Preston considered the idea and nodded. “That could work. We’d need a way to hide our funds.”
“That can be done with a few phone calls,” Grey pointed out. “We bounce the money through several Swiss banks to muddy the trail, then call up the new Director and say we’ve got a few concerns about Coughlin. She’ll suspect, but she won’t know for sure. At worse it makes us look incompetent, but they can’t prove we weren’t acting under orders. We’ll be blacklisted, but we’ve still got our freedom. After a few years, when no one is watching us anymore, we start drawing money from our accounts.”
“I like it,” Preston said.
Before they could put their plan into action, Grey’s phone buzzed. He scooped it up, frowned at the unknown number and answered. “Who is this?”
“You tried to kill me last night and missed.”
Grey mouthed a silent curse.
Preston was on his feet, his eyes wide. He waved to get Grey’s attention and mouthed, “Who is it?”
Grey held up a finger for him to wait. He said, “Noble?”
“That’s right. I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
“I’m listening,” said Grey.
“You want Duval, and I want a half million dollars, cash.”
“That’s a lot of money.” Grey snatched a pen and a scrap of paper from the desk. He scrawled Noble wants 500k for Duval.
“Don’t play games with me,” Noble warned. “Jerk me around and I’ll hang up. You’ll never hear from me again. I’ll go public with the info on Duval’s laptop. Where will that leave you? Have you got the cash?”
“I can get it,” Grey said. “What about Sam? How’s she feel about this?”
“She’s dead,” Noble said. “She wasn’t on board with my plan to ransom Duval, so I killed her.”
Grey asked, “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because if you don’t pay up, I’m turning Duval over to the FBI and collecting the bounty on his head. It’s not half a million, but it’s better than nothing. I’m giving you first crack at the hottest commodity on the market. Five hundred thousand dollars is a small price to pay for your freedom. Have we got a deal?”
“When and where?” Grey asked.
“Croix-Rouge subway station,” Noble said. “Be there by midnight with my money or I walk away.”
Grey started to say it would take a while to collect the funds, but the line was already dead. He turned to Preston. “He’s right here in Paris and he wants to meet. Tonight.”
“Are we going to pay him?” Preston wanted to know.
“We’re going to kill him,” Grey said. He dialed Mateen and put the phone to his ear. When the French mercenary came on the line Grey said, “Gather your troops.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Armstrong sat at her desk, her laptop open, watching black and white surveillance footage of Sam Gunn shooting Frank Bonner. The feed was a parting gift from Matthew Burke, his way of saying no hard feelings. Armstrong watched the loop over and over again, inspecting every detail, looking for some piece of evidence that would unravel the puzzle. She was hoping for anything that might tell her why Samantha Gunn had killed Frank Bonner and escaped with Duval. So far she had nothing. She couldn’t even decide who shot first. It looked like everyone started firing at the same time. She was still engrossed in the video when there came a knock at the door.
She blinked, like a woman coming out of a deep trance, and minimized the video. The clock on the wall was pointing to 2:27 p.m. “Enter!”
Duc stuck his head in and Armstrong waved him to a seat.
“What did you find out?” she asked.
“Noble was right.” Duc parked his massive frame in a chair and laced his fingers together in his lap. “The co-pilot was the weak link. I spent most of the day rattling his cage.”
“Who did he blab to?”
“The co-pilot told a hangar attendant and the hangar attendant told Coughlin.”
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Coughlin had gone after Sam a little too aggressively from the very start. It didn’t feel right to Armstrong, but she didn’t have enough time in the Director’s seat to trust her instincts yet when it came to spies. To make matters worse, she had just been forced to fire the one man whose instincts seemed spot on. With Burke typing up his resignation and the Wizard laid up in the hospital, Armstrong felt like a captain without a crew.
She said, “No loose ends?”
Duc shook his head. “The co-pilot and hangar attendant are at a secure site. They won’t be blabbing to anyone for a while. Want me to have a sit-down with Coughlin?”
“Not just yet,” Armstrong said. “We know Coughlin blew Noble’s cover, but we still don’t know what any of it has to do with Sacha Duval or why Gunn killed Frank Bonner.”
“Let me strap Coughlin to a chair and ask him,” Duc said.
Armstrong shook her head. “Coughlin is acting DDO. We can’t sit him down without proof.”
“What now?” Duc wanted to know.
Armstrong lit a thin cigar, then leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling. Noble and Gunn had gone to ground and Armstrong couldn’t expose the co-pilot without admitting she had dropped a burned spy into the middle of the operation. She needed to unmask Coughlin without exposing herself at the same time. With Burke gone and Noble incommunicado, Armstrong’s options were limited. She took another drag and considered her next move.
“Oh,” said Duc. “I almost forgot. There’s a pencil-neck weenie on your receptionist’s sofa. Been waiting all day to talk with you.”
Armstrong’s brow pinched. “What? Who?”
Duc shrugged. “Think he works in the basement. His name’s Eddie, or Elmore. I’m not sure.”
“What does he want?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Armstrong mashed the intercom button. “Mrs. Farnham, is there someone waiting to speak with me?”
“An analyst by the name of Ezra Cook has been here three times asking to see you, ma’am. I keep telling him you’re busy, but he seems quite insistent.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, ma’am. He said it was ‘eyes only.’ He used those exact words.”
“Is he there now?” Armstrong asked.
“He was here just a moment ago,” Farnham said. “Would you like me to get him back?”
“Yes, thank you.” Armstrong turned off the intercom, pointed her cigar at the closed door and told Duc, “Sometimes I think she goes out of her way to make my life harder.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The Croix-Rouge subway station was built in the twenties and in service less than a decade. It was shut down at the start of World War II and never reopened. Over the years, the station has played host to the French resistance, street gangs, drug dealers, and the city’s homeless population. In the early two-thousands, police broke up a rave here, rounding up more than two hundred people. After that, the government sealed off the tunnel to prevent any more underground parties. Now it was a forgotten platform deep beneath the streets of Paris.
Finding Croix-Rouge had been as simple as a Google search at a local internet café. Waiting until the Mabillon metro station on Boulevard Saint-Germain was empty and then slipping away from the platform had been the hard part. They waited nearly an hour for a break in the crowd, then leapt down and hurried along the tracks. Sam kept expecting a train to come along and flatten them, but they reached the access tunnel and Noble defeated the rusty padlock with little difficulty.
Because the station was still wired into the electrical grid, it had current. A handful of flickering bulbs in wire cages threw off enough light to see. Unused rolling stock stood at the platform, doors open, waiting for passengers that would never come. The air smelled dank and stale, like a basement in bad need of sunlight and a thorough cleaning, but at the very least they were out of the wind. Broken bottles crunched underfoot and garbage littered the tracks. Graffiti covered every inch of the slop
ing walls and, underneath all the gang signs and profanity, were posters dating back to the late twenties. Beyond the empty train cars, tracks stretched away into darkness. One fanciful corner of Sam’s brain kept expecting to see Morlocks come creeping out of the shadows.
Duval was sitting on one of the hard wood benches of an abandoned car with his back to the wall, shaking from the cold. They had gone over the plan a dozen times but Duval had the most to lose and he wanted assurances. Noble had handled him well; patiently talking him through each part of the operation and countering any objections.
On the bench next to Duval was a ruggedized laptop and microdots along with recently purchased medical supplies, glowsticks, more BIC lighters, and climbing gear.
Sam marched in place and blew into cupped hands while Noble negotiated with Grey for the exchange. She smirked when Noble claimed he had killed her. When he hung up, Sam said, “Do you think they’ll even try to get the money?”
“Not a chance,” Noble said.
“The first thing he’s going to do is call Le Milieu,” said Duval. “And Mateen will bring half a dozen hired guns.”
“At least,” Noble said.
“That’s your plan?” Duval waved a hand at the gear piled on the seat. “The two of you against a pack of thugs. You’re armed with handguns and BIC lighters.”
“We’ve also got glowsticks.” Noble picked up one of the plastic tubes and brought it to life with a twist.
“We can’t possibly lose,” Duval remarked. He pointed to Noble’s weapon. “Have you even got a full clip?”
“Mag,” Noble said.
Duval’s face scrunched up. “What?”
“They’re called magazines, not clips,” Noble told him and produced the two extra mags.
“That’s something, I suppose,” Duval said.
Noble picked up a length of red and orange climbing rope. “Wish we had time to test this equipment. You’re sure they’ll use the barge?”
Sam said, “It’s where Bonner planned to take him.”
Noble nodded and turned to Duval. “Time to get you ready for the party.”
Duval stood up, took a breath and said, “Get it over with.”
“You’re ready?” Noble asked.
Duval’s shoulders crept up around his ears and his eyes narrowed. All the muscles in his body tensed. “I’m ready.”
“You sure?” Noble said.
“Just do—”
Noble’s fist shot out and connected with Duval’s nose. There was a flat smack. Duval’s head snapped back.
“Ow!” He bent over double and cupped both hands to his face. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”
“We have to make it look realistic.” Noble took him by the arm and steered him back onto the bench. Blood ran down his parka and dripped on the floor. Duval huffed and spluttered, sending red droplets flying from his lips.
“You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” he complained through a mouthful of blood. “My nose is ruined.”
“Want me to set it?”
“No!” Duval held up one blood-smeared hand. “No, thank you. You’ve done enough.”
Noble shrugged. “That’s me. Always helpful.”
Sam shot him a look.
He tried and failed to hide a grin.
Sam sat down next to Duval and flipped open a folding knife.
He leaned away from the blade, his eyes wide. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Try to relax,” Sam told him. “Just a shallow prick. Scalp wounds are terrific bleeders.”
“Aw, come on!” Duval said. “Do we have to?”
“It has to look like you’ve got a head wound,” Noble said. He snaked an arm around Duval’s neck, putting him in a headlock. Duval strangled out a protest and his hands clutched at Noble’s arm. It was like a watching a rodent try to escape the grip of a python.
Noble held him while Sam pushed the knife point into Duval’s scalp just above the hairline. A rivulet of dark blood dribbled from the tiny cut. Sam cringed. She felt awful about causing the cowardly reporter any more pain. He was in for a world of that, but Noble was right, they had to make it believable.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Duval said, “Are you doing brain surgery?”
Noble let go and Duval shrugged him off.
Sam set the knife aside and opened a small medical kit. She tore open an alcohol swab and wiped the wound clean. Duval’s face lit up in pain. His mouth stretched and a string of curses poured out.
“Language,” Sam reprimanded. She ripped open a pad along with gauze and wrapped the wound, allowing some of the blood to run down over his forehead for effect. His nose was starting to swell and dark rings had formed under his eyes. When Sam was done, he looked like a proper accident victim.
He probed gently at his head, inspected his fingers, frowned.
“Now for the hard part,” Noble told him.
“I never should have agreed to this,” Duval said.
“It’s the only place they won’t check.” Noble picked up one of the microdots. “Drop your drawers and lift your undercarriage.”
Duval’s ears turned pink.
Sam stood up. “I’ll be outside.”
Chapter Seventy
Sam made her way along the line of rolling stock to the last car. The air in the abandoned station was old and stuffy, in bad need of circulation. A moldering tarp lay in one corner along with the remains of a hobo’s cookstove. Through grime-streaked windows she could see tracks marching off into oblivion. The distant roar of a subway train rumbled past. Her whole world had shrunk down to this shadowy cave deep beneath Paris. In the next few hours, she would go up against Grey and a group of hired thugs, armed with a handgun and BIC lighters. Not exactly an arsenal. Duval was right; their chances were slim at best.
Sam wiped dust from a bench before sitting down. She propped her elbows on her knees and tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong. A premonition struck and she felt certain one of them was going to die, maybe all three. She couldn’t say why. It came to her like a peal of thunder that rattles the whole house. Her heart trembled inside her chest and sweat broke out on her forehead. The shadows seemed to darken and gather into menacing shapes. She screwed her eyes shut and prayed. Don’t let it be Jake. If one of us has to die, God, let it be me.
Noble’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “Cold?”
Sam looked up and forced a smile onto her face. Should she tell him? No, she decided. It would either spook him, or he would laugh it off and tell her she was being a hysterical woman. And maybe she was. Maybe she had spooked herself. She said, “Praying.”
“We need all of the help we can get.” Noble stuffed his hands in his pockets and settled onto the bench next to her.
Sam scooted over to make room. “Thought you didn’t believe?”
When he didn’t answer, she said, “Do I detect a chink in the armor?”
“Right now,” Noble began slowly. “I’m open to some divine intervention. It’ll take a miracle to pull this off.”
“What brought on the sudden change of heart?”
Noble shrugged, thought it over, and said, “Odds were stacked against us in that rock quarry in Hong Kong and we came out alive. I don’t know if you have a direct line to God or a horseshoe shoved up your butt, but you’re the luckiest person I know. If praying will bring on some of that luck, by all means, pray.”
Sam felt like her heart would burst right out of her chest and go tap-dancing across the empty platform. She swallowed to contain her excitement. “Maybe if we make it out of this alive, you’ll reconsider this whole faith business?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Noble. “Get in touch with whatever higher power is taking requests, and if we make it out of this alive, I’ll attend a church service with you, but you have to go to dinner with me.”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
A slow grin turned up one side of his mouth. It was hard to be sure in the dim light of the
station, but Sam thought she saw a hint of color in his cheeks. He nodded. “I know a café in Brussels. They only accept cash and there aren’t any cameras. What do you say?”
“Deal.” A smile lit up her face and burned off some of the cold. She leaned in to kiss him. His hand cupped her cheek, urging her closer. Their lips melded together. Sam didn’t know how long it went on; it seemed like forever, but it ended too soon.
Noble broke off the kiss and whispered, “Plenty of time for that later. We got work to do.”
Chapter Seventy-One
A pair of Range Rovers and a fire-engine red Alfa Romeo parked against the curb on Saint-Germain, across from the Mabillon metro entrance. Upscale boutiques and bakeries lined the boulevard. Light from their windows spilled across the cold, wet pavement in cheery bright pockets. A group of business execs in wingtips and overcoats emerged from the subway entrance, laughing at some joke.
Mateen sat in the passenger seat of the Alfa Romeo, looking out the window at the entrance to the underground through a narcotic-induced haze courtesy of prescription strength pain relievers. His jaw was a mass of hurt. Percocet took the edge off and made the pain manageable, but he felt like he was moving through fog.
Warm air poured from the vents, misting up the windshield. The driver of the Alfa Romeo, a native Frenchman named Claude, took one look at the metro entrance and cursed. “We can’t tote a bunch of hardware down the steps. We’ll have the police here in no time.”
Grey leaned forward. “What are you so scared of?” He had a black duffel bag stuffed with old newspaper on his lap. Preston sat next to him. It was like having a pair of nervous old women in the car. They fidgeted and rocked and drummed their fingers. Mateen wanted to tell them to relax, but they were too keyed up.
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