“What would you have me do?” Musson asked. “Cuff him first? How will he put on his clothes? Stand over there, across the room, and train your gun on him. If he makes even the slightest of suspicious moves, shoot him dead. Is that clear to you, Agent Cooper?”
“It is,” Bolan said. “I would like to point out again, though, that if I was the rabid animal you think I am, neither one of you would be talking about it right now.”
Musson jerked his head toward the chair on which Bolan had draped his clothes and jacket. Bolan began pulling on his clothes.
“Flagel, check his boots.”
Flagel nodded. Bolan’s combat boots were near the door to the room. The inspector checked them to make sure they contained no weapons or obvious hidden compartments. He tossed the boots across the room, within Bolan’s reach.
“You’re awfully up in arms over a bunch of gang scum,” Bolan said.
“Gang scum,” Musson repeated. “Yes. The men you eliminated were bad people. You accomplished a great deal of ‘police work’ in a short amount of time, Cooper. But have you considered what we will have to live with in the coming weeks and months? The gangs are scrambling for control of the territory now. Out of fear, they are cooperating.
“A new coalition has arisen under the name of the Red Spiders. They are not as powerful, nor as well equipped, but they are compensating by employing greater patience and stealth. You have simply driven some of the overt crime underground. The Red Spiders are now on the move, consolidating their grip on the neighborhoods they claim.”
“And it was better when it was aboveground?” Bolan asked. “When gang leaders walked your streets with impunity, convinced of their own safety in the middle of Paris’s no-go zones? Just what do you think happens when power like that goes unchecked? Your society’s predators grow out of control until they’re the ones in charge. That’s the framework you’re trying to protect, Musson. You’re a lawman. You should know better.”
“I know the difference between law enforcement and murder!” Musson insisted. He produced a pair of plastic zip-tie cuffs from his pocket.
Bolan knew that once those cuffs were on his wrists, it would be nearly impossible to get out of them. He would need to find a blade of some kind to cut the plastic. He could strip the flesh from his own wrists before he managed to work the ties loose otherwise. He couldn’t afford to let them tie him.
Flagel was a hothead, sure, but Bolan understood where he was coming from. He had felt such feelings of righteous indignation himself. He finished dressing and pulled on his jacket. The door behind Musson, the door to Bolan’s hotel room, had not been shut completely. The soldier could see the line of light from the hallway behind. As Flagel started to move in, his Browning at the ready, Musson brandished the zip-cuffs.
Bolan held out his hands. “I just want you to know something,” he said. “Well, two things, Musson.”
“And what is that?” Musson reached out to place the loop of the cuffs over Bolan’s wrists.
“I’m sorry.”
Bolan struck.
Extending his hands, he struck with his palms, up and forward, as if holding a ball in his hands. The double-hand strike took Musson under his neck, and whipped his head back and down. The blow staggered the inspector and dropped him to the floor, dazed. Bolan was already moving, using the momentum of his attack to propel him over Musson’s body.
The detonation of Flagel’s pistol shook the room with sudden thunder, pummeling Bolan’s eardrums. He kept going, not looking back, not giving Flagel the pause the man would need to target Bolan properly.
The soldier barreled down the hotel corridor.
“Cooper!” Flagel roared. “Stop!”
Bolan reached the end of the corridor and yanked open the fire door. Once inside he descended rapidly, sliding down the railings when he needed to shorten the distance. Above him, he heard the fire door open again, and at least twice the stairwell echoed with shots from Flagel’s gun, but Bolan was outpacing the inspector, and Flagel knew it.
When Bolan reached street level, he forced himself to walk at a normal pace.
The streets were still dark, but even now in the predawn, there were people moving about, going to and from their jobs. Bolan strode purposefully down the street, taking the first corner he found, then ducking into an adjacent alley.
He set a brisk pace but never broke from a walk, switching back and changing his pattern until he was certain he had lost Flagel and had picked up no other DCRI tails. It was possible, after all, that someone was watching the building at street level, ready to acquire or even kill Bolan should he escape custody.
He wasn’t sure how they had found him, but there were a number of possible ways. That was irrelevant now. He had rested as much as he could permit himself. It was time to continue the war, bring the battle to Gaston. He knew the address of Gaston’s estate; it had been in the original intelligence briefing. He made a practice of memorizing critical mission data. You never knew when the technology on which you depended might stop working.
For the moment Bolan had no weapons, no equipment, except the boots on his feet, the clothes on his back and the brain in his head. Fortunately for the Executioner, the human brain was the most effective weapon yet evolved. And his was exceptional.
Mack Bolan disappeared into the crowds on the streets of Paris.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Are you all insane?” Alfred Bayard shouted. “He is an operative of the United States government, a nation with which we are allied, and his targets have been the most dangerous and violent of our criminal element! He has actively fought terrorists on French soil and saved the lives of French citizens!”
Director Jean Vigneau of the DCRI peered at Bayard over his half spectacles. His suit was two decades out of fashion, and his tie was thicker than good sense or the decade prescribed. Two tufts of gray hair hung on for dear life to either side of his otherwise bald head. His face was a road map of lines and wrinkles, wrought from years of responsibility and sour moods. A disapproving look from Vigneau was enough to back Bayard up a pace.
“Inspector Bayard,” Vigneau said, never once raising his voice, “I will thank you to calm yourself and retake your seat.”
Bayard realized then that he was standing. Somewhat sheepishly he sat again. In the wooden chairs to either side of him, Musson and Flagel sat nursing their fresh wounds. Both men were bruised and battered. Fortunately for them, nothing had been broken. The two kept looking at each other and to Bayard.
“What you are suggesting,” Bayard said, trying to calm himself, “is ludicrous. It is a betrayal of everything we stand for. If you give these Red Spiders the information they need to hunt and kill Cooper, you are giving the criminals of this city the means they need to eliminate the man who has put them on their heels.
“The Red Spiders will be emboldened. And you can bet they will trumpet their victory on the street. They might put Cooper’s head on a pike and parade it through the streets. Are you prepared for such a spectacle? The ethnic enclaves will become worse than ever, more hostile to our people than ever.”
“Hostile?” Vigneau repeated, glaring at Bayard. “I am led to understand that you have found ways to work with the powers in the enclaves before. That you were able to secure certain arrangements, certain considerations.”
Bayard could feel heat rushing to his face. He tried to continue. “But it is one thing to make certain arrangements of convenience with street trash,” he said, “when one’s goal is to try to keep peace. What you are suggesting is empowering the new gang. If they find and kill Cooper, they will use this as a badge of their power. It will become the thing that ‘makes’ them, so to speak. Their power will be assumed, and we will find it even harder to oppose them in the future. To say nothing of the damage that could be done to international relations, especially
with the Americans—”
“The Americans?” Vigneau interrupted. “Did the President of the United States show any great concern for his relationship with France when he inflicted this, this cowboy, this Agent Cooper, on us?” He opened the center drawer of his desk. From within it he took a digital sound recorder. He placed it on the desk before pressing the Play button.
“As you know, I’m on an aggressive schedule,” Bolan’s voice said. “I’m going to have to move forward before my new stuff arrives.”
“That means nothing,” Bayard stated. “The intelligence provided by our eavesdropping device is not conclusive.”
“Now who is insane?” Vigneau shot back. “Given what this man has done in the time he has been here, do you believe anything less will follow? Especially as he ‘moves forward’ with whatever violent agenda he is pursuing?”
“What really frightens you?” Bayard demanded. “That this Cooper might kill still more of France’s most wanted criminals? That the streets might be that much safer? Why are we not simply getting out of his way?”
“Now I know you are insane. Not so many days ago you believed as I do. You would sneer at the methods of a man like Cooper. You would want him brought to justice. What has changed, Alfred? How has he gotten to you?”
“It isn’t that,” Bayard said. “But I saw the results he got. I saw the good he did. I did not like how he did it, especially at first. But, Jean, consider how many years we lived with the threat of—”
“You forget yourself, Inspector Bayard,” Vigneau interrupted again. “I am your superior officer. You have already put yourself in a precarious position by facilitating Cooper’s mad rampage through the city. Do you have any idea of the collateral damage that could have been done? The innocent lives lost? Do you really want to be party to that again?”
“What innocent lives?” Bayard asked. His voice was rising again, but he could not help it. Musson and Flagel looked nervous. “I have never met a man who worked harder to avoid the loss of innocent life. To say nothing of how he had protected law enforcement officers. Look at these two.”
Vigneau made a disgusted face. “Yes, look at these two,” he said. “Respected, trusted operatives of the DCRI, who twice now have been beaten and humiliated by your American cowboy.”
“Do you not see that is the point?” Bayard demanded. “He could have killed either or both of them. He did not. Even given another opportunity to do so, alone in a hotel room where you sent them to arrest him in the dead of night, he did not do so. And a man like Cooper, accustomed to dealing with his enemies with such finality, could easily and with all consideration have killed these fools—”
“Now wait a moment,” Musson began.
“Fools?” Flagel said.
“Could have killed these fools,” Bayard repeated, “because they attacked him while he slept. How many armed men, do you suppose, could have walked into that room with guns on their persons and walked out alive again? But Cooper let them live because he operates by a code. He does not kill law enforcement officers.”
“How noble!” Vigneau said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “How very cinematic! Perhaps we can make a television movie about Cooper. We shall have to budget a great deal for explosives.”
Bayard decided to try a different approach. “Director,” he said, “I understand completely the position in which you find yourself.”
“Do you?” Vigneau asked.
“I do. Cooper has proved to be a wild element. Uncontrollable. But I propose to use him to do what we have been unable to do. I say we get out of his way. We let him operate. And when he is done we pick up behind him, perform damage control. The benefits will be great. I trust Cooper, Director. I would trust him with my life.”
Vigneau brought his palms together in a slow clap. “We shall have to include that speech in the movie,” he said, “because that is fantasy, not reality. You, Inspector Bayard, will immediately arrange for a special tactics team to accompany you. You will, using the asset we have placed on Cooper, track this man down and bring him in. You will kill him if he refuses. Is that clear?”
“No,” Bayard said.
“No, it is not clear?” Vigneau looked at him, confused.
“I will not do it. I will not hunt Cooper.”
“Your career will suffer accordingly for this insubordination,” Vigneau told him. “Consider yourself censured. I will be placing a letter in your file. Only your seniority, Alfred, prevents me from taking your credentials from you. Musson, it falls to you.”
Musson paused. Finally, he opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it to say, “No, Director. I cannot.”
“What?” Vigneau demanded. “Why not?”
“Alfred is right. Cooper had the means and the reason, more than once, to end my life. If he was the animal you say, he would have. Instead he chose to spare me and Flagel. His methods are not ours, no, but he is an honorable man. He chose not to do serious injury even though we may well have killed him in the attempt to apprehend him. I will not do it. I cannot do it.”
“Then get out of my sight!” Vigneau told him. “I am suspending you with pay. You need to think about where your career is going, Musson.”
Musson walked out of the office. Bayard glared at Flagel. “Well?” he said.
Flagel shook his head. “I will do what is asked of me.”
“You could take a lesson from Inspector Flagel, Alfred,” Vigneau stated. “Now get out of my office. Your suspension is one month, without pay.”
Bayard felt his temper flare. He reached into his jacket, produced his .38 and jammed it, butt first, into Flagel’s stomach. “Here,” he said. “Take my gun.”
Flagel looked confused but took the weapon, rubbing at his gut.
“What is the meaning of this?” Vigneau asked.
“I quit.” Bayard took out his badge and placed it on Vigneau’s desk. “I won’t be party to this...this lynch mob.”
“Stop this,” Vigneau said. “Let us not get carried away. Alfred, you have always been a reasonable man. A man who understands practical realities.”
“Lynch mob!” Bayard repeated.
“And who gave us the concept of the lynch mob?” Vigneau asked. “I would say it was the Americans, was it not?”
“And we gave the world the glorious guillotine,” Bayard replied. “I would say we have no position from which to throw stones. Certainly you do not, Director. Hunt Cooper if you must. I won’t be part of it. And I won’t be part of the DCRI if this is how it conducts its affairs.”
“Get out,” Vigneau spit.
Bayard left.
He went immediately to his desk, not knowing what else to do. Once he was there, staring at the workspace that had been his for more years than he wanted to think about, he realized that he kept almost nothing at work. There were no mementos, no family photos. Bayard had no living family and was not particularly sentimental.
He had served in the French military briefly before a knee injury—since rehabilitated—but that had necessitated finding another career. His keen mind and his sense of justice had led him to law enforcement. He had toiled there, looking for that justice, hoping to make a difference, ever since.
It was true that Cooper was dangerous. Bayard thought perhaps he had never met a more dangerous man. But Cooper was also a good man. It had taken him time to see that. He had benefited from seeing the direct way Cooper fought for others. He still had reservations. But he would not condemn Matthew Cooper. And he would not participate in any organization that would hunt him down like a dog.
How strange, to have reached this point. To have changed his mind so radically.
From an adjacent office he took an empty file box that he placed on his desk and, without thought, he began scooping up the contents of his desk that were not official files or issued su
pplies. He had much room left over when the task was completed. He stared at the box. It included several plaques, commendations he had received for his performance as an inspector.
He wondered if the authorities issuing those awards would feel differently, knowing the corners he had cut, the times he had agreed to look the other way, the occasional payouts he had received.
Bayard was not corrupt in the sense that he would allow evil to be done with his sanction. He would never allow that. But he had indeed accepted the lesser of available evils, in the past. He had embraced pragmatism in order to create peace. He had permitted wrongdoing, illegal conduct, criminal enterprise, to fester in the enclaves as long as little blood was spilled, as long as all involved did their best to conform to the framework and the power structure that was the status quo.
Where did that leave him? What was Bayard to do with his life?
The specter of a retaliatory investigation loomed. Vigneau, if he were feeling spiteful, could choose to make Bayard’s life very difficult. But it was a two-way street. Bayard had been with the DCRI long enough to know where many bodies were buried, most of them figurative. He did not think Vigneau would risk reprisals.
It was only when he reached the street with his pitiful box of belongings that he realized he had no car. Not after the damage done to the Peugeot during his adventure with Cooper. He shook his head. The man was a force of nature, indeed.
A Mercedes pulled up alongside him. He peered in. It was Flagel.
“Alfred,” he said, “get in, quickly. I will explain as we go.”
“What is this?” Bayard asked.
“Please, Alfred. Trust me.”
“Very well.” Bayard threw his box into the backseat, then climbed into the passenger seat. Flagel pulled away from the curb. On the seat next to him was an electronic tracking device. Bayard’s eyes widened. “I thought I said I would take no part in this.”
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