking news story detailing the bombing in Paris, she knew she had to do something.

  It was early and the rhythm of the souk had slowed, as if to take a deep breath before the next wave of customers filled its passageways. She’d just had a visit with Labid, her tech-savvy friend who repaired computers for a living. She asked him to try to break into the phone she’d stolen from the man in the white suit. It had taken some time, but he eventually succeeded. When she asked him how much she owed him he waved her off, telling her that if she came into possession of any new electronics in the future, he’d like the right of first refusal. Jinn had happily agreed.

  On the way to the store, she’d accessed the phone’s contents. What she found made her even more determined to find out who was behind the abductions. The only way to do that would be to dangle herself as bait. If her friend Leine was going to put herself in danger for the orphaned children, then she would too. The thought of never seeing her friend again cast a cloud over her mood. Leine had been as close to a mother as she’d had since her own mother died. She would have to be smarter than the kidnappers so she could see her again.

  She slipped into Ebrahim’s back room to access the internet using the Wi-Fi hotspot the old man had installed. When Labid had patiently explained to him that he could cut down on fraudulent credit card activity by using the internet to log real-time transactions, Ebrahim was all for trying it.

  After a few moments the phone connected and she launched the device’s browser. She typed in the address Leine had given her for their secret chat room and wrote her a message. Jinn wanted to tell Leine she’d found important information regarding the abductions but was afraid to post what it was in the chat room.

  Jinn closed the browser and turned off the phone before walking back out to the showroom to see Ebrahim. He was standing next to the door, smoking a cigarette, and turned at her approach.

  “I have something for you,” she said. “But I can’t give it to you here.”

  “There is a man looking for you.” Ebrahim’s eyes held a grim warning.

  Jinn nodded. “That’s why you need to come into the back with me.” She led him into the storeroom where she pulled out the phone and handed it to him. “You need to hide this phone so that man will never find it. Don’t give this to anyone other than me or Leine.”

  “The woman you were with before?”

  “Yes.”

  Ebrahim nodded as he put the phone into his pocket. “It is not a good man who is looking for you, Jinn. You must be careful.”

  “Of course I will. Aren’t I the Jinn of the Market?” Jinn smiled to reassure him.

  Ebrahim compressed his lips into a thin line and frowned. “You must not test your luck, Jinn. It is ill advised to court danger, even for the fortunate.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I always am.” Her breezy attitude was in direct contrast to how she felt, but she didn’t want to worry the old dealer. “I’ll be back later today. Maybe we can have a cup of tea together?”

  “I look forward to your return.”

  Jinn left through the back way and moved through the medina. Her heart beat faster with the knowledge that the man was still looking for her.

  Her plan just might work.

  32

  LEINE STOPPED AND grabbed a bite to eat at a small café to pass the time before returning to the bar to meet Spencer. The television behind the counter ran the raid on the florist shop in a never-ending loop, with newscasters giving their take on what the terrorists’ deaths meant and who was responsible. It wasn’t long before the police identified the body found on the Champ de Mars the night before as the owner of the shop where the dead terrorists were found. Preliminary reports by the police had suggested Rashad died of a fast-acting poison.

  At nine o’clock, Leine left the restaurant and headed to the bar. She made sure she wasn’t being followed by backtracking and getting on and off the Metro.

  The bar was relatively quiet, so she picked a barstool and ordered a glass of wine. Spencer hadn’t arrived yet. The odor of spilled beer and perspiring bodies had faded from the evening before, replaced by the faint stench of bleach. Fifteen minutes and half a glass of wine later, Spencer walked through the door. He saw her and waved.

  “I’m glad you came back,” he said, taking the seat next to her. The bartender set a drink in front of him.

  “Come here often?” Leine arched a brow.

  “I rarely miss a night when I’m in Paris,” he said, acknowledging the bartender. “It reminds me of the old days.”

  Leine sipped her wine. “Were the old days really that good?”

  “They were for me.” He raised his glass. “To Carlos.”

  “To Carlos.” Although Carlos had been gone for several years, his memory still brought a deep, persistent pain. She took another drink and set her glass on the bar. “I hear that you’re working for Rousseau now.”

  “Have been for the last few years. I’m usually on day shift, which leaves my nights free unless we’re on the road. Like I told you, I know where my next paycheck is coming from and where I’m going to sleep tonight. Although that’s always negotiable.” He gave her a meaningful look.

  “That ship sailed a while ago, don’t you think?”

  He grinned. “
Can’t blame a man for trying.”

  Leine chuckled. Hopefully his attraction to her would loosen the operative’s natural reticence to part with information. She’d have to be careful. He used to kill people for a living. The inclination died hard.

  Spencer set his drink down and swiveled on his barstool to face her. “And now comes the part where I ask you what you’re really doing in Paris.”

  “I’m freelancing.”

  “You told me otherwise last night.”

  Leine shrugged.

  A stricken look on his face, he put his hand over his heart and leaned his head back as though wounded. “Mon dieu! You mean you lied to me?” He straightened and took another sip of his drink. “How unusual for a woman in your position.”

  “And what position is that?”

  “The Leopard returns.” He bracketed the words with air quotes.

  She shook her head. “You’ve been misinformed. The big cat has been permanently retired, I’m afraid.”

  “But surely Leine—or whoever your alter ego is now—is active, yes?”

  “I’d prefer that you called me Ava. And yes, she’s partially active at the moment.”

  He frowned into his glass. “Ah. So this isn’t a friendly visit.”

  “No.” She scanned the room to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I’m looking into the Notre Dame bombing.”

  Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You and the rest of France. Would this search have anything to do with the recent elimination of a small terrorist cell here in Paris?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny, but I can tell you that I recently received information that points to Libya as the source.”

  “Quelle surprise.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the head of France’s counterterrorism unit would welcome any information you might have.”

  “They’ll draw their own conclusions soon enough. If not, then I’ll make certain they’re on the right track.”

  “What do you want to know? I’m afraid I don’t deal with terrorists, unless you consider billionaires and the CEOs of large corporations terrorists. Oh, and the occasional criminal. Religious zealots are normally bad for business.”

  “You forget that I know you, Spencer. When haven’t you had your ear to the ground? I’d be curious if you heard news of something big being planned.”

  “Only the usual. You know, this or that caliphate wants to rid the world of the infidel dogs and strike a fatal blow to their cold, capitalist hearts. Most of the chatter comes out of Syria, although with the rise and fall and rise again of Izz Al-Din, Libya is a close second.”

  “This is specific. The body they identified near the Eiffel Tower was a man who was contracted to ensure the woman wearing the suicide vest went through with the bombing. Apparently the leader of the group was unhappy she only took out six civilians.”

  “Jesus. Organized crime is looking better and better.”

  “So you’ve heard nothing?”

  Spencer was silent for a moment before he answered. “There’s one thing. It may mean something, it may not. I think it was a couple of weeks ago, a big, moody Russian was throwing back epic shots at the bar and he started going on about a woman assassin. How she was part of that mess last year that involved the general who was trying to start World War III. He referred to her as the Russian Mata Hari.”

  “Interesting moniker. What did he say she did?”

  “Something about her being the only one with the balls to attack the US, but he didn’t elaborate. I just assumed he was blotto and didn’t know what he was going on about.”

  “He might have been referring to the attack in Vegas.”

  As part of a ruse to involve the United States in the Libyan conflict with Izz Al-Din, someone had piloted a drone carrying sarin gas into a casino in Las Vegas, killing hundreds of people. Surveillance footage from outside showed a number of possible suspects, including two women. In the end the pictures were too grainy, even when enhanced, and the evidence was inconclusive.

  “Ah. That’s a possibility. So you believe this mystery woman is the one responsible?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.

  “Maybe so.”

  “I take it she’s still at large?”

  “Reports from Moscow confirmed the murder not long afterward of a woman matching a description of one of the suspects. A helmet-cam video of her death was leaked on the internet, with eyewitnesses confirming the victim was an assassin known as Salome. The video was taken down immediately, but not before Scott made a copy.”

  “How is ol’ Henderson, anyway?”

  Leine shrugged. “Same as ever. Is there more to your story?”

  “I asked the big Russian what the hell all that had to do with anything, and he mentioned that she’d been spotted recently in the south of France.”

  “She’s alive?” That changed things. Leine would have to contact Scott Henderson to let him know his suspect might still be operational. “Did you happen to get a description of her from him?”

  “No. He didn’t elaborate. Sorry I’m not more helpful.” He raised his empty glass. The bartender set another in front of him. “Would you like one more?” he asked Leine, eyeing the level of wine in her glass. “The night is young, mon amie.”

  “No, thanks. I need to get going.” She downed the last of her wine and stood, tossing enough money onto the bar to cover both drinks with a generous tip.

  Spencer raised his glass in a mock salute. “That’s my Leine. Always moving. Like a goddamned shark.”

  She zipped up her jacket. “Next time I’ll stick around and we can reminisce.”

  Not something she meant, but the look on his face told her he was three seconds to surly. Apparently he assumed they’d wind up in bed together. She couldn’t think of anything less appealing than emotionless sex with a man who wanted to relive his glory days as an assassin. She sure as hell didn’t feel like reminiscing about old jobs. She tried to forget the past, not remember it.

  She said her goodbyes and walked out.

  Although the evening was cool, Leine decided to walk to clear her head. Fresh air and exercise always helped her think.

  It would also allow her to draw out anyone who might want to get up close and personal.

  Someone had warned Rashad’s killer that she was tailing him, of that she was certain. Although the phone call he received after he left the bar could have been a coincidence, she was more inclined to believe that someone had been watching the killer’s back and noticed her following him. Whether that person had been in the bar or not remained to be seen.

  Whether that person was Spencer Simms also remained to be seen.

  Leine walked along one side of the street for a block and then crossed in the middle of another, using window reflections to covertly scan behind her. Not seeing anything or anyone suspicious, she turned the corner of a random street and walked to the end, then crossed to the corner of another before doubling back on yet another.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her, although there was no overt evidence. The feel of the 9mm concealed in her waistband was reassuring.

  Who or what was she up against? Knowing that piece of information would go a long way toward assessing her personal security and would keep her alive long enough to bring the bombers to justice. The perpetrators were certainly members of the group who had lured Chessa to Libya, meaning that some faction of Izz Al-Din was involved. The terrorist group was on the ropes, having been ousted from many of their strongholds in North Africa, which would make them even more desperate to gain media attention. What better way to get back on the world’s radar than to attempt an even larger grand gesture? If disruptive enough, recruitment and donations would pour in from among those committed to their cause.

  She wasn’t convinced that the man she’d killed in the alley was a contractor like Rashad. He’d given the terrorist an out when he told him that he wasn’t going to receive the rest of the money for services rendered, which meant he was acting as
a mouthpiece for the boss. Rashad could have accepted the terms and would probably still be alive today. Most contract killers were just that—killers. Not negotiators, not messengers. The two-bit terrorist’s insistence on being paid the second installment had gotten him killed. Leine felt no remorse for initiating the meeting. Rashad would have done it whether she’d been there or not.

  However, she did regret having to kill the assassin before she had the chance to question him. Granted, his phone held a couple of clues to the mystery terrorist, but interrogating him would have been her first choice. The assassin might have identified the person giving him orders, although by the sound of the woman who answered when Leine called, it was possible he didn’t have direct access. The woman most likely was a cutout, muddying the leader’s identity.

  Additionally Spencer’s reference to the woman Salome rang some bells, and she wanted to look into it further.

  Could Spencer be involved somehow? If he had warned her target that she was following him, then it was possible.

  She discarded the idea. He wasn’t working with terrorists—Spencer didn’t come cheap, and Izz Al-Din was known for paying the lion’s share of freelancers with empty promises of paradise. But he could have been acquainted with the assassin she was following and harbored a sense of allegiance. He’d mentioned that he frequented the bar when he was in Paris and could have met the man at any point.

  Footsteps falling softly behind her broke into her thoughts. Without breaking stride, she reached for her gun and slid it free. Whoever it was increased their speed and Leine tensed.

  “Leine?”

  At the sound of the woman’s voice she turned, sliding the semiauto back into its holster. “Valerie. What are you doing here?”

  The young woman smiled as she caught up to Leine. She wore a dark gray pea coat and had her hands stuffed inside the pockets against the cool night air. A bright red scarf completed the outfit.