by Vince Flynn
Simon knew there was no dissuading her from this path, so he nodded. This was part of what made her so good at her job. If a case became personal, she was tenacious. Maybe he could talk some sense into her in a day or two. That was if they had that much time. Fournier and his type would not play fair. As they stepped into the late-afternoon light an ominous feeling clutched at him. Would Fournier and his faceless minions be so brash as to harm his boss? Simon shuddered at the possibility. He couldn’t let that happen. As he opened the rear door of the sedan for Neville he took a quick look up and down the street. There were all sorts of men standing about—assistants, drivers, and bodyguards for the affluent who were inside the hotel. Undoubtedly one or more belonged to Paul Fournier. Simon made a mental note of each face. He’d been a police officer for sixteen years. He’d started out walking the narrow streets of the Marais Quarter. Early on, he learned he had a gift for faces. He hoped that gift hadn’t left him.
Simon settled into the backseat next to his boss and paused for a second before saying, “I think it would be wise to give you and your family a little protection until this has blown over.” He knew she wouldn’t like it, but he said it anyway, mostly because it was the right thing to do. Neville didn’t speak for a long moment, and when she did it was what Simon expected.
“I’m not afraid of Paul Fournier.”
Well, you should be, Simon thought to himself, but he didn’t dare say it. “I never said you were. This is a very high-profile case that is going to attract a lot of attention. I think it would be a wise precaution.”
“Nice try. This is about you being spooked by a spook from DGSE.” Neville shook her head. “I’m not afraid of the man. He’s a coward. He can’t intimidate and use his dirty tricks in the bright light of day, and he sure as hell isn’t going to harm a ranking detective of the Judicial Police.”
He knew her well enough to know that at least for now it would make little sense to try to pursue the matter. He nodded his agreement, but silently he began exploring the various precautions he could put into place. As long as Neville never knew what he was up to, there would be no harm done, but if she found out, he cringed to think of how she would react. Simon looked out the window and decided he would simply need to be careful. To ignore the threat would be foolish.
CHAPTER 26
THEY made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms, his one good one and her two. When Rapp woke up an hour and forty minutes later he stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. There was no fluttering or blurred vision, confusion over where he was or the time. He felt alive and sharp and relaxed all at the same time. Greta could do that to him. He didn’t know how exactly, but he suspected it had something to do with her naked body pressed against his. They always slept with their bodies intertwined, as much skin on skin as possible. Her warmth and energy simultaneously comforted him and made him feel alive.
There was no denying she made him happy, happier than he’d been in a long time. So much so that, as he lay there, he actually thought about dropping everything and driving back to Zurich with her. He could scare the shit out of Kennedy and quite a few others. The phone call would be easy. Just dial the service and leave a message. Tell her that he was done. That he’d put his ass on the line, and they’d repaid him by betraying him. And then would come the part that would make everything very definitive. He would have to threaten her, by explaining in detail what he would do to anyone who came looking for him and that if that happened he would fly back to the States and leave a trail of bodies. Maybe even add something about a packet of information that would be mailed to the FBI or the Department of Justice or God forbid the media.
He frowned at that last part. He couldn’t do it. It would make him no better than all the egomaniacal, opportunistic politicians who were constantly taking shots at the CIA. Kennedy and Stansfield were good people, or at least they tried to do the right thing. Hurley, maybe not so much. Whether Stansfield ordered it or not, Hurley would come after him. The man was funny that way. If Rapp cut a corner or did things his own way, Hurley would fly into a rage, but the man never bothered to confront the fact that there wasn’t a rule he himself hadn’t broken. Stansfield had told Rapp once that the problem he and Hurley had was that they were too much alike. Rapp sure as hell hoped they weren’t. Hurley could be petty and sadistic and extremely unfair and Rapp had told Stansfield so. The deputy director added a few more negative observations to Rapp’s list and then said, “And ultimately very good at what he does. He cuts through all the BS. He sees the purest path toward achieving his objective and he seizes it . . . just like you.”
Rapp had replied, “But he’s a prick.”
Stansfield smiled in his easy way and said, “Yes, he is, and after you’ve been at this for three decades you might be one, too.”
Rapp desperately hoped not. Part of him respected Hurley for his toughness and tenacity, but he couldn’t imagine going through life as such a sour bastard. Rapp wondered if he really could kill him. There’d been plenty of times when he’d envisioned it, but never in a definitive, professional way. His fantasies were more along the lines of bashing his head into the floor over and over again until his brains spilled out. Rapp realized there was a very real chance that taking Hurley out was exactly where this was headed. If he ran, and he might have no choice, he’d have to kill Hurley or the man would hunt him for the rest of his days.
Greta’s head was resting on his chest and his right arm was wrapped around her. They’d met nearly a year ago in Zurich and it had been love, or at least lust, at first sight. Greta’s family had a string of banks located in most of the major financial centers. Her grandfather and Thomas Stansfield had been allies in the fight against communism, and the family still helped Stansfield with some of the more delicate aspects of their operations. So far they had kept their relationship a secret. Greta knew what Rapp did, to an extent, but the wound in his shoulder was a harsh reminder that she had fallen in love with a man who was in a very dangerous line of work.
Rapp slid his hand down her side, her slender waist, and then her hip. He kissed the top of her head and took a deep breath. He wanted to remember this. Total peace; joy in his heart and a woman he passionately loved at his side. This was how normal people lived, but not him. His training had been thorough, and in ways Rapp hadn’t expected. Hurley had talked to each of them about women. His policy was gruff and to the point. “You can hump all the women you want, but you can’t fall in love and you sure as hell can’t get married. If you fall in love or get married, I’ll put you out to pasture or kill you.” And that was just one of many reasons Rapp thought Hurley was a jackass.
It was tempting to spend the rest of his life naked and in bed with Greta, but he knew it was a romantic fantasy. If that was ever his hope there was a lot of work to be done first. There had probably been a time when he could have taken the road more frequently traveled, but that was gone. The truth was more than the simple fact that he was a trained killer. He was good at it, he enjoyed it, and he was not ready to walk away from it. Maybe he really would turn out like Hurley if he lived long enough. The thought depressed him.
As Rapp carefully slid his arm from under Greta, he promised himself that he would never let that happen. In the bathroom he closed the door and checked his reflection in the mirror. The black circles under his eyes were almost gone. It was amazing what the body could do with some food and a lot of sleep. The bandage on his shoulder was blood-free, but the bruising on his back looked pretty bad. Rapp flexed his fingers on his left hand and then moved his arm around in a small clockwise motion. The flex didn’t hurt but rotating his shoulder hurt like hell. He tried a few more motions with varied success and then got in the shower. Not wanting to get his bandages wet, he cleaned from the waist down, toweled off, and contemplated shaving. He had two days of thick stubble. There were pros and cons to keeping it, but in the end the cons won out and he shaved. Any concealment it offered would be marginal, and on the other side of the ledger
was a mountain of evidence about how police treated men who were dressed nicely and clean-shaven versus men who were not.
Greta was still asleep while he put on his dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and lace-up black combat boots. Unfortunately, she awoke at the sound of Rapp adjusting the Velcro straps on his bulletproof vest. She propped her head up with a second pillow and pulled the sheet up high around her neck.
“Why are you wearing that?”
“Just a precaution,” Rapp said truthfully.
Greta wasn’t buying it. “Mitch?”
“Greta?” Rapp said.
“I’m serious.”
“And so am I, and that’s why I’m putting it on.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her blue eyes a bit more chilly than normal. “I thought you said this was going to be easy.”
Rapp got the two bottom straps just the way he liked them and said, “I don’t plan on getting in an accident every time I get behind the wheel, but I still wear a seat belt.”
“Your point?”
“I don’t plan on getting shot, but since it’s already happened once this week you’ll have to excuse me if I decide this is a good idea.”
She frowned and lay there unflinching, but in the end she decided there wasn’t much else she could add. She watched as Rapp carefully pulled on a black cotton dress shirt. He buttoned all but the top button so his white vest was concealed. He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. Cupping her cheek with his hand, he said, “You have two hours to get ready and be in position. If you don’t want to come along that’s fine. You can wait here or head home if you want.”
She shook her head. “I’m coming with.”
“Good. And can you be ready and in position in two hours?”
“No problem, but where are you going?”
“I have a few more things I need to pick up and I need to take a look around.”
“You can’t stay and eat with me?”
“I’d love to, but there’s not enough time. Order some room service and when you’re ready make sure you pack all of your stuff and put it in your trunk.”
“I know,” she repeated like a good student. “And take your backpack and make sure I don’t check out because we might need to come back.”
Rapp considered the tense, anxious expression on her face. He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry so much. This is just going to be a little observation from a safe distance. Nothing will go wrong. I promise.”
“Famous last words.”
Rapp smiled. “You’re such an optimist.”
CHAPTER 27
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JIM Talmage chose the four-year-old metallic gray Toyota Camry because it was the most common make in the District and also the most common color. He had three dogs to choose from, and the choice was easy. The German shepherd would stand out too much and the white Scottish terrier only slightly less, so it would be his trusted mutt, Bert. Talmage had picked him up from a pound three years ago. Bert was only four months old at the time. The pound had no papers on him but a lot of opinions as to who his parents were. As Bert grew it became obvious to Talmage that he was a mix of border collie and Labrador. Of his three dogs, Bert was the smartest by a long shot. He had a black coat with a fist-sized patch of white at the chest, and the only reason he needed a leash was so as to not alarm one of the many fascists that walked the streets of the District looking to scream at anyone who didn’t have his dog on a leash.
Bert sat near the trunk of the car while the sixty-one-year-old Talmage surveyed his equipment. He looked older today because he had put some powder in his hair giving it more of a gray look. All of his equipment was contained in four black cases that could easily be moved from one trunk to another. One case contained a variety of cameras, from big SLRs that could handle thick, long lenses to tiny cameras not much bigger than a man’s thumb. Talmage chose the camera he would use, but didn’t pick it up. Instead he opened a medium-sized square duffel bag with two zippers along the top. A piece of nylon fabric connected both zippers so they could be opened at the same time. Talmage pulled them back and the top of the duffel bag opened like a tongue. Neatly folded jackets were arranged inside along with a variety of hats. Talmage chose a houndstooth driving cap to start with and then he put on a trench coat that reversed from black to khaki. He chose the khaki side and moved on to another black case.
Inside were a variety of transmitters as big as a box of playing cards and as small as a ladybug. He considered his subject before deciding and then pulled on a thin pair of brown leather gloves and grabbed two options as well as a receiver. He didn’t bother checking them, as he had done so back in his basement shop earlier in the day. The receiver was placed in the left pocket of the trench coat and the two transmitters in the right. Next he chose a medium-sized SLR. It was a Canon, the kind of camera carried by tourists who were serious about their photos, but not the kind of monster carried by a pro. He twisted a 135mm lens onto the end and hung the camera around his neck. He closed both cases and then his hand hovered over the third for a second. It was full of directional listening devices, and he wouldn’t need any of them for the next hour. His hand stopped over the fourth case and he seemed hesitant to open it. He knew what was inside, he just wasn’t sure he needed to be packing heat.
There had been a time in his career when he wouldn’t have even considered not carrying, especially in the District. He had all the proper paperwork should the police stop him, but that wasn’t why he carried. He carried because many of his subjects were under extreme pressure, the kind of pressure that could cause certain men to do stupid things if they discovered they were being followed. The other reason he carried in the District was the criminal element. D.C. had been in the top five in the nation for murders for more than a decade and running. It was the thugs that made him decide to punch in the code and pop the case. Inside were a Browning 1911 .45 caliber pistol, a Beretta 9mm pistol, and a customized Colt .45 caliber machine pistol with a collapsible butt stock and threads for a suppressor. Talmage grabbed the Browning. He was in a nice part of town, the part of town that the city’s criminal element liked to visit to commit violent crimes.
The last things he grabbed were a copy of the New York Times, Bert’s dog leash, and a plastic shopping bag. Talmage closed the trunk and activated his customized alarm with a key fob. Bert sat perfectly still while Talmage attached the leash. He even stopped slapping his tail against the pavement. The man and beast then started across the parking lot toward the trees, the walking and biking paths, and the dark brown Potomac River. Bert kept pace with his owner, never pulling on the leash or tripping him up by walking underfoot. When they made it to the first path, both dog and owner stopped. In unison they looked left and then right and then stepped off.
They continued to the next path and then onto the threadbare grass just beyond. Talmage surveyed the river. Twenty-five yards away a young couple in a kayak zigzagged their way upstream, laughing at their own inexperience. Out in the middle of the river a six-man crew slapped the water in unison as they flew back downstream. Closer to the far shore and a little to the north, two more kayaks were navigating the rocks. This time of year it wasn’t too difficult, but come spring it would not be for the faint of heart. To his left a single scull worked its way against the current. Talmage looked down at his camera and flipped a couple of the dials before bringing the viewfinder up to his right eye. He swung casually to the left, zoomed in on the lone rower, and snapped three photos.
And then he and Bert started south on the walking path. As Talmage and his subject drew parallel Talmage kept his eyes front and center. Only an amateur would try to steal a look and risk exposing himself. For nine minutes, they walked the path, minding their own business and smiling back at the occasional dog owner who wanted to share their common association with a smile and a nod. They eventually reached their objective, a dumpy little place called Jack’s Boathouse. The business model was fairly simple. Rowi
ng, crewing, and sculling were popular on the East Coast, especially with those who went to certain upper-crust schools and even a few where drinking was more important than academics. A fair number of those graduates matriculated to D.C. after graduation, and rather than act like a gerbil on a wheel at their local health club, they came to the Potomac during the warmer months and got one of the best workouts known to man. Jack’s catered to these people by renting various boats, sculls, and kayaks and also providing storage for those who didn’t have the room at home for their equipment, or didn’t want to bother lugging it back and forth.
Talmage had already learned two things about his subject: He owned his own single scull and he was too cheap to rent a spot for it, so he drove it back and forth, tying it to the roof of his eight-year-old sky blue Volvo station wagon. Talmage could now see the station wagon to his left parked among the various vehicles in Jack’s packed parking lot. He checked upriver first to see the location of the subject. Talmage judged he was too far away to notice what he was about to do. And if he could see he’d be too out of breath and focused to notice what was going on nearly a mile downriver.
Talmage started talking to Bert, for no other reason than to buy some time. Surveillance was a tricky business, especially in this town. You never knew who else might be lurking about with eyes on your target. After a minute of looking crazy talking to his dog, Talmage thought he was clear. He started for the cars, not directly for the Volvo, but in its general direction. He casually nudged Bert where he wanted him to go, and when he had him in near-perfect position he gave a one-word command.