by Barry Eisler
Graham’s driver took them over Pont Neuf. Turned right on Quai de Conti. Rush hour was long past, and traffic was moderate. Delilah didn’t allow herself to think about what would happen next. If she had, it could have affected the vibe she needed Graham to feel. She was just his guest, attracted to him, pleased he had agreed to her proposal, excited to show him a bar she liked, flush with the uncertainty of what might happen after.
Left on Rue Guénégaud. She glanced casually through Graham’s window and saw the truck with the RFVS equipment parked directly to their left, at the very end of the street where it met Quai de Conti, Hort at the wheel. Dox was in a room they had taken in the Hôtel Prince de Conti, or, with luck, maybe even on the roof, either way with a view of the street. Larison would be at Prescription. Rain and Livia should be pulling past the follow car now. Any second, and Hort would—
The bodyguard touched his earpiece, then turned and looked behind them. He said, “There’s a problem with the other car.”
chapter
forty-five
DOX
It was too bad about the Prince de Conti, really—it was another nice hotel, and Dox wouldn’t have minded a night there with Labee. Well, there were lots of nice hotels in Paris, he’d be happy to visit all of them with her if she liked, when this was done. But this one they’d needed operationally, so Dox had burned yet another debit card and fake passport to get a room there.
He’d thought he might need to find a way to get up on the roof, but his room was high enough, with great coverage of the street. He’d zeroed the rifle using a construction dumpster as a backstop, and everything was good to go. The only difficult angle, really, would be right under his windows, but he didn’t expect anyone would make it that far, unless they were faster than bullets.
John and Labee had kept him and the rest of the team apprised of Graham’s approach, so he was already in position when the Maybach turned onto the street. The lights were off in the room, and Dox had set up a bureau so he could use the rifle’s bipod and not have to fire from standing. Not that it would have been a problem—he could probably have thrown rocks from this close—but the bipod was better.
The follow car turned the corner behind Graham’s Maybach . . . and stopped. That was Horton, inside the truck they’d parked that morning at the end of the street, zapping the engine with that RFVS thing Kanezaki had acquired for them. Dox was not a fan of the CIA’s fancy millimeter-wave ray guns and the like, having been on the wrong end of one once in Singapore, but on the other hand, the thing had saved his life. That one had been small, being that it was designed just to boil your skin. This one was for jamming car engines, and weighed several hundred pounds. Well, luckily Kanezaki had left it waiting for them, truck and all, with the key hidden under one of the wheel wells. Kanezaki had made them promise to return it—intact, please—to the same spot where they had picked it up, and Horton had assured him they would.
Graham’s Maybach kept going, past Dox’s position and toward the corner, which they had expected, because if the bodyguards suspected that the follow car’s engine trouble was anything nefarious, their first instinct would be to keep the principal moving, get him off the X. Unfortunately for them, in this case, the principal was already in a funnel, and the X was at the end of it, exactly where Graham’s driver was taking him.
Dox watched the follow car through the integrated scope. Everything was lit up beautifully, and magnified, too. He was ready to go. All he needed was the word from John.
chapter
forty-six
DELILAH
The bar is right around the corner,” Delilah said. “We can walk from here.”
Graham ignored her. “What kind of problem?” he said to the bodyguard.
“Engine trouble,” the guard said. “They stalled. Out of the blue. I don’t like it.” He turned to the driver. “Keep going. Don’t stop.” He reached into his jacket and came out with a machine pistol.
“Wait a minute,” Delilah said. “What’s going on?”
“Put that away,” Graham said. “Let’s not overreact.”
The guard grimaced. “Mr. Graham—”
“Put it away,” Graham said again.
The guard complied. But he had good instincts and was obviously on edge.
The driver turned left—the only direction possible—onto the rough cobblestones of Rue Mazarine.
“That’s the bar,” Delilah said, pointing to the left side of the narrow street just thirty meters ahead. “Are we going? What’s going on?”
“Everything’s fine,” Graham said. “Magnus, what are they saying?”
The bodyguard touched his earpiece and listened. “Just . . . that the engine died.”
“No blown tires? Nothing like that?”
“No.”
“Then let’s just relax. The bar’s right there. Kyle, pull up close, past those motorcycles. Okay, perfect. Magnus, you go in and make sure everything’s okay. Get the other guys out here on foot. By the time you’re done clearing the bar, they’ll all be in position.”
The driver checked his rearview. “If I stay here, we’re going to create a hell of a traffic jam.”
“That’s okay,” Graham said. “It’ll be just a few minutes.”
“Oliver,” Delilah said, “maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
Graham patted her knee. “No, no, it was a great idea. I should have given you a heads-up about the security. This is just the way I travel around Paris. To me it feels completely normal, but of course it wouldn’t to someone else. I’m sorry for that.”
“Javier,” the bodyguard said, looking behind them as though hoping to see the follow car. “You stay with the vehicle. The rest of you, get out now and double time it on foot. Take your first left. The bar is thirty yards up on the left from there. We’re parked right in front of it.”
He scanned the street. It was empty of traffic ahead of them now, the left side clogged with parked motorcycles and a few cars. The sidewalk ahead was thick with pedestrians queuing up at restaurants. Behind them, as the driver had noted, was a lengthening queue of traffic—cars, scooters, and two motorcycles, the riders in full-face helmets and leathers.
The bodyguard got out, his hand inside his jacket, and headed into the bar.
Delilah thought, Here we go.
chapter
forty-seven
RAIN
I saw Graham’s car stop in front of the bar. That was good—it was what we had expected, but there was a chance his bodyguards would be insistent enough, or he would be paranoid enough, for them to abort on the bar and just keep going. If so, Larison would have emerged to engage while Livia and I skirted around the car and dropped our bikes in front of it to form a roadblock. But happily, it seemed we were still dealing with plan A.
The bodyguard got out. “Larison,” I said. “Bodyguard’s coming in.”
I revved the engine of the bike and rode up onto the sidewalk to the right of Graham’s car, flipping off the driver as I passed, as though irritated at whoever had stopped there and stranded everyone behind him. I had to force myself not to look more closely—losing the commo link with Delilah had been the right call, but I hadn’t been prepared for how anxious it would make me. She’s fine, I thought. Everything’s going according to plan. Graham doesn’t suspect her. In a minute, she’ll just open the door and get out. You and Larison will handle the rest.
Livia followed me into a parking garage three entrances up from the bar, where we dismounted. We’d leave the bikes here. There was no way for anyone to connect them with us.
Livia nodded to me and walked out to the street. We had parked a stolen moving van there earlier in the day, having waited almost six hours for the space to open up. It wasn’t as close to Prescription as I would have liked, but it was close enough.
“We’ve got three guys coming out of the stalled Mercedes,” Dox said, with that supernatural calm he got when he was behind a rifle scope. “Running toward your position and s
oon to be past mine. Now would be a good time for me to engage.”
“I see the bodyguard,” Larison said. “Coming up the stairs. Give me the word and he’s done.”
I took a deep breath and tried not to think of Delilah, twenty feet away in the back of Graham’s Maybach.
“Go,” I said.
chapter
forty-eight
LARISON
Larison was sitting at a corner table next to the bannister of Prescription’s second floor. A waiter had been by, and Larison asked the man if he could hold off on ordering for a little while until his friends arrived. The guy didn’t seem thrilled about someone keeping the table if no one was drinking at it, but he nodded and moved off. People tended not to argue with Larison.
Some of the other tables would have offered a better view of the stairs, which led down to a landing and then around to the ground floor in front of the entrance. But they were all taken. Anyway, Larison didn’t need a view, because Rain had alerted him when the bodyguard came in. The guy headed straight for the stairs, probably figuring to start his sweep on the second floor and complete it below to make sure no one had slipped in behind him.
Well, too bad someone was inside already.
“I see the bodyguard,” Larison said. “Coming up the stairs. Give me the word and he’s done.”
Rain said, “Go.”
Larison stood. He eased the pistol from the bellyband and moved it behind his back, then started down the stairs. The bodyguard was already above the landing and made him instantly—Larison’s demeanor, the right hand concealed behind the back. His reactions were good, too: he dove to the left and went for whatever was inside his jacket. But all that took way too long, and before he’d even reached the opposite bannister or gotten his hand on a weapon, Larison had put a round through his left eye. The guy crumpled backward and hit the deck, his legs going over his head and his body flopping down the stairs all the way to the landing.
The bar was suddenly silent but for the background music, the patrons no doubt asking themselves, What the hell was that? A firecracker? A blown fuse?
Larison didn’t even break stride. He just stepped over the body, saying, “He’s done, I’m coming out,” and continued on his way.
The waiter he’d sent off earlier raced up the stairs past him, no doubt to check on whatever had just happened.
Larison pulled on a ski mask, pushed open the front door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk—directly in front of Graham’s driver’s window.
chapter
forty-nine
DOX
The three men who had just exited the follow car were running up the street, toward the corner where Graham had made his left. Dox heard a gunshot through the earpiece—that would be old Larison, dropping the bodyguard in the bar. And yes, a second later he heard Larison say, “He’s done, I’m coming out.”
Dox sighted through the integrated scope, exhaled, and—
Crack! Dropped the first man.
Crack! Dropped the second.
The third guy was the only one who had time to realize they were taking sniper fire. He dashed for a position behind a parked car, and almost made it, too. But unfortunately, the last part of him to reach said cover was his head, and that was the part that got blown off by Dox’s third shot.
“So close, but so far,” he said softly to himself.
He tracked back to the follow car just in time to see the driver diving out and hauling ass on foot in the other direction. The guy might have dropped down and relied on the engine block to protect him, but then he would have been a sitting duck for anyone approaching on foot. This way, though, he was exposed while he searched for new cover. Not a great range of alternatives either way.
On any other occasion, Dox might have let him go—he was out of the battle now, and no longer mattered.
But directly or indirectly, these people had come after Labee. And they weren’t going to get a second chance. Dox exhaled, paused, and put a round in the back of the guy’s head.
“Thank you for playing,” he said softly. “Next contestant. Oh, wait, there are no more contestants. Colonel, this would be an excellent moment for you to get out of Dodge. Too bad you have to leave, too, there’s a nice Mercedes sitting right there, I’ll bet with the keys still in the ignition.”
“Good shooting,” Horton said. Dox saw the truck lights come on, and then it was backing up onto Quai de Conti. There was a ton of traffic south of Rue Guénégaud, with everyone wanting to make a left from Quai de Conti stuck behind the stalled Mercedes. But the north side was clear. Horton laid on the horn and backed up into the nearest car, shoving it sideways. There was a cacophony of answering horns, and suddenly whoever was in the car in his way decided he didn’t need to make that left turn so much after all. The car lurched right and then ahead onto Quai de Conti, clearing a space. Horton screeched into the gap, then raced north and out of Dox’s field of vision.
“Well played, sir,” Dox said. “John and Larison, Graham’s follow-car cavalry will not be arriving as they were planning. Over to you.”
chapter
fifty
DELILAH
The Maybach was well soundproofed, but still Delilah could make out the crack of a pistol shot from inside the bar. It was muffled enough to have been something else, but Graham must have been on edge, because he said, “Was that what I think it was?”
The driver said, “Magnus? Everything all right in there?”
Rifle shots rang out to their rear. Dox.
“Son of a bitch,” Graham said. He reached behind his waistband and came out with a Baby Glock.
“What the hell is going on?” Delilah said, staying in character.
“They’re taking fire!” the driver shouted.
“Get us out of here,” Graham said, remarkably cool. “Now.”
The driver popped it in gear. But a white van was suddenly racing in reverse ahead of them, screeching to a halt just in front of their front bumper and stopping them in place.
“Fuck,” Graham said, scanning left and right. The driver pulled a machine pistol.
“That’s it!” Delilah shouted. “Let me out! Let me out!” She went for the door handle.
“Wait!” Graham shouted, grabbing her hair and pulling her back. She stretched her arm for the door lock, but Graham was pulling too hard, and she knew instantly from the desperate strength of his grip that he’d put it together, he knew she was a plant.
Larison fired a round into the driver-side window. It bounced off the glass. But it drew the driver’s attention.
Delilah tried again for the door lock and Graham hauled her back. But she’d been expecting it, and used the force to ricochet toward him, twisting counterclockwise as she moved, jamming the pistol back with her left forearm and snapping the thumb side of her right hand up into Graham’s nose. His head rocked back and she tore the pistol from his hand. The driver started to turn, and she put a round in his head just behind the ear. He slumped forward onto the steering wheel, and the car’s horn sounded.
Delilah barely heard it. She scrambled forward into the passenger seat, keeping her head down and her face averted from the windshield. Graham grabbed at her, but what he got was the shawl, and she shook free. She hit the unlock button. Instantly John was inside the back passenger-side door, his helmet still on, his pistol pointing at Graham. Larison hauled open Graham’s door. He butt-stroked Graham in the cheek and dragged him out onto the pavement.
John tossed Delilah a ski mask, then bolted out and around the back of the car. She pulled it on and got out. If no one captured any of this with a mobile-phone video camera, it would be a miracle. But now there wouldn’t be much to film.
Livia, also still wearing the full-face helmet, threw open the hatch of the van and raced back to the front. Delilah scrambled in. John and Larison hauled Graham up from the pavement. He started to struggle, and John kneed him in the groin. Larison hit him in the liver. He started to go down again, but they ca
ught him and dragged him into the van. As soon as they were inside, Delilah slammed the hatch. “Go!” she yelled. Livia floored it and they all lost their balance, but there were padded moving blankets all over the floor and no one got too banged up. The street ahead was empty—Graham’s car had stopped all the traffic—and in a few seconds, they had reached Boulevard Saint-Germain. Livia turned left, then right on Rue Saint-Jacques. She slowed, joining ordinary traffic, and suddenly they were just another white van, like the hundreds of others in the city.
Larison was kneeling on Graham’s back. He pulled off the ski mask, took out a pair of flex-cuffs, and secured Graham’s wrists behind his back.
“Everyone okay?” John said, taking off the helmet and setting it on the floor. They were out of range of Dox and Hort now, and the comment was just for the four of them.
“All good,” Livia called out from the front.
“Fine,” Larison said. He was searching Graham now, looking for tracking devices.
John looked at Delilah, and the naked concern in his eyes, the vulnerability, moved her. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling off the mask.
All at once, the character she’d been playing was gone. And into the vacuum of its disappearance rushed the knowledge of how close it had been. And what had just happened. What she’d just done.
She started to shake. John didn’t say anything. He just came over and put his arms around her.
“I’d say you worry too much,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “But it’s not true, you worry too little.”
“I’d argue,” he whispered in her ear, “but I know that’s a mistake when you’re berating me.”
She laughed, feeling a little giddy. She realized if he kept acting like this, she wouldn’t be able to stay angry at him. Well, maybe that was all right. But it was unsettling, too.
After a moment, John disengaged and kneeled alongside Graham. He took one of the moving blankets and slid it under Graham’s head. “Sorry about roughing you up,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d come if we just asked nicely.”