The Paris Diversion

by Chris Pavone

  And if he’s seriously injured. She can’t be weighed down by that, can’t subject herself and Matteo to the risks attendant with traveling with someone who has wounds to treat, someone seeking medical attention, undergoing surgeries, removing bullets whose ballistics might be traced, administrative records that are fed into centralized databases, blood types, fingerprints, dental records.

  If he’s seriously injured, she knows what she needs to do.

  * * *

  “Okay.” Richie picked an imaginary piece of lint off the hammy thigh of his tight pants, then turned back to face her. “I’ve got some concerns.”

  She had just finished explaining what needed explanation, but that left ample room for questions, of which anyone in their right mind would ask plenty. Richie may not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he wasn’t crazy.

  “First, obviously: how do we not get caught?”

  “To begin with, you don’t need to worry about yourself. You’re completely in the clear. No one knows we’re here, we barely even exist.”

  Richie understood.

  “Most important, Richie: no Internet for any communications, ever. We need to use the Internet for research, but we do everything that’s necessary using a single computer set to a masked IP address, at a physical location that will not be traceable to us. Before the day itself we destroy the computer and scrub the apartment.”

  “How do we communicate?”

  “Burner phones, using code. Nothing complicated, just enough to avoid key-word recognition.”

  “How many people are involved?”

  “A couple of handfuls.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Okay. Chronologically, it’s one, a woman posing as a scientific researcher at the cancer ward, to buffer the recruitment process of two, the suicide bomber. Three, the driver who delivers a couple of the bombs and the bomber. For the kidnapping, a pair of fake cops, that’s four and five. Plus six and seven, a couple of freelancers to deposit additional bombs. Eight and nine, incidentals doing small piecework, completely firewalled from the rest.”

  “Piecework?”

  “Just some advance intel.” She doesn’t want to explain this legwork, which veers into territory that she intends to keep from Richie, for the benefit of everyone.

  “What about the State-slash-CIA guy?”

  She pointed at Chris.

  Richie turned to examine him. “Interesting.”

  “To generate the other international panics, two people—number ten in one country, eleven in another.”

  “How much you paying all these people?”

  “Wildly varying compensation, for very different responsibilities and risk levels. Only two will be large. Most will be small, not enough for anyone to think they’re doing anything serious. A few hundred euros, leave this backpack over there, that kind of thing. By the time any of these people realize what’s really going on, they’ll have no way of changing their minds, no way of contacting us, no way of ID’ing anyone.”

  “So what’s the grand total?”

  “In sum the freelancers will cost about four hundred thousand.”

  Richie mugged an exaggerated frown, wise-guy for not bad. “Other expenses?”

  “Another two hundred K for flights and apartments, hotel rooms and meals and wardrobe and living expenses, plus the van, other supplies. And another couple hundred for the bomb materials.” She’d budgeted every single item, line by line. The nuclear waste had been particularly expensive. “Overall, it’s just over three-quarters of a million of non-recoupable expenses.”

  A drop in the bucket, considering the upside. But that upside will be worthwhile only if they raise copious quantities of additional investments. With a couple of million, they’ll break even. One or two high-net-worth investors, that’s all they need.

  “So who’s managing all this on the ground? I’m assuming not you.” He indicated Susanna’s swollen stomach. By the time everything had come together sufficiently to seek investors, she was visibly pregnant. She’d been pregnant a few times before in the past couple of years, but this was the only one that had advanced to viability, to visibility. Every day that she didn’t miscarry felt like a miracle.

  “I am.”

  Richie turned to Chris. “You know what you’re doin’, huh?”

  “I’m not incompetent.”

  “Oh no? What sorta jobs you work?”

  “I have the same professional background as my wife.”

  “That right?” This tickled Richie. “You two meet on the job?”

  Neither answered. Richie didn’t press it. “So, you gonna tell me who this CEO is who you’re gonna kidnap? And where this is all gonna happen?”

  “Eventually.”

  “What exactly are you waiting for?”

  “For you to commit.”

  “Why this particular guy? You have something against him?”

  “Probably.”

  “The fuck does that mean?”

  “It means that although I don’t personally know the CEO, every indicator suggests that he’s a jackass. But his jackassery is beside the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Pure opportunity, Richie. This scenario would work with any number of targets. This particular individual is simply the one who’s most available.”

  This was the first significant lie she’d told Richie. She didn’t want to loop him into that component of the plan, the real reason that the target needed to be Hunter Forsyth. Because that would smack of revenge-driven motivation, which everyone, even Richie Benedetti, knows is bad for business.

  * * *

  “Here’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If there are never any negotiations, never any demands, how is this gonna make sense to the cops? How will they believe they’ve solved the mystery, stop looking for us?”

  “They’ll find a duffel bag on the subway containing burner phones that connect to the bombs. They’ll understand that something went very wrong with the attack, and that’s why the bombs were never detonated, communications never established, a negotiation never initiated. The police will think that the duffel and its owner got separated somehow. Or he got cold feet, he got arrested, he got killed by a double-crossing confederate. They will have many theories.”

  “Won’t they look for him?”

  “Of course they will. It will be an extremely bad day to be a Muslim man in this city.”

  “But they won’t find anyone?”

  “Oh, they’ll find someone. Someone who looks very guilty.”

  “And what’s to prevent that guy from talking?”

  “What do you think?”

  Richie got it. In his line of business, there are always bodies. “And this is a guy who’ll look like the brains behind the operation?”

  “No, this is a guy who’ll look like a mercenary bagman. It will literally be his bag that the police find. With his change of clothes, his fingerprints, hairs, everything.”

  “Won’t law enforcement be able to back-trace his steps?”

  “Yes they will. Which will lead to an empty apartment. To a stolen van with stolen plates and no connection to us. To electronic communications with someone who doesn’t exist.”

  Richie looked skeptical.

  “Listen, Richie.” She leaned forward. “We have a huge amount of experience in things like this. We know what investigators look for, obviously. We know what they find, how they find it. We have a combined half-century of experience here.”

  Richie didn’t seem completely satisfied, but he was willing to move past it, at least temporarily. “When does this go down?”

  Ah, good: he was thinking about the practicalities from his own point of view. First schedule. Then he’ll have another, larger q
uestion.

  “Two to four months from now. After we have all the pieces in place, and the right moment presents itself.”

  He nodded, then leveled his gaze at her. Here it comes.

  “So.”

  “Yes, Richie?”

  “What’s your ask?”

  She met his eye. “This is for winners only. Like everything else in life, right? You get to make a lot of money if you have a lot to begin with.”

  “But you don’t, do you? That’s why you’re here.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m here, giving you this chance to exploit me.”

  “Yeah, exploit you. To what tune?”

  Don’t blink, she told herself. “It’s a ten-million-dollar buy-in.”

  Richie whistled. He had a good whistle, a clean sound, the whistle of a guy who’d spent his whole life whistling.

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “I’d be surprised if a variety of things didn’t go wrong. That’s why this plan is replete with redundancies. Verifiable threats in the company’s international locations, a handful in the city. Global terrorism on global TV. Is there any way whatsoever that this doesn’t trigger a generalized sell-off?”

  He made an I’m-reluctantly-satisfied face.

  “And if you want to hedge your bets, by all means spread your short positions around to various sectors. That’s definitely the safe move, and that’s what I’d do if I were you. A couple diversified million will be enough to guarantee profit. Everything is going to be down three, five percent intraday. Except maybe defense-industry companies.”

  She leaned forward.

  “But the guaranteed big money, Richie? That comes from shorting the CEO’s company.”

  “Sure. And what if its trading is suspended?”

  “Why would it be? Because some exec is on a bender? Or run off with his secretary? There’s no reason to suspect anything more nefarious, no reason to suspend trade. That’s why we’re not manufacturing any events in London or New York: to keep the markets open. And that’s why the abduction is secret: to keep trading open.”

  She could see that Richie got it, he had dollar signs in his eyes, he understood how an investor like him could clean up. It’s all about privileged access to actionable information.

  But that wasn’t how Chris and Susanna were going to make their fortune. Which would not be dependent on the markets. And would be much more lucrative than Richie’s five or ten or fifteen million euros in profit.

  “It’s time for a decision, Richie. You in?”

  “I’m definitely intrigued. I need some time.”

  “I definitely understand. You’ve got five minutes.”

  “Fuck you.”

  She didn’t respond.

  He didn’t flinch.

  They stared at each other for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty—

  “Okay,” he said. “Sure. I’m in.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad. But that, in and of itself, is not quite good enough.”

  “The fuck you want from me?”

  “A gesture of good faith, Richie.”

  “Oh yeah? How good?”

  She took a sip of her water—the relentless hydration of pregnancy—then put down her glass deliberately. She wiped her lips with the small napkin, placed the linen back on the mirror-topped table. Then she looked back up at him.

  65

  PARIS. 4:44 P.M.

  Kate is climbing off her moped when her phone buzzes again. What did people do before smartphones? She can barely remember. It seems like historical fiction, in her memory.

  It’s another message from her Italian source, an alphanumeric string—tail numbers—and an originating airport code. But no destination.

  Grazie, she replies.

  Prego.

  Kate barges into a shop, inexpensive clothing targeted at teens, blaring the English-language pop that harasses you everywhere across the Continent. Like bad pizza, and Zara.

  In the changing room, she puts on her wig again; better to look like the intruder at 4Syte than the woman who discharged a gun in the street and then abducted a person-of-interest from a police interview. She buys a lightweight motorcycle jacket, rips off the tags, zips it closed to cover her shirt. She retrieves a handful of magnetic bumper stickers from the Vespa’s helmet case, slaps them onto the metal.

  A different person, yet again, riding what now looks like a different moped.

  The last-known location of the mobile phone is a half-mile away from the shooting, which is unfortunately nowhere near here. Then the phone was powered down. Anyone who’s careful enough to power down a phone is also going to be careful enough to move afterward.

  Kate isn’t confident that she’s going to find the person she’s looking for. But you do what you can do, use what you have. Sometimes things work out, just because you tried.

  During Kate’s long-term global search, what made her task appreciably easier was that she wasn’t asking her sources for much. She wasn’t looking for missile blueprints or troop movements or the aliases of double agents, she wasn’t looking for classified information, she wasn’t looking for anything that was going to get anyone fired, or jailed, or killed. In fact, the thing she was looking for wasn’t a state secret—it wasn’t even a secret—and no one had any special interest in preventing her from getting the information.

  It didn’t take very long.

  “Madame?” Henri said one day, standing in her doorway, big smile on his face. “I found her.”

  This did not completely solve the problem, but now it could be managed. Monitored. Contained. At least that’s what Kate had thought.

  Before she gets on her moped, she phones Inez again. “Another favor, I’m afraid. Are you in your office?”

  “Oui.”

  “Can you access international flight plans?”

  * * *

  Kate parks a hundred yards past the address, and across the street. She needs to be extra-careful here.

  She takes in her surroundings, the pedestrians, the parked cars, the idling taxi whose driver is talking on the phone, the store selling African clothing wholesale, front door wide open. Not a particularly busy stretch of street, nor quiet.

  Kate scans the building. He’s probably gone. But he could also still be in there, or maybe in the buildings to either side; GPS coordinates for mobiles are not always reliable. The only thing remarkable about the five-story structure is that its ground floor is a public garage entrance.

  Yes, that must be it. He wouldn’t want to drive long distances in a stolen vehicle, he’d want to get that car off the streets asap, perhaps trade it for another, one for which the police aren’t already searching.

  Yes, he’s in this garage. Or was.

  Her pulse races.

  Kate descends the ramp slowly. She fights the urge to retrieve Inez’s gun; she shouldn’t be walking around with a gun drawn.

  It’s a clean, well-lit garage. There are, no doubt, surveillance cameras.

  Kate sees it immediately, the rust-colored Renault, parked along the far side. She approaches slowly, obliquely, her feet falling almost silently, while her heart hammers loudly in her ears.

  Twenty meters away from the car, she stops. She’s shielded by a tall SUV, whose windshield she peers around.

  The Renault appears to be empty.

  Kate continues to creep toward the passenger side. She reaches her hand into her pocket, grasps the gun, but doesn’t draw it out. Not yet.

  Another step.

  Now she’s separated from the Renault by just a single car, alongside which she crouches, still shielded from the most direct view, but not completely hidden. If there’s someone in the stolen car, and he’s paying attention, he’ll be able to see her now.

  But he doesn’t, because he’s not there.

/>   The Renault is empty.

  Kate catches a strong whiff of alcohol. There’s a big jug of vodka lying on the ground near the passenger door; some liquid remains in the bottle. Also what appears to be a strip of cloth and a roll of duct tape.

  She comes closer. She sees blood splatters on the floor, fresh ones, still wet, still red, not yet oxidized—

  Kate spins, her eyes scanning everywhere quickly. It has been a matter of minutes, at most. She kneels, peering under all the cars, looking for someone lying there, hiding, or maybe dying.

  He’s injured; she knew that already. He dressed his wound here, he tried to sanitize it with alcohol, he used cloth and duct tape as a bandage. Then he put distance between himself and the car he stole.

  It’s a lot of blood on the ground. Now she sees blood smeared along the door too, the trunk. He’s hurt badly. What would he do now?

  What would she do?

  66

  PARIS. 4:52 P.M.

  He tries to tell himself that he’s lucky, shot in the shoulder. At least he’s able to walk. If he had the same wound but in the leg, he never would’ve gotten out of that alley.

  Chris climbs the steps between the streets, up the hill, the old streetlamps, the wrought-iron banisters, people taking pictures, walking dogs, schoolchildren headed home, mothers carrying grocery bags with baguettes poking out. Normal life continues to swirl around him. He continues to bleed.

  The suit jacket does a nearly acceptable job of hiding his wound, but not entirely. At least one person has noticed, probably more. He has to get off the street. He has to get treatment.

  The doctor’s office is at the top of these stairs, around the corner. He pauses, leans against the banister. Looks back down the hill, Paris spread out there, the domes, the spires, the Juliet balconies and mansard roofs and dormer windows, the sinking sun, the late-afternoon golden light. It’s a beautiful world.

  Now is not the time to quit. Quitting now is quitting forever.