The Paris Diversion

by Chris Pavone

  A man like you.

  “They will realize there can be only one reason.”

  Mahmoud nodded, expecting more of an explanation. He did not get one. But he figured it out, on his own.

  * * *

  After just a few minutes, the soldiers who surrounded him begin to retreat, walking backward, then sideways, until they step through the gap in the fence. Then Mahmoud is all alone.

  Except for this earpiece in his ear, and a microphone pinned to his collar. “Everyone is gone,” he says into the mic.

  “You will have the gratitude of your people,” the man says into Mahmoud’s ear.

  There will be no further instructions for Mahmoud, no updates from him. No decision for him to make, no actions to take.

  “Of your family.”

  There will be nothing.

  “You will have the thanks of Allah.”

  23

  PARIS. 10:01 A.M.

  She would know if a world leader were in town, a European president, the pope, the type of dignitary whose presence would shut down traffic on the streets and the river too. Those visits are difficult for any run-of-the-mill Parisian to overlook, and impossible for Kate.

  So that’s not it.

  Plenty of large-scale demonstrations occur in Paris. Jours de grève pop up regularly; some population of French workers is pretty much always on strike. Large crowds march to support social security, or on the other hand to decry la sécu. On any given day, some group is protesting something. But these demonstrations don’t arise out of nowhere.

  There has been no civil unrest, no overt religious strife, no outrageous incident of police brutality. There’s no current, recent, or upcoming election.

  This is not a culture inclined toward martial law, nor random displays of military might. Bastille Day is one thing, but the police here don’t flex their muscles merely to show off.

  There’s no volcano within hundreds of miles, earthquakes don’t happen here, nor hurricanes, tornadoes, the sorts of natural emergencies that can necessitate large-scale mobilizations of security forces.

  No, the sort of catastrophe that happens in Paris is something else. The specifics of each attack have come as a surprise, but not the general fact of them, it’s an ever-present possibility. And Kate’s job is knowing such things, if not in advance then at least once they’ve begun, when the circle of secrecy expands to include someone or other in her wide network of paid informants, pink hundred-euro notes handed out liberally across Western Europe. But she has heard of nothing happening today. Is this another failure of hers?

  They’re mounting. Ever since Copenhagen, from which Hayden fled, chasing a lead to America, where his blood was found on a rocky beach. It wasn’t a huge amount of blood, not a lethal volume. And no body. But still.

  Then there was the operation in Seville, the missed opportunity. Followed by Palermo, when Kate overcompensated for her failure in the first, and lost an actual person. And not just any person.

  Since then, no new assignments, nothing to reassure her that she still directs an active concern. It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that she blew it. That after her ongoing ops conclude, the Paris Substation is going to be folded. Which at this point in her career will mean the end of. Like a ballplayer: at a certain point, another surgery is no longer sensible, and there’s nothing to be done but hang up the cleats, buy a car dealership.

  A few years ago, in Luxembourg, Jake quizzed her about her job. They were in the car, on their way to one of the big playgrounds, three-thirty in the afternoon. The little boy listened to her cover story with no skepticism, nodding along, trying to understand the grown-up world, and his mother’s place in it. He considered her explanation for a few seconds, then asked, “Mommy, you’re quite young to be retired, aren’t you?”

  It wasn’t until then that she considered the possibility that her unemployment was permanent. “I’m not retired, Sweetie. I’m just taking a break.”

  * * *

  While she waits for the hammer to drop, Kate still goes to work most days, even when there’s basically nothing to do. Every day might be the day that she can save her career.

  In Kate’s mind, there are definitely other people who could be blamed. In the ultimate court, she’d be able to call witnesses in her defense, there’d be an argument she could advance, appeals to the judge. But you never do get to defend yourself, explain your decisions, justify your missteps. Certainly not to anyone who can make any difference; the only people who would listen are the people who can’t do anything about it.

  And in any court there’d be cross-examinations, a solid case could definitely be made against her. “What about Seville?” they’d ask. “What about Palermo? What about Julia MacLean? How do you explain all that?”

  * * *

  Kate plants herself in front of a family of four rushing toward her, parents and a pair of teenagers wearing scandalously short skirts, obscenely tight tees, dance-clubby makeup.

  “Excuse me,” Kate says. The mother has been crying. The father meets her eye, so Kate addresses him: “What’s going on?”

  “A man is in the middle of the Louvre, wearing a suicide vest.”

  They rush past, scurrying back to their hotel where they’ll hole up until their flight home, no more museums, no Métro or public places, not with their worst fears about international travel confirmed. Why didn’t the CIA see this coming? Isn’t that what they’re for?

  Kate has tried her case herself—over and over, usually in the middle of the night. She knows that in a just world she’d be found not guilty. But that’s not the same thing as innocent.

  24

  PARIS. 10:08 A.M.

  This isn’t something you know until you’ve done it: moving dead bodies is extremely awkward. Wyatt hadn’t needed to move around any of the previous dead bodies in his life, just let them lie where they fell. These two are also the only completely innocent people he’s ever killed, as far as he knows. Maybe the hard work is his penance.

  He tries to work quickly, dragging them across the concrete floor, back behind the little Cooper. The man weighs at least two hundred pounds, surprisingly difficult to drag forty yards. When Wyatt finishes he’s winded, arms burning, back aching.

  He climbs back into the van to catch his breath, gather his wits, collect his bag. This damn bag. If only he hadn’t forgotten it.

  Though what does that even mean, innocent? Innocent doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to die. We all die, there’s no deserve or don’t deserve about it. Just a question of when, and how. His daughter doesn’t deserve to die. But she will.

  It’s possible he’s going to vomit. He fights it back, swallows. And again.

  Wyatt takes a deep, slow breath, trying to bring his digestive system under control, to halt the reverse peristalsis—

  Fuck—he can’t help it—he flings open the door, and leans over, and splat, it’s all coming up, last night’s dinner, absolutely disgusting, orange and brown chunks bound up in unctuous slime. He can’t stop staring down into this repugnant puddle of sick.

  His DNA is all over the goddamned place.

  He climbs out of the van, scans the walls, there must be a hose here somewhere, a spigot, a way to clean the pavement, sluice away oil slicks, broken bottles of mango nectar, drunken-relief urine, a long pleasant aahhhhhh. He’ll hose down this mess, it won’t take more than a minute or two, then get—

  What’s that? Jesus H., will it never end?

  Another car is coming down the ramp, he can see the headlights, so he launches himself back into the driver’s seat, pulls the door closed, ducks down and leans his body across the gearshift, the side of his head hitting this bag—this fucking bag—in the passenger seat, he shoves it to the floor, giving himself room to hide his head.

  The new car’s wheels squeak around a turn. Wyatt can see headlights fla
sh across his truck’s roof, then on the opposite wall, another squeak, then the lights stop strobing, aimed right here at the wall in front of him.

  Damn.

  He can feel the new car pull up just beyond his head, it can be only a few feet that separates him from this other driver.

  The new car’s engine dies. The click of another door unlatching, a creak as it opens, then slams shut, loudly, echoing. A rustle of movement, clothes, and then nothing. No footsteps. Why? Why no footsteps? Is this fucker looking through the van’s window?

  Wyatt is lying on his right side, which makes it awkward to shift the angle of his right arm, reach his right hand into his pocket, where the gun is.

  Now he notices the glow, it must be a screen, this newly arrived person is standing right here between his car and Wyatt’s van, typing a text-message, checking a map, doing something that might seem urgent, with no idea that it might be the biggest—the final—mistake of his life.

  Wyatt is going to hyperventilate. He focuses on taking in a breath slowly, carefully, quietly.

  This glow persists, right here, just inches from his face.

  Wyatt’s right hand finds the grip in his pocket. His palm settles, fingers find their positions. He takes another controlled breath.

  Then movement—what’s this?—it’s the light, the phone’s glow, the angle shifted, and then the dim light extinguishes.

  Footsteps recede.

  Another door creaks open, shudders shut, then: silence.

  Wyatt counts to ten. Then to ten again. Then he sits up. Looks around, his eyes drawn to the Cooper on the far side. He can just barely make out one of the woman’s feet, peeking out from behind a rear wheel.

  He can’t be here anymore.

  * * *

  As he hustles down the sidewalk, Wyatt tries to locate the policeman, but can’t. The Métro station is right up here, around this corner, which he turns—

  Fuck.

  Of course that’s where the cop is, standing at the top of the steps, in the crisscross shadows of the latticework Métro sign, looking vigilant, alert, like a policeman should during a terrorist siege. Of course the patrolman would be dispatched to the subway station. Why didn’t anyone think of this? Why didn’t Wyatt?

  Do not stop walking, he tells himself. Do not slow down. Do not look around. Just one foot in front of the other, step off this curb—

  Fuck! What the—?

  “Fou!” It’s a cyclist screaming at him, cursing. “Connard!”

  “Désolé!” Wyatt calls out, too late. “Désolé,” he repeats the apology, quieter, but that doesn’t put the genie back in the bottle: the cop is now staring straight at him.

  Wyatt can’t turn around now. He continues toward the subway, shaky, God he’s nervous. He has to walk right by this policeman, here in broad daylight. Any blood spatters will be clearly visible. The smell of his exertion, his sweat, his fear. And he’s carrying this pistol, there’s gunshot residue on his clothing, the aroma trapped in his nasal passages.

  Stop it, he tells himself. Stop thinking of all that shit. Just put one foot in front of the other, just a few more steps, just one more.

  The cop looks him dead in the face, and Wyatt can’t help but cut his eyes away from this confrontational gaze, a mistake, what can he do to compensate…?

  “Bonjour,” he mutters.

  “Bonjour.”

  Now he has passed, and taken one step down the stairs, a second—

  “Monsieur?”

  Oh my fucking God! What now?

  He freezes absolutely still for a second, then turns, looks up at the cop.

  “Votre sac,” the cop says. His bag? “Il est ouvert.”

  “Ah oui?” Wyatt looks down at his open bag. He zips it closed, and a half-second too late realizes he’s still wearing latex gloves. “Merci.”

  “Faites attention, aujourd’hui,” the cop says, already turned away. He didn’t notice the gloves, did he?

  Be careful today. Indeed.

  25

  PARIS. 10:21 A.M.

  They’re moving at a decent clip on a straightaway, probably one of those broad Right Bank boulevards. At this higher speed the bumps hurt more, the chassis jarring into Hunter’s sides, his ribs, shaking the contents of his skull.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. What does he really know about this so-called Tom Simpson? What facts did Hunter check? None. He was bullied into blind trust.

  “Listen, Mr. Simpson,” he says from under the tarp. “Tom.”

  But what’s he going to say? I’m not having fun, please take me home? Can I speak to your supervisor? Show me your ID again? I want my mommy?

  He almost says Forget it, but then chivalry occurs to him as a viable alternative to cowardice. “Could I ask you to slow down? I think you’re knocking Colette’s marbles loose.” Or pretend chivalry. Hunter suspects that all chivalry is pretend, just as he’s convinced about all religion. Everyone must know, on some level, that there’s no fucking way. But maybe if you pretend long enough, hard enough, you forget that what you’re doing is pretending.

  * * *

  The car comes to a stop.

  “Just a minute more,” Simpson says. “Please remain still.”

  Hunter hears the driver’s door open, but not close. Another noise, a high-pitched creak, a hinge that needs oiling. Then a similar noise, but not exactly the same.

  Big doors. Two of them.

  The driver plops back into his seat, shifts gears. The car moves forward slowly, then stops again, and the transmission shifts into reverse, turning, then forward again. Hunter realizes what this is: Simpson just turned the car around, so it faces the direction whence they came, the exit.

  Hunter congratulates himself on figuring this out. But is it a good thing for them to be ready for a quick getaway? Or bad? What does it suggest about this predicament? About the safety of this location? About the confidence that Simpson has in—

  The tarp is yanked off.

  “Sorry for the discomfort,” Simpson says. “You can get out now.” He walks around to open Colette’s door, reaches out his hand.

  “Merci.” She extends her arm, her blouse disheveled, quick glimpse of lace bra, hot pink. Christ. She’s got some weapons-grade lingerie under there. Hunter wonders if this is normal, if she wears lace garters and hot-pink bras every day, or if today is an occasion, date night, an anniversary. Or is it possible that she wears special underwear for Hunter’s benefit?

  “In here.” Simpson ushers them toward the building’s door, a keypad, a long string of digits that the guy shields from view. “Sorry, there’s no elevator.”

  They trudge up the stairs, one flight, two. They pause on the landing, catch their breath. Then up another long flight.

  “I guess we must be in the penthouse,” Hunter says. No one responds.

  There’s a single door up at the top, steel-plated. A few locks, top, bottom, middle.

  Something is tugging at the corners of Hunter’s consciousness. What? He glances around the short hall. Should there be another door up here? The locks look high-tech, and three seems like a large number of them. But isn’t that what you’d expect from a CIA safehouse? The steel reinforcement too?

  Simpson unlocks the final mechanism with a loud click, turns the knob, pushes open the fortified door.

  It’s dark in here, heavy curtains on the windows. Simpson flips a switch that turns on a few floor lamps; there’s no overhead. “Come on in.”

  Hunter allows Colette to step inside first, then follows tentatively.

  Simpson reengages the locks, one of which requires a key to secure from the inside. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s safe.” He slips the keys into his pocket.

  Maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe Hunter is just nervous. As well he should be. Nothing wimpy about that, just
a sensible response to what’s obviously a highly fucked-up situation, spirited away by the CIA to protect him from murder, kidnapping. If he weren’t nervous, he’d be a moron.

  But Hunter is used to trusting his gut. And his gut is telling him that it isn’t just nerves.

  26

  PARIS. 10:22 A.M.

  Kate is frozen in the middle of the pont des Arts, a boulder in a stream, people flowing around her like fast-moving currents.

  Her first instinct is to spin around, to join the panicked mob fleeing danger, to return to school and reclaim her children, just as it crossed her mind an hour and a half ago, when she heard the first sirens, when the threat was unknown. But then what? Where would the family go? Traffic will be a nightmare, roads closed, maybe train stations, airports. All she’d accomplish would be to panic the children. And the apartment wouldn’t be any safer than school. Less so: home is closer to a greater number of higher-value targets. Plus proximity to Kate Moore doesn’t necessarily make anyone safer.

  Paris is replete with noteworthy terrorist targets—dozens, hundreds, they’re everywhere, but the International School of St-Germain is not one. There are no celebrity children there, no presidential daughters, no reason for the school to interest anyone. The kids are as safe as they can be, in that school.

  That’s the logical assessment. But parenting isn’t always logical, and Kate is having a hard time beating back the emotional impulse, convincing herself to do what she knows she needs to do: continue to the Louvre, see this situation firsthand. Kate is the boots on the ground. If she’s still a useful intelligence resource, she needs to prove it today.