by G T Almasi
I look up from my cards. “You’ve read my father’s dispatches?”
“Sure.” He mixes me another schnapps and Coke, which finishes off the first flask. “All of us Info Operators have to read everything related to our current work. Everything I have clearance for. I’ve read everybody’s dispatches.”
“Did you find anything about the ExOps inquiry into what happened to my dad?”
Patrick looks at me over his cards and answers, “The Germans’ announcement about him came so quickly that the inquiry was called off. The CORE entry states that your father was captured by the Russians in Damascus. Then he was traded to the Germans for some captured Russian assets.”
The lagoon of schnapps in my head helps me think about all this like it was someone else’s father, but my stomach still clenches. I distract myself by asking Patrick, “Did you notice anything unusual about my dad’s reports from his last job?”
“I did.” Patrick continues to play incredibly badly, and my peg catches up to his. “In fact, I’m not entirely sure he wrote them.” Patrick explains that my father’s dispatches all sound like they were from the same efficient and detail-oriented agent, job after job, until the last one. His mission to survey Russian covert activity in the Middle East proceeded in a strangely halfhearted way. This was totally out of character for the hard-charging Big Bertha. The reports were missing specifics about who he was checking out and where he was. They were also all filed at the same time every day.
“I take it my dad wasn’t usually so punctual?” I ask.
“Far from it.” Patrick puts his cards down for a moment. “His previous Job Numbers are notable for the inconsistent timing of his reports. Morning, evening, nothing for three days, then two in an hour. It was all over the place.”
“How about us?”
“What about us?”
“How punctual are we with our reports?”
Patrick holds his cards back up. “My reports go out every evening before we rack out.”
I’m too busy moving my peg into the lead to snap out a comeback. Trick deals another hand. I ask, “Did my dad find out what the Russians were doing in the Middle East?”
“No, not really. It was strange. He sort of … wandered around for a while, until he disappeared.”
That does sound strange. Dad never wandered anywhere. He either did something with great purpose or he didn’t do it at all.
We finish our card game. I win, of course. While Trick shuffles the cards I grab the second flask and pour us another round.
CHAPTER 11
NEXT DAY, SUNDAY, MAY 11, 1:50 A.M. CET ROMMEL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, OUTSIDE PARIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG
Ah, Paris. The City of Darkness. My father pulled a bunch of jobs here. He used to tell me stories about how bright and beautiful this city is, but as far as I can tell, it’s just another dark hole in western Greater Germany. I’ve been here twice. Both times it was a midnight landing at the airport, followed by a tinted-window car ride to some ancient, reeking cellar full of poorly lit spy stuff.
The brightest light I’ve seen in Paris so far has been the House, whose name is Jacques. He runs the ExOps safe house in Paris, which is one of the busiest in Europe.
The House is parked in front of the terminal, waiting for us. He’s in a beat-up old Citroën with “Stairway to Heaven” blaring at top volume. We woozily hump our bags up to Jacques’s car and lean into his line of sight. Even in this dim light I can see his long chin, his big schnoz, and his omnipresent tan. His dark brown eyes sparkle as he spots us.
“My friends!” Jacques shouts. “It is good to see you again!”
We both say, “Hi, Jacques.” He gets out of the car and takes our bags from us. They’re too heavy for him to lift, so he drags them around to the rear of his Citroën. He heaves our bags into the trunk while we pile into the backseat.
Jacques hops in front, turns the radio up even louder, and stomps his foot on the gas pedal. The sudden acceleration sloshes my pickled brain around in my head and makes me dizzy. I can’t wait to lie down and sleep off all those schnapps and Cokes. I hold on to Trick’s forearm as we tear out of the parking lot like we’re being chased by Hitler’s ghost.
I ask our host if we’re being followed, and he says, “Mais oui! I am always followed. With a handsome face like zis, how can it not be so?” He laughs as he swerves onto a highway entrance ramp.
Trick and I look at each other. It’s not the first time we’ve wondered if Jacques is actually a Martian.
Jacques pulls onto the highway and zooms toward metro Paris, but his attention is mostly on the rearview mirror. “Hmm,” he says, “perhaps tonight my face is especially handsome.”
Trick and I spin around in our seats and look back. A white Peugeot noodles along behind us. When Jacques speeds up, they speed up. When he slows down, they slow down.
I pull Li’l Bertha out of her holster. “Jacques, open the sunroof.” He flips a switch, and the sunroof slides back. I gingerly climb up to the front seat while my partner stays in the rear and comms with his IC back home. I crouch on the front seat, under the open sunroof. Jacques suddenly floors it and passes a truck. The Peugeot follows suit. It’s definitely somebody. We don’t want to attract attention, but we can’t have anyone following us, either.
“Solomon, any intel on this fucker?” I ask. When we work with other people, I have to use Trick’s field name.
He says, “Nothing friendly. He’s either a competitor or a joyrider.”
“Either way.” I stand up through the sunroof, turn off Li’l Bertha’s safeties, and point her in the general direction of the car following us. She hones in on the Peugeot’s grill and pops three .50-caliber rounds into the engine. Her shots are incredibly loud, but I hope it sounds like a car backfiring. Flashes of yellow light erupt from under the hood as the slugs drill half-inch holes through the engine block. The Peugeot stalls out and shudders to the breakdown lane. Jacques keeps up the speed, and soon we’re all by ourselves again.
I plop down into the front passenger seat. “Hah! Score one for the good guys.”
“Nice shooting, mademoiselle,” Jacques proclaims.
Trick leans forward and tells Jacques, “Okay, all clear.”
“Oui, M’sieur Solomon.” Jacquo stops swerving quite so much, thank God, but doesn’t slow down. When my partner asks why he’s still going so fast, he says, “We have a unique opportunity to confront ze Fuerza cell you’ve come to destroy, but only if we hurry.”
After a short drive we pull off the highway. A few turns later we glide past the main entrance of an ancient cemetery. Jacques parks a few yards down the street and gets out of the car. I look back at Trick, who shrugs his shoulders.
Jacques leans over the open sunroof and proudly says, “Cimetière du Père-Lachaise!”
I say, “Terrific. What the heck are we doing here?”
“La Fuerza is holding a secret meeting inside. We will … how you say? ‘Destroy zere organizational capacity with extreme prejudice.’ ”
“What?” Trick hisses, “Jacques, we just got here. We haven’t unpacked our gear or anything!”
“M’sieur Solomon, please. A real agent—” He taps his temple. “—keeps his gear up here.” He stops whispering and switches to comming. “Besides, Mademoiselle Scarlet has her pistol, and here we have all the Fuerza together and pants down. Allez.”
My partner sees my unhappy expression and comms to me, “How do you feel?”
“Trick, I’m fuckin’ plastered! I can’t pull a job right now. How about you?”
“I’m okay, but I had a lot less to drink than you.”
I frown. “You did?”
“Yeah. You sort of had that second flask all to yourself …”
I did?
“… but we can’t tell Jacques. Even he’s not that cool.” Trick opens his door. “C’mon.”
We get out of the Citroën. I bing some Madrenaline to counteract the alcohol. This makes my tongue feel like
a dried-out banana skin, but I have to get myself functional. I take a few deep breaths to help clear my head.
Jacques leads us toward the cemetery’s front entrance. We boost ourselves over the wall next to the main gate. Inside the cemetery it’s very dark and strangely cold, and suddenly the steady hum of late-night Paris seems much farther away. I switch on my night vision and hold Li’l Bertha in front of me.
“Jacquo, how do we know who the Fuerza guys are?” I comm.
“Zat’s simple,” Jacques comms back. “Anyone who is dead already is not Fuerza.” Through the gloom, I hear Jacques chuckling to himself. Man, he really is the funniest person he’s ever met.
“I’ve got a map loaded up,” Trick comms. “We’re going straight toward the middle of the cemetery.” Both of our visual Mods include an Eyes-Up display that allows us to read virtual documents and monitor our bodies’ vital signs. The software for Trick’s Eyes-Up display has a global positioning and navigation program. The software in mine is focused on highlighting targets in my immediate vicinity so I can aerate them with Li’l Bertha.
“Well, this is a romantic date,” I whisper.
We quietly walk up the necropolis’s main street. Jacques comms to us about the famous Frenchmen buried in the tombs we pass. Everywhere I look is crammed with crypts and elaborate gravestones. The statues and carvings are creepy as hell. A chill crawls up my spine and I’m about to tell Jacques to shut up, when he switches topics.
“Stop,” he comms. We stop. He crouches and shuffles up the path a bit. “Okay, just ahead.”
I comm to both my partner and Jacques, “What are the rules of engagement here? Do I just plug ’em all?”
“No,” Jacques replies. “We are to capture if possible. If zey fight back and leave us no choice, zen you plug zem all.”
I comm, “How many are there?”
Jacques comms back, “Five, maybe six.”
Jeez. I comm to Trick, “What the fuck? I’m supposed to capture six guys single-handedly?”
“Well,” he comms, “Jacques only said not to shoot them. Besides, we’ve got surprise going for us. Let’s try one of your flying punchfests.”
I slide Li’l Bertha back in her holster and zip my jacket. The three of us sneak up the hill until I hear murmuring voices.
I take a deep breath and comm, “Okay, here I go.”
“Roger zat.”
“Go get ’em, Scarlet.”
I have my neuroinjector ramp me up with more Madrenaline, then I charge up the hill. There’s a large crypt, or chapel, or something in front of which stands a tight cluster of people. I hit the jets, and by the time they hear me coming, I’ve already leaped in the air. I smash the back of the first guy’s head with my new biorobotic hand as I fly past him. Clonk!
I land on the far side of the group and fire my fists into the faces of two more goombahs. The remaining three dudes grab at me. I latch on to two of their arms and yank them into each other so that their skulls clonk together. They drop. The last guy reaches into his coat. I kick him right in the nuts. He exhales sharply and crumples over backward.
As the six men collapse into a groaning heap around me, my enhanced hearing picks up the sound of someone—no, two people—running down the other side of the hill.
“Guys,” I comm, “two more targets, moving away from our entrance.”
Jacques comms, “They’re going for ze back entrance, near Gambetta. Follow zem, Scarlet. We’ll pick you up.”
Jacques and Patrick gallop back to the car, and I take off after the footsteps. My night vision shows me the way, but not in any great detail. My balance is out of whack because the booze and the uppers are battling for control of my body. I nearly fall down a flight of steps, and then almost wipe out on a patch of damp cobblestones. I slow down a little.
I’m about ten seconds behind the fleeing men as they emerge from the cemetery and jump into a BMW coupe. The car starts and screeches away as I burst out of the back entrance.
“Solomon, where are you guys?”
“We’re in the car. Look left. You’ll see us coming.”
Jacques’s Citroën skids around the corner to my left.
“Roger that. I see you.” I step off the sidewalk and into the street. “Hey, make sure the passenger-side window is open.”
“Way ahead of you. Get ready.”
Jacques flies down the street and slams on the brakes. I throw my body into the car’s front passenger window as he skids past me. The instant my upper half is inside, he steps on the gas. I fall ass over teakettle onto the passenger seat. My head swims from all this tumbling around. Patrick leans forward from the backseat and helps me wriggle myself upright.
Meanwhile, Jacquo shows us how a Frenchman drives when he really means it. Power slides, e-brake turns, heel and toe, he’s got all the moves. I hang on to the Jesus strap as he whips his surprisingly agile Citroën through the nearly empty Paris streets.
“Hey, Jacques,” Patrick comms. “Don’t we need to keep an eye on the suspects Scarlet trashed at the cemetery?”
Jacques twirls the steering wheel all the way from lock to lock, then centers it again to fling us through a small rotary. Gum wrappers, old lottery tickets, and crumpled receipts skitter back and forth across the dashboard as the car lists from side to side.
“Not a problem,” he says. “I’ve already commed ze police to retrieve zem.”
The car’s centripetal force has propelled my partner all the way across the rear bench seat and smushed him against the far side door. Patrick comms, “Why didn’t you tell them to be there beforehand?”
“Because, my American friend—” Jacques executes a complex zigzag turn, only half of which rumbles over the sidewalk. “—in Greater Germany, it is plus simple to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” He blows his horn to clear a delivery man out of the way. “Ze red tape, she is much smaller zis way.”
We emerge from the tight warren of streets onto a larger, more open boulevard that runs along the Seine. The BMW’s taillights are a block ahead, but we’re gaining on them. They’ve got a faster car, but they aren’t milking as much out of it.
Jacques switches back to tour guide mode. “On our left, you can see la Cathédrale Notre Dame.” We’re going so fast, we barely see it before he’s on to the next attraction. “Also on our left, we are passing le Pont Neuf, which in English means ‘New Bridge.’ ” The bridge blurs by. “You can see ze famous Louvre museum on your right—” He swerves into the oncoming lane to pass a lumbering produce truck that totally obstructs our view of “—les Tuileries, very beautiful gardens.” Very beautiful indeed. In the dark. At eighty miles per hour.
The BMW takes a right onto a street that leads away from the river. Jacques makes up a huge amount of distance by not slowing down at all for the turn. His skid goes on for an entire block. He shouts over the squealing tires, “Here we are passing through la Place de la Concorde, where—whoops!” The last part is Jacques reacting to an unexpected move by the Bimmer. Place de la Concorde is a big roundabout, and the BMW has turned the wrong way, into the flow of traffic. Jacques follows him without a moment’s hesitation. We evade a few honking cars and motorcycles and roar onto a wide four-lane street. Now we’re only a second or two behind the BMW.
“No trip to Paris is complete without a shopping spree on Avenue des Champs-Elysées.” We hammer up the avenue. The shriek of our engine battles with the growl of the Bimmer’s. I look up ahead and see—
“L’Arc de Triomphe! Erected to commemorate—” Jacques cranks the wheel right and left to avoid a police car. “—ze victory of Napoleon—” He chases the BMW into the huge traffic circle around the monument. “—at Austerlitz in 1806.” The police car’s lights flash and its siren wails behind us. We chase the Bimmer all the way around the arch and then some.
Trick is pinned against the right-side rear door by Jacques’s fast cornering. “I think they’re lost!”
“Hah!” cries Jacques.
“Can you ram them or something?”
“In my petite fille? Jamais! Never! But I have an idea. Scarlet, get ready to jump into their car.”
Oh, sure thing, Jacques. No problem. I climb out the sunroof and squat on top of the car. My hands grasp the edge of the roof, and my eyes water from the torrent of wind.
“Hang on!” Jacques yells. He flies up on the BMW’s right side and executes an incredible 360-degree spin that slings his Citroën completely around the front end of our competitor’s car. I can barely hang on as Jacques’s stunt lands us inches away from the Bimmer’s left side. The wall of tire smoke makes the BMW driver slow down just enough for me to—
“Jump!” Jacques shouts.
I leap off the Citroën and flop onto the roof of the BMW. I let myself slide down to the trunk and then ram my synthetic right fist through the rear window. Jacques pulls in front and serpentines back and forth. The Bimmer swerves, trying to get around him. I haul myself into the rear seat in time to slap the passenger’s pistol out of his hand. I karate chop his arm and break it above the wrist. The passenger screams and scrunches himself away from me. The driver opens his door, like he’s going to bail out at forty miles per hour.
I grab the driver’s hair and yank his head back against the headrest. My right hand reaches around and clutches his throat. He tries to pull my hand off his neck, but that only makes me crush his larynx even harder. Then I wrap him in a choke hold with my entire arm and drag him bodily into the backseat with me. One big punch and he’s out cold.
Suddenly gravity shifts ninety degrees. I’m propelled between the front seats and slam into the dashboard. Then gravity shifts back to normal and ungently deposits me on the center console with the stick shift jammed into my ribs. A loud bang echoes off the arch and the buildings across the plaza.
I’m dizzy, bruised, and hearing things. “Scarlet!” It’s Trick’s voice. “Hey, you okay?” Wow, he sounds like he’s right here in the BMW with me. “Scarlet, up here.” I look up. His head is poking in through the shattered driver-side window. Blue and red flashing lights wash across one side of his face.