Abbie jogged back to and ahead of him so she could turn around and walk backward a step in front of him. "What's next, Nee-ull?" She smiled.
"A shower and breakfast." He smiled back.
"Then where do we go? Who are we after here in Vienna?"
Preacher 's turn to look at the peaceful little stream bordering the pleasant Rathauspark. This little oasis, located on the southeast quadrant of Vienna, just miles from the airport, was a place he discovered years back. It was in those early days with Marta.
When he turned back to Abbie, she was still smiling. She was definitely enjoying the excitement of this whirlwind tour of hunting and occasionally killing bad guys. "When we get back, you need to put in a request to go to DLI."
"DLI?"
"Defense Language Institute." Preacher stopped. Abbie took a couple more steps backward and followed suit. "Broley will be ticked, but he'll understand when he hears about your new gig."
"Hold up, why should I go to this DLI?" Abbie held up a hand.
"To go through the immersive language program."
"Which language?"
"Guess." Preacher bent to stretch his back and legs.
"Arabic for sure. Then I guess Chinese." She too bent to stretch.
"You got it. You already have three years of Russian at North Carolina. DLI programs are six-months. You'll need to double up. But it is Monterey, California, which doesn't suck."
"And what is my new gig?" She asked while squatting, stretching quads and back.
"Your new role, should you chose to accept, will be an analyst in SAD." Preacher stood back up to full.
"Any particular team?" Abbie already knew the answer.
"Under Mr. Wyrick, of course." Preacher smiled.
"That will definitely piss Broley off. He'll likely file a protest with OIG." Abbie smiled.
He nodded. "More than likely. It's not quite switching sides, but definitely a feather ruffler."
"And what if I don't accept this new job?" Abbie came back up to full height and shook her hands and feet while bending her neck in every direction.
"Then you don't get to hang out with me and kill bad guys." Preacher swung and then pulled a punch to Abbie's gut before nudging her to the side and taking off. "No way you miss out on that." He called over his shoulder.
Abbie recovered from the shove, pivoted and burst after Preacher. She closed the distance quickly, but couldn't quite catch up to the rabbit in front of her. Within seconds, she realized this was yet another of his seemingly constant tests and tricks and life and death lessons. She peeled off to the left in anticipation of Preacher making an arc toward a footbridge up ahead.
She was smart and intuitive, gifted in her abilities to analyze situations and instantly see a pattern. She was talented, more than talented, amazing. But she needed to be. She needed everything in her, plus special elements that could only be added by learning from someone more skilled, more creative, more everything.
To be what she needed to be, Abbie would have to be perfect, become perfect. For that, she needed the perfect teacher. Someone who could push and prod and pull and mold and break and cajole and set her free of the invisible chains that held her down, held her back.
Preacher broke left. Abbie's gradual move in this direction brought her to within feet of him. But.
She didn't see the hedge as Preacher flashed in front of her. He had the ultimate advantage of having the park memorized, of knowing the battlefield before the battle began. Abbie was busy reaching out for his collar and didn't see the short hedge reach up and grab her left foot as Preacher leapt over it.
While he landed and skittered away, Abbie tripped and stumbled and went down in a heap in the grass. She rolled to her side and then to her knees. But it was hopeless. Preacher was twelve paces ahead and accelerating. She reached and grabbed up a handful of grass and was about let out a little scream. But instead, she bit her bottom lip and got up to take off after Preacher.
Chapter 40
"Acute lymphoblastic leukemia." The words were spoken in English by a Spanish oncologist.
Those words struck and dropped the child's mother to her knees. She brought both hands up to her head and squeezed her temples. She wanted to cry; truly wanted to fall to the floor and ball her guts out.
The doctor, a kindly grey-haired man in his early 60s, bent to a knee to join her. He held out a hand. After a few seconds, she accepted the hand with both of hers.
"No quiero saber porque," Marta sighed. I don't want to know why.
"Si."
"Solo quiero saber que ella puede vivir."
The veteran doctor nodded and smiled. "There is an excellent survival rate with the proper care."
"Can she get that care here?" The mother asked.
"We offer good care and good results here, but..."
"But?"
"You are American, si?"
"Why do you think I'm American?" She asked.
"Your Spanish is excellent. As is your Russian and French. But when you are with your daughter, lying in bed next her. You speak English like only an American speaks. I lived in the states for a dozen years."
"Yes, I know that about you."
"Of course, sabes todo sobre mi." He smiled. You seem to know everything about me.
"I want only the best for my daughter. And you are the best in Spain." She replied.
He nodded in gratitude. "Thank you. I am proud of the care we offer and our results. But I would be remiss if I did not suggest the very best places in the world for your girl."
She nodded as well. "And that would be in America, correct?"
"Si." He squeezed her hand. He stood up, helping her do the same. "St. Jude, Dana Farber in Boston, John's Hopkins. You have your choice of the very best care in the world in the states."
He brought up his other hand and held her hands in his. "It will be very challenging and very difficult for both your daughter and you. But I have seen over the past few weeks that you are strong, incredibly strong. And your angel is a fighter. I would be proud to go through this with you, but I also want you to have the very best resources available should there be complications or a relapse."
That got her. Complications. Relapse. Her angel. The stone cold killer of dozens, likely hundreds, choked up and bowed her head. A tear squeezed out of her closed right eye and made its way down her cheek. She raised her head and smiled at the kind old doctor. "Gracias. Muchas gracias."
Chapter 41
"Bienvenue a Paris." Preacher said, barely above a whisper.
Abbie, seated beside him in the BMW sedan, looked up from the report she was engrossed in to spy the terrain. "Yep. Paris."
"Watcha reading there?" He chuckled.
She looked over at him with face squinched up. He knew full well what she was reading. He gave it to her the day before the human carnage left in Vienna and told her to read every word and memorize all she could. Three days later, she was re-reading a particularly interesting section about the background on the three men Neil came to Paris to kill.
"Did you see this part about their time at college?"
"They say 'at university' over here." He replied.
"That's right. That's right. So you saw they were all together at university in England?"
He affected a thick Michael Caine cockney accent. "I di' indee' see dat."
"And that's it, as far as them being together. Everything before or after, in their background or current, doesn't place them together. Yet, here you are, here we are, for all three in Paris."
He hit the gas and accelerated to change lanes and pass a slow-moving caravan. "And?"
"I have to guess you know something that isn't in the report."
He smiled. "Always."
"Are these three that last ones?" Abbie looked out at a passing field.
"I wish. No, there are more. Lots more."
She turned back to him. "For now, for us. Are there more stops on this trip?"
He smiled at her, but d
idn't answer.
She sighed. "Uh-huh."
"So tell me, in your reading over the past couple of days, what did you learn?" Not a very subtle subject change.
"The questions never stop, do they?" Her reply yet another subject change.
"Never. There's a reason why the Socratic method is still the best for learning, for teaching. A question for a question makes one's brain do that little extra work that a direct inquiry doesn't." He nodded, partially at Abbie, partially to the beat of the Whitesnake song blasting in his head. "Worked for me. Still does."
"Seibel." Abbie turned back to the windshield
"You think?"
"I think he is probably a master manipulator and from what I've heard and read and seen, I'd bet Seibel was something of a modern-day Socrates of sorts."
Preacher smiled. "Is."
"And another layer begins to peel."
"How's that?"
"If Seibel is... then undoubtedly, you're still in contact with him." Abbie smiled back.
"Humans like Seibel don't fade away. They're like a collapsing star." Preacher changed lanes again to get around a semi.
"How so?"
"At first with a star, everything is drawn in, towards the center. The nuclear fusion going on at the core is bright and wonderful and creative. But eventually, the whole thing begins to collapse faster and faster until the center can no longer hold and a chain reaction of explosions occurs resulting in a massive explosion called a supernova. Anything and everything nearby is caught up in this super massive explosion and blown to the far winds of the galaxy."
Abbie was silent for a few moments. "Thanks for that nice bit of knowledge on supernovas. I'd like to hear about black holes next time. But for now, I'll work with the metaphor you are using to describe Seibel. And in this metaphor I'll take it that the man, the myth, the legend that is Seibel is currently in the process of collapsing and an explosion is imminent."
Preacher smiled a little more broadly. He definitely liked this side of Abbie. Her ability to dissect arguments and reframe them to meet her needs was just plain cool. This part was perhaps his favorite surprise he got from her.
"And."
She turned back to him with that squinched up look on her face as she worked through the 'and' he put out there. "And people are going to die in the metaphorical explosion."
"Boo. Weak." He turned back to the road. They crossed over the Marne River and entered the 12th Arrondissement. Pretty much everywhere one looked beside the busy A4 - Autoroute d' Est highway was graffiti.
Abbie shook her head. "And."
"Yes. And."
She closed her eyes and relaxed her face. Preacher watched the muscles beneath her skin ease, releasing the tension underneath. He recited the name of each muscle silently as the repeating chorus and wailing guitars wrapped up the Whitesnake tune in his cranial jukebox.
"Ah.... got it." She opened her eyes and turned to him. "I'm one of the things being pulled toward Seibel's evil core."
"Bingo."
"So how do you fight it? Fight against that pull?"
Preacher just shook his head. "Can't. No way to beat gravity. It always wins."
"You haven't been pulled in; at least not all the way." Abbie nudged Preacher's arm resting on the center console. "And I'm far out in the solar system. Just beginning my descent. Right?"
Preacher stayed silent and kept his eyes on the road ahead.
"Right?"
He sighed. "You know I lie."
"Every day. Every minute of every hour of every day, you lie." She responded in the affirmative.
"I'm going to suspend the lying for the next couple of minutes. And when I do, I'll remind you that I have my hand on the steering wheel and we're traveling at a fairly high rate of speed."
She nodded. "Got it."
"So, don't hit me."
"Got it. Promise."
He looked at Abbie and nodded. "Good." He turned back to road, but his mind was off somewhere else. He let Lance's vision from a hundred feet above the sedan be his eyes. "You recall when I told you how I started tracking you six years ago?"
"Like it was yesterday." She nodded.
"That is true. I did start monitoring your activity then, but you were under Seibel's watch years before."
Abbie let that soak in. "How long before?"
"Years."
"How long?"
"At least 12 years ago from what I have found."
"I was 17 years old 12 years ago. Why the hell would he be watching me then? I was in high school." Blood pressure up.
"Why do you think?"
"Screw that. None of that Socratic B.S. right now. Why?"
"Your uncle."
"What about him. What does he have to do with any of this?"
"He was a spy." Preacher kept his eyes forward, but he was years in the past, thousands of miles way. Thank goodness Lance was there to keep his eyes on the road.
"Yes, we already covered that."
"He was killed nine years ago."
"Again, already covered." She was agitated.
"Who killed him?"
Abbie turned away. She didn't like talking about her beloved uncle; her father figure during those years after her father passed away. "Seibel." Barely a whisper.
"He died in a Seibel-led operation." Preacher spoke somberly.
Almost a minute of silent driving and riding ensued before she spoke again, "I want to ask why, but I don't really want to know."
"I can tell you, but only if you really want to know." Preacher came back from on high and glanced over at her. He shot a glance into the backseat as well. Lance evidently came down to be close for this part. He sat silently back there.
Abbie sighed and wiped away a tear and turned back from the window. "Tell me."
Preacher nodded. "Your uncle was a double agent. He was a Soviet asset for at least a decade."
Abbie just shook her head, balled up her fists and released them. "I'm pretty sure that other double agents were caught and put on trial and sent to prison." She took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "But Seibel doesn't work like that, does he?"
Preacher's turn to shake his head. Abbie just stared at him as they drove deeper into Paris. He kept his eyes forward, avoiding her searing glare. He maneuvered through traffic, exited the highway, took a series of turns and parked the car on a quiet street outside a three-story apartment building. An old woman walked a dog past the car as they sat parked.
He finally turned to her. Her anger was evident and totally expected. "Go ahead. Ask."
"Do I really have to? Just tell me."
He returned her stare with complete and utter disregard. An empty vessel. "No. I didn't kill him."
She shook her head. "Back to lying again?"
"Nope. I've killed a great many people. You've seen a few. Your uncle wasn't one of them."
Abbie brought her head back against the headrest and gazed up at the car's ceiling. "Who then?"
"I don't know. Honestly." Preacher lied.
Chapter 42
Cafford Broley always knew.
He knew this day, this night, would come. He closed his front door and fell against the wall next to it. He concentrated on getting his breath under control. His years of swimming helped. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Steady now.
One never truly knows how they will act when faced with mortality.
He sagged his head and took a deep, cleansing breath and brought his head up to exhale. In with the good. Out with the bad.
Broley took an unsteady step and looked at himself in the small mirror that hung beside the front door. He was old.
And after a few seconds he nodded and spoke the truth. "I'm done."
He'd gone as far as he could; as far as Seibel let him.
Thought that along the way he'd been smarter than the spymaster. Too clever. Broley also mistakenly believed he'd built a firewall of gathered information that even Seibel couldn't breach.
B
ut alas. Just as F. Scott Fitzgerald's Great Gatsby learned about the rich being different, Broley was never really on the same playing field as Seibel. He was a voyeur; always watching the master. Gathering scraps from his life and achievements.
What did he really hope to achieve with all this?
And that brings an old man to the brief conversation Broley just had with another old man a few steps inside his front door. The visit was unannounced. And it was short.
Broley's dog, a chubby black and brown dachshund named Pirdy, barked its little head off when the knock came at the door at 9:41 pm. The old fella was seated in his comfy chair re-reading a biography on Dwight D. Eisenhower. He got up and went to the door to peek out the peephole.
The blood drained from his face when he saw who was standing on his porch. Geoffrey Seibel.
He turned away and thought about running back to his bedroom where he kept a revolver. What good would that do when the Devil's at the door?
Broley sighed and opened the door.
"Evening Caff." Seibel smiled.
"Geoffrey." The auditor replied.
"Got a couple minutes to chat?" The spymaster asked.
Broley wanted to tell him he was busy. Tell him to get off his porch; to go back to hell. But instead, he stepped back to allow Seibel to enter.
Broley thought for the briefest of moments about how a vampire can't come inside unless invited. Seibel was much worse than a bloodsucker. He was a life sucker. You're dead either way, so what does it matter?
And that was what he ended on in the next second, before Seibel spoke another word. Broley knew he was a dead man. Right now. Done.
After Seibel took a couple of steps into the small foyer, he turned around. Broley closed the door and hesitantly turned to his guest.
The dog, so ferocious a few moments earlier, sunk back into her dog bed and turned away when Seibel looked her way. Dogs know.
"What did you want to chat about?" Broley asked.
Seibel smiled broadly and nodded. "Probably no need for small talk, right?"
"Right," Broley replied. "To old for that. And you were never good at it."
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