Noble Intent

by William Miller

  Duval stood at the foot of the bed, blinking stupidly at the sight of a middle-aged Frenchman stretched out naked on the sheets. The sleeping man had a paunch, skinny legs and a head of sandy hair with early streaks of gray. An empty wine bottle stood on the flimsy table next to the bed.

  Sam patted him on the shoulder. “Bonjour, time to wake up,” she said in French.

  He came awake with a snort, passed a hand over his face and blinked up at her with bloodshot eyes. He must have really tied one on last night, because waking up naked with a stranger standing over him didn’t seem to surprise him. He smacked his lips a few times, like he was getting a bad taste out of his mouth, and managed to croak out, “Who are you?”

  Speaking slowly and in French, Sam said, “The hotel is on fire. You need to…”

  She realized she didn’t know the word for evacuate and looked to Duval.

  “You need to leave.” Duval motioned to the door. “The building is burning down.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. He seemed slightly more confused by the presence of Duval, but his eyes went back to Sam. He grunted, swung his legs out of bed and reached for his trousers.

  “Hurry,” Sam told him.

  “Yes,” Duval said. “Do hurry.”

  The man motioned back and forth between Sam and himself. “Did we…?”

  Sam nodded. “Yes. You were incredible. Come along now.”

  She took his elbow and steered him toward the door while he worked his zipper. He tried to stop for his shoes but Sam kept him moving. “Leave the shoes,” she said.

  Duval held the door. A thin layer of black smog gathered around the ceiling in the upstairs hall, obscuring the cheap fluorescents. The long, steady wail of a fire engine grew louder by the second. A door near the stairs opened and a woman popped her head out.

  “The hotel is on fire,” Sam told her. “You need to get out.”

  The girl darted out of her room and down the stairs in her bare feet. Sam and Duval banged on doors as they passed. “Fire! Get out! The hotel is on fire!”

  Others took up the alarm and soon everybody was yelling. Doors flew open and, within seconds, Sam and Duval were hustling down the stairs along with a dozen terrified hotel guests. The smoke thickened as they reached the lobby. Tears doubled Sam’s vision. She covered her mouth with an elbow. Duval took out his inhaler.

  “Put that away,” Sam managed to shout through the sirens and panicked shouts.

  He clutched the inhaler in a tight fist, coughed, and hammered his chest instead.

  Sam ushered him, along with the crowd, out through the shattered front door. She kept her elbow up to disguise her face, gripped Duval’s arm and muttered instructions. “Don’t look up. Keep your head down. Cough, like everyone else.”

  “Shouldn’t be... too… hard.” He wracked out between coughs.

  A yellow fire engine was parked in front of the hotel. Firemen in oversized coats and helmets hustled around the truck, uncoiling hoses and directing people to safety. An ambulance fought its way along the narrow boulevard, past a cordon of police vehicles.

  “Turn right,” Sam said. “Turn right.”

  She and Duval broke off from the main group. While the rest of the people moved toward the ambulances, they hurried along the sidewalk toward the corner. A French police officer caught sight of them trying to break free from the group, raised a whistle to his lips and gave a loud blast. “Monsieur, please stop.”

  Sam’s heart squeezed painfully inside her chest. She ignored the cop, like she hadn’t heard the piercing whistle, and urged Duval forward with a hand on his back. “Faster.”

  “Halt,” the officer yelled. “You two, stop right where you are!”

  Sam gave Duval a shove. “Run!”

  He broke into a sprint that lasted all of ten seconds before his legs slowed to a lumbering gait. A plodding pack mule could have kept pace. A greasy patch of sweat formed on his forehead. Sam stayed one step behind. She could only go as fast as Duval was able and, right now, that felt entirely too slow.

  The officer was closing the distance fast.

  Sam jogged next to Duval, but her mind was racing two steps ahead. A police cruiser was parked on the corner along with another ambulance trying to fight past the traffic and a growing knot of spectators. If she could reach the corner and mix in with the crowd, she might still escape. She grabbed Duval’s elbow and yanked him along. Then she spotted LeBeau near the corner with a phone pressed against one ear. A police shield hung around his neck on a chain. He spotted Sam at the same time, plunged a hand into his coat and pulled a gun.

  Sam knew they were caught. With LeBeau in front and the French police officer behind, she had nowhere to go. If she pulled her gun it would start a firefight and that would only get her and Duval shot down in the street. The narrow boulevard seemed to constrict. The buildings shrank in on her. LeBeau raised his pistol and sighted on Sam’s chest. She stared down the dark barrel and waited for the sound of a bullet. Cornered and out of options, Sam did the only thing she could think to do when things were bleakest: she prayed.

  “God send me help,” she said out loud.

  An older model Nissan screeched around the corner. The driver side tires humped up onto the sidewalk as the driver threaded his way past emergency vehicles. LeBeau heard the motor and turned in time to see the car barreling down on him. He opened his mouth to scream but never got the chance. The front bumper clipped the backs of his knees and he went over the hood. It all happened so fast, and yet it was like watching in slow motion. His body impacted the windshield, cracking the glass, and his legs shot up in the air like a peace symbol. His gun went flying and he landed in a heap on the sidewalk. The crowd gasped and pressed back, blocking the ambulance trying to get through. LeBeau lay in a twisted wreck, one leg bent at a wrong angle and blood smearing the side of his face.

  The driver of the Nissan laid on the brakes, the tires locked, and the driver side window buzzed down. Jake Noble stuck his head out. “Need a lift?”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Burke had given up standing hours ago and confiscated one of the rolling office chairs. His arches were killing him. The sixty extra pounds was taking a toll. He made a mental note to lay off the potato chips. Dana would be happy to hear it. She’d been hounding him to go on a diet. Funny thing, when Madeline had hassled him about eating healthy, it was annoying. When Dana did it, Burke found it endearing. Maybe healthy relationships are all about how we label the little things?

  It was 1:15 in the morning local time. That would make it 7:15 in France. The energy in the situation room was electric. A quiet bustle of activity coalesced into white noise. Coughlin had more or less taken over at this point. Burke’s presence was purely functionary. Grey and his team had arrived at the hotel. Drones circled overhead. An end to the exhausting manhunt was finally in sight. Everyone was looking forward to calling it a day and heading home for some much-needed sleep. Everyone except Burke. He crossed thick forearms over his chest and watched the feed from the drones.

  Sam had picked a hotel in a city block where all the buildings shared a closed-in rear courtyard. You rarely find that type of construction anywhere in the United States. The drones were in a wide holding pattern with a front view of the building exteriors. Coughlin had a phone to his ear, telling Grey they didn’t have an angle on the courtyard. It would take several minutes to reroute a bird directly overhead and even then, at air speed, they would only have a shot of the courtyard for a few seconds.

  On the screen, a fire engine stopped in front of the hotel as guests came pouring out. Smoke billowed up from the back of the building. Police had both ends of the street blocked with patrol cars, keeping out street traffic.

  Burke watched the action unfold. A white-hot hunk of coal burned in his gut. Mentally, he screamed at Sam to get the hell out of there. What was she thinking stopping at a hotel? She must be getting tired, thought Burke. Making mistakes. Come on, Sam. Get out. Run girl! Run!

&nbs
p; One of the screens showed a pair of individuals separate from the crowd that was exiting the hotel. A uniformed officer tried to stop them and they broke into a sprint.

  “Is that Gunn?” Coughlin wanted to know.

  Burke shook his head. The figure was right but a pageboy cap obscured her face. He said, “Can’t tell. The angle’s no good.”

  “That’s them,” Coughlin said. “Track them.”

  But the control team was already issuing commands to the drone operators. The pair of fugitives hurried along the sidewalk and the police officer ran after them. On the corner, a man reached into his coat and came out with a small black object that could only be a gun. Sam’s steps slowed. Her hands started to go up.

  Burke said, “He’s going to shoot! Call them off, Coughlin!” Burke’s heart clenched inside his chest. Sam was about to get shot and the only thing he could do was watch.

  A four-door sedan slid around the corner and hit the man from behind, sending him over the top of the car. Everyone in the control room responded. People gasped. A few of the women let out breathless screams.

  “What the hell?” Coughlin barked. “What’s going on? Who is that? Did a drunk run over a cop or did someone just walk into this op?”

  There was a mad scramble as techs started tracking this new development.

  “All of our people are on foot,” someone called out.

  “It’s not one of ours.”

  “Who is it?” Coughlin wanted to know.

  “And who got run over?” Burke said. “Was that a cop? One of Grey’s men?”

  “I can’t decide which would be worse,” Coughlin said.

  “For once we agree.”

  On screen, the pair of fugitives sprinted to the car. Burke uncrossed his arms and stood up, the pain in his feet was temporarily forgotten. He watched as the fugitives piled into the car. The Nissan reversed, swung through a backwards turn, and then shifted into drive.

  Coughlin growled a curse. “Give me an angle on the driver. We need to see who’s driving that car.”

  Burke knew it was a losing proposition. It would take the closest drone several minutes to correct course. By then the driver would change directions. Burke had no sooner thought it than the sedan slewed through another turn with the practiced skill of an espionage agent.

  “Stay on the car,” Coughlin ordered. “Do not lose that vehicle. I want a license plate number and a picture of the driver. Come on, people! Make it happen!”

  While the techs scrambled to keep up, Burke eased back down into his seat.

  Dana caught Burke’s attention and questioned him with a look.

  He shook his head, trying to communicate with his eyes. Not now. Tell you later.

  Images of the hotel were gone, replaced by city streets and blurred treetops. All three birds were on the car, trying to correct their flight pattern to keep up with the sedan racing through the narrow streets of Vesoul. The vehicle slid through another turn, avoided a city bus, and zig-zagged through traffic. Coughlin dialed Grey and told him Sam was escaping in a four-door sedan. “Looked like a Subaru,” Coughlin said. It was a Nissan, but Burke didn’t bother to correct him. The car raced north and west along the park then disappeared into a tunnel.

  “They might try to turn around,” Coughlin told the room. “I want one drone on the entrance and the other two on the exit. Don’t let them get away.”

  Minutes ticked by. The drones captured images of vehicles exiting the tunnel in both directions and everyone watched the screen for any sign of the sedan. The Nissan never reappeared. One corner of Burke’s mouth twitched in a barely perceptible grin.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Noble was behind the wheel of a black Peugeot, headed south. The sun was poking through a blanket of scattered clouds, throwing patchwork shadows on the narrow lanes of Vesoul. Sam was in the passenger seat, a pageboy cap pulled low on her head. She checked the mirrors then crowded forward over the dash and peered up into the sky.

  “Relax,” Noble told her. “We lost ‘em. For now.”

  They had ditched the Nissan inside the tunnel and carjacked a young woman with a yappy poodle, who was more concerned about the puppy than the car. Noble didn’t even have to threaten her. She got out, begging him not to hurt her baby. The dog had curled its lips back and issued a growl, more comical than scary, from the depths of its tiny body. Sam apologized profusely as she jogged around the front bumper and climbed in the passenger side while her friend piled in the backseat. Noble handed over the keys to the stolen Nissan, got behind the wheel of the Peugeot and shifted into gear.

  Now, with the threat of drones behind them, Sam pulled the cap off, closed her eyes and breathed. Her friend splayed across the backseat, sucking on an inhaler. The acrid stench of burning plastic clung to their clothes.

  “Tough night?” Noble asked.

  Sam turned in her seat to face him, opened her mouth to speak, and threw her arms around him instead. He fought to control the vehicle. He had been dreaming of this moment ever since Hong Kong. Now Sam was wrapped around him and he couldn’t even stop to enjoy it. A smile forced its way onto his face. He wanted to tell her how much he had missed her. Instead, he patted her shoulder with one hand and said, “Okay, don’t crash us.”

  “It’s really you,” Sam spoke into his chest. “You’re really here.”

  “It’s me,” Noble assured her.

  She eased up on her strangle hold. “How did you know?”

  Noble chewed the inside of one cheek while he thought about how to answer.

  Her hands slipped away. All the happiness drained out of her face, replaced by a tightness around her eyes and mouth. She said, “You’re here to bring us in?”

  “Yeah.” Admitting it felt slimy, like wading through ankle-deep sewage.

  The guy in the backseat cranked himself into an upright position and took the inhaler away from his mouth. “What?”

  Sam’s face went through a confusing tangle of emotions. Pearly tears gathered in the corners of her dark eyes. The sight drove a railroad spike right through Noble’s heart.

  “What’s going on?” the pudgy Frenchman with the white hair asked.

  Noble aimed his comment at Sam, “Armstrong sent me.”

  Sam screwed her eyes shut and raked a hand through her hair.

  The Frenchman said, “Are you turning us over to the CIA?”

  Noble’s grip on the wheel tightened. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re working for Armstrong,” Sam said.

  “I don’t work for anybody,” Noble said, “but Armstrong sent me.”

  “Then why are you here?” Sam wanted to know.

  “I’m here to figure out what’s going on, Sam. There’s a dead COS and a field officer on the run. Armstrong needs to know why.” Noble tilted the rearview for a better look in the backseat. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Sam took a deep breath and blew out her cheeks. “Jake Noble, meet Sacha Duval. AKA Cypher Punk.”

  Noble craned around for a better look. Duval offered him a tight smile. Noble turned his attention back to the road and found the Peugeot had drifted lanes. He tweaked the wheel and said, “That raises more questions than it answers.”

  “Montenegro offered him asylum. It’s a non-extradition country.” Sam cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “Genius here, tried to lay in the pipeline for a defection using back channels on the dark web. He hired a smuggler to get him across the water and Le Milieu to escort him to Montenegro.”

  Noble twirled his hand in a motion that meant ‘keep going’.

  “Bonner got word of the move,” Sam explained. “He paid off Le Milieu. They were going to deliver Duval at the harbor.”

  While Sam spoke, the quaint houses and cracked asphalt gave way to a bleak countryside gripped by the cruel hand of winter. Noble took turns at random, looking for a place to lay low. The manhunt was on and police would have roadblocks set up along all the major highways. The drones would be expanding th
eir search area.

  Noble said, “That doesn’t explain why you went off script.”

  “I didn’t,” Sam told him. “I was never part of the script. Bonner laid in the whole operation behind closed doors and hired a trio of private contractors. It was obvious he was planning something and I got curious. I wanted to know why he was cutting me out of the loop. At first I thought it was because I was the new kid, but I kept digging.”

  The grim hulk of a gothic cathedral reared into the leaden sky. Long yellow stalks of grass grew up around the old church. Stone gargoyles leered down from broken parapets and the sagging roof looked ready to collapse. Ancient oak doors were banded by strips of iron and secured with a rusty padlock. Several of the stained-glass windows were cracked and broken in places. Behind the old church was a forest of naked trees. Dead leaves made a brown carpet around bone white trunks. Noble parked under a barren oak.

  “Why didn’t you kick it up a level?” he asked. “Go to Bonner’s boss? Or, hell, to the new Director herself?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure Coughlin is in on it,” Sam said. “Truth is, I don’t know how high up it goes.”

  “Pete Coughlin?” Noble asked.

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  Noble nodded. “He ran Afghanistan after September 11. He’s not much for field work. He likes to stay in the rear with the gear. So what happened?”

  “By the time I figured out what Bonner was up to, the operation was already in the works. I had to move fast. I stole a van, took an MP5 and rubber bullets from a weapons cache in Paris, and raced to the harbor ahead of Bonner and his crew of freelancers.”