BETRAYER of KINGS: An explosive spy thriller full of action and suspense (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 1)

by Sam Powers

  The university pub was typical, a bunch of cheap fake-wood tables, a line of high-backed bar stools, a few beer taps. It was near empty, just one couple on the patio sipping wine and eating salad for lunch. La Pierre ordered a double gin-and-tonic while her assistant, worried about her boss’s perception of her, had a club soda. “Do you think there will be any trouble with this year’s funding request?” Miriam asked, apprehensive to fill the air with something other than silence as they waited for their drinks.

  They took a seat at one of the high tables, the politician’s feet not even close to touching the floor while seated on the tall stool. But she didn’t seem to mind. “Hmmm? Oh, I don’t expect so,” La Pierre said. “The committee has had such success going into places individual nations have traditionally tiptoed around that there’s probably a certain sense of reliance there.”

  “Even after the incident in Dar Es Salaam?”

  La Pierre hadn’t thought about Dar Es Salaam in months, a failed UN attempt the year prior to rescue a group of western scientists, funded by the committee, from extremists. It had mostly passed from the public consciousness after the media lost interest; most of the extremists also died in the shootout. In fact, until the scientists’ deaths, few in the public had ever heard of the committee.

  “Politicians have expediently short memories,” La Pierre cautioned her. “The public also forgets quickly and moves on when distracted. But Politicians do not even require the distraction; just a desire to leave difficulties in the past for expediency in the future.”

  Miriam admired her boss. Though La Pierre was only five-feet-two-inches tall, she projected magnetism and dynamism. She always seemed so focused, Miriam thought, so unflustered by outside interruptions. For a leading conservative politician, it was essential she always be cool, calm and collected – except when addressing her voters, of course. Then passion ruled the day.

  And it worked. Though at least half the politicians in the assembly found her politics offensive, she still managed to get things done, to affect change, sometimes on a national level. There was no doubt that some of her sway came from her family’s long history in politics; her father had been a mainstay of the far right for decades, following the end of the Second World War.

  “And they seemed okay with the arrangement to stay in the city,” Miriam said. “That must be good news.”

  There had been a small move afoot to have the committee relocate to Brussels, which La Pierre had no doubt would give member states the impression that it could be controlled more easily – exactly why they had agreed on Montpellier in the first place; it was large enough to suit the purpose, close to Nice and Italy, and there were no other major EU offices in the city. And it suited other political ends; La Pierre had other business in the small French city, though not of the type she would ever share with the impressionable young Miriam.

  A serious and often dour woman with an easily repeated short haircut, La Pierre felt as though her time was being wasted when she had to sit through pointless conjecture or personal discussions. But Miriam was an efficient booker and manager of her schedule, so it was worth putting up with her.

  “Will you stay here over your vacation, Madame?” Miriam asked. “The weather is still very nice…”

  “I shall return to Paris for a few days then come back,” La Pierre said. “Have you made plans?”

  Miriam smiled. “My fiancée is coming to visit from La Rochelle.”

  “Ah hah! Young love,” said La Pierre. “There is nothing that can compare. What does he do, this fiancé of yours?”

  “He runs a restaurant; fresh seafood and soup every day, that sort of thing.”

  “Hmmph,” said La Pierre. “The west coast is nice, but only if you can stand the English tourists.”

  “Of course, Madame.” Like her employer, Miriam despised foreigners, particularly those from Africa and Asia. Her father had taught her many years earlier that they were parasites, ticks that sucked the lifeblood from France then hung onto her until she was immobilized by financial commitments. He was no more fond of British or American visitors, who typically hadn’t learned the language and spoke loudly at all times, and with an insincere familiarity. “So far his experience has been a good one,” she said. “But you never know with the English.”

  After the drink, they walked across campus to the the parking area, which sat by Rue de Truel; it was sunny, and both enjoyed the chance to unwind. Students strolled along, books and laptops under arms. La Pierre’s limousine driver had been instructed to meet them at the pickup zone in front of the lot, just a five-minute stroll. As they approached, the limousine driver stood at the ready then quickly opened the back door so that they could climb inside.

  La Pierre looked around, drinking in the city. Even though she was looking forward to Paris and seeing her husband Gerard, she had grown fond of Montpellier. It felt a little bit like home. It wasn’t designed to impress, although much about it was impressive; if anything, it had become a college town, a center of education and commerce. So it didn’t compare to Paris on a grand scale. But it had culture, and decent restaurants and, perhaps most importantly, plenty of places for quiet reflection.

  She wondered if she was making a mistake, aligning with foreigners, working outside the auspices of her French political role. The Association Commercial Franco-Arabe was pragmatic, to be sure, a business cabal with undeniable influence via its well-connected board; but she secretly feared how her role within the group would be received by her supporter base, if they ever discovered her involvement. She had been re-elected repeatedly on promises of ridding French soil of its pervasive foreign influence, and yet she was spending her weekends immersed in an organization that was global in its reach as could be, exerting its influence in the domestic affairs of multiple nations.

  But she did not dwell on it for long. Ultimately, La Pierre had decided, her goal of leading the Republic would be best served by using the ACF to manipulate public perception, to direct its formidable financial and political muscle towards her own ends and against opponents.

  She missed Gerard, she decided, whenever she had to stay in Montpellier. He was a realist, her sounding board. Perhaps it was old-fashioned these days to still love one’s husband after twenty years; but La Pierre was no fashionista, and they had never been happier together.

  The asset knew he was running short of time. He’d found the building a day earlier, a five-story walkup along Av. Emile Diacon, less than six hundred yards from the location. It was a square brick building with black metal fire escapes up one side. He hadn’t been sure of access, but it appeared under renovation. No one had been working there a day earlier, and the trend continued. The block around it seemed silent, a mash-up of small, older homes and government or education-type low-rise buildings. He scanned local roads in each direction; they were quiet, nearly devoid of cars. He carried the hard-sided guitar case from his rented car to the side of the walkup, then jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung of the collapsible fire escape ladder, pulling it down to just above ground level. He climbed the four flights to the highest wrought-iron balcony, then one additional ladder attached to the wall, snug to the brick, that led up to the roof. He pulled himself up and over the lip, the texture of the brick rough under his hands.

  The roof was flat and empty, just a skylight midway, a one-foot concrete wall around the edge. He placed the case on the ground next to it, facing toward the target zone. He opened the case and took out the bipod first, then began to assemble the weapon.

  The shot was long, but the wind was near still and the asset had hit numerous targets from a greater distance. He had no self-doubt. It had been a long wait, nearly six years; in the week prior he’d played through it multiple times in his head, running through scenarios, calculating methods of egress, escape routes and likely police intercept points, cross streets that law enforcement would close off in an attempt to bottle up and find their man. He had no choice but success; things were just getting star
ted, and the asset was along for the ride.

  He attached the sight and took wind judgments, adjusting in two-and-a-half mile-per-hour increments, to make up for the breeze being so slight. As with a day earlier, the location was busy, a steady stream of fat cats getting ready to go somewhere and get fatter, limousines and upscale sedans pulling out of the lot adjacent to the college. But as personal as the mission felt, the asset was a pro. There was no need for any collateral damage, and no great desire on his part to stretch the mission parameters.

  The asset waited for five minutes, then ten. He was beginning to think he’d missed the window, although his advance scouting had suggested the lunch hour would be perfect. He swung the crosshairs along the row of parked cars.

  There.

  He spotted the pair when they were less than twenty yards away from their vehicle. He lined up his target, took a deep inhalation of breath and held it. His barrel tracked them to the car, moving in a smooth, deliberate motion to match their pace.

  Then it stopped.

  Then he slowly squeezed the trigger.

  Six hundred yards away, Miriam watched her boss scan the area and wondered what she was looking for. She would never have a chance to ask.

  The .338 caliber bullet passed cleanly through La Pierre’s neck, severing her carotid artery. She collapsed to her knees, blood spraying from the wound, before tumbling forward onto the cement. Miriam screamed, then tried to help, trying to staunch the bleeding with her hand, but unable to stop it from gushing out onto the sidewalk. The limousine driver crouched beside her and tried also, the puddle of blood growing larger, soaking into his pant cuffs; La Pierre’s eyes were empty, a light switched off inside; the nearby traffic continued to pass by, oblivious to what was happening, horns honking, lanes changed at a pace unsafe to all.

  Six hundred yards away, the asset was already down the first ladder by the time Marie La Pierre breathed her last, her final look at the world just a vacant gaze towards the blue Mediterranean sky. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was halfway to the airport in the back of a cab. By the time police forensics had determined the possible origin point of the shot, he was in a different city altogether, leaving nothing behind.

  8. /

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Walter Lang hated being overnight duty officer. It was thankless, and it was rare that anything important or actionable happened. But for some reason, he always got called in nonetheless. Even then, protocol was to call in the deputy director, so in effect he was a message boy delivering an unwelcome message, waking someone up for something that typically amounted to a question of protocol.

  The sniper report out of Europe wasn’t an American security issue, but La Pierre was an important figure to the continent’s far right, and that always came with implications, the possibility of more trouble in retaliation. It came in at just after six in the morning, as Lang prepared to end his shift and go home for a solid eight hours of sleep. He contemplated pretending not to see it and leaving it for the morning duty officer, but instead decided to call Jonah Tarrant for an assessment; as David’s de facto right-hand man, he thought, Jonah would know whether it was worth hauling the deputy director out of bed and risking his wrath.

  Tarrant answered right away and Lang explained what had happened. “There’s no word yet on a suspect or motive,” he concluded.

  “The administration is a big fan of the environmental committee,” Tarrant said. “We can’t completely ignore it; at the very least, within a few hours, they’ll want to know if it jeopardizes the committee’s operations.”

  “Should I call David?”

  “That’s up to you,” Jonah said, wanting deniability, realizing that Walter had called him for the same self-interested reason. “But we have a good working relationship with the French right now, and the Brits don’t. We could offer assistance There are points to be scored.”

  But scoring points just required the work, not the oversight, and Lang had made the mistake when younger of waking up a superior unnecessarily. It was a fine line; it was also ridiculous and unprofessional to have to worry about calling him in the first place. But it was what it was. So instead, Lang roped in the analysts early and set them to work, six of his brightest young minds.

  When David Fenton-Wright finally arrived at the bullpen, the analysts had been pulling research and making calls for two hours. They were seated at a half-dozen terminals, the results displayed simultaneously on projections across one wall.

  Fenton-Wright watched Lang overseeing it all for a handful of seconds then waded in. “Assessment report,” he said.

  “A delegate to the WTC enviro committee was assassinated four hours ago,” Lang said. “Single shot, from distance. Real craftwork; locals are saying six hundred yards plus, so totally concealed.”

  “What about the victim? What can you tell me about him?”

  “Her,” Lang said. “Marie La Pierre, fifty-two. She’s a former provincial politician from Limoges, southwest of Paris. Highly nationalistic, a conservative but not a traditionalist; she has won support in the weakened French economy for her stance against immigration and she has a fairly extensive list of enemies.”

  Fenton-Wright seemed deep in thought for a moment.

  “Sir?” Lang said.

  “La Pierre. La Pierre. That’s interesting.” But he didn’t elaborate.

  Lang couldn’t stand the man. David struck him as a political predator, always on the lookout for the easy answer and the positive press clip.

  “Is that meaningful to us in some way? The name of the victim?”

  “Need-to-know,” Fenton-Wright said. “It’s related to Fawkes. I’ll let you know what I can. Are we working on an enemies list?”

  “Paris has already sent one out through Interpol. It’s long.” Lang recognized the codename for the agency’s deep-cover man in Britain. He knew nothing about him other than his existence, a secret discussed only at the highest levels. “So it could be personal instead of political?”

  “It’s possible,” Lang said. “At this point, it’s too early to rule anything out.”

  “What do we have in France right now?”

  “A handful of assets on standby and a team at the embassy in Paris. Not much.”

  “Get them into play,” Fenton-Wright said. “Let’s see if we can help our Euro friends narrow this down – with their permission, of course. Anything on the hitter?”

  “Meticulous, professional. Picked up his shell casing and even brushed dirt over the spot on the building ledge where he set his rest. Likes a western weapon, doesn’t mind an absurdly long shot. No prints, no fibers. As for matching a name to it? Your guess is as good as mine, David.”

  “Anyone else?” he called out loudly.

  A young analyst to his left spoke up. “Sir? We’ve got a full workup.”

  That was a neat trick, Lang thought, given that we don’t know detail one about the shooter yet.

  “Go ahead,” said Fenton-Wright.

  “White male, late thirties, about six foot tall, extensive military experience.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “According to French police, the furthest smudges from the wall were one and seven-eighths of a foot away on the rooftop, indicating his kneeling distance and putting him at a likely height between five-feet-eleven inches and six-feet-two inches. The bullet was a .338, suggesting a military shooter from a western nation, possibly American, British or Canadian.”

  It sounded fancy, but what it amounted to was nothing, Lang thought. The projects would be based on common variables from multiple cases; but commonalities were never guaranteed. All they needed, for example, was a suspect with arms two inches longer than the norm, and their height profile could be off substantially. “Why late thirties?” he asked.

  “The profile suggests someone with recent activity, based on the availability of shorter kill shots. The shooter was very confident, sir,” the analyst said. “Older snipers who’ve been out of the game for a while
? I don’t think they go over five hundred yards just to get a marginally better escape route. But this guy was supremely sure of himself.”

  Even though it was just a more formal repetition of what Lang had told him, Fenton-Wright nodded, hands on hips, pleased with himself, as if he were the one doing the actual work. “Have we contacted our European and British friends yet?”

  “Yes sir,” Lang said. “They’re waiting for our queue. They’re expecting us to contribute because the president has been the environmental committee’s biggest fan, but they’re going to want to sign off on anything we do and take a lead, of course.”

  “Would that it weren’t so,” Fenton-Wright said. “Okay, let’s get to work people. Let’s see how we can shake that shooter loose.”

  Sept. 8, 2015, PARIS, FRANCE

  Under a cool-but-sunny sky, the gray Rolls Royce Phantom sedan pulled up to the curb outside the squat, brown glass building housing La Banque de Commerce Francais on Rue Chabon, just a few blocks away from the Champs Elysees. The driver wore a matching gray uniform with a peaked hat. He got out quickly, his patent leather boots glinting as he avoided the oncoming traffic and moved around the back of the car to open the rear door.

  Yoshi Funomora stepped gingerly out onto the near-vacant sidewalk, looking both ways as he did. The shooting two days earlier had made them all nervous, he supposed. Any one of them could have been in Montpellier giving that speech.

  Funomora was a heavy man with typically thick, dark hair. The Japanese representative wore a three-piece suit and bowler hat with spat-style brogue shoes, and even though it was sunny, he carried an umbrella with him at all times, just in case. He covered the few feet to the bank’s entrance without incident, scanning the street behind him one more time before heading inside.

  The public portion of the business was immense. Along one wall were a dozen teller windows, all staffed and busy and with waiting lines. Along the other were a series of offices used to conduct loan business and interviews. Customers milled around the center of the room, waiting for a turn on either side. At the very back, under a porcelain wall-hanging depicting Charlemagne on horseback and adjacent to the vault, was the double-sized entrance to a large conference room. The doors were usually locked, as only one group was authorized to use it, a group that, as far as most of the world was concerned, did not exist.