Bodyguard of Lies

by Bob Mayer

  "Cheri, I thought you were dead!"

  Hannah winced and decided it was a poor opening line.

  "Well, no shit, you worthless pile of puke. You hand me a damn bomb, kiss me on the top of the head and push me on a plane. I thought you were writhing in some private circle of hell reserved for total sons-of-a-bitches and here you are straightening teeth on Rue d'Adelshoffen."

  Jean-Philippe was either a brilliant actor or his shock was genuine. "A bomb? What are you saying? I gave you no bomb. I loved you."

  "Cut the crap. The box, big red bow. Remember?"

  "But that was not a bomb!"

  "Right. I forgot, once the C-4 and wires were pulled apart it was not a bomb. Just a box of clay and electronics."

  Jean-Philippe wiped a hand across his dampening forehead and found a chair so that Neeley's gun was no longer aimed squarely at his heart but rather was pointing at the smooth stretch of skin between his lovely blue eyes.

  "You must believe me, Cherie. I did not know it was a bomb. They told me it was papers. Secret papers that had to get to London."

  Neeley's voice was losing its hysteria and she spoke in measured, deep tones that Hannah found even more frightening. "Who is they, Jean-Philippe and why would a box of papers have weighed a couple of pounds?"

  "I thought they weighted the box so it would appear to be something other than a box of papers."

  "Tell me you weren't this stupid when I was sleeping with you."

  "You think that is what it was, that I was stupid? OK, maybe you are correct. I prefer you think I am stupid than a murderer."

  Neeley leaned against an instrument cabinet for some support and kept the gun steady. "Just tell me what happened. Start at the beginning."

  Hannah found a small stool in the corner of the room and pulled it over to Neeley's side. She perched herself on its shiny top. Neeley glanced at her and Hannah kept her face non-committal allowing her friend latitude to work this out in her own way.

  Jean-Philippe watched the silent communication between the women and he seemed to relax. Gaby's concerned voice through the door was answered with a relatively calm voice, full of reassurance that must have satisfied the bewildered receptionist. At least the cops wouldn't be busting down the door, Hannah thought with some relief.

  "To begin with, Neeley, you must remember those were turbulent times and I was an idealistic young man."

  "Skip the bullshit, Jean-Philippe. We were young and dumb and if I remember correctly, we all spent a lot more time fucking than spouting ideologies. And all you gave a damn about was making money. There was no idealism there."

  He seemed diminished by her harsh words and shook his head. "We spent much time making love and I was trying to make my mark on the world, yes, I admit that."

  Neeley laughed bitterly. "Skip to the part where you decided to blow me up."

  "It was not like that, I told you. The man from the American said they needed a courier to take some papers to London. He offered a lot of money. Money that we could have used to be together."

  "The American?" Neeley cocked the weapon. The cold hard sound was more effective than any words. "Tell me what happened."

  "OK, OK, he offered money or death. I needed the money to get away.” Jean-Philippe swallowed. “I was sleeping with that blond girl, Helga. Remember? The one whose boyfriend was a psycho? He was starting to get suspicious and I was afraid. I thought the money would get me away and then I would go to New York and find you."

  Neeley had looked at Hannah when he mentioned Helga. Hannah, fortunately for her, given Neeley's current emotional state, continued to keep an impassive face.

  Neeley took a deep breath and forced herself to ease the pressure on the trigger.

  Jean-Philippe's head was bowed and Hannah found the story partially believable. In her limited experience, his cowering two-timer alibi seemed to hold water but people sometimes admitted to one thing to cover up something deeper and she had no doubt that was what Jean-Philippe was doing.

  "You must believe me. I had no idea that it was a bomb. If I am guilty of something, it is of holding back about the money and that I was with sleeping with Helga. Please believe that!"

  Neeley ignored his pleas. "Tell me about this American."

  "I only met him once. The man who worked for him pulled me off the street and drove me to a house, to the basement. He threatened to kill me if I didn't do as he said. He just wanted someone I trusted to take the box to London. That was all."

  "How much money did you get?"

  "Enough, all right, Neeley? I got enough to get away from Berlin and go to school and start over here. And the payments continued over the years."

  Neeley gave a tired, sad nod. "Enough to start a new life, right, Jean-Philippe? A new life you choose, one that you wanted to live." Her voice sharpened. "You don't get to start over in this business. Not unless there is a reason for someone to let you."

  "I tell you the truth," Jean-Philippe said.

  "No, I don't think you do," Neeley said. She switched the subject abruptly. "Do you have a family?"

  His look was a curious mixture of pride and fear at her interest. "Yes. My wife and I have two sons."

  Neeley's voice was tight and full of obvious hurt. "And your wife? What is her name?"

  Jean-Philippe hung his head. "Helga."

  Neeley drew a deep breath that had an audible hitch at the end. "You son of a bitch. I could kill you now just to feel good, but I won't. I think your American will do that. Someone seems to be trimming away all the loose ends and you appear to be a big one."

  His head jerked up. "What do you mean?"

  "You figure it out."

  Hannah's voice caught both Neeley and Jean-Philippe off guard. "Did someone tell you we were coming?"

  The shifting of the man's eyes answered the question for both women. "You bastard," Neeley whispered. "You sent the man after us. The man in the park."

  "I had to protect myself," Jean-Philippe pleaded.

  "Who told you we were coming?" Neeley demanded.

  "Someone from the American’s office called me," Jean-Philippe said.

  “Who is this American?” Neeley asked. “Nero?”

  Jean-Philippe frowned. “No. The man behind it all is Senator Collins. I do not know the name of the man he sent to me. Who gave me the bomb. But he was a dangerous and crazy man. You could see it in his eyes.”

  “Racine,” Hannah said.

  “That might have been his name,” Jean-Philippe admitted.

  Neeley stood. She crossed the distance between her and her former lover and put the gun to his forehead. "If you tell me the truth, I will let you die quickly. If you lie to me again, I will make you hurt for a long, long time. Then I will find Helga and your children and kill them. The truth and they get to live."

  Jean-Philippe was sweating profusely now. "You have changed, Neeley."

  "I've become what you made me," she replied. "Did you know about the bomb?"

  He paused, and then answered. "Yes."

  Neeley's eyes closed briefly. "Why did you want to kill me?"

  “It was not me. It was the American.”

  “Why did he want me to kill me,” Neeley amended.

  "It wasn't for you."

  "Who was it for?"

  "Another American on the same flight. Some soldier going home. This man—Racine you say his name is—who paid me said this soldier had information that the Senator wanted destroyed. The only way to do it was to destroy him and everything he had with him."

  "Gant," Neeley whispered.

  "Pardon?" Jean-Philippe said.

  "What information?" Neeley demanded. She blinked a few times trying to absorb all she had just learned. Even through her shock, she realized that Hannah seemed to be at least one, if not two, steps ahead.

  "A videotape," he answered.

  "What is on it?" Hannah asked.

  "I do not know."

  “You’re lying,” Hannah said.

  In resp
onse to her partner’s accusation, Neeley moved the barrel of the gun a few inches closer toward her former lover.

  “It’s a videotape of a meeting. About some oil pipelines.”

  “Are you on it?” Neeley asked.

  “Yes.”

  Neeley focused on Jean-Philippe. "Why did Racine and Collins let you live and pay you?"

  “Because I gave you the bomb.”

  “That’s not enough,” Neeley said. “As we all know, it didn’t work. I’m here aren’t I?”

  Jean-Philippe licked his lips. “Because of the papers.”

  “What papers?” Neeley demanded.

  "Papers with Collins' name on them. And other names. Names of people who are very important now. Papers that show they dealt secretly and illegally with the Taliban and others. And more. Pictures of Collins meeting with people. People who have been very prominent in the news—bad news—lately. People he would never want anyone to know he ever spoke and dealt with. All of this was very dangerous information. It’s become even more dangerous in the last several years. It was what my partners and I collected as I we worked on the pipeline deal behind the scenes."

  “There were no papers or pictures in the package,” Neeley said. “Just the bomb.”

  “Of course not. I kept the papers for my own insurance. I did not trust Racine or the Senator.”

  “You set me up,” Neeley hissed. “Not once, but twice. With the bomb and then by telling them I had the papers.”

  “Ah!” Jean-Philippe protested, “you must understand. It all worked out for the best. Once the Americans thought you gave the papers to Gant, the situation changed.”

  Hannah cut in. “And you sold out the others, didn’t you? Your fellow black market financiers? Those involved in the Afghanistan deal.”

  Jean-Philippe weakly nodded.

  “What happened to them?” Neeley asked.

  “They—“ Jean-Philippe seemed to search for the right words, then finally shrugged—“disappeared. I do not know exactly.”

  “You scum,” Neeley hissed.

  "Where are the papers now?" Hannah asked.

  "I keep the originals in a safe place."

  "And copies?" Hannah asked. "Do you have any here?"

  "I have copies here," Jean-Philippe confirmed.

  "Get them," Neeley said.

  Jean-Philippe turned on his stool. He picked up a small hammer and smashed it down on a plaster skull that was on a shelf. He pulled out a plastic wrapped package.

  "How convenient," Neeley noted as she took the packet. "That's why you ran back here, isn't it?"

  “You can have the papers,” Jean-Philippe said. “In exchange--”

  Neeley’s laugh was harsh. “In exchange? You’ve got nothing, nothing, that you can use with regard to me. All that was gone when you handed me that bomb. When you told Racine I had the papers.”

  "What are you going to do now?" Jean-Philippe asked.

  Neeley stuck the gun in her pocket and turned away, heading out the door. Hannah followed. They walked away without looking back and the two women were silent as they made their way through the suddenly still office and by the glaring receptionist.

  On the sidewalk Neeley stopped for a moment and looked at Hannah. "That hurt."

  Hannah patted the trembling shoulder of her companion. "I know."

  "What now?" Hannah asked.

  "We have John's part,” Neeley said numbly. “We have copies of Jean-Philippe's papers, which they thought I had all along. Now we get Gant's tape and end this.”

  Hannah didn’t say anything, realizing her friend was still in shock. Hannah knew now that it wouldn’t end with Gant’s tape. She was getting glimmers of the why and it chilled her but also brought a tinge of excitement.

  CHAPTER 28

  Racine watched the women emerge from the office building. He was safely tucked behind a thickly flowered lilac bush in a park across the street. The scent was overwhelming. It tugged at his memory and made him slightly sick at the same time. Through his trained eye, the specially designed scope on his pistol framed Neeley’s bitch face perfectly. He drew a breath, held it, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

  He smelled the man’s gum before he felt the dull pressure of a muzzle pushing against the slow pulsing of his carotid artery.

  "I don't think Mister Nero would like this. Do you?"

  Racine felt the barrel press even harder into his flesh as his own gun was lifted from his hands. He recognized the English accent as well as the smell. Nero's pet. The old man must be getting tired of the whole situation to have sent Bailey.

  Racine looked up at his colleague and tried a weak smile. "I haven't seen you in years. I'll take it apart if you like," he added, pointing at the specially designed pistol and the lead lined case at his feet that he had transported in the hold of the Concorde in a diplomatic pouch.

  Bailey pocketed his own gun and dropped the pistol at Racine's feet. "Fine."

  Racine tried to ignore the smell of the lilacs around them. It was giving him a headache. That and the fact that he despised an interrupted kill, guaranteed a bad day.

  Racine watched the two women drive away. "Where are they going?"

  Bailey reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit and extended it to Racine. "I suppose back to the airport. Seems like the logical thing."

  Racine shook off the gum and watched as Bailey stripped the paper and rolled the stick of gum into a tight little log before he popped it into his mouth.

  As Racine put away the last of the pistol, Bailey spoke again, spraying tiny bits of sugary saliva into the lilac blooms. "Let's go do this last bit here and get to the airport ourselves."

  Racine equated sitting next to Bailey for five hours on par with letting a cobra spit in his eye. "OK."

  The men walked through the small park and stood at the curb, waiting to cross the street. Bailey continued to chew loudly and occasionally pop the wad of gum. "So, how have you been?"

  Racine thought that if Bailey popped the gum one more time it would be acceptable to push him under the large Mercedes truck bearing down on them. "I've been OK. You?"

  Bailey nodded. "Good, bloody good." He spotted a break in the traffic and plowed forward, Racine following closely behind.

  Bailey paused before they entered the building. “What are you doing here?”

  “Finishing the job Mister Nero gave me,” Racine said.

  Bailey shook his head. “Nero didn’t tell you to come here. In fact, I believe he specifically told you the opposite. How did you know the women would end up right here in Strasbourg?”

  “I’m good at my job,” Racine said. He stared back into the other man’s pupils. They remained like that for almost a minute, ignoring the people who walked around them. Racine was the first to break the standoff. Finally, Bailey turned for the door. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  This time Gaby didn't even seem surprised as the two men with no appointment approached her counter and asked for the good doctor.

  "He's in there." She pointed to the office door. As they headed down the corridor she gathered up her purse and left.

  Bailey and Racine had only to follow the sound of the doctor's voice as he hurriedly tried to plot his flight to safety. The door to the examining room was ajar and they could hear his frustrated attempts to get a flight anywhere, the destination didn't matter, the only requirement that it must leave now.

  Racine pushed the door with his foot and the two men made themselves known to Jean-Philippe.

  "So fast! How did you get here so fast?"

  Behind Bailey’s back, Racine put a finger to his lip and shook his head as Jean-Philippe recognized him.

  Bailey popped his gum. "English please. We saved your ass in the war, the least you could do is speak English."

  Jean-Philippe was sweating again. A few beads were breaking clear of his hairline and starting the slide down his classic features. His eyes shifted from Racine to Bailey. "H
ow could you find me so fast?"

  Bailey pulled over the swivel stool that had earlier been Hannah's. He put his gun on the cluttered table so he could swivel it up a few notches. Once seated he retrieved the gun, popped his gum and smiled. "Why, we’re the Cellar, laddie. We can find anyone if we want to. You think no one knew you were here?"

  Racine was feeling lightheaded. The addition of acidic, nervous sweat to the collage of aromas wafting from Bailey was causing him acute discomfort. He wished he had thought of the stool first. He detected a lackadaisical attitude in his partner that indicated urgency was not a critical factor. His head was truly beginning to throb and he needed to take a leak. He could have pissed at the lilac bush if he'd known Bailey was going to dawdle.

  Bailey was swiveling back and forth, his English accent filling the small room. "You see that right? You punched your ticket years ago, mate. The meter just ran out, that's all."

  Jean-Philippe backed into the corner, his arms held out in a pleading gesture that both Bailey and Racine had seen many times before and ignored. Just as they ignored it now.

  "Me dear Doctor, this can't be a surprise,” Bailey said. “Surely you have anticipated someone arriving some day? No? Well, I do have a few questions that if you would take the time to answer would give us all the opportunity to restore some dignity to the afternoon."

  Jean-Philippe looked ashen. "You're crazy."

  Bailey spat his gum a couple of feet toward the plastic lined wastebasket. He had misjudged the distance and the wad stuck to the top rim of the plastic and began to sag outward, pulling the liner. All three men watched this display of gravity until the liner won and the gum dropped to the tiled floor.

  Bailey focused his attention back on his captive. "I prefer antisocial personality. I do a service, Doctor Wiss, much like your career here. But I am more valuable because there's a lot of you and not many of me. You see that has always been your dilemma-- you are expendable.