Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2)

by Plame, Valerie

  She walked toward the spot, stopping approximately ten meters from the northwest corner of the pyramid. Most of the evidence had been collected, but blood still stained the courtyard. She went still, remembering the injured girl; she was so young . . .

  Vanessa hated that she had been a part of bringing on this destruction, that she couldn’t stop the suffering. She clung to the knowledge that Hays had checked the list of the dead—an elderly couple, and a male tourist in his thirties from Germany. As tragic as those losses were, at least the girl was not among them.

  The shriek of a siren filled the heavy air and then died away abruptly.

  Vanessa shook off disturbing thoughts and looked around for Fournier, who had momentarily disappeared. Almost immediately she spotted him. About fifteen meters away, and he’d singled out one person, male or female, impossible to tell because he was blocking her view. But then he took a step back and Vanessa saw that he was talking with a woman. She wore a yellow hazmat suit but no protective hood, and her thick, dark braid fell halfway down her back. Vanessa caught her profile—the strong features, dark brows, and honey-brown skin of a Middle Eastern woman. For most of a minute the two spoke, the conversation notably animated, almost heated, and, once, the woman looked toward Vanessa, then back to Fournier.

  Vanessa watched the little vignette play out, pegging the woman for French intelligence. Body language told her she was Fournier’s subordinate, but not by much.

  The woman was shaking her head adamantly when Fournier turned his back on her. He covered the distance to Vanessa quickly.

  “Let’s finish up here,” he said, with his already familiar low growl. But it was more of a snarl after his encounter with the woman. “Step by step, what happened when you saw the man you believed was your asset?”

  In a flat voice, the only way to stave off the flood of emotions, she relayed the scene as accurately as she could from the moment she noticed the suicide bomber—including the signals that misled her and allowed her to move toward him. She wiped several stray raindrops from her face. “He was the right age, he had the right clothes, the hair, even Farid’s hat—he was his double, sent to convince me . . .”

  Because, of course, once Farid was a prisoner of True Jihad they would have extracted the information they needed before they murdered him.

  She swallowed past the ache in her throat. “When he was halfway to me he slowed . . . then he stopped.”

  “You were here?” Fournier said, indicating the spot where she stood. “And he was over there—so that puts about twenty-five meters between you.”

  Vanessa nodded. “That sounds right.”

  “And you still believed he was your asset?”

  “No. I realized something was off when he looked at me.”

  “Wait. He actually recognized you? You’re positive?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, understanding that meant the bomber had picked her out in the middle of a crowd.

  Fournier inhaled and his dark, thick eyebrows knitted tightly. “And?”

  “I saw that it wasn’t Farid,” she said simply. “Then Hays spotted the backpack.” She felt herself hollowing out. “That’s when the bomb went off.”

  “This is most important,” Fournier said, stepping closer. “Did you see his hand on the detonator?”

  Vanessa blinked, summoning images again. She shook her head. “His right hand was in his pocket.”

  “So you didn’t see him actually detonate the bomb?”

  “No.” She slowly took another breath. “But this is my intuition—he knew he was carrying a bomb and he set it off. One of the last things that crossed my mind before everything blew to hell was: Is he praying?”

  Vanessa sensed someone behind her at the same time Fournier shifted his gaze. She turned to find herself facing the same Middle Eastern woman who Fournier had argued with earlier.

  The woman was scowling, speaking sharply to Vanessa in Arabic.

  The only words she caught were “dirty bomb.” Vanessa shook her head, fighting exhaustion. “Français, s’il vous plaît, je ne parle pas arabe.”

  But the woman was already hissing at her in posh English: “You Americans with your fucking hubris, you bring your stupidly run CIA operations to our country and you manage to kill and maim innocent victims, and you expect us to clean up after you.”

  Vanessa stared openmouthed as the woman turned her back, snapped something in Arabic to Fournier, and then stalked away.

  What the hell was that?

  Before she got a word out, Fournier, staring after the woman, shook his head. “Go back to the safe house—you’re done here.”

  Thanks for stating the obvious, Fournier.

  12

  Not far from the perimeter barriers that kept onlookers from entering the courtyard and the blast area, a man in a plain gray raincoat and an olive-green porkpie hat stood in the midst of a small congregation of the curious.

  After at least twenty minutes of doing nothing but standing and watching, he answered his phone when it vibrated in his pocket. He spoke briefly, without animation, before he disconnected, pocketing it. In his other pocket, he closed his fingers around a cheap disposable cell, as yet unused.

  Medium build, average height, the temples of his dark hair sprinkled with gray—the most striking thing about him was his ordinariness.

  The people around him watched the action, the movement, the coming and going of investigators. He watched the slender blond American woman.

  While she spoke with the French official, the man kept one eye on a lone adolescent boy who was snapping a seemingly endless collection of photos of the site and texting countless messages—undoubtedly to his Facebook page. The boy would do for his purpose.

  When the French official dismissed the American, the man in the raincoat moved toward the teen.

  13

  Walking quickly, Vanessa covered the last dozen meters to the cordoned outer perimeter of the site. Dozens of spectators still huddled behind the barriers at the Place du Carrousel. A uniformed security officer opened one of the barriers to let her pass. For a moment, she stared down the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe—commissioned by Napoléon in 1806 as a monument to his military victories but not completed until fifteen years after his death.

  A quote from Graham Greene’s The Quiet American came to mind: “I never knew a man who had better motives for all the trouble he caused.” She owned all of Greene’s works, given to her by her longtime Agency friend and mentor Charles Janek. The books even merited their very own shelf in her apartment in Nicosia on Cyprus. She loved the author’s exploration of the ambivalent morals of life; his view captured her experiences so far in the CIA.

  She thrust her hands in her pockets, suddenly realizing she’d left her wallet behind at the safe house when Fournier rushed her out. It mattered little; the only vehicles on the street belonged to officials. No cabs or buses were running, at least not in this part of the city. She would have to walk back to the safe house, but, honestly, after all that had happened, she welcomed the opportunity to be alone and clear her head despite the weather.

  She turned in the direction of the Seine but faltered when a teenage boy almost bumped into her before he tried to thrust something into her hand.

  She pushed it away, but he pushed it back at her, stuttering, “L’homme l’a d-d-d-dit—”

  “Quel homme?” She stared at the phone in his outstretched hand. “Où est-il maintenant?”

  What man? Where is he now?

  The teenager offered a slouchy shrug. “Il a dit que vous le sauriez.”

  He said you would know.

  And then, as the boy turned away, he tossed the phone in the air.

  She caught it on reflex before it hit the ground.

  It rang—scaring the hell out of her, vibrating in her palm.

  But she still raised it to her ear.

  “Hello, Vanessa.”

  A shock immediately ran through her body. She’d never heard his voi
ce before, but she knew this had to be Bhoot, CPD’s target—Vanessa’s obsession. The man had authorized no less than a half-dozen assassinations of his enemies. Her anger flared, barely in check, but she forced herself to regain calm. She wanted—needed—information.

  In the momentary silence, she heard the susurrus of his breath.

  “Remembering why you detest me?” he asked.

  His voice sounded weak, as if he were using a marginal computer connection. She placed his accent as British, but his deep, whispery voice was laced with the underlying tones of another language impossible to place.

  “Yes.”

  “I admire your honesty, Vanessa.”

  She shifted on her feet, abruptly cold. With his phone held between her chin and shoulder, her hands slid frantically into her pockets—where was her phone? She had to record him. She couldn’t let this moment slip away. She’d never forgive herself if she did.

  He exhaled sharply. “We both know this number is untraceable. If you try to record me, or if you lie to me, I will hang up. If you are truthful—well, either way we have little time.”

  Vanessa’s fingers gripped the phone. Was he watching her now? The cold rain had picked up again. She scanned the streets.

  “You’re stalling, we’re done—”

  “I’m alive!” she said quickly, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Your bomb missed me.”

  Keep him talking. Memorize every word of this conversation.

  “If I had tried to kill you today, you’d be dead.”

  “Don’t deny it, you injured scores of innocent people and murdered three.”

  “Four,” he said. “The tally has risen. But that wasn’t my work. You should recognize that.”

  A fourth death—but she couldn’t afford to go there, not now. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Believe the evidence.” Contempt bled through his words. “A pipe bomb carried by a boy? A dirty bomb—a dud—left in the Tuileries? A lurid Internet execution played for shock value? Does that really strike you as my style?”

  No—the internal admission instantly left her deflated. But maybe that was what he wanted—to stage an attack that defied his profile. Jesus, it was like searching for one true image in a house of mirrors.

  “How do you know about the RDD?” She felt eyes and saw the female officer who’d argued with Fournier staring at her from a distance. Vanessa turned away, cupping the phone tautly. “That information hasn’t been released.”

  “I don’t get my news from CNN,” he snapped derisively. “My sources are my own.”

  She thought instantly of the mole inside the Agency and felt a flicker of insight—but just then Bhoot’s voice snuffed the tiny flame.

  “One minute and we’re done.”

  “If you aren’t responsible for the bombing, who is True Jihad?”

  “If I knew we would not be having a conversation. I have only my suspicions.”

  “So you called me to—what? Gloat? Your Chechen killed good men. I worked with three of them—” She froze as anger locked up her throat. “You had them executed in cold blood.”

  Silence. Had she lost him?

  But then, in a harsh whisper, he said, “You took something from me. A trusted associate.”

  “What? Your psychopath for hire?”

  With the hard intake of his breath she realized too late—on some weird level Bhoot had cared about the man she’d just scorned.

  She felt his finger reaching to disconnect—

  “What do you want from me?” she asked desperately. “Don’t play games. Why are you calling?”

  “I want what is mine.” His rage surfaced, a fin slicing through cold seas. “Your government inflicted damage to my interests. And now someone has set me up—” He cut himself off.

  Was he referring to the nuclear device he’d smuggled out of Iran? “What are you talking about—was something taken from you? Was it a weapon?” she prompted. “We’ve heard rumors—”

  “True Jihad—I can’t help you there—” He cut himself off. “But the suicide bombing is a diversion, a distraction.” He let the silence hold for several seconds. “Can you afford to lie to yourself at this moment, Vanessa? Think—if I’m taking this risk, if I tell you I’ve been betrayed and what is mine has been stolen, think what might be set loose in the world.”

  She faltered, light-headed. She had to swallow twice, painfully, to find her voice again. “Then give me something to work with.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. First you give me something, Vanessa . . .”

  As he lingered on the last syllables of her name, he let her hear the faintest note of triumph.

  Her gut tightened. “If you think I would betray my country, you’re a fool.”

  “You’re right, I’d be a fool to think that. I know how patriotic and loyal you are—I know it runs deep in your family.”

  Violation punched through her like a fist. “What do you know about my family?”

  “I know your father served his country for many years.”

  “How dare you speak of my father—”

  “Our time is up for now. Where we go from here in the future depends upon your answer, your honesty. Just one final question . . .”

  “What?”

  “You do realize that we’ve both been betrayed?”

  Through the silence she braced against a wave of vertigo. But then she was filled with a visceral certainty. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t try to pretend we’re somehow allies—we share nothing.”

  His silence stretched through her eerie sense of calm—until her rising panic pushed through. “I’ve answered your question,” she said, speaking fast. “So now you hold your side of the bargain. Give me something—”

  “But you already have it.” His breath came more rapidly, as if he were on the move. “Isn’t the adage ‘a bird in the cage’?”

  “No, it’s ‘a bird in the hand’—”

  “You caged him, Vanessa.”

  “Who—”

  But the phone had gone dead.

  Still shielding her actions from curious eyes, she wrapped the cell in her scarf and slipped it into her jacket pocket. For a moment she simply stood in place, unable to move.

  One or two people passed her as they abandoned their vigil at the bomb site.

  Something broke free internally and she began to walk back toward the river. The sense of violation intensified with each sodden step.

  She couldn’t quiet his voice in her head if she wanted: his muted words and theatrical concern, the cold contempt when his mask slipped briefly, and, finally, the satisfaction—consummation, almost—when he got what he’d been after.

  He’d breached her defenses—at least that’s what he believed. And he would test her where she was most vulnerable—her fixation on him. It didn’t take a degree in psych to get that Bhoot was a control freak and he thrived on manipulation. But she could handle him—that’s what she told herself even as foreboding flooded through her for an instant.

  She let it pass and turned her focus back to their conversation, replaying it silently again and again. When she reached the safe house she would get pencil and paper and write it all down.

  She pulled her jacket tightly around her body. It didn’t block the cold. Nothing could.

  How was Bhoot able to track her? He must have surveillance on her. But was there more than one person following her? The angry woman who forced her to the perimeter? Someone else? Bhoot seemed to possess almost unlimited resources. It could be anyone.

  And was Bhoot responsible? She wanted to believe he was—then she could focus her rage on tracking him down. Was this feint part of his game?

  She checked herself—she’d been walking almost blindly. She stopped, turning to orient herself and to see who was nearby. But other than a few pedestrians in the distance and hurrying in other directions, she was alone. She glanced down at the choppy waters of the Seine.

  For that moment, the darkness
of the suicide bomber, the resulting carnage and death, and Bhoot’s malevolence, all seemed capable of dimming the City of Light. But the fight rose in her and she breathed, pulling herself up, opening to Paris and its beauty and life.

  And then it came to her—

  Isn’t the adage ‘a bird in the cage’? . . . You caged him, Vanessa.

  She shook her head, exhaling when she made the connection. The only person Bhoot could be talking about was arms dealer Dieter Schoeman—until last year, his number-one man in South Africa. But now Dieter was caged in the UK in Belmarsh. Thanks in good part to Vanessa; she’d helped the Brits capture him during their Operation Ulysses.

  You caged him . . . Dieter was one of only a handful of Bhoot’s associates Vanessa had helped imprison—and he was certainly the most important one.

  Could Bhoot be telling the truth that True Jihad’s bombing was a diversion?

  A diversion for what? They had executed Farid and murdered innocent civilians, the deaths were real, the blood was real.

  But if not Bhoot, then who were these new terrorists?

  She heard his voice replay once more: “. . . if I’m taking this risk, if I tell you I’ve been betrayed and what is mine has been stolen, think what might be set loose in the world.”

  At that moment, his words had rung true.

  And that made her very afraid.

  14

  Just before 1900 hours, Vanessa took the lift two flights up to the safe house on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Her headache had almost disappeared, perhaps numbed by the deep chill that had crept into her bones from the walk through Paris.

  On the intentionally zigzag route back, at least she’d been able to verify that no one had followed her. She had been outstanding in her class at the Farm in identifying surveillance.

  The lift stopped and she slid the ornate cage open onto the dimly glowing entrance hall. The apartment, dark behind frosted glass, showed no sign of life. Had everyone left? The French and Jack to their respective residences, Hays to whatever hostel he could afford with his 100-euro per diem. (CIA tech guys loved getting the cheapest place possible and pocketing the difference in their per diem from the USG.) Just this morning she’d reminded him to make use of the safe-house bath and kitchen, which were obviously superior to whatever a hostel had to offer, but it would be nice to have some solitude.