"Oh well. Follow me into the cemetery old man." Preacher made sure to make a good amount of noise getting up, climbing the wall and dropping over the other side of the rod iron fence gate covered in ivy.
Krachov worked along the other side of the street perpendicular from the wall Preacher just went over. He looked left. Looked right. He then started across the street with a definite limp in his gait. Abbie peeked over the top of the short wall on the roof of the cemetery building to watch him cross. She could have easily made a mess of this Krachov brother's head, like she did the other. But she let him come across the street to the wall, jump up and grab the rod iron fencing and pull himself up and over.
He dropped down the other side and then to his knees to look about. Preacher was tucked out of sight behind a large granite headstone.
"Here's a bit of history for you my man." Preacher called out. "That raised portion of this property over there to your right was the location of the first-ever semaphore tower. Claude Chappe built it with his brothers and a bunch more semaphore towers followed all across the land. They used those cool flag designs to send messages all across France."
"Very cool." Krachov replied as he stayed close to the ivy-covered wall on the west end of the cemetery. "So much history in this city."
"Not a bad place to die." Preacher replied.
"Indeed. You killed my brother a few minutes ago. I'll follow him soon enough. Viva la France." Krachov smiled as he said the words.
"You're Anton, correct?" Preacher moved to another headstone to change the sound of this voice.
"I am."
"I know this is just a job for you. But do you happen to remember me?"
"I do not believe I do. Have we met?" Krachov bent to a knee in the pitch black next to the wall under a towering oak tree.
"No, you wouldn't remember. I was just another target for you and your brother. Maybe if I remind you. It was Dallas. Ten years ago."
And that brought the laughter. "My god, no way. That was you?"
"My very first day on the job. My first few minutes actually." Preacher joined him in laughing. Ten years. Damn.
The next sound was a surprise. It was a gun tossed to the ground. Next came the distinctive sound of Velcro straps being ripped apart. More items hit the gravel.
After a very loud sigh, Preacher heard Krachov get to his feet and walk across the gravel to where he could be seen. "Well then, if you're still in the game and alive then I stand no chance." Krachov continued limping out into the open on a wide path. The moon, mostly hidden behind thick clouds gave only partial light. But enough to show that Krachov stood with hands held out at his sides. He held a device in his left hand. Looked like a radio. "I also have to assume that you are that ghost, the myth with the name only whispered in the dark. Those who say the name where others can hear you end up dead. Papa always made sure of that."
Behind Krachov, Fuchs came over the wall and dropped to the gravel. His feet crunched pebbles as he moved in an arc to the right, putting Krachov between him and Preacher. For good measure, Abbie rested her 9mm handgun on the short roof wall. She could easily put a dozen rounds in Krachov's center body mass at just over 40 feet.
Outside the cemetery, sirens came closer. A police car was just to the north of the cemetery on Rue de Belleville.
Without looking at Fuchs, Krachov spoke to him. "And I will guess that is codename Foxy joining us."
"Long time Anton." Fuchs replied.
More laughter from the veteran hunter and killer. "Now I know for sure. This is indeed a wonderful place to die and a great way to go. Who better to kill me and my brother than the famous Foxy and the even more dangerous Preacher. I feel lucky even. An honor."
"Will you answer a couple of questions before you join your brother? Preacher stood up and took a few steps closer. He stopped. It was Lance who saw it first. He had the advantage of being up there at 500-feet. The object was about a mile up, a couple of miles out and moving fast.
Krachov held up the device. "I'm truly sorry. You don't have much time. If we failed, we agreed to allow additional measures. I pressed this button two minutes ago. So cowardly."
"That's not a radio is it?" Every hair on Preacher's neck stood up.
"It's a homing beacon." Fuchs answered.
"You need to run. I'm sorry." Krachov dropped the device to the ground and kicked it.
Before the beacon hit the ground, Preacher spun and burst to the north. Fuchs spun and raced back to the wall. "Need to get away. Going to blow." He called up to Abbie.
She raced to the other side of the building and dropped down over the roof's edge and down to the sidewalk below. Fuchs was there. They burst back across Rue de Telegraphe to the alley Preacher and Abbie used four minutes earlier.
The faint glimmer in the sky only seconds ago was now an aerial freight train racing down at the cemetery at 500 miles per hour. A friggin missile. Jesus effing Christ! Way over the top stuff.
Preacher covered 110 yards in 13 seconds. Not nearly far enough.
Fuchs and Abbie were 120-feet down the alley. Not far enough.
Preacher dove behind a large tomb and rolled up into a fetal position with his hands covering ears.
Fuchs grabbed Abbie and dove into a small alcove for trashcans.
The missile struck the ground a miraculous 17-feet from Krachov. He was incinerated and blown into thousands of pieces instantly.
The first thing to strike Preacher was the shockwave. Even tucked behind a heavy, thick, ornate granite sarcophagus, the shockwave hit him like a dozen George Foreman right hooks. He struggled to keep his hands over his ears to protect them.
Fuchs and Abbie felt the shockwave as well. It pounded them again and again as it echoed through the alley.
Every building within a half-mile of the blast radius was hit by the shockwave. Thousands of windows blew out, people thrown out of beds, automobile windows burst.
Next came the incendiary explosion and accompanying debris. Gravel, earth, smashed granite tombs, headstones and more were blasted into the air and sent flying in every direction.
The short wall forming the tiny alcove protected Fuchs and Abbie, but hundreds of bits of debris still slammed into them. A headstone that weighed at least 400 pounds came crashing down just feet away from them in the alley. The tomb Preacher hid behind held its ground for the most part, but hundreds of bits of stone came raining down on him. One large chunk of granite slammed the back of his head. Out cold.
Chapter 44
The ringing in his ears was the real thing. He looked around at the other zombies shambling by on streets littered with debris. Everyone he saw as he walked west on Rue de Belleville was glassy-eyed and bloody. Window glass blown in by the shockwave did most of the damage.
A woman hurried by carrying a crying baby. A man bleeding from his forehead and cheek stumbled and fell to the sidewalk in front of him. And everywhere, police, fire and ambulance red and blue lights flashed. It was dizzying and then some. He needed to get away from the noise and the people. Clear his head and hopefully his ears.
He realized he'd been wandering a while in a daze. He recalled walking up to and past the huge Place de la Republique statue and kept going along the Rue de Turbigo. He later found himself on the Rue de Louvre.
It was nearly six a.m. and sunrise was just moments away.
Minutes later, he sat rubbing his head on a carved granite stone bench with that funky Louvre Museum Pyramid directly to his east as the sun peeked up over the Paris rooftops. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning scene. Several dedicated tourists were there to share the experience with him. Some joggers passed by.
The concussive ringing had significantly reduced to a constant buzz. He worked through several hundred scenarios that led to the reality of a ballistic missile sent to kill him. He narrowed it down to three patterns he thought most logical and maybe accurate.
The cell phone in his pocket had rung no less than 30 times over the past three hours. At first
, he couldn't hear anything and didn't want to waste anyone's time screaming back into the phone. But over the past hour he just couldn't be bothered. He was thinking. Only Abbie had this number anyway. So that meant she made it out of the missile explosion.
Squinting into the rising sun glistening off the glass pyramid in the center of an art museum, he decided to answer the phone. He pulled the vibrating device out of his jacket pocket and pressed the answer button without looking at the caller ID.
"Yes?" He answered with a smile.
"Hi babe." The voice cut through ear-ringing and explosive residue and time and sunlight and pyramids. "Sorry to call you like this."
Lance Priest is seldom speechless. The few times he could recall being such were all entirely related to seeing, hearing, touching, wanting the one and only love of his life. He sat silent on that solid stone park bench unable to speak.
"I know this is a surprise and outside our protocol, but I need to see you." Marta's voice was shaky. He heard pain and worry and more.
"Honey, what's wrong?" Lance asked. Preacher was gone.
A deep sigh at the other end. Sounded like both relief and anxiety combined. "When can I see you?"
"Tell me where I need to be and I'll leave right now." Lance was on his feet.
"Thank you. Thank you." Marta broke down.
Not good.
"Oh honey. Don't cry. I'll get to you as soon as I can. I'll head to the airport now. Where to?"
Another sigh at the other end of the phone from Marta. This one an attempt to regain control. "No need to go to the airport. I understand a car is coming to pick you up. A plane is fueled and waiting for you."
That's quite a lot. Now he was really worried. Lance shook his head. Needed to get the last of the cobwebs from the explosion out of there.
"I heard about the bomb, the explosion. They think it was actually a missile. Crazy." A smile came through the line in Marta's voice. "Others were so worried about you; even Fuchs. You didn't answer your phone. But I wasn't worried."
"No?" He smiled back in his voice. Marta was crying and sad and worried, but he had never been happier to hear from her.
"No. A stupid little missile can't get you. Come on." Marta laughed. "Okay, enough of that. Where are you? By the way, I guessed leJardin du Luxembourg. You love those gardens and imagining Hemingway sitting next to you on one of those benches."
Lance smiled at that. He and Marta only came to Paris once. And they did spend several wonderful hours in that park Hemingway loved to visit during his expat days in the city of lights.
"No. I guess I went into tourist mode while I wandered. I'm looking at the pyramid at the Louvre right now."
"Aha, that was someone else's guess." Marta replied.
And without saying it, she just told him she has been in touch with Seibel, Wyrick and Fuchs in the past couple of hours. Somewhere along the way, Abbie gave everyone the number of this throwaway cell phone. "Okay. I'll wait here for my ride."
"Very good. Don't move." Marta brought her hand over the phone. He could hear muffled talking. "I'm told your car will be there in approximately nine minutes."
"Got it. And I will see you very soon."
"Yes. Please hurry baby." Her voice wavered again. Totally out of character for his Marta. But he had only seen her three times for a few hours each during the past three years. That is the arrangement.
"Honey. I won't ask any more questions right now. Well, hold it. That's a lie. I'm going to be a nervous wreck until I see you. Can you tell me, are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine." She assured him.
That left the only other love of his life. "Is everything okay with Jennie?"
No reply.
After a few seconds, he heard another sigh and a sniffle.
"I'll tell you everything when I see you. Please hurry. I love you."
"I love you. I'll be there as soon as I can." Lance hung up and sunk. Gut punch. The missile's explosive shockwave was nothing. He dropped to the bench and then slid off to the sidewalk where he grabbed his legs, rested his chin on his knees and rocked back and forth.
Chapter 45
Security is tight in Langley, Virginia. A sprawling campus tucked in between the George Washington Memorial Parkway and Highway 123 is perhaps the most secure of any United States Federal Government facility. Security personnel are located at dozens of posts surrounding and throughout the campus. Those entering, either employee or visitor, must pass through multiple levels of human and automated machine detection and prevention.
The Central Intelligence Agency's headquarters is basically a small city on 24/7 lockdown. No one in or out without proper identification and approval to proceed.
The blue Ford sedan with a driver and single passenger in the backseat was passed through security at the southern entrance, coming north from Dolley Madison Boulevard. The vehicle was inspected and allowed to pass through a second security checkpoint near the main building. A third stop required the security personnel stationed there to do a thorough inspection of the vehicle and passengers before lowering a cement barricade and allowing the vehicle and its passengers to enter a partially hidden underground parking area.
Once inside and parked, the passenger in the rear got out and was greeted by a CIA staff member and handed an ID badge to clip onto her jacket. The female passenger followed the CIA associate through several doors, down hallways, onto and off three elevators. To say CIA Langley is a maze is undoubtedly a compliment to maze builders.
No stops at security desks along the way.
Deep in the bowels of the complex, when the visitor and her guide stepped off the third elevator, the guide stepped aside and pointed to a door 40-feet down the hallway.
"Just wave your ID in front of the security panel and go right in." The guide smiled and said.
"Thank you." The visitor, a blond woman, wearing large sunglasses, nodded and proceeded down the hall to the aforementioned door.
Abbie Ross was seated at her desk concentrating on two reports. One lay on her desk, the other was on her computer monitor. She heard the door open and thought it a bit strange. No one was scheduled to see her today. Heck, it was a Saturday. Wyrick hadn't mentioned anything about coming down.
She reached under her desk to grasp the handle of the Sig 9mm strapped to the underside as footsteps approached her cubicle. Before the footsteps reached her, a voice called out.
"Abbie. Are you here?"
She didn't recognize the voice. But answered anyway.
"Yes, back here." She stayed seated and pulled the handgun loose from its holder.
A woman stepped into the cubicle and smiled at her. Abbie had never seen her before, but knew right away who she was. She pushed the Sig back into its holder and smiled in return.
"Hello Abbie."
"Hello Marta."
The two of them just looked at each other for a few moments until Marta reached up and took off the sunglasses and then the wig.
"Sorry to come unannounced like this, but that is unfortunately how things have to work these days." Marta put the wig and sunglasses into her purse and looked around. "Is there a chair I can sit?"
Abbie got up and shrugged her shoulders. "Never had anyone want to sit and talk here in my tiny cubicle. We can sit in the conference room." Abbie pointed to the door just a few steps away.
"Excellent. But first, come here." Marta opened her arms and waved Abbie in with her fingers. Abbie nervously stepped forward into the waiting hug. After a few moments of silence, Marta whispered into her ear. "Hope I'm not too forward, but I doubt you've gotten more than a handshake or pat on the shoulder from Wyrick or Fuchs or Lance. I wanted to thank you properly for what you've done and what you've undoubtedly been through."
Abbie relaxed and fell into the comfort of a hug from a stranger. "Thank you."
After a little longer, Marta squeezed tight and then broke away. Looked like she had a tear in her eye. Abbie definitely did.
"Ok then. Let's sit
and talk."
Over the next hour, Marta and Abbie bonded over tales of growing up and meeting Lance and killing their first human. Good times. Marta filled Abbie in on developments over the past month since Paris and accepted Abbie's wishes for the best possible outcome for her daughter. That brought another tear or two to their eyes.
Abbie brought Marta up to date on her activities as she wound down her auditing work in preparation for moving onto Wyrick's team officially, well at least as official as deep-cover, black ops operatives can be.
"And I was surprised to hear of your boss' retirement," Marta smiled and nodded at the empty cubicle next to Abbie's.
"Yes, that was fast. He told everyone about it on a Friday and was out of here the following Friday." Abbie smiled.
"Going to assume Mr. Broley received a phone call or took a meeting with an old friend named Geoffrey." Marta nodded. "That old man can be very convincing."
"I'm told."
"So, you haven't met him yet?"
"Not yet. Just Preacher, I mean Lance, Fuchs and Wyrick so far. Everyone knows about Seibel, even those of us who joined well after he left."
Marta smiled at that. "Oh, he'll never leave; not until he's dead. And even then, his spirit will haunt this place for another generation or so."
Abbie laughed at that and then put her hands on the table. A classic 'change the subject' move. Marta knew body language better than she did English or Russian.
"Ok. Let's get on with it. Why am I here?" She nodded to Abbie.
"It is great to meet you in person. If that were the only reason you were here, then I would be fine with that. I'm sure there is another reason."
"There is. Because you are now essentially family, and have been vetted by Lance, Fuchs and Wyrick, we have trust between us. A few moments ago when we spoke about my daughter, that is the first time I have ever mentioned her existence to an operative. The simple fact that you know she exists is dangerous."
Abbie exhaled and closed her eyes for a few moments. It was a cleansing process before moving forward. She opened her eyes and the smile was gone. "I want you to know that I completely appreciate your concern here. All things even, I would much rather not know you and Lance have a child. It's just..."
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