LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  Warner’s lungs were on fire. His legs felt as though they had turned to jelly. He could hear himself hacking and rasping as his feet pounded the wet grass.

  “It’s my fault,” Steven said. “I lost the tapes. They were perfect. They were everything we needed and more. How could it happen? How did I fuck up?”

  “Christ, quit blaming yourself. It was nobody’s fault. Let’s work on getting out of here before they get organized.”

  Steven started to say something, then fell silent and picked up the pace. He had recovered from the blow to the head; he wasn’t hurt. Warner tried to keep up, but his 53 years were more than a match for his will power. Better to concentrate on not spraining an ankle, he thought, than on doing the impossible.

  They circled the lily ponds, took the path to the forest and came to the irrigation ditch that formed the boundary of Michelet’s estate. It was covered with a thick blanket of fog rising a few feet above the ground.

  Once they crossed it, Warner knew they couldn’t be seen from the manor, not even with the best infrared field glasses Delors and the SDECE could muster. He stopped and lifted his binoculars; he felt it was worth the small delay to try to get an idea of how much time they had until hell on earth broke loose.

  He could see through the kitchen windows, which were the only windows without drapes. He focused while Steven helped him steady his arms.

  Isabelle was guarding the CVR, which sat on the counter like a piece of smoked meat. Henri was gone, no doubt making his report in the dining room.

  Warner believed they would have time enough to get to the bike. Whether they could ride it to safety depended on the response these bastards mounted.

  He didn’t want to underestimate them. There was a member of the government present who could pull all sorts of strings. His right-hand man was the deputy director of French intelligence, who could mobilize his own substantial forces. And there was Claussen, a spy who had fooled the CIA for 30 years. If ever they needed a stroke of luck, the time was now.

  ***

  Michelet banged on the table when Henri entered the dining room unannounced. “What do you think you’re doing? Where’s the cognac?”

  “Monsieur, Isabelle and I must talk to you in the kitchen at once.”

  “What did he say?” Haussmann said.

  “No idea,” said Delors. “He was mumbling.”

  Claussen lit a cigarette. “He said he and Isabelle would like to talk to Minister Michelet in the kitchen. At once.”

  “Please excuse yourself,” Michelet bellowed, shaking a fist at his servant. “I asked that you bring the cognac and return to your quarters. As yet you have done neither. At least have the decency to GO HOME. We will fetch the cognac ourselves. Now, go.”

  “But, Monsieur, it is about the cognac and the other items in your wine cellar that I must speak to you. It could be, Monsieur, that someone has made an unauthorized entry into the cellar. It could be that a wine thief was present.”

  “Well, did he steal anything? Did you check all of the inventory?”

  “I could not check the inventory, Monsieur. The lights failed to come on. The intruder left a device behind I want to show you. Perhaps it will give you an idea who this person is.”

  Claussen said, “Minister, go and see what he has found. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  “Very well.” He followed his servant into the kitchen. When he glimpsed the odd looking device with the lighted dial, he immediately locked the door to the dining room. No use upsetting his colleagues until he had an idea what was going on.

  “Henri, what happened? Whisper.”

  “Yes, Monsieur. I might have done something very wrong. I do not know. But someone in the cellar has been listening in on your conversations.”

  Michelet grabbed him by the lapels. “Get to the point. To the point, understand? Skip the rest. Tell me what happened when you went for the cognac.”

  “First, Monsieur, first you must tell me whether you gave your permission to Nicole’s boyfriend to go into the cellar and record the conversations you are conducting tonight.”

  “Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about? Nicole doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, yes, Monsieur. That fine young man from the province of the North by the name of LeConte – a blond Frenchman whose father has purchased an American company.”

  “Steven LeConte?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. That is how Nicole introduced him to me.”

  “What? He was here? She brought him here?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. And it was the same LeConte I surprised in the wine cellar tonight with this very recording machine you see here. I hit him over the head with my flashlight and took it from him. I brought it instead of the cognac.”

  Michelet shoved Isabelle aside and grabbed the device. “Both of you, go home. Now! Understand?”

  “Did I do the right thing, Monsieur? I swear to you I was only trying – ”

  “Go home!” shouted Michelet. “Go home! I’ll do the rest. Is he down there now?”

  “I don’t know, Monsieur. He was knocked out when I left.”

  “Go home. I’ll have a look for myself.”

  “Take another flashlight, Monsieur. You will need it.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Get me one. Get me a pistol, too. Do you still keep your pistol in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  Michelet stuck the old six shooter into his belt and rushed out the back door. He took a deep breath and started toward the basement, trying to keep his rage from blinding him. On his way down, he tripped on the worn stone steps and almost lost his grip on the flashlight.

  He approached the wine cellar gingerly, the pistol drawn and cocked. Too late. Blood was still on the floor but LeConte was gone. At least there was a blood trail he hadn’t noticed until now. He followed it and ended up back at the basement entrance.

  The son of bitch had escaped. He was going to have to report the news to the others, as unpleasant as this might be.

  He stopped in the kitchen to catch his breath, then returned to the dining room. He felt dizzy. He didn’t know if the thick blue haze all around him was caused by cigar smoke or his own fuzzy perception.

  “Gentlemen,” Michelet announced, holding up the odd looking contraption from the kitchen, “it seems we have been the object of a mean-spirited practical joke. My daughter, hoping to injure and embarrass me, has taken up with an American. It would appear she has smuggled him into the wine cellar tonight in an attempt to get some negative material on me.

  Well, if he’s managed to hear anything, he’s certainly gotten his material. But we have the recorder, and the tape is still in it. I think it’s safe to conclude that the American has no proof. What he’ll do with his information – if he in fact heard anything – is another matter. He lives in Paris, Place Maubert Twelve. I had become aware of his involvement with my daughter a few days ago and procured his address from the Immigration Services. Unfortunately, I had not yet had time to intervene.”

  Murmuring and whispering filled the room. A frantic, furious, incredulous expression contorted Haussmann’s face. Delors tried to calm him while Claussen stared into space, smoking a cigarette.

  “Listen,” Michelet said, “Calm down, all of you. This is something we can deal with. It is not our first crisis, but it will be our last. My daughter is in Grenoble with her aunt. I’ll determine exactly how much she knows. Believe me, gentlemen, if she knows anything, I’ll turn her over to Paul and the SDECE.”

  He stared at the table, reflecting, the way he did at well-rehearsed political speeches. He kept his eyes down longer than usual: he did not want to see how his colleagues were judging him in the wake of his horrible blunder.

  He said, “As for this boyfriend, this Steven LeConte, we need to find and eliminate him. He of course has no proof of anything. The proof, if it exists at all, is in that recording device. I assure you, he is not a credible person. If he annou
nced what he has possibly heard tonight, no one would believe him. Nonetheless, we do not need rumors circulating at this stage of the game. Let me ask you, Herr Claussen, how you suggest we proceed.”

  No answer. Michelet looked up but Claussen was no longer there. “Where did he go?” Michelet thundered. “Did he take the money?”

  “No, Georges,” Delors said. “The money is here. He went to inspect the basement.”

  “I was already there.”

  “We know, Georges. He wanted to see it himself. He is better trained than you are in evaluating such situations.”

  “Then we shall wait for his return.”

  “Yes, we shall.”

  Claussen came in a few minutes later and sat beside Michelet. “The heating ducts were cut. I listened to you. ‘My daughter is in Grenoble with her aunt . . . ’ This person knows what was discussed tonight. Let there be no doubt about it.

  “Nor do I agree that he is not a credible person. The device on your table is a piece of aviation equipment. It is called a CVR or cockpit voice recorder. Mr. LeConte has ties to the aviation industry or he would not be using such a device.

  “Furthermore, it is not just any CVR. It is the recorder from the Pittsburgh crash of a Boeing 767 – a crash you commissioned.

  “Yes, Minister Michelet, he must be found and eliminated at once. We have no time to waste. Therefore, this is how we shall proceed. Paul, you set up a code red manhunt using crack units of the secret services and anti-terrorist police. I would suggest sealing off an area twenty kilometers in diameter with its center here.

  “Get on the phone now, Paul. Every second lost exponentially increases our risk of disaster. Minister, have yourself taken by helicopter to Grenoble. Keep your daughter in your custody until I have time to interview her. Monsieur Haussmann, please put your suitcase in my trunk and move Minister Michelet’s car. I am ready to depart.”

  “Wait,” growled Haussmann. “Wait just a minute. Payment upon successful completion of the job. That was the deal, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t argue with me, Monsieur Haussmann. It would not only be tasteless but quite unhealthy for our collaboration. My part of the job, the part for which you hired me, has been carried out flawlessly. I am not willing to pay the price for your leader’s blunder. Minister Michelet made a serious mistake, as I’m sure he would be the first to admit. Fortunately, his mistake can still be nullified – if you don’t upset the amicable working relationship among us.”

  “I’m not paying you until – ”

  “Pay him,” Delors said. “He is right. We also need his help. You haven’t lost any money, Albert. You’re probably a net winner already. Don’t get greedy.”

  “Pay him,” Michelet said, tossing Haussmann his keys. “And move my car. We don’t have time to squabble.”

  “Where are you going, Mr. Claussen?” Haussmann said cynically. “I would think a quarter billion dollars at least buys me the right to ask you that?”

  “I intend to visit Place Maubert, Twelve.”

  “That’s foolish,” Michelet said. “He will have learned from my daughter by now that I know who he is. He won’t go back there.”

  “I quite agree,” Claussen said coolly. “Which means he won’t have removed such things as address books. Leave this part of the clean-up to me. I assure you, gentlemen, that when the sun rises, Steven LeConte will not be alive to watch it.”

  ***

  They made their way through the woods, staying out of the dense underbrush and taking the high road wherever they had the chance. Speed now, stealth later – that was Warner’s plan. Once the search began, they would have to depend on any cover they could find.

  Their route took them into a depression in the forest floor. The ground fog was as thick as mustard gas, the undergrowth tugged like barbed wire at their boots. Their pace slowed. Steven used the opportunity to talk. “I’ve got this studio on Rue Monge,” he said, “a sublet of a sublet. I was supposed to register it with the cops but I never did. I was thinking I should go there if we make it to Paris. I’ll drop you off somewhere along the way. You can take a cab to your car, then drive to that Air Force base in Germany like you were planning.”

  “You should come with me, Steven. Staying in France serves no purpose other than getting you killed.”

  “I can’t just walk out on Nicole. The studio will be safe for a while. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Don’t be suicidal. You told me Nicole doesn’t know anything. Nothing will happen to her. You have to take care of yourself.”

  “I said I can’t leave her, okay?”

  They came up out of the fog. The moon was bright; almost too bright. They started jogging again, and did not speak.

  ***

  When they found the motorcycle, the first waves of helicopters were already rumbling across the forested hills of Fontainebleau.

  “Give me a hand,” Steven said as he leaned over and grabbed the handlebars. “Let’s get this heavy mother rolling.”

  Warner helped. Steven jumped on and hit the starter. Warner struggled up onto the rear. “Hold on tight,” Steven shouted. “I’m not stopping for anything.”

  “Go!”

  Steven gave gas. He resisted the temptation to turn on the headlight. Helicopters were coming. He didn’t want to give them any greater advantage than they had. The giant puddle they had walked around earlier spanned the trail ahead, its surface rippling in the moonlight. Warner’s arms closed around him. The man was reading his thoughts.

  Steven hit the throttle instead of the brakes. At first the bike fish-tailed in the mud, then accelerated powerfully. He leaned forward over the bars and slammed into the water at 70 miles an hour. The rear of the bike started to hydroplane, but they reached the other side before he lost control.

  They roared through the trees until they came to the end of the path, then turned on to the potholed gravel road. They were making good time until a shaft of light descended from the sky and swept across the road several hundred yards ahead.

  Steven slowed and looked up. It was an ugly scene. Helicopters circled everywhere, searching forests and fields with bright lights.

  Ahead, on the gentle rise he was about to climb, a blazing halo suddenly appeared. It started coming down the road toward him.

  No time to think, no time to worry about his passenger. He let up on the throttle, stared to his right at a row of passing oaks and turned the wheel when he saw an opening.

  The bike hit on the other side of the ditch, plowed forward in deep mud and fell on its side. Pain shot up his leg as he bent around to see where Warner was. The circle of light charged past them, still on the road. He could see men inside the glass front of the helicopter.

  Too close.

  He lay and waited for the sound of the chopper to fade. The bird was still flying away from him, but for some reason the engine sounds were growing louder.

  Through a gap in the trees, he caught a terrifying glimpse of another chopper. Its twin searchlights skimmed above the trees as it approached from the other direction, scouring both sides of the road.

  He heard Warner whisper nearby. He threw his jacket over the Harley’s chrome and dove under a bush.

  The lights closed in, turning, probing, burning like a scythes of fire. The chopper stopped overhead. The forest around them lit up bright as day.

  Steven held his breath for what seemed an eternity. At last the chopper moved on. A break! A miracle! They hadn’t been seen! Fresh resolve pushed him to his knees. The fight wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. He gritted his teeth and rolled over to check on Warner.

  “You all right?” he whispered.

  “Banged up but all right,” Warner said. “You?”

  “The same.”

  “That was good driving, Steven.”

  “Thanks. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Just a minute. Look how they’re changing their helicopter formations. Take in the scope of their entire action. What do you see?”r />
  “Airborne assholes,” Steven said. “Let’s go.”

  “Listen to me. They’re setting up a perimeter, putting a road block on every donkey path that leads out of here. They’ve got us in a noose. We’ll have to try to slip by them on foot.”

  “Forget it,” Steven said. “Those dogs and about thirty thousand of their pals will be back. I’ve had enough of them for one day.”

  “We don’t have a choice.”