Noble Intent

by William Miller

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Grey stood on the prow of a river barge docked west of Pont Neuf. A thin layer of fog blanketed the Seine and formed halos around the lights of the distant bridge. Oil drums were lashed to the open deck of the barge and old tires protected the gunwales. Waves lapped at the rusty hull while a blistering cold tugged at the hem of Grey’s dark wool overcoat. He reached into his pocket for his cell, stripped off a glove with his teeth, dialed, and put the phone to his ear.

  The Alfa Romeo was parked on the street. Preston and Duval waited inside the car with the heater running. Fifty meters further up, a commercial vessel had pulled in to dock. Crew members ambled up the stone steps, weary after a long day while deck hands lashed the ship to the wharf. A fog horn gave a mournful cry in the distance.

  Coughlin picked up after a dozen rings. “You’d better have good news.”

  “We got him,” Grey said. “The package is secure.”

  Coughlin breathed a sigh of relief. “Have you found out the name of his failsafe?”

  “Not yet,” Grey said.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “We just got to the river,” Grey told him. “I’m waiting on another ship to unload.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning in the dead of winter,” Grey said. “Two guys wrestling a third man below decks in the middle of the night might look suspicious.”

  “I forgot about the time difference,” Coughlin said. “Let me know as soon as you have a name.”

  The line went dead before Grey could say another word. He stood on the prow, his coat flapping around his knees, watching the last of the sailors stumble up the steps. When they had gone and the quayside was finally empty, Grey signaled to Preston, then made his way along the gunwale to the pilothouse.

  The powerful diesel came to life with a series wheezing coughs that turned into a throaty rumble, whipping the water behind the barge into white foam. While Preston herded Duval out of the car and up the gangplank, Grey hurried to release the mooring lines. The journalist allowed himself to be dragged along the deck to an open hatch, begging for his life, promising to tell them anything as long as they didn’t hurt him. Grey threw off the last of the lines and then hustled back to the bridge. The sound of the engines throttled up and the old rust heap pulled slowly away from the stone jetty.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Burke sat behind the wheel of his car staring at his two-story brownstone. The sky overhead was iron gray. Small flurries of snow accumulated along the wipers and quickly turned to wet. After handing in his resignation, Burke had driven around aimlessly for several hours, cruising the streets of the capital, not sure where he was going. Somehow, he ended up here. He had needed someone to talk to, but Maddie wasn’t home. Burke’s mind was racing and going nowhere, like a hamster in a wheel.

  For an organization which prided itself on keeping secrets, news of Burke’s sudden retirement had spread fast. People stopped him on his way out of the building to shake his hand and congratulate him on his years of service. Burke had smiled and offered up excuses for his sudden departure. The rumor mill was working overtime and there was a lot of speculation but no one really knew for certain. No one but Burke, that is. He had been fired, even if he was the only one who knew it. He had lost his job, early retirement would take a chunk out of his pension, his marriage was in shambles, and he would lose the house. Maddie would surely get it in the divorce.

  How had he screwed things up so badly?

  He passed a hand over his face. The engine idled and a column of white exhaust rose from the tailpipe. Rain sensors occasionally triggered the wipers. They streaked across the windshield, throwing off the buildup of slush. Burke could do as the Director had suggested and start a private intelligence firm. There were plenty of ex-CIA employees who freelanced, but fifty-eight was too old to start all over again, and contract work meant taking jobs that were less than ethical.

  Burke snorted and looked at himself in the rearview. “Since when did you start worrying about ethics?”

  Where was all that moral outrage when he had stepped out on his wife with another woman? Matt shook his head. Here he was, sitting in the driveway of his former home, worried about morals. Funny how we pick and choose our ethics.

  While he pondered the implications of his own morality, a blue Escalade pulled into the drive. Burke angled his rearview.

  Maddie was in the passenger seat with her hair pulled back and a few loose strands framing her face. A glossy red stain covered her lips. A handsome black man with a shaved head was at the wheel. From the way he sat, it was easy to see he was tall. Six-four, maybe six-five.

  There was a gun in Burke’s glove box and he pictured himself getting out, walking back to the Escalade, and emptying the weapon into Mr. Tall and Handsome.

  While he watched, Maddie and her new beau shared a brief exchange. Her date wore a look of concern at the strange car in the drive. Maddie shook her head and dangly gold earrings swayed. Mr. Tall and Handsome leaned across the seats. Maddie offered her cheek.

  Burke’s tenuous grip on composure weakened. It felt like a cinderblock pressing down on his chest. What did you expect? That she would wait around for you? He had thrown away their marriage and she had every right to see someone new.

  The passenger door opened and Maddie climbed out. A clingy black dress with a plunging neckline hugged her curves and three-inch heels sculpted her calves. She wrapped herself in a faux fur and ducked her chin as she hurried up to the side of Burke’s car.

  He buzzed the window down.

  Maddie had a nervous smile on her face. “I wasn’t expecting…”

  Her smile ran away, replaced by concern. They had been married a long time and she could still read him. She saw the look on his face and said, “What happened?”

  He started to talk but didn’t know where to begin. Instead he hiked up his shoulders and said, “Sorry. I didn’t know you were on a date. I should go.”

  “He’s just a friend from work,” Maddie said. “It was the first time and it was only dinner.”

  “All the same,” said Burke, fighting to control the emotion behind the words. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Don’t shut me out, Matt. I’ve known you too long. Something’s wrong.”

  “It’s nothing,” Burke tried to say.

  Maddie turned back and gave her date a goodbye wave. He put the Escalade in reverse, backed out of the driveway, and disappeared down the road. Maddie opened the passenger door and climbed in next to Burke. “What’s going on, Matt?”

  A frown creased his forehead. He cleared a catch in his throat and started to talk. He told her everything.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Fear coursed through Duval’s veins. With every beat of his terrified heart, his arteries felt like they would explode. And Grey hadn’t even started in on the torture yet. They had stripped him naked, strapped him to a chair in the hold, and checked for listening devices under the bandage wrapped around his head—just like Noble had said they would—but they hadn’t bothered to check under his scrotum.

  A single bulb in a wire cage lit rusty bulkheads and stagnant puddles gathered on the metal floor. Waves lapped at the hull and water dripped from a leaky pipe in the ceiling, making a steady plunk-plunk-plunk. Duval shivered against the numbing cold. His nose was running. He could feel it inching down his upper lip toward his open mouth but there was nothing he could do about it.

  Preston had gone topside, to take over at the wheel, leaving Duval alone with Grey. “You made a real mess of things,” Grey said. “You know that? Langley is starting to ask questions and I don’t have answers.”

  “Please,” Sacha said. The word came out in sections, broken up by pathetic hitching noises: puh-huh-leas. Noble had told him to act scared, do a lot of begging, and that part was proving easy. He was scared out of his mind. It was the other part that was next to impossible. Duval licked his lips and said, “Ple
ase, don’t kill me. Let me go and I’ll never tell anyone about CyberLance, I promise. Just let me go.”

  He was begging for his life, but he was also stringing Grey along, trying to tease information from him. Noble had coached Duval on the art of counter-interrogation. It required the person being interrogated to extract an admission of guilt from the one doing the interrogation.

  “While they’re questioning you, you’re questioning them,” Noble had said. “Don’t make the mistake of answering their questions directly. Answer questions with questions. Get them to spell out their crimes on tape. It’s the only way to prove Coughlin stole CyberLance and is selling the service to the highest bidder.”

  “But don’t let on that you’re trying to get a confession from them,” Sam had added. “You have to make it look natural.”

  “It will help if you can act scared,” Noble had said.

  Duval had never been so scared in his life. His fingers and toes were numb and his bladder felt like it would let go any second.

  Grey crossed his arms over his chest. “Let you go?” He shook his head. “We need to have a chat. This is about information. You have it and I want it.”

  “What information do you want?” Duval asked. “I thought you already knew about CyberLance? If you didn’t help Coughlin use it, then who did?”

  “Where’s your laptop, Sacha?”

  “It was destroyed,” Duval told him. “What do you want my laptop for?”

  Grey shot out a hand.

  Duval had just enough time to clamp his eyes shut and draw his shoulders up. The open-hand blow caught him on the cheek and rocked his head to the side. The sharp clap sounded incredibly loud in his ears. Duval hadn’t realized he screamed until the sound faded.

  “Where’s the laptop, Sacha? You had it with you on the boat. Where is it now?”

  “I told you. It was destroyed,” Duval said. “All the proof I had that Coughlin was using CyberLance is gone. Tell Coughlin it was broken. That’s who you work for right? Pete Coughlin?”

  “Shut up.” Grey hit Duval with another stinging slap.

  Duval sobbed. “Please, I’m telling you the truth.”

  “What about your failsafe?” Grey asked. “Who else has access to the Cypher Punk vaults? Who releases the information if you die?”

  Duval shook his head. “No one, I swear.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “I want names,” Grey said in a soft, almost friendly tone.

  “There’s no one,” Duval insisted.

  Grey said, “You have a third informant and it’s someone inside the CIA. I want to know who.”

  Duval felt the cold hand of fear grip his guts. “How did you know that?”

  “You received a data dump of classified info. That’s how you knew about operation medusa,” Grey said. He grabbed a fistful of Duval’s hair and wrenched his head back.

  Duval’s chin shot up toward the ceiling. He choked back a shriek.

  “Think we’re stupid?” Grey shouted in his face. Spittle landed on Duval’s cheek and he winced. Grey said, “We’ve been feeding out false information trying to trace it back to you through your moles.”

  “Who?” Duval said. “Who’s been feeding false information? Coughlin?”

  Grey let go of his hair. “What’s it matter to you? We know you’ve got someone inside the CIA and we know that person is your failsafe. You’re going to give me a name or you’re going to die slowly.”

  Grey took an unmarked bottle from a self and gave it a shake. Liquid sloshed around inside.

  Duval’s chin trembled. Tears welled up in his eyes and doubled his vision.

  “That’s right,” Grey told him. “You’re going to die, Sacha. But you get to decide how much it hurts.”

  He thumbed the cap off the bottle and the smell of bleach assaulted Duval’s nostrils. His heart hammered wildly inside his chest. His body shook like a dog with worms. Where in the hell were Noble and Sam? Why didn’t they stop this? Grey was going to kill him and there was nothing Duval could do to stop him.

  “Tell me the name of your failsafe and I’ll make it quick,” said Grey. “Hold out on me, and we’ll find out how much bleach you can drink before it eats a hole in your stomach.”

  “I don’t know his name!” Duval was shouting now, desperate for this psychopath to believe him. “I don’t know his name. He never told me. You have to believe me!”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Noble twisted the steering wheel. He was in the driver’s seat of a stolen plumber’s van, speeding west along the Quai des Tuileries, following the line of the river as it looped through the heart of Paris. The fading script on the side of the van promised “Fast, Professional Service.” The owner wouldn’t realize the truck was missing until he arrived at work in the morning. Noble jogged around a slower-moving Passat and back into his lane. Plumbing tools crashed around in the rear of the van. The driver of the Passat mashed his horn. Noble ignored him and watched the side streets, looking for a glimpse of the river barge.

  “We’re going to lose him,” Sam said. She was in the passenger seat with the ruggedized laptop open on her thighs. Duval’s terrified voice came from the speakers, a faint but audible signal broken by static. The climbing gear lay on the floor between the seats. Sam listened to the exchange and shook her head. “Jake, he can’t hold out much longer. Turn here.”

  “Give him more time,” Noble said.

  They heard liquid splashing and frantic gurgling noises. Noble frowned. A tight knot formed in his chest. The splashing sound stopped and Duval wretched. It sounded like he was tossing up his guts. Noble tried not to imagine the scene and focused on the information instead.

  “Who’s your failsafe?” Grey demanded.

  “I don’t know his name,” Duval spluttered. “Listen, I’ve got money. How much is Coughlin paying you to cover his tracks? I’ll double it. Name your price. Anything!”

  A flat hard smack distorted the speaker.

  “Try again,” Grey barked.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know his name,” Duval said.

  There came the sound of liquid sloshing inside a bottle. “Want some more?”

  “No, please. No more.”

  “Tell me his name!”

  “You have to believe me,” Duval said. “I don’t know.”

  Noble said, “Come on, Sacha, keep him talking.”

  Sam shook her head. “Jake, we’ve gotten as much as we’re going to get. We have to pull him out.”

  They were coming up on Pont Alexandre III and Sam said, “Turn here.”

  From the speaker, they heard Duval take another face full of bleach. Grey demanded a name over more retching noises.

  “He calls himself Groot,” Duval spluttered at last. “That’s all I know.”

  Noble cursed and cut the wheel. The van slewed through the turn, tires slipping on a scrim of ice. Sam braced one hand against the dash and held the computer with the other. The stolen van swerved around the tail end of a delivery truck, narrowly avoided an oncoming taxi, and veered back into the right lane.

  Armed with his contact’s cryptonym, Grey no longer had any more use for Duval. He would kill him and dump the body in the water. That gave Noble and Sam minutes, maybe less, to get on the barge and extract Duval before Grey put a bullet in him.

  Noble stamped the gas. The old plumbing van raced onto Pont Alexandre III, past the towering winged horses that flanked either end of the bridge, and zigzagged through traffic. They could see the glass and steel dome of the Grand Palais in the distance.

  Grey made a phone call and they heard him say, “It’s me. Does the name Groot mean anything to you?”

  Noble reached the middle of the bridge, mounted the empty sidewalk and stamped the brakes. The wheels locked and the van slid. The front bumper swerved back and forth. Tools tumbled forward, crashing and clanging, before the van slowed to a stop.

  “H
e claims that’s all he knows,” Grey was saying.

  On Noble’s left, passing under Pont des Invalides, he spied the dark outline of the barge plowing through the fog-shrouded waters of the Seine. Running lamps made halos in the mist.

  Noble threw open his door and Sam tossed him a climbing rope. He caught it one-handed and hurried to the railing, trying to gauge where the barge would pass under the bridge with nothing more than instinct born of countless hours at sea. Sometimes it pays to live on a boat.

  Sam crossed around in front of the truck, coiling a rope around her forearm. Wind caught a few loose strands of her black hair and pink spots bloomed in her cheeks. “We’re only going to get one shot at this,” she said.

  “Don’t remind me.” Noble looked at the barge, then over the railing at the churning waters below, moved several meters to his left, and set to work feeding rope through his harness.

  Sam chose a spot far enough apart that she would still land on the deck, but not so close that she risked colliding with Noble on the way down. Her chest rose and fell. Air exploded from her lips in short bursts. Her hands shook as she worked the rope.

  “It’s so close,” Sam said, looking at the distance between the bridge and the deck of the ship. The barge had almost reached Pont Alexandre III. It would be passing under any minute. “We could almost jump.”

  “Don’t try it,” Noble warned.

  “No,” said Sam, “Just giving myself encouragement.”

  “Try to relax,” Noble told her. “Focus on your breathing.”

  She nodded, took a breath and let it out slow. A cold wind whipped the waters of the Seine into white froth. Sam’s eyes went to the barge. She could hear the sound of the big diesel motor and see the pilothouse. She said, “They’re going to see us.”

  “Not much we can do about that,” Noble told her. He secured his line to the railing with a carabiner, gathered the length in one hand and waited.