Nobody Dies For Free

by Pro Se Press

  Monroe took a swig of the scotch and set the bottle on the table beside the couch. He stood up, walked over to Winter, and put his arms around her, pulled her close, hugged her for a moment, whispered, “I’m sorry. It didn’t work out the way it should have…but thank you for doing what you did.”

  He let her go, went back to the couch. She sat down beside him now, kicked her shoes off, leaned back against the cushions, stretched her legs out in front of her and flexed her toes, glad to be out of those heels.

  “So the French just decided they wanted him, right then?”

  “No,” Monroe said. “It’s a little more complicated. It seems our guys—the Americans, I mean—just learned that Garrett Khan’s been dealing or at least communicating with some other factions of interest. They needed him alive for interrogation. I had no choice, I had to stop. I hated to stop, but business is business and personal pain can’t be allowed to get in the way.”

  “How close did you get?”

  “The trigger was halfway there,” Monroe said.

  “So you could have fired then, acted as if you pulled before you understood the order to stop?”

  “Yes, I could have.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because at that moment it was about more than me and more than Genevieve and more than the probable collapse of Khan’s empire of crime if he died. Other lives are at stake and the things Khan knows can possibly save those lives, those American lives. That’s why I didn’t.”

  “How noble of you,” Winter said, still sarcastic, but with a warmth and humor in the words now too. “So what do we do now?”

  “I’m finishing off this scotch,” Monroe answered, “and then I intend to sleep off a lousy day. You can do whatever you want. I won’t keep you chained to me any longer, Winter. I’ll give you some money, enough to stay in Paris for a little while longer if you want to see more of the city, or you can fly back to Boston at your leisure.”

  “So that’s it,” Winter said, “you’re just throwing me away?”

  “A few days ago you called yourself my prisoner…and now you’re acting like I’m insulting you by letting you go?” Monroe shook his head.

  “Well can I stay with you tonight?” Winter asked, reaching over to touch him.

  “I don’t see a single reason why you shouldn’t,” Monroe answered, and he passed her the bottle.

  ***

  They ordered breakfast in the room when morning came around. They were both groggy until the coffee hit, for it had been an active night with Monroe letting out his frustrations in sensual ways instead of violent. They had finally managed a bit of sleep, but not nearly enough. Monroe was on his third cup and Winter was looking out the window and munching on a piece of toast with apricot preserves when the knock came at the door.

  A loud, “Mr. Monroe!” followed the knocking. Monroe, wishing the peace could have lasted just a bit longer, put down the coffee and headed for the door while Winter, barely dressed, scrambled for the bathroom before he opened it.

  Monroe found two United States Naval officers standing in the hallway, both lieutenants, one junior grade, one full. “Morning, boys,” he said.

  “Good morning, sir,” the full lieutenant said. “I’m Lt. Leary and this is Lt. Stuart. We’re here to pick you up, sir. We have a chopper waiting.”

  “You have a chopper to where?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that here, sir,” Leary said. “No information is to be given until we’re airborne and audio is secure.”

  “Not even a little hint?” Monroe asked, teasing but also wondering if the appearance of the lieutenant twins was on the level.

  “We were told you might be difficult to get out of here, Mr. Monroe,” Lt. Stuart spoke for the first time, “so we were instructed to mention that the food is very good on Tuesdays.”

  “Okay,” Monroe nodded, “I’m all yours. Give me ten minutes. I have to dress, shave, and say goodbye to a lady.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant twins said, disturbingly in unison, and closed the door again.

  Monroe turned to begin getting ready to leave. He went straight to his suitcase and dug to the bottom under his clothes. He took a wad of cash out and turned away from the case just as Winter emerged from the bathroom in her robe.

  “Who was it?” she asked.

  “Uncle Sam wants me,” Monroe said. “I have to go. I have to go now.”

  Winter walked over to him. “It’s been fun, Richard. Be careful.”

  Monroe put the wad of money in Winter’s hand. “This should buy you some fun in Paris for a few days and a ticket home when you’re ready. I’ll call you when I get back to Boston.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “No,” Monroe said. “I don’t make many promises, but it’s a definite possibility.” And he kissed her hard for a moment, then let her go and began to gather his things.

  Chapter 15: Internal Affairs

  A United States Navy aircraft carrier does not travel alone. Rather, a carrier is the heart of a fleet of vessels, the centerpiece of a floating congregation of warships, support ships, and various other crafts, all sailing the seas together as a huge multifaceted weapon as powerful as any the world has ever known. By the time the helicopter carrying Lt. Leary, Lt. Stuart, and Richard Monroe set down on the flight deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln, it had already flown over a cruiser, several frigates, a supply ship, and a logistics support vessel. The chopper touched down and the occupants waited until the pilot had shut down the engine before getting out.

  Monroe was no stranger to naval vessels. He had been a navy officer as a young man and although he had never been officially assigned to seaborne service, he had often, while working in naval intelligence, had reason to go aboard vessels of various types. He found that he felt at home on the deck of the immense carrier and he followed the two young lieutenants as they led him past several saluting sailors and down into the interior of the ship.

  The officers who had transported Monroe on the nearly two hour flight over the Atlantic Ocean had told him little of the reason he had been flown to the Lincoln. He assumed it had to do with the arrest of Garrett Khan. Perhaps, he thought, Khan was even being held aboard the carrier, as it was not unheard of in the espionage world for important prisoners to be transported or even held for long periods of time at military installations or seagoing vessels. Deeper into the belly of the ship Monroe followed Leary and Stuart, until they finally stopped in front of a closed door.

  “This is where we say goodbye, sir,” Leary said, giving a salute even though Monroe no longer held an active commission. The two officers turned and went back the way they had come. Monroe waited at the door for a moment and then decided to knock.

  “Come in, Monroe,” came from inside and Monroe did as suggested. He opened the door halfway—doors inside ships can be heavy as they are often equipped to lock to seal out incoming water in emergency situations—and slipped in, shutting it behind him. He smiled when he saw Mr. Nine standing there waiting for him inside a beautifully carpeted and furnished room, more like a rich writer’s study than the usually more Spartan rooms on naval vessels.

  Monroe’s chief was dressed in the uniform of a Marine Corps brigadier general and wore a nameplate that read, “Lorimer.” The old spymaster chuckled.

  “Don’t get any ideas about that being my real name, Monroe. General Lorimer is a fictional character. I just inhabit the role when necessity brings me to places like this fine ship.”

  “I was under the impression,” Monroe said, “that we wouldn’t be meeting in person on a regular basis, sir.”

  “Monroe,” Mr. Nine said gravely, “there is nothing regular about this meeting. Sit down.”

  Monroe knew enough to sit down, shut up, and let Mr. Nine fill in the details. He took a comfortable chair beside a bookshelf filled with volumes on naval warfare and history and let the gray-haired man in the general’s uniform tell him what he needed to know.

  �
��While you were in your hotel in Paris, Garrett Khan was handed over from the French agency to a team of officers from naval intelligence and flown out here to the fleet just like you were this morning, except that he was bound, blindfolded, and gagged. Once here, we wasted no time getting him into an interrogation room in the bowels of this very ship. We wanted to know about his communications with certain insurgency factions in the Middle East. We expected him to resist and were prepared to use whatever means we needed to get him to talk. But we ran into an obstacle. I want you to see this for yourself.”

  Mr. Nine picked up a remote control and pressed a button. A television on the wall across from Monroe turned on and showed the interior of the interrogation room. Garret Khan, still in the tuxedo he had worn to the opera, was sitting in a metal chair at a bolted down table. His face was visible. Also present was a tall man in a black suit with his back to the camera. CIA, Monroe guessed.

  “I’ve skipped the part where our man initially tries to get some answers out of Khan,” Mr. Nine explained. “I’ll let you see the important part first, the part where the little scumbag tells us how he’s got us in a very precarious position.”

  Monroe watched and listened as Garrett Khan laughed in the face of his interrogator and then began to speak in his crisp, pompous English accent.

  “You stupid Americans, you have no idea what you’ve done by bringing me here! You should have left me alone. I don’t care what questions you ask me. You will get nothing from me. Nothing! You will not torture me, you will not beat me, and you will not detain me here in your little ship any longer than I allow you to. Sit down, you stupid man, CIA or whatever you are! Sit down and let me tell you the real situation you’ve created by bringing me here against my will!

  “What do you know about technology? Do you know about the GPS systems they put in cars? Do you understand that they can put something similar inside a man? Yes, my stupid friend, I have an object inside of me and it is going to cost many, many lives. You see, inside my head, connected to my brain, is a tiny little piece of machinery that monitors my vital signs. If you don’t believe me, I will happily allow you to scan my head when we’re through with this silly conversation.

  “This device, this chip, transmits a signal to somewhere else in the world, somewhere that I will not name for you. The computers there receive the signal and it lets my assistants know that I am alive. If you have your stupid surgeons attempt to remove the chip, I will die. Do you know what will happen if I die, either by the intervention of doctors or by your hand or gun? If my men receive the signal that tells them I am dead, they will do as I have instructed them to do in such a case: a dirty bomb will be detonated in a major city somewhere in the world. When that bomb detonates, it will instantly kill those within close range of the blast and many more will die over time from radiation sickness and cancers. The blood of innocent people will be shed, many more people than just the one man you have in your custody now. If I die here, the cost will be far greater than my individual life.

  “And there is more, my stupid American! The same men who will activate that bomb in the event of my death have also been given instructions to detonate it if I go out of communication with them for more than twenty-four hours. You must let me speak to them! But simply letting me make a call or send an email will not satisfy them, for I must include in the message a certain code-phrase, and I will not utter that phrase while I am your prisoner.

  “So you see, you truly are powerless to question me, helpless to harm me, and impotent to keep me here in this big tin floating can! In other words, you and your allies will get nothing from me without paying a very, very high price. Stupid Americans!”

  Mr. Nine stopped the tape. He put the remote down and sat across from Monroe.

  “And before you ask, yes, we’ve done a full body scan of Khan. There is indeed a device implanted in his head, connected to his brain. It’s disturbing what you can find on the black tech market these days if you can afford it.”

  “Sir,” Monroe said, “if I had killed him in front of the opera…”

  “Don’t worry about that now, Monroe,” Mr. Nine ordered. “What might have been doesn’t matter. We’ve had Khan in our possession for nearly twelve hours and we’re running out of time!”

  “What do you intend to do about it, sir?”

  “We won’t set him free,” Mr. Nine answered, “unless we absolutely have no choice. I won’t risk any attempts to remove that implant and I doubt Khan would be cooperative enough to just call up his friends and tell them not to blow that bomb, wherever it is. I want my cake, and I’d like to eat it too. In other words, I want the information Garrett Khan has about the goings on in Afghanistan, but I also want to make sure no civilians die in the process of obtaining that data.”

  Monroe stood up, began to pace. “Send me back to Paris, sir!”

  “Why?”

  “Because the men Khan had with him there might know something, either about the location of the bomb or the location of the computer that’s connected to the transmitter in Khan’s head. If they’re still in Paris, maybe I can get some information out of them.”

  “It’ll take you two hours to get back there.”

  “Then contact Arnaud Lafleur of the DGSE and have his men keep an eye on the apartments where Khan was staying. If Khan’s minions try to flee, Arnaud can have them arrested, but I’d much rather get in there and deal with them myself. Unless, sir, you’d rather I stayed here and tried to get the information out of Garrett Khan himself; I’m sure I could find plenty of interesting ways to persuade him without killing him.”

  “Monroe!” Mr. Nine barked like a Rottweiler. “You’re going nowhere near Garrett Khan! I don’t want to risk you going too far or inflicting so much pain that he dies from shock. Get up top and get back on that chopper. While you’re in flight, I’m going to see if there’s any way we can trace the transmissions of that thing in Khan’s head. We’ll try both approaches to the problem simultaneously and see who hits first. Go!”

  ***

  The two lieutenants, Leary and Stuart, flew back to Paris with Monroe. Upon landing, they were picked up by one of Arnaud Lafleur’s DGSE agents and driven to rendezvous with Lafleur a block away from the apartment building run by Jean-Louis Moret. Monroe, Leary, and Stuart crammed into Lafleur’s van for a quick briefing by the French spy commander.

  “We believe,” Lafleur said, “based on what our man on the rooftop across the street from that building has observed, that at least three of Garrett Khan’s men remain inside on the seventh floor. The other floors that Khan rented are now empty. Richard, you have my full support in this matter now that our two nations are again cooperating on the business of Khan. You can have as many men as you want, but knowing your methods I would assume you wish to do this somewhat quietly?”

  “I do,” Monroe said. “These two men I have with me will go in as my backup, but I would like to ask for some equipment.”

  “Anything you need.”

  “It’s not much, just guns for the lieutenants—I’ll be using my own—and some Kevlar for the three of us, just in case they put up a fight.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Lafleur said.

  “Are you men all right with this?” Monroe asked Leary and Stuart.

  “Yes, sir!” they agreed, in that annoying unison speech again.

  ***

  If you cut the head off a scorpion, the claws and stinger soon lose the ability to act in any way threatening or deadly. The assault on the seventh floor of the building was easy. Jean-Louis Moret, recalling Monroe’s promise of a fat wad of cash, happily agreed to have the elevators malfunction. Monroe, Leary, and Stuart, dressed in the DGSE-provided equivalent of SWAT gear, ascended the stairs and burst onto the indicated floor, surprising three men.

  There was little resistance. Leary and Stuart brandished automatic weapons and Monroe had his usual Glock. Without the confidence instilled by having Garrett Khan nearby, the lower-ranked criminals crumbl
ed in the face of those guns and reached for the ceiling.

  Of the three, two—Monroe immediately decided—were idiots, just mindless thugs used to handing out bruises and spending their dirty earnings on booze and women of questionable character. The third man was the one Monroe wanted to talk to in private: a slim, mustached Italian of about forty, dressed in an expensive suit and wearing cologne that certainly was not cheap either, he was clearly a man of taste and intelligence. Monroe signaled for the two lieutenants to keep their eyes and weapons focused on the two thugs while he had his private chat with Mr. Italy.

  “You speak English, I assume?” Monroe said.

  “Of course,” the Italian said with only half the accent Monroe expected.

  “Good,” Monroe waved the Glock, “get into the bathroom now. I will shoot you if you try anything.”

  The Italian tried nothing. Monroe shut the bathroom door behind them.

  “Get in the tub and lay down.” The Glock signaled again with Monroe’s words.

  Monroe stood and looked down at his prisoner. The tub was an old method Monroe had used before; laying there, on his back on a hard surface with the tub walls on his sides made it difficult to stand quickly and impossible to try a kick while supine. Short of tying a man up, it was the quickest way of turning him into far less of an immediate threat.