by Allan Topol
When the man didn’t reply, Craig squeezed tighter. “Tell me, you bastard, or I’ll kill you.”
“Fuck you.”
Craig squeezed harder, but as the man’s face started to turn purple, Craig suddenly heard a gunshot coming from the soccer field. He sprang to his feet and yanked open the car door. As he did, he saw three more men racing across the soccer field toward him. One was holding a metal pipe in his hand, and another had a gun, which he was firing in Craig’s direction. A bullet flew over Craig’s head.
Craig reached under his jacket for his gun, swiftly pointing it at the oncoming men. He forced himself to focus his sights through the blinding rain, aimed for the pipe, and then pulled the trigger, hitting the pipe squarely and knocking it to the ground.
Stunned, the three stopped in their tracks. Craig took advantage of their surprise to throw himself into the car and start the engine. He floored the accelerator, but as he peeled away he could still hear gunshots coming from the soccer field. A bullet smashed the back window, and Craig ducked to avoid the flying shards of glass. He continued to drive, watching the men in the rearview mirror chasing after him on foot. He reached the corner and darted out into a stream of cars. Ignoring the honking horns, he made a sharp turn in a direction that had a reasonably open road. Traffic was his enemy. If he had to stop, they might catch up.
It wasn’t until he reached the highway heading south that he felt relief. Once he arrived at the Arc de Triomphe, he pulled off onto Avenue de Friedland and parked the car. The rain had stopped. His clothes were soaked and muddy. As he got out of the car, he brushed the glass off the back of his jacket and pulled a few pieces from his hair. Fortunately he wasn’t bleeding. And he was glad he had taken insurance for the rental.
Walking back to the Bristol, he checked his phone and saw a text message from Elizabeth. “Should be at the Bristol 6 p.m. Made dinner reservations 8 p.m. at L’Arome. Love, Elizabeth.”
In the hotel suite, Craig sent his wet clothes off to housekeeping and took a long shower, washing his cuts and scrapes with warm, soapy water. He felt exhausted from the last few days, which surprised him. Normally he was never tired—maybe age was starting to creep up on him. He dismissed the thought impatiently, running through everything he’d done since he had gone for a run Wednesday morning. Now it was Saturday afternoon and he’d been going nonstop. No wonder he was tired.
He left a message at the front desk for them to give Elizabeth a key to the suite, climbed into bed, and immediately fell sound asleep.
The next thing Craig felt was a woman’s warm mouth enveloping his cock. While she sucked, she ran her fingernails over his balls and his upper thigh. Craig felt himself getting rock hard. He was convinced he was dreaming until he heard Elizabeth voice telling him she wanted him inside of her.
They moved their bodies together, gradually increasing the tempo, faster and faster, until they came together in a mighty climax.
Craig slid off and held her in his arms. “That was a helluva way to wake me.”
“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve never come home to find you sleeping before.”
“I’ll have to nap more often.”
“Now you have to feed me,” she said. “This woman has appetites.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
L’Arome, on Rue Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, was a gem of restaurant with an incredible chef, making it one of their favorites in Paris. Their usual table was just in front of the kitchen and relatively isolated, so they could talk discreetly if they kept their voices down.
They ate crab in a tomato gelée followed by a sublime lobster in butter sauce, then grilled filet of beef, all the while sipping on an excellent Saint-Joseph the sommelier had recommended. Craig listened entranced as Elizabeth told him about Nick and what she had learned in Budapest. He was especially blown away when she told him that Nick’s real parents were Peter and Emma; and the kid had no idea.
When she had finished telling him everything, Craig told her about Israel and Clichy, playing down the attack, but explaining how frustrated he was in his search for Omar.
When dessert, an excellent chocolate mousse, came Elizabeth said, “After dinner can we stop at the apartment to pick up some of my things?”
“Sure. Pierre has a man in front watching the building. I’ll let him know.”
“You really think we have to stay at the Bristol?”
“Definitely. The people who killed Peter and Emma must have realized that Nicholas escaped the fire. They want to find him and kill him.”
“Why would they want to kill the kid?” she asked.
“They’re worried Peter may have told him something or that he could recognize the men who set the fire,” Craig explained.
“But how would they have made the connection between Nicholas and me?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. My guess is that they had a man on the street watching Emma Miller’s house. They probably saw Nick leaving with you.”
Elizabeth paused, dipping her spoon into the mousse. “They could have recognized me, I guess.”
“Of course. You appear on TV quite a bit. Goons like this may not be able to read, but they certainly watch TV. I think you had better cancel the baseball game tomorrow.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I couldn’t do that to Nick. On the way back from the airport to the Bristol I stopped at the clinic. They’ve made no progress on his speech, and he looked so sad. Dr. Cardin told me that’s how he always looks, and one of the nurse’s told me that he cried through the night. You can’t blame the kid—he’s lost every person he had in the world. It tore at my heart. The only time he smiled is when I reminded him about the baseball game tomorrow. This game means so much to Nick. I can’t disappoint him. Besides if he were to play, that might trigger his speech returning.”
“Dr. Cardin said that?” Craig asked.
She shook her head. “No, but it seems reasonable.”
“Please don’t get angry at me, Elizabeth, if I tell you something.”
She straightened up. “What’s that?”
“Normally, you’re levelheaded and clear-thinking, which makes you an incredible reporter. But you’ve become so emotional about this kid that it’s clouding your judgment.”
“I don’t think it is,” she said stubbornly.
“It really is. You’re totally ignoring the danger you’ll be exposing Nick to, as well as yourself, if you bring him to that baseball game.”
“These people will never find out about it.”
He shook his head. “You’re kidding yourself. Last month Figaro ran a feature about the Sunday morning baseball game American teams play in the Bois de Boulogne. You were mentioned in the article. ‘The star pitcher is a woman, Elizabeth Crowder, the International Herald foreign news editor,’ they wrote. If someone Googles you, the article will come up.”
“But this means so much to Nick. I can’t disappoint him.”
Craig took a deep breath and exhaled. He realized he would never change her mind. There was only one solution.
“Listen, Elizabeth,” Craig said. “I was planning to work on my car with the mechanic tomorrow morning. I’ll cancel that and go to the game with you and Nick. I’ll be armed and ready for them.”
She reached over, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it. “I love you, Craig Paige.”
Sunday morning over breakfast in the suite Craig asked Elizabeth whether she had informed her teammates that Nick would be playing that day.
“I emailed them when I was in Budapest. Told them my twelve-year-old nephew Jonathan was visiting from the US, and that he can’t speak as a result of trauma, but he’s a terrific second baseman. Carl, who’s our regular second baseman, said he’d sit this one out, and the others agreed.”
“Are you pitching?”
“Yeah.”
Recalling the break-in at their apartment, Craig still believed the baseball game was a foolish and potentially risky move, but he had no intention of rehashing
that decision. He had learned long ago that once Elizabeth had made up her mind on something, it was hopeless to try to change it. Besides, he now saw a potential upside. He wanted to get some more information about who broke into their apartment and what they wanted. This might flush them out, though it meant placing Nick in the line of fire.
Before they left, Elizabeth put on a navy T-shirt with white letters on the front that said “Paris Yanks” and had the number 3 on the back. She looked nervous as she tucked a second T-shirt into her bag.
“Did I ever tell you that you look sexy in that shirt?” Craig asked, trying to get her to relax.
“I believe you’ve mentioned that several times,” she replied, trying to smile. But her voice betrayed her anxiety.
With Elizabeth behind the wheel of the Audi, they drove to the clinic. Craig rode shotgun with a Glock pistol in his hand, his eyes constantly roving around the surrounding. He breathed a sigh of relief when he determined that nobody was following them.
When they arrived, Elizabeth went into the clinic alone while Craig explained their plan to Pierre, who was parked at the end of the driveway.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Pierre asked.
Craig thought about it for a minute. Pierre would be a help, but there was a possibility there could be an attack on the clinic if they didn’t realize the boy was gone. Pierre could help prevent harm being done to Dr. Cardin and the clinic if he stayed, and he might be able to capture the assailants, too. Craig was sure he could protect Nick and Elizabeth himself.
“No, I think it’s better if you stay here,” he replied.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth came out of the clinic. Right behind her was Nick, also wearing a Paris Yanks shirt, bat in one hand, glove in the other, and a huge smile on his face. Though guarding him would be difficult, seeing his smile made Craig believe it was worth the risk.
When Nick approached Craig, he gave Craig a high five. Craig opened the back door of the Audi for Nick while Elizabeth got behind the wheel again. The sun was shining brightly, and they made it to the ball field in the Bois de Boulogne without incident. It was a gorgeous summer day in Paris.
The other members of Elizabeth’s team, seven men and one woman, were already on the field warming up. The opposing team hadn’t arrived yet. Nick raced out to second base while Elizabeth threw warm-up pitches with the catcher. Meanwhile Craig found a good observation position on a slightly elevated grassy area in front of a storage shed behind the Yanks bench on the third base side. That gave him good visibility of the area. Though the temperature was rising and it would soon be hot, Craig wore a light jacket, allowing him to conceal his holstered gun.
He glanced at the field. Nick was tossing a ball around with the other infielders. The kid was graceful and self-confident, and he had a strong arm. Nick could definitely play ball. And surprisingly, he didn’t seem nervous playing with adults.
A few minutes later two gray minivans arrived. Craig watched anxiously as the side doors opened. Eight men and four women climbed out, all wearing red shirts with yellow lettering that said “Nationals.” The irony struck Craig. Even in Paris it was New York versus Washington. Craig looked around again. Nothing suspicious.
They played a six inning game, with the Nationals up first. Elizabeth, really smoking the ball, struck out the side. Nick was batting sixth and didn’t get up in the first inning.
In the top of the second, a Nationals batter hit a sharp grounder between first and second. Nick got a good jump on the ball, fielded it smoothly, and tossed it to the first baseman for the out.
“Way to go, Jonathan,” the shortstop shouted.
Nick was up at bat in the bottom of the second with the bases empty. After taking a ball and two called strikes, he whacked the fourth pitch, a line drive, between the shortstop and third baseman for a solid single.
The next hitter doubled to right field and Nick raced home with the first run. Nick was beaming as the other players gave him high fives. Craig was thrilled for the kid, but his joy rapidly dissipated when he saw two men standing in a cluster of trees just off the right field line, halfway between the first baseman and the right fielder. Both were blonde and beefy and could easily be members of a Russian hit squad. They seemed to be watching the game.
The next couple of innings passed without incident, with the two men remaining in the same position. Nick singled again in the fifth but didn’t score. In the field, he caught a line drive for an out and scooped up two more ground balls, which he tossed to the first baseman for outs.
With the Yanks coming to bat in the bottom of the sixth, the score was tied at one apiece. Elizabeth was the second batter up. Craig wondered whether she had noticed the two men who were still standing off the first base line. If she had, it certainly hadn’t distracted her excellent pitching. Now he was anxious to see how she’d hit.
The count went to two balls and two strikes. The Nationals pitcher leaned back and let fly with a fastball. Elizabeth was waiting for it. She pulled back her bat and swung hard, smashing the ball over the head of the left fielder. The ball was still rolling when it landed in a creek.
Craig saw Nick jump to his feet. When Elizabeth had run the bases and was back at home plate, Nick shouted, “Great hit, Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, then raced over to Nick. “What did you say?”
“Great hit, Elizabeth.”
“You can talk!” she cried, hugging him.
When Craig glanced at the right field line, he saw that the two blond men were gone. He wanted to believe they had just come to watch the game, but it was too unlikely.
Remaining vigilant, Craig moved down the hill close to Elizabeth and Nick. The other Yanks were congratulating Elizabeth and telling Nick what a great game he had played.
As the others drifted away, Elizabeth said to Nick, “We have to get ice cream to celebrate you getting your voice back!”
“Yes!” said Nick. “I love ice cream. And we have to celebrate your home run, too.”
Craig cringed. If Elizabeth had asked him, he would have said they should get to a safe place as soon as possible, but he wasn’t about to ruin the party.
Elizabeth drove them to a nearby Häagen-Dazs, and once inside, Craig picked out a table in the back that had a clear view of the front door while Elizabeth and Nick got the ice cream. Elizabeth didn’t ask Craig what he wanted—she knew he always ordered java chip with hot fudge. Elizabeth had pralines and cream with hot fudge, and Nick had a banana split. Once they reached the table, ice cream in hand, Craig offered Nick the seat between him and Elizabeth.
After Nick had eaten about half of his banana split, Elizabeth said to him, “You’re a very brave boy coming to Paris all by yourself.”
Nick put his spoon down. “My grandfather told me what to do if anything like this ever happened,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “I didn’t want to run away when he and Grandma were in trouble, but he ordered me to follow his instructions and get to Paris as quickly as I could, where Emma Miller would take care of me. He drilled me on it so many times my reaction felt almost automatic.”
Through the open door, Craig caught sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Whipping around, he saw the two blond men running toward the ice cream parlor. Each had a gun in his hand. Craig didn’t know whether they wanted to seize Nick or kill him, but it didn’t matter. With other patrons in the shop, he couldn’t let them get inside or there’d be a bloodbath.
Reacting instantly, Craig reached for his gun. At the same moment, Elizabeth yelled, “Under the table,” pushing Nick down and shielding him with her body.
When the men were just a few steps away from the open door of the shop, Craig raised his gun and opened fire. He hit both of them squarely before either of them could get off a shot. People in the shop were screaming hysterically, and the two ice cream servers hit the ground behind the counter.
Gun in hand, Craig ran toward the door. Both men were on the ground. One was w
rithing and cursing, but the other was mostly still aside from the ragged breaths that struggled from his lungs. The bullet had hit him in the chest, and he was close to death. Craig turned to the other man, who was bleeding from his shoulder. As he got close to him, Craig saw him slip something into his mouth.
Damn it. Cyanide.
He wanted to force the man to talk, to find out who sent them, but it was probably too late for that. He reached into the man’s mouth, but the pill was already gone. Saliva was forming, and the smell of cyanide was in the air.
“Who sent you?” Craig shouted, grabbing him around the neck. The man gave Craig a crazed smile before his eyes flickered shut for the last time. It was hopeless. He checked for IDs, but neither man was carrying one.
Craig looked at the man’s muscular right arm. He had a tattoo of a vampire bat that Craig recognized—he was a member of a gang in Moscow that Kuznov used for jobs, which included executing pesky journalists. The Russian president had to be behind this attack, Craig decided. Maybe these were the thugs that had broken into Craig and Elizabeth’s apartment as well.
Behind him, Craig heard one of the ice cream shop employees calling the police. Though Jean-Claude could help him get out of dealing with the police, he didn’t want to use that chit. They had to get out of there before the police came.
Elizabeth and Nick had gotten up from the floor and were standing next to the table.
“Let’s go,” he called to Elizabeth.
She grabbed Nick’s hand, and the three of them ran to the Audi. Craig got behind the wheel and floored the accelerator at the sound of approaching sirens. As they drove, they passed police cars coming the other way.
Craig quickly realized they were being followed by a black Citroën, although it looked like the only person in the car was the driver. Craig drove fast, weaving in and out of lanes, but the Citroën kept pace. Craig wasn’t concerned—once they reached the highway, he was confident he’d lose him.
Once they reached the ramp, Craig immediately cut across three lanes to the left. The Citroën followed suit. As an exit approached on the right, Craig waited for the last possible second, then cut across the two right lanes, ignoring the honking horns.