The Patriot Paradox

by William Esmont

  “Sorry for the comparison. I know you don’t want to hear it.”

  Kurt smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only natural given your history.”

  “Anyway, don’t worry about the car. I saw one on the way in.” She pulled her door latch and climbed from the Mini. Kurt popped his own door and started to follow.

  “Can you grab my bag?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He grabbed it from the front floor. He also grabbed two more bottles of water from the back seat.

  “We might need it,” he said.

  Amanda tossed her keys onto the floor of the Mini and closed the door with a thunk. She turned and worked her way forward along the swaying railroad car. Kurt scooted around the hood and fell in behind her. “You’re leaving your keys?”

  She looked back and shrugged. “We don’t need them anymore.”

  They reached a set of stairs leading down. Amanda went first. The next level was packed, with cars arranged bumper to bumper as far as he could see. Amanda stopped beside a white Renault hatchback.

  “Is this it?” he asked.

  “It is.” She peeled a paper tag from under the right windshield wiper.

  “Where are the owners?”

  She gave him a devious grin. “This car is being transported without its owner. The tag tells the people on the French end what to do with it until it’s retrieved. Pickup isn’t scheduled for another two days.” He got it.

  “Get in,” she said, heading to the other side of the car. Before getting in, he noted it was a left-handed-drive vehicle, unlike Amanda’s Mini. He scooted around and squeezed himself into the passenger seat.

  Amanda handed him the tag from the windshield. “Put this in the glove box.” She pulled the sun visor down and a pair of keys dropped into her lap.

  “We should reach the end in a few minutes. When we get there, we drive off the train and go on our way. There are cameras, though, so try to keep your head down until we get out of the arrival area. In addition, we’ll have to go through customs. I have another passport.” She took a deep breath. “I want you to play sick, like you’re passed out cold. If that doesn’t work...”

  “I understand.” He felt stupid, like an amateur, for not having an alternate passport of his own, but he had never envisioned where the memory card from his dead brother would lead.

  They only had one choice now; move forward or die.

  Kurt felt the train slowing. The brakes squealed, a sharp screech echoing up and down the tunnel. A voice came on the public address system. He rolled down the window to hear it better. “We are arriving in Calais. Please prepare your belongings.” Then, it repeated in French “Nous sommes arrivers en Calais. Preparez-vous votre choses pour disembarquement.”

  “This is it,” Amanda said. “We’re almost there.” Kurt noticed her knuckles were white on the wheel. His gut clenched as he considered the implications of what they were about to attempt. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. The train rumbled and clacked to a stop. A minute later, sunlight flooded the car, nearly blinding them. They sat in silence for a few minutes as the cars in front of them disembarked. Finally, it was their turn.

  Amanda turned the key, and the little diesel engine groaned to life. She inched forward until they reached the mouth of the train, where they drove out onto a ramp. Once off the train, they drove across a large parking lot toward Customs.

  “Time to put on a show,” she whispered as they approached the kiosk.

  Kurt complied, reclining the seat and closing his eyes. He lolled his head against the passenger window and let a thin line of drool escape his mouth for added effect.

  The car came to a stop and Amanda rolled her window down.

  “Bonjour madam,” he heard a young woman say. “Bienvenue a la France. Passeporte s’il vous plait?”

  “Bonjour.” She passed her papers through the window.

  “Passeporte de votre mari?” He mentally translated, “Your husband’s passport?”

  “Il est tres mal au estomache. La cuisine des British est merde. S’il vous plait. Lui non a dormir depuis deux jours.” Kurt knew enough French to understand Amanda was telling the woman he was sick to his stomach, that he hadn’t eaten in several days.

  The immigration official hesitated for an agonizing moment, and then relented. “Bon voyage.”

  Amanda rolled up the window and put the car back into gear. A few moments later, they were on the highway, heading south. Kurt opened his eyes and wiped the drool from his mouth.

  “You were great!” Amanda exclaimed, touching him on the knee. An unexpected chill shot up his spine. Her hand lingered for a moment before she removed it, forcing a nervous cough.

  Kurt felt a twinge of guilt, as he thought of Amelia. What would she say? He suppressed the thought, reminding himself of the women in South America. All notions of faithfulness to his dead wife had been discarded months ago.

  But this was different. There was something about Amanda, something he couldn’t put his finger on. She intrigued him, excited him in a way no woman had since Amelia.

  “I can play sick with the best of them,” he said with a sly grin.

  She laughed and pressed down on the accelerator.

  They were going to Paris.

  Twenty-Nine

  A giant grin blossomed on Helen’s face as she scanned her most recent email, received moments earlier. It was an automated message from the Rapier system:

  2012 Mini Cooper

  Color: Green

  Country of Origin: UK

  Registered Owner: Amanda Carter

  Location: Calais, France

  She picked up her phone and dialed Jack. No answer. She left a brief message. “They’re in France.”

  She called Mason, getting him on the fourth ring. “Yeah?”

  “We were wrong. They took the tunnel after all.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep. Their car was on the train in Calais. My gut tells me they took another car from the train.”

  “What if it’s a decoy?” he asked, playing the devil’s advocate.

  Helen considered the possibility, but discounted it right away. Kurt and Amanda were on the run; decoys were a luxury they couldn’t afford. “Unlikely. We have to assume they know the timeline by now. They’re moving fast and light. Why they’re in France, I have no idea. Yet. But it’s the only possibility.”

  “Have you told Jack?”

  “I left him a message. I’m heading to his office after I get off the phone with you.”

  Mason went silent for a moment. Helen heard a public address system in the background, loud and full of static.

  “Okay. I can be in France in two hours. Where am I headed?”

  She pulled up a map and ran her finger along the road south from Calais. “Paris is my bet. They must know someone there.” She detected a presence behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Jack.

  “Hold on Mason. Jack’s here.” She put her hand over the phone.

  “You found them?” Jack asked.

  “French immigration discovered the woman’s car on the Eurotunnel train about an hour ago.”

  “Good work. Is Mason on the way?”

  “I’ve got him on the phone right now.”

  “Let me have it.” She handed over the phone to him.

  “What’s your ETA?” Jack asked.

  “About two hours.”

  Jack chewed on this for a moment. “I may be able to call in some favors, bring in some additional muscle in Paris. I’ll make some calls.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And Mason…”

  “Yeah, Jack?”

  “Finish this. We’re out of time.”

  “Understood.”

  Jack handed the phone back to Helen. “Let me know as soon as you hear anything. Anything at all.” He turned and left.

  “That was odd,” Mason said. “It’s almost as if he isn’t too concerned, or he’s preoccupied or something.”

  Helen had
noticed it, too. Considering their timeline and the threat posed by the missing information, she figured Jack would be bouncing off the walls by now. “There’s so much going on...” She drummed her fingers on her keyboard, puzzling over her boss’s behavior. “We can’t worry about him right now. We have to trust he has his shit together. All we can do is our jobs.”

  “I guess so.” Mason didn’t sound convinced.

  “Anyway, let me know as soon as you get to Paris. I’ll keep digging, looking for hits on this end. I’ll call you when I find out who Jack is activating.”

  “Okay. How about the timeline?” Mason asked. “Is everything still on track?”

  Helen shrugged mentally. “As far as I can tell.” She yawned. “Well, that’s all I’ve got for now.”

  “Talk to you soon then.” Mason ended the call.

  As soon as her phone was back in the cradle, Helen got up and headed for the break room. Coffee. I need coffee.

  Thirty

  “Helen!” Jack bellowed from somewhere down the hall. Helen took a step back from the coffee machine so she could see through the break room doorway. What the hell? Jack was barreling down the hallway like a freight train, heading straight for the break room; and he looked pissed. Oh shit.

  She left her coffee brewing on the machine and stepped out to meet him. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “My office. Now.” He turned on his heel and stormed off. Helen scrambled to catch up. What is it this time?

  Her mind raced through the possibilities as she tried to determine if he was pissed at something she had done, something she had missed. Not ten minutes earlier, he had seemed almost lackadaisical about the status of the operation.

  “Close the door,” he said as they swept into his office.

  Helen stopped short. “What happened here?” she asked, nodding at the remains of a picture frame scattered across the floor. Then she noticed his secure phone, the torn cord pointing toward his chair.

  Oh, wow. She had seen Jack lose his temper before, but never like this. Never violent.

  He noticed the look on her face. “Don’t mind that,” he said, dismissing the carnage with a wave of his hand.

  Helen shrugged and forced her attention back to him. He picked up a half-full glass of scotch from his desk and drained it one gulp, then walked over to the credenza and grabbed a bottle and another glass. He refilled his glass and poured one for Helen, pushing it across his desk to her.

  “Fucking Chechens,” he hissed, falling into his seat. Ah. Fish. Helen took a tentative sip of the scotch. Good stuff, she noted. She waited for Jack to elaborate.

  “Something’s up with Fish,” he said after another long gulp. “He’s not responding.”

  He turned his monitor so Helen could see. Fish’s locator beacon was red, meaning he was off line. Helen didn’t have access to Fish’s location from her computer. Only Jack, and at one point, Mike Vetter, were allowed to see each other’s movements. Typical need-to-know bullshit.

  “Have you tried calling him?” she asked, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth.

  Jack shot her a withering glare. “What do you think?”

  That was all the answer she needed. She sipped her scotch while trying to figure out what Jack was going to say next. “Damn.” That was all that came to her. Since the beginning of the operation, what Fish had been doing, where he had been stationed, and who he had been working with had been above her pay grade. That Jack was coming to her now, when things were falling apart, was bullshit. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for battle.

  “That’s all you can say? Damn? What the fuck, Helen?” Jack blurted, spittle flying from his lips in great, boozy globs.

  His ferocity surprised her, and she leaned back to put some more space between them. “I’m not sure what else to say, Jack. You’ve kept me in the dark about what Fish has been doing since day one. What do you expect?”

  This seemed to incite him further. He banged his fist on his desk. “I don’t give a shit! I need ideas, and I need them now!”

  “Do we have anyone else nearby? Someone who can do a visual?”

  He shook his head, swirled his scotch, and appeared to be trying to regain control of himself.

  What a cluster fuck, she thought. Sending Fish in alone... “I don’t know Jack.” She put her unfinished drink on the edge of his desk. “I think we need to give it some time. This is Fish, remember. He’s clever.” That sounds lame, Helen thought.

  Jack bolted to his feet and began pacing the room. “We don’t have any damn time! This operation is set to go live in less than twenty-four hours!”

  “Yeah. But what choice do we have?” She had him. Jack stared out the window, and Helen saw his shoulders sag. For the first time, he looked like an old, worn out man.

  “I need to make a few calls,” Jack said, moving toward his unsecured phone.

  She waited for a moment, in case he had something else. Then, “Okay.”

  She got up and left before he flew off the handle again.

  Thirty-One

  “We need fuel,” Amanda announced unexpectedly.

  Kurt leaned over and glanced at the instrument cluster. Sure enough, the gauge was sitting on empty. He looked up and pointed. “Take the next exit. There’s an airport, Le Bourget. There’ll be a gas station there.”

  Amanda switched lanes, preparing to exit the highway. The little Renault had only had an eighth of a tank of diesel when she had boosted it, barely enough to get to Paris, and not nearly enough if they ran into trouble.

  “I’ll pump,” he volunteered as they rolled to a stop.

  “Thanks. I’ll be right back.” She climbed out and dashed towards the restrooms.

  As Kurt was screwing the gas cap back on, she returned with a coffee in one hand and a long, skinny baguette in the other. A sliver of paper-thin ham dangled from the end of the sandwich where she had already taken a bite.

  “All yours,” she said through a mouthful. “Good sandwiches inside.”

  Kurt’s stomach rumbled. It had been too long since his last meal.

  “Could I get a few Euros?” he asked. He had spent the last of his supply on the fuel, feeding it bill by bill into the automated pump.

  She dug into her pocket and handed him a colorful fistful of Euros. “That should cover you.”

  Kurt did a quick count. More than enough. “I’ll be back in a few.” He headed straight for the restrooms. Once inside, with the door locked, he turned on the cold tap and let it run. As soon as he was satisfied with the temperature, he cupped his hands under the stream and splashed his face. He did this several times, trying his best to wash away the fatigue. Face dripping, he took a handful of paper towels and cleaned himself, slicking his hair back and scrubbing his teeth with his finger. His mouth tasted like the floor of a subway.

  His next stop was the store. He grabbed a large cappuccino, some gum, and a sandwich identical to Amanda’s. The total came to thirteen Euros. He gave the cashier a twenty, got his change, and headed back to the car.

  Amanda was on the phone speaking in a rapid-fire mixture of French and English. She gave him a look that said hold on, and turned away. Must be her contact in Paris, Kurt assumed. He leaned against the front of the car as he waited, taking small sips from his steaming coffee.

  Amanda finished her call and turned to meet his eyes. “Sorry. That took a lot longer than I thought it would.”

  “Did you get it all straightened out?” he asked.

  “I think so. She’s inside the embassy. We’re about thirty minutes away if traffic works in our favor. But she said we should hold off for at least an hour and a half.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a strike going on and the streets are a mess. It’s supposed to be over soon, though.”

  Strikes were a fact of life in the city of lights. “Okay. So we’re going straight to the embassy then?” he asked with an inquisitive smile.

  “Uh huh.” She climbed behin
d the wheel and started the car. Kurt hopped into the passenger seat.

  With a full tank and an hour to kill before they made their run to safety, they decided to find an internet connection and see if they could discover anything new about the people hunting them.

  ~~~

  As they pulled out of the gas station, Amanda thought of her contact in the embassy. Liza Barnett was one of her oldest friends, going back all the way to her college days at Stanford. They had been roommates their first year of school, striking up an immediate and deep friendship within their first months of university. Liza had taken a job with the Department of State eight years ago, working her way up to her dream posting in Paris. Amanda’s life had taken a different trajectory, but they had managed to stay in touch despite the differences in their lifestyles.

  Liza was the Deputy Chief of Mission, and she wielded enormous influence over day-to-day operations, running the less-public side of the American mission in France. If there was anyone Amanda trusted in Europe, it was Liza.

  Coming up on their right was a row of hotels. “Keep your eyes open,” she told Kurt. “Look for a Wi-Fi sign.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How about that one?” she asked, tapping the brakes and pointing at a well-lit hotel on their right.

  “I guess.” Kurt shrugged.

  Thirty-Two

  Liza Barnett rubbed her hands together under the roaring dryer and watched as the last beads of water raced away from the blast of hot air. Finished, she checked her watch. She had a little over an hour until Amanda arrived. And still, she couldn’t stop replaying the strange conversation in her head.

  “Hello? This is Liza Barnett,” she had said upon answering her mobile phone. A United Kingdom number had displayed on the caller ID.