Benny put his hands around the coffee mug, warming them. “And what about the mole, your inside man?”
“Maybe it’s why the Kobra doesn’t want us together—because if we are, then I can figure out who the mole is,” Dima said. “Whoever they are, they’ve been funneling everything they know back to the Kobra. They’re his primary source, or he wouldn’t be trying to take out my team.”
“You don’t know it’s your team he’s targeting,” Benny said sharply. “Lochan has worked with other units and could have made enemies anywhere.”
“Only the Russians think taking out a ballroom full of innocent bystanders just to get one person is a good idea,” Dima pointed out.
“Terrorists love crowds.”
“They don’t locate single targets. This one wanted Lochan in particular.”
“True.” Benny sipped and grimaced. There was enough moonlight and ambient street light coming through the window to see his expression and the glitter of his eyes as he weighed up everything.
“What was Lochan doing with Fabiana?” Dima asked. “Is that what you’re thinking? That it was this job which triggered the attack? And don’t tell me it’s classified. We’re beyond that now.”
“Fabiana was approached by a man known to be a puppet of the Chinese. All very innocent.” Benny’s tone was disgusted. “Thank God Fabiana is a naturally suspicious person.”
“What tipped her off?” Dima asked curiously.
“Nothing,” Benny said. “Absolutely nothing at all. He was romantic and sweet and the list of things they have in common was long.”
“He was too perfect,” Dima breathed. “Lochan was posing as Fabiana’s boyfriend, to run interference?”
“And to set up a dialog,” Benny added.
Dima gave a soft laugh. “You’re going to turn the agent…”
“A double agent is a slippery tool. If Lochan succeeds…” He paused. “If Lochan had succeeded, we’d get maybe six months out of him before China figures it out. China isn’t forgiving about betrayal.” Benny shrugged. “But it would have been six months of data.”
It was notoriously difficult to extract useful information out of China. Dima would have attempted to flip the agent, too, if she had been in Benny’s shoes. “China assassinates with surgical precision. Bodies disappear, quietly and neatly. Had Lochan made contact?”
Benny exhaled heavily. “No. The Christmas party was to set them up publicly as a pair, so the first conversation would appear natural.”
“You know the bomb was the Kobra,” Dima said, her tone gentle. “It’s his pattern. The bomb in the Boston jazz club last year…”
“Stop pushing, Dima,” Benny snapped. “You’re letting your obsession show.”
“It isn’t obsession.” Dima smiled. “It is revenge. You know why.”
“It’s still bordering on psychosis, which is why you screwed up in Austria.” He sighed heavily. “Slippery tools…” he muttered. “You have your team, Dima. All the budget you want. Just find the bastard.”
Dima shook her head. “No.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “No?”
“No. I have something else in mind.”
Benny considered her. “What?”
Dima told him.
[5]
Latin Quarter, Paris, France. At the same time.
Agata had grown to hate Wednesdays. They were a black mark on her week, with their gloom spreading backward into Tuesdays, when she contemplated the unpleasantness which loomed the next day. She moved through her Wednesdays with a higher baseline of general irritation than usual, which made her snappy and uneasy. Heightened irritation led to jumpy trigger responses, so she would spend the day riding herd on her impulses and questioning every instinct, which was exhausting.
By the end of each Wednesday, she was drained. Thursdays were great, in comparison. When she woke on Thursday, it meant she had an entire six days before the next crappy Wednesday arrived. Those six days passed way too quickly.
Naturally, when trouble arrived, it arrived on Wednesday.
She was locked into the pattern and couldn’t budge it. The first time Warren slipped away from his detail to visit the temple, she had barely noticed it was Wednesday. Wednesday had not acquired its patina of dread yet. It was just a small disaster she had to put right, somehow.
She had stood at the bottom of the hilly street, where she could see both exits of the temple and tried to straighten her thoughts and stop her heart from fibrillating. The prayer session or mass or meditation or whatever the hell it was Warren was doing in there lasted for ninety minutes, which gave her time to deal with both the thoughts and her spiking adrenaline. In that time, she came to the simple realization; she was the only detail member here. If anything happened to Warren on his way back from the temple, it was on her. He’d paid thousands of euros for a few hours of solitude, yet it cut him off from the people who would save his life if the shit hit the fan.
That left it up to Agata.
It was a sobering thought. A scary one.
When Warren emerged from the temple, Agata stayed where she was at the bottom of the hill. He spotted her. Scowled. Then he turned and trudged up the hill, heading back the way he had come.
Agata followed. Now he knew she was there, it removed the need to stay too far back. She moved up to middle distance, for she could cover ten yards in seconds, and her 9mm bullets would stop someone from that distance. It was the farthest she could stay away from Warren and still do her job.
He didn’t look at her again, not even when they reached the apartment on Robert Montagne Square.
She was shaking with relief by the time he moved into his apartment and shut the door.
Agata spent the evening waiting for Harry to drop on her from a great height and tell her to pack her bags.
All Harry did was glare at her. So did the others. Nothing was said.
It was the next Tuesday night when Agata realized Warren’s temple visits were a weekly thing. Harry stopped in front of her where she was curled up in the single armchair, reading The Abyss in French. It was her favorite novel, and she had been thrilled to find the tattered copy in the secondhand student bookstore on the Valette. Reading it in French kept her tuned in to the nuances and formalities of the language which every day conversations lacked.
Harry hefted the envelope in his hand. “Is there any point giving this to you, Kelsey?”
Her heart sank as she stared at the manila envelope. “It’s every week…” she breathed. Warren was paying thousands of euros every single week. Who could possibly be that desperate for a few hours of solitude?
Harry grimaced. “You’re rocking the boat, Kelsey.”
She met his gaze. “What if something happens to him while you’re paid not to look?”
Harry laughed. “You don’t think this detail is for real, do you, Kelsey?” Yet he shifted his feet uneasily and dropped his gaze from hers.
“I read the brief,” Agata said. She lifted her voice, because the other three men on the day detail—Pepperidge, Dunkley and Roe—were at the table, and listening. “Doesn’t matter what Warren thinks, or you think. There are genuine threat markers.”
“Fucking do-gooder…” Dunkly murmured. The other two laughed.
Agata’s heart shifted up another gear. Being unpopular, being laughed at, was nothing new. She didn’t like it, although she refused to wilt because they thought badly of her.
She kept her gaze on Harry. When Harry glanced at her once more, she said, “Keep the money, Harry. Someone has to watch Warren’s back.”
“You don’t get it, Kelsey. He doesn’t want anyone watching him,” Roe said. He didn’t even look at her.
“That’s not his decision to make.” Agata flipped the paperback up and held the page open. “Keep the money. Split it between the four of you, if you want.”
It was a counter bribe, and it worked. From the corner of her eye, she saw the men at the table relax. Harry stuffed the envelope ba
ck in his pocket. “You like being a voyeur, knock yourself out.” His tone was vicious.
Agata kept her eyes on the text on the page, riding out her surprise. Of course, they still thought Warren was escaping to fuck and drink and sniff himself into a stupor. Harry thought she had enjoyed watching Warren’s depravities and wanted to keep doing it.
Agata could correct their impression with the truth. It would shock them and shut them up. Only, Warren was her protectee. It was the same privileged relationship lawyers’ clients enjoyed. It didn’t matter that the three jerks sitting around the table were part of the detail.
Agata shrugged. “It’s better than the dismal porn you guys have hidden behind the fridge.”
Silence.
Agata turned the page.
No one said anything to her about Wednesdays, after that.
The next day, when Warren stepped through the fire exit door, Agata didn’t bother hiding her presence. She stayed as far away as safety would allow, and trailed him to Gentilly, then waited and trailed him back to the Latin Quarter.
Warren didn’t say a word to her the entire afternoon, and the others in the detail didn’t, either. She went to bed early, drained.
All her Wednesdays followed the same pattern. Warren had accepted that he would not shake her loose. As long as she said nothing to the others about what he really did on Wednesdays, they could both live with the uneasy truce.
Only, it locked her into the fear-inducing situation of being the only guard Warren had if something went wrong. As Agata had learned in her three years with the CIA, and especially in Austria, things went wrong fast and without warning.
On top of that, Warren seemed to enjoy making her life miserable. Payback for tailing him, she presumed. He sniped and snarked whenever he could. The men in the detail enjoyed watching Warren rip her a new one, too.
Whatever. She could live with verbal slaps. They were just words. She couldn’t live with the idea of someone getting to Warren, though. Not on her shift. Not again.
The first time he spoke to her on their Wednesday walk through Paris was in July—it was the first super-hot day of the year. As most of Paris emptied in the summer and particularly in August, the streets were miasmic, lonely steam baths.
Agata kept Warren in sight as they approached the underpass beneath the Périphérique. The tarmac on the highway shimmered with heat build-up from the sun and from the cars passing over it.
It was on days like this when Agata wished someone would invent an invisible gun rig, so she could get rid of the jacket which hid her conventional rig. It was a light cotton shirt, today, yet it was still one layer too many. If this was still only July, August would be unbearable.
Where the street began its dip to run beneath the highway, Warren paused. He turned and waited for Agata to catch up with him. Unlike her, Warren was free to wear what he wanted. Today it was the lightest of white linen shirts. The short sleeves displayed his arms, and the hems of the sleeves were snug around them. His cotton pants and mesh baseball cap were also light and airy. He removed his sunglasses as she approached him.
She raised her brow at him.
“Looks like there’s a bunch of people in the underpass.” He jerked his head toward the shadowed tunnel. Silhouettes showed of people sitting and leaning against the concrete walls.
“Probably the homeless, looking to get out of the sun,” Agata said. “I’ll walk beside you until we’re through.”
They moved on, while Agata hid her pleasure. Warren had actively helped her protect him. He had acknowledged her role.
The people slumped in the tunnel were homeless folk—sleepy, dirty, and uninterested in two pedestrians who carried no bags or visible valuables.
Agata monitored each of them and listened for movement behind her, until they stepped out of the tunnel and were into the commune itself.
“Just homeless,” Warren said. He dropped his chin to look at her over the sunglasses. It left only a sliver of his black eyes visible under the peak of the cap. The humid heat wasn’t doing Warren any favors, either. His hair was a springy mess, curling over the edges of the cap.
“It was still a good call,” she assured him.
He gave an annoyed click of his tongue. “I knew they were homeless. They were here last year, too. You’re completely blinkered, aren’t you, Kelsey?”
She licked her lips. “I’ll drop back.” She slowed her steps.
Warren stopped. “You think anyone in the world really gives a shrug about me?”
“Anouk Thayer’s father did.”
“You don’t know that for sure. No one could have arranged for me to take that exact taxi to that exact street corner where we met, Kelsey. It was completely random.”
“You didn’t think so. You asked me to check her out more thoroughly than usual.”
“To get you off my tail, Kelsey!” He shook his head. “Give this up. Go back to the apartment. Enjoy your money.”
He thought she was still taking his money. Harry hadn’t told him she had refused it.
Agata pressed her lips together. It was so tempting to rat Harry out. Only, her portion of the money was what let her follow Warren every Wednesday without the others interfering. It provided stasis.
She had remained silent too long. Warren pulled off his cap and sunglasses, fury making the tendons beneath the pale brown flesh of his throat work. “You’re not here to protect me! Are you the only one who doesn’t think this is a joke? You’re here to make sure I behave myself because my father thinks I can’t go twenty-four hours without supervision.”
Agata’s heart stuttered. She didn’t like it, out here in the open. It was too hot. Muggy. Too many approach vectors. The pressure made her speak without proper consideration. “Jeez, Warren. You think five narcotics arrests in three years might have something to do with it?”
He slapped the cap against his thigh. “You’re missing the point.”
“The point is, I’d rather be swimming in the ocean in Nice,” she snapped back. “You think I like doing this? I should be in Galveston or Houston right now. I should be with my team in…in fucking Vietnam, for all I know! I should be anywhere but here. I didn’t miss the fucking point at all. Behave yourself, Warren. I don’t have the patience to deal with a spoiled brat.”
He recoiled, genuine surprise skittering across his face. His eyes narrowed. “I’m thirty-four years old, Kelsey. You make me sound like I’m twelve.”
“The only place you’re thirty-four is on the fucking calendar!” she cried. “Everywhere else, you’re still nineteen and a danger to everyone.”
His chest heaved as he stared at her.
Agata was breathing hard, too. Where in hell had all that come from?
Warren rammed the cap back on his head. He shoved the sunglasses back in place and strode away fast.
Agata let him get ten yards ahead and moved out. She had little trouble keeping up with him. Her legs were as long as his.
Warren didn’t speak to her again that day.
On the second Wednesday after that hot July day, though, it rained even before they had left the campus grounds. Agata closed the distance between her and Warren. “Do you want to get a taxi?”
His jaw worked. He didn’t look at her. “What’s wrong, Kelsey? Do you melt in the rain?”
She gritted her jaw together. “I’ll have to stay closer, today.” She dropped back to three yards and twisted her already soaked hair into a rope which hung down her back, acting as a lightning rod for the rain, which dripped from the tail.
After a few minutes, she was water-logged. Getting out of the rain would make no difference. She could not be any wetter. It was a pleasant change from the heat of the day.
Warren at least had a cap to keep the rain off his face. When the rain shifted to heavy, drumming drops, he halted and took off his cap and raised his head to the sky. He closed his eyes.
Agata waited patiently.
He glanced at her as he shoved the cap int
o his back pocket. “The world would rub along better for you if you learned to work with nature instead of railing against it.” He set off once more.
It was the first time he had even hinted at the balance of nature tenets of Buddhism.
Agata followed him, thought-filled. She had become aware of the pattern of his visits to the temple. Often, he would make comments or observations on his way to the temple. Usually, they were shots fired across her bow. He was good at getting under her skin and usually prodded her into a few observations of her own.
On his return journeys back to the apartment, though, Warren seemed calmer. It had taken pure observation to draw that conclusion because he never spoke to her on the return. Perhaps he was reflecting upon whatever transpired in the temple. Perhaps he was simply at peace—an extraordinary state for someone like Warren to reach.
“You like the rain,” she said, raising her voice above the drum and hiss of the rain.
Warren didn’t look back at her. “It muffles things.”
“What things?”
He didn’t answer straight away. “The voice,” he said, at last.
“You hear voices? And you wonder why you have a detail…”
He turned. Rivulets of rain trailed down his face, dripping from the recalcitrant locks of hair hanging over his eyes. For once, the irritation which was usually in his eyes was absent. He pushed his hair back, with a slick sound. “You must have a voice, Kelsey. Everyone has one. Considering the crap food you eat, I’m betting yours whispers to you about how good it would be to get another cheeseburger. How good fries cooked in overheated hydrogenated vegetable oil would taste right now, especially loaded with commercial salt. Or ice cream with hot fudge sauce.”
Agata’s mouth watered. “That’s my voice?”
“Harry’s voice talks about bread. Especially my croissants,” Warren added.
Inside Man Page 5