by David Khara
Morg grasped Jeremy’s shoulders. “As long as I’m alive, they will hunt me down. If they capture me, the research will start again. My body would be their holy grail. It’s true what Bleiberg and Elena said. I am Subject 302. For the Consortium, I always will be.”
Jeremy shrugged off Eytan’s hands. The giant’s wounds and precarious balance prevented him from resisting. Seething with anger, the trader moved toward Jackie, who still hadn’t spoken. “Make him see sense. It doesn’t have to end this way. It can’t end this way.” The CIA agent held Jeremy’s gaze but didn’t utter a word.
“You’re both absolutely crazy, goddammit! Do you have to be stupid to be a secret agent or what?” He glanced at Jackie. “Isn’t there a witness protection program that gives you a new identity and everything?”
“Can you see me living in a sleepy suburb, working nine to five as a pen pusher at city hall or in a government office?” asked Eytan. “I’m a hit man, Jeremy. I never learned to do anything else. I’m tired. My job is done. Others can take over. Now help Jacqueline, and get out of here as fast as you can, both of you.”
“No way!”
Jeremy didn’t see it coming. Eytan winced as his fist crunched into Jeremy’s jaw, but the punch had enough power to deck him.
“Jackie, looks like it’s up to you to haul him out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I think you have a vague idea.”
Rising onto her tiptoes, Jackie gave the giant a kiss on the cheek.
I come around in the car with Jackie leaning over me. Her slender fingers caress my face. I sit up. He certainly gave me one hell of a punch. I can hardly move. The car starts up. As we drive away, I stare at the ruins of the racecourse buildings in the side mirror. A first explosion sends heaps of earth flying. A series of blasts, each more powerful than the last, engulfs everything in flames. Eytan always did things thoroughly.
Hands clenching the wheel, Jackie stares at the road ahead. We drive in silence. I’m going to miss the bastard.
EPILOGUE
Snow piles up in the driveway. I’m going to have to get the shovel out if I want to make it to work tomorrow morning. The kids, at least, will have some fun, because it looks like there won’t be any school. Cup of coffee in hand, I gaze across the road. Colorful Christmas decorations light up every house. I’d better not forget. My wife’s aunt and uncle fly into Newark tomorrow evening. I have to pick them up at seven.
I’m pleased to be out of Manhattan. Smalltown, New Jersey, suits me much better. The air is pure; the people are friendly. I’ve made more friends in five months than in five years in NYC. I don’t miss the world of finance. Running a bookstore is more fun. I’ve named it Morg’s World. I sell crime fiction, thrillers, espionage novels and some role-playing games. Who cares if it doesn’t make a cent. We have enough money not to worry about that. The store has a few aficionados already. Some stop by every day. We chat over a pot of coffee. We fight. We make up. Life is back to normal. I no longer see the world through columns of numbers.
I quit drinking. When we got back from Belgium, I had a short stay at a rehab center. Ever since, the mere sight of a glass of wine turns my stomach. I still smoke, but less than before. I can’t quit completely.
I still have trouble sleeping, but it’s gradually getting better. I make the most of it to catch up on my reading and fill the gaps in my general knowledge. That’ll take some doing. Often, at night, I wonder what Eytan’s life was like after he escaped the concentration camp. How did he dodge the Nazis and survive? Who supplied him with antidote? A whole host of questions, to which I’ll never have an answer. I can’t help thinking of the guy, an extraordinary eyewitness to history in the making, and all he went through.
Once a week, I visit my mother’s grave. Before she resigned from the Agency, Jackie arranged for a reburial in the local cemetery.
She thought it wiser not to inform her bosses of the Consortium’s existence. I wanted to expose the whole thing, but she pointed out that the evidence went up in the explosions at the BCI facility in Belgium. According to Jackie, the shady organization wouldn’t hurt us, because we are no longer a threat. As she said, “Who’d believe us anyway?”
I can’t deny she’s right. Nobody has come to assassinate us. As for the influenza epidemic, it was successfully brought under control within a few weeks of our return home.
A quick glance at my emails before bed. The desk is piled high with books. I’ll never be able to read all of them, but trying won’t hurt. Three new messages. Two online orders—more parcels to gift wrap—and one whose subject line reads Merry Christmas, Novacek. A chill runs down my spine. I never use that name. It can’t be spam. If it’s a virus, Greg, the fat geek who virtually lives in the store and on Facebook, will take the machine apart and put it back together.
I click, and it launches an animation that starts with a photo of the store. I can see myself through the window, chatting with a bearded guy, Phil. It was yesterday afternoon. The image fades and is replaced by a message: Merry Christmas to both of you!
Another image comes up. Two fists close-up. Letters on the knuckles: Y-O-U-R M-A-T-E.
The bastard! A hand lands on my shoulder. I’m not startled. I’d recognize her touch anywhere.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I get the feeling Eytan Morg has a new target. Life’s going to get tricky for the Consortium.”
She nuzzles my neck and whispers in my ear.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Khara studied law, worked as a reporter for Agence France Press, was a top-level athlete, and ran his own business for a number of years. Now he is a full-time writer. Khara wrote his first novel—a vampire thriller—in 2010, before starting his Consortium thriller series. The first in the series, The Bleiberg Project, became an immediate bestseller in France, catapulting Khara into the ranks of the country’s top thriller writers.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Simon John was born in the United Kingdom. After graduating from Cambridge University, a quest for wine, women and goat cheese led him to Paris, where he began working in film production and translation. He primarily translates and subtitles movies, such as Michael Haneke’s Palme d’Or-winner Love and blockbusters Taken 1 & 2. After twenty fertile years and 3,713 goat cheese salads in Paris, he is now based in Berlin.
ABOUT LE FRENCH BOOK
Le French Book is a New York-based digital-first publisher specialized in great reads from France. It was founded in December 2011 because, as founder Anne Trager says, “I couldn’t stand it anymore. There are just too many good books not reaching a broader audience. There is a very vibrant, creative culture in France, and the recent explosion in e-reader ownership provides a perfect medium to introduce readers to some of these fantastic French authors.”
More thrillers and mysteries at:
www.lefrenchbook.com
Contents
DAY 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
DAY 2
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
DAY 3
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
DAY 4
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
>
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Final Chapter
Epilogue
About the Author
About the Translator
About Le French Book