Sevaron nodded. “Unsurprising. Utkin trained them to be the very best, after all. There’s been no word on his whereabouts either, I take it?”
The other man shook his head. “He was last sighted boarding the Siberian Express, but agents on the train lost him during the Moscow-Yaroslavl leg, even though there were no stops. They say he escaped their surveillance just long enough to jump off the train on one of the sharper curves. Military units have already converged on the route and are searching for him as we speak, but if there was a vehicle waiting for him, he’s probably long gone by now.”
Sevaron cocked his head. The old scientist was bolder than expected. Well, maybe not, he thought. After all, he’s the one who’d unleashed this killing spree all over Europe.
“Our report stated that one of the operatives sighted here was wounded in the attempt on the American. No hospital reports of gunshot injuries received?”
“Not even the slightest indication of one,” the sweating man replied. “Remember, they have all been trained to be as self-reliant as possible. And given their...modifications, any injury sustained would have to be severe for them to even risk going to a hospital and being found out for what they truly are.”
“An excellent point.” Sevaron glanced out the window at the Paris scenery blurring by. “So, you still believe they are in the city?”
“At least one remains. Perhaps the others have moved on, I don’t know.” The other man leaned forward. “With their skills and abilities, they are like damnable ghosts, able to come and go as they please, with us grasping fruitlessly at the mere traces of their passing.”
“Yet...” Sevaron trailed off.
“Yet I think they are still here. Not for long—another eight, ten hours at the most. You may even call me crazy, but I actually think they are planning another strike.” He handed the man a piece of paper with the title Reception and Dinner—Austrian President—Hôtel de Marigny at the top, then leaned back in his seat.
Sevaron scanned the contents of the page, then handed it to his female team member, who glanced at it once, then handed it back.
“This event has already begun,” he said. “Once we have our own transportation, we will go there. We will observe the building. If something happens, we will be on hand to apprehend the targets. Who knows? Maybe they will eliminate our Austrian problem before we can stop them.”
The sweating man held up a finger. “We cannot have that happen! Utkin’s people are at risk of upsetting plans that have been years in the making. To draw attention to ourselves now from other governments or international organizations would be the worst possible outcome.”
“Understood. And what about local law enforcement?” Sevaron asked. “Most likely they are on a higher alert now, particularly given the incident with the American. How would you prefer that we deal with them if they get in our way?”
“We would prefer that you minimize your interactions with them as much as possible. However, the primary mission parameters take precedence over all other considerations.”
The sweating man leaned forward again, making sure to hold Sevaron’s full attention. “Find them and kill them before they assassinate the Austrian president. That is your only concern.”
* * *
BY THE TIME Panshin made his third trip from the kitchen up to the reception floor, guests were already heading into an adjoining room to be seated for dinner. He walked around, offering guests a tray of salmon canapés.
But all the while he was serving, his mind was racing. It wasn’t that he had nearly been busted for the turned-on smartphone, although that had been a very worrisome minute or two. It was seeing the two other people who had been with the head of security, as both of them screamed outside police officer.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. The woman had screamed police officer, right down to her out-of-place posture, as if subconsciously she knew she didn’t belong among the others she was guarding, no matter how well she tried to blend in. A passing glance wouldn’t have caught it, but Panshin’s training had included years of observation of body language and subconscious cues, to the point where it was second nature.
All of which made the black-haired man even more unusual. He was dressed perfectly, wearing the tuxedo with authority. He didn’t fit in here, either. However, Panshin knew the type. The man had come to the hotel for a purpose, and he wasn’t going to stop until he had achieved his goal, whatever it was.
And Panshin knew instinctively that he was there to stop them.
The man’s ice-blue eyes had seemed to take in everything at once, and when their gazes locked for a moment, Panshin was almost certain the man could see right inside him, and knew he was an impostor. But his supreme control and training had won out, and the other man hadn’t raised the alarm. However, he was still around somewhere, prowling the area. He would bear watching.
Panshin looked around for his backup team, wanting to let them know about the possible complication. While he could have ducked away and texted both of them, they had all been concerned about the security eavesdropping on cell phone transmissions, and didn’t want to take the chance. Unfortunately, he didn’t spot them right away, and his tray was rapidly becoming depleted. If he was caught on the floor with an empty tray for more than a few seconds, that would not go well.
He was heading back to the exit when a hand reaching for his tray caught his eye, and he stopped to let the guests help themselves. “These little salmon things are delicious, aren’t they?” a familiar voice asked. “Do tell me what’s in them, please?”
Panshin looked up to see Amani Nejem’s smiling eyes looking back at him as she nibbled on the hors d’oeuvre. Kisu Darsi flanked her, their Al-Jazeera press badges prominently displayed.
He nodded at them. “Of course, mademoiselle. They are a specialty of our chef.” He stepped closer, appearing to share the appetizer’s ingredients. “I’ve seen a man who bears watching here. He is with a woman—” Panshin gave a quick description of her “—but she is not the main threat. He has black hair, blue eyes, about six feet two inches tall, maybe 220 pounds, midnight blue tuxedo, definitely armed. You will know him when you see him. He moves like one of us.”
Nejem betrayed no hint of surprise, just nodded. “Outsider? From where?” she asked.
“I do not know. Possibly an American, arriving here after the earlier attack.”
“Do we continue?”
Panshin nodded. “We will never get a better chance. I must go now. Be ready, and watch out for him. He must not interfere.”
“Of course he won’t,” Darsi said as he snatched the last salmon snack from the tray. “Now go and fetch some more of these.”
Although tempted to sneer at the other man, Panshin simply nodded and headed back to the kitchen for another tray, ready to begin the next stage of their mission.
* * *
WHEN BOLAN AND PALOMER reached the marble floor of the reception room, it was mostly empty, except for a few stragglers and members of the press who had somehow wrangled invitations.
“How do you want to play this?” he asked his companion.
She looked at Bolan, obviously surprised that he was asking her opinion. “Well, we should probably sweep the dining room for anything out of the ordinary. How about we split up and each take half of the room? With most of the people already seated, it shouldn’t be a problem seeing the whole place.”
“Sounds good to me. Why don’t you go left, and I’ll go right,” Bolan said. “Casually sweep the entire perimeter and meet back at the entrance, so we can double-check each other’s space, just in case.”
“All right, meet you back here in a few minutes.”
Bolan glanced at the entrance to see the last people heading inside. “Go in first. I don’t want to draw attention to us by coming in together. I’ll be a few seconds behind you.”
She nodded and walked inside, following the reporters. Bolan hung back to make sure he was alone, then casually spoke to the empty air.
“Striker to Stony Base, Striker to Stony Base.”
“Striker, this is Stony Base, read you loud and clear,” Akira Tokaido’s voice said through the miniature earpiece in his ear. Sophisticated, state-of-the-art, ultraencrypted wireless technology allowed Bolan to be in contact with the Farm on the other side of the Atlantic without having to show a wire or any other piece of instantly identifiable equipment. “You’re certainly putting on the Ritz tonight.”
“Caviar and stuffed suits, more like it,” Bolan replied. “Have you gotten anything off the footage yet?”
Along with his transceiver, the second button of his shirt contained a tiny camera. Bolan had been panning-and-scanning from the moment he’d entered the building, with the footage automatically transmitted through his smartphone via satellite back to Tokaido, who was trying to identify the faces through a computer search.
“That’s a negative for the moment. Just a whole lot of people whose net worth exceeds mine by a few hundred million dollars or euros, or whatever they use for money over there—probably their firstborn children.”
Bolan smiled as he strolled toward the dining hall. “And yet I’d rather have you at my back any day. I’m entering the main hall now, so prepare to get a lot more faces to process. If you find anything unusual, let me know, okay?”
“You got it, Striker. Stony Base out.”
Bolan walked into the dining hall, which was a study in understated opulence. Glittering chandeliers cast a subdued, golden light over the entire room. The tables and chairs weren’t the standard conference room plastic and vinyl. They were hardwood and plush, and looked very comfortable.
The tables had been arranged in a large U-shape, with the open end facing a small dais with a lectern and more tables on either side. Guests were seated both on the outside and inside, and lively conversation filled the hall. The servers continued shuttling back and forth, already setting out still-warm bread, crackers and caviar to start the evening. A half dozen serious-faced, alert men and women in somber business suits and obvious earpieces were spaced evenly around the room, two to a wall. Alain Deschaines had notified his people about Bolan and Palomer’s arrival, so they did nothing to acknowledge him as he passed.
A balding man in a three-piece suit rose and walked to the lectern to say a few words to the assembled guests. Though he had a decent understanding of French, Bolan didn’t pay a lot of attention to the opening remarks, as his gaze was on the guests, the waitstaff, even the security, looking for that one clue that would give him the identity of the assassin. If he could pick out the person, he’d be halfway to stopping the plan, rather than having to wait to react to whatever went down.
But as he walked and looked around, Bolan didn’t see anyone acting the slightest bit out of the ordinary. He continued on his sweep, hoping to get an update from Tokaido that would enable him to spring into action, or maybe Palomer had spotted something during her sweep.
As he approached the halfway point of the perimeter, he saw the sergeant walking toward him. She shook her head minutely. Nothing spotted on her end.
Where the hell was he? Bolan thought. And how would he make his move?
Chapter Eight
Panshin was becoming concerned. There didn’t seem to be any way he could get at the president’s courses.
The problem was Marcel. He was the top server at the hotel, and Henri had tasked him with serving the president’s table. They were about to serve the first course, the soup, which would work the best with his poison, as the cream base would cover any possible unusual odor or taste. The problem was that Marcel was either always at his station, or one of the cooks was there, putting final garnishes on the bowls, arranging things, and basically being in the way. Panshin couldn’t get close enough without being spotted.
Then he saw his chance, although he’d have to time it just right. Taking his own tray of soup bowls, he started toward the exit as Marcel was coming in. Then, when the other man was about a yard away, Panshin let his foot slip.
The tray went up, and the soup and bowls came down—all over Marcel, who gasped both from being covered in hot soup and indignant shock at Panshin’s clumsiness. Of course, Panshin was all apologies as he dabbed at the sodden tuxedo jacket while the other man cursed at him. Around them, servers continued coming and going, the flow of the kitchen not stopped for an instant while the two men tried to clean up.
“What has happened?” Henri was there in a flash, shaking his head at Marcel’s soaked condition. “There is no time for blame now, we will sort it out later. Marcel, go and change. Yves, you will have to serve the president’s table—and for God’s sake, do not spill it on him!”
“Of course not, sir.” Making sure he hadn’t been splashed by any of the flying soup, Panshin headed back for the next tray of bowls, carefully picked it up and headed for the exit, making sure to avoid the large puddle already being wiped up by the cleaning staff.
Once inside the elevator, Panshin breathed a sigh of relief as his hand went into a pocket and separated the hidden lining to retrieve the small poison vial. Carefully—for he still had the tray balanced on his shoulder and hand—he unscrewed the cap with his fingers, brought up the container and poured half into the bowl of soup he would serve to the president. Just a few drops would be enough, but he kept some in reserve, in case his target didn’t eat the soup, or it spilled before reaching him.
The elevator dinged, and Panshin just managed to drop the vial into his pocket before the doors slid open, and he walked out into the hall, crossing to the dining hall, where he met his assistant.
“Where’s Marcel?” the young man, Claude, asked.
“Got soup spilled on him,” Panshin answered without stopping. “You and I are serving the head table tonight. Follow me.”
Claude fell in behind him without question, and the two men headed to the table on the right of the lectern, where the Austrian president was seated. The French president and his wife were also there, along with the minister of the interior and his spouse. On the way, Panshin quickly swept the room and saw the black-haired man on the perimeter of the room. He glanced at the table where Nejem and Darsi were seated, and got acknowledging nods from each of them—they’d spotted him, and would run any interference necessary. He was free to proceed.
At the head table, he stopped at a respectful distance and handed off the tray to Claude, then took the poisoned soup and served it from the left, as he’d been trained to do. “First course, cream of chanterelle soup, sir.”
Knowing the president wouldn’t start until the rest of the table had been served, Panshin quickly presented the other guests with the course. Trying not to appear too interested, he stepped back and surveyed the table, gratified to see that everyone was enjoying their soup.
With a signal to Claude, they started back to the kitchen. The poison would take effect in about five minutes—more than enough time to effect his escape. And if he needed another distraction, there was always Nejem and Darsi, although he would hate exposing them if he didn’t have to.
Panshin glanced around for the black-haired man, but couldn’t spot him without being too obvious about it. Instead, he kept moving, focusing on the doorway.
He had just reached the exit when he heard a slight cough from the other side of the room, followed by another. Glancing back, he saw the Austrian president raise his napkin to his mouth. Could it be affecting him that quickly? he wondered, since one of the symptoms was a dry cough. The president took another spoonful, and Panshin turned back and kept walking out, secure that the plan was coming off flawlessly.
* * *
BOLAN FINISHED HIS SWEEP as the soup course was served. He noticed the dark-haired server they’d seen in the kit
chen was also the one serving the president’s table. He touched the earpiece in his other ear, using it to contact Deschaines, still overseeing things in the security center. “Anything unusual happen in the last few minutes?” he asked.
“Only if you count an entire tray of soup getting spilled on a server,” the man replied. “They had to switch out the man for the lead table.”
“And replaced him with... Yves, was it?” Bolan asked with a slight frown.
“Yes, that’s correct. Why?”
“I’m watching him work right now, that’s all.” Bolan began heading back toward the president’s table, watching for any sort of disturbance or commotion, but all seemed to be well.
The pair of servers finished attending the table and began heading back toward the entrance. Just then Bolan’s phone vibrated.
“Go,” Bolan said.
“Striker, this is Stony Base. Be advised, a man named Yves Montauk was found dead in his apartment an hour ago, his throat crushed. He was a server for the Hôtel de Marigny.”
“I just saw the guy walk out the exit! I’m on him. If you’re inside their security system, alert the command room and stay on him.” Bolan was already moving toward the doors, scanning for Palomer. Spotting her finish her sweep, he trotted over to intercept her.
“The Austrian president’s probably been poisoned—most likely something in his soup,” he said, even as he heard a cough from the far side of the room. “The server who just left is an impostor. I’m going after him. Contact Deschaines, fill him in and get the president to a hospital right now!”
Bolan whirled on his heel and started for the door, only to hear a commotion from the far left side of the room.
“Please, give her some room, she’s choking!” One of the journalists was trying to help his female partner, who was clutching her throat and turning red. Bolan trusted that the interior security could handle it, and left it to them.
He had just reached the door when there was a shout, followed by several rapid gunshots. Drawing his own pistol, Bolan turned just in time to see the reporter standing over a downed security man and aiming a pistol straight at him.
Combat Machines Page 6