Red Ice

by James Phelan

  Smash.

  “Fuck!”

  “What?”

  “Nearly went through my hand,” Fox said, noting that he’d hardly dinted the wall. He tried a couple of angles around the gilt timber edging, but was getting nowhere beyond chipping away at the paint.

  He walked over to the sofa and lifted a silver Statue of Liberty from the coffee table—it was about half a metre tall and heavy as hell. Then he noticed a couple of swords also on the table—silver, ornate, ancient things; heavy and sharp enough to use in combat.

  “Only in France…” he said, carrying one of the swords over to the panel. He inserted the tip of the blade into the woodwork, wriggled it so that it went deeper in between the timber cladding and the wall to which it was affixed, deeper still, until he had leverage. He pushed the blade, moving it back and forth a few times, slowly prying the sheet of timber panelling away from the wall … The sound of nails creaking, protesting … Plaster and paint dust fell, the wood giving way a centimetre, two, three—

  POP!

  67

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Valerie and McCorkell watched the latest footage: Fox leaving a car, two others staying behind, a woman walking down the street with Fox. Not fifteen minutes old.

  “Who the hell is that?” McCorkell leaned in closer. “Can you zoom that image for me?” he asked the nearest FBI tech.

  The tech tapped away.

  “No, that corner there, enhance it.” McCorkell watched the picture of Fox and the woman enlarge. “Okay, now the one with the woman in the Louvre forecourt, when she has the pistol.”

  The tech nodded. It took him all of five seconds to get a frame where she drew the pistol from a quick-release hip holster.

  “It’s a SIG.”

  “And she’s got it in her holster now,” McCorkell said, looking back to the image of her on the street with Fox. “Or she did have fifteen minutes ago, anyway.”

  “She’s a cop,” the tech said, making the connection. “We’re looking for a French cop.”

  McCorkell nodded. The tech’s hands blurred with speed over his keyboard, doing God-knew-what to access the French police database.

  “Let’s get a map up,” McCorkell said, not missing a beat. “A grid map on Paris. Everywhere Fox’s been, everywhere he’s gonna go, I want to see it marked up. Get every camera and eyewitness and carrier pigeon’s testimony; I want it marked up.”

  “Bill?”

  McCorkell looked across to Valerie—she held a hand over her phone’s mouthpiece: “That car chase Fox was involved in early this morning, it was called off by a cop who’s since gone AWOL.”

  “Let me guess,” McCorkell said, looking at the tech’s screen that had the woman’s details up and there was no mistaking her ID photo, “officer Zoe Ledoyen of the National Police?”

  “Yep,” Valerie said. “Her command can’t contact her.”

  “She was the cop who was sent out to him this morning?”

  “Fox said he had a cop at Renard’s house, and what—you just assumed it had to be a guy?” Valerie replied with a grin. “And there’s more: that car chase this morning? Result was Fox put two cops in the hospital, wrote off three police cars and a couple of million euros’ worth of collateral damage. Paris cops have just ID’d him and put out an APB.”

  Silence. Like the floor just fell away. Bowden would lap this up, with the French police doing his work for him to boot.

  McCorkell looked at the image of Fox. What the fuck is he doing?

  “Maybe it’s to do with Babich’s break-out,” Valerie said, now standing next to him.

  “What? How?”

  “Maybe this is an elaborate wild goose chase, designed by Umbra to keep Fox in play, keeping us busy looking elsewhere, while Babich does something else?”

  “Tying up our resources,” McCorkell said, looking back over at Bowden, who had certainly taken that, hook, line and sinker. “Maybe … But Fox is too smart to be sucked in. We’ve just got to make sure our guys are the first ones there.”

  Bowden caught his gaze and there was a moment between them. The CIA man was steely-eyed, determined to clean things up: he might not have Babich in his sights right now, but by God he had the world’s most capable military and intelligence at his fingertips and he was closing in on the scent of another prey.

  Another tech held up her hand.

  She said, “Kate just turned her cell phone back on.”

  “Where?”

  “Literally around the corner from where that image of Fox was taken just before,” she replied. “Stationary. She’s currently on it, we don’t have real-time voice data but we can get that if we ask our NSA buddies over there.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Keep it quiet. Let her talk, get the transcript of the call, and then punch through as soon as she’s finished so I can talk to her.”

  McCorkell looked at the map of Paris, seeing nothing but uncontrollable space and scenarios ahead. What the hell was Fox trying to get out of this …

  68

  ELYSÉE PALACE, PARIS

  The nails popped out and the panel swung open on concealed hinges. Inside was a dark void. Fox put his head in.

  “Anything?”

  Inside was a little nook, but he couldn’t see anything. He felt around. Nothing but timber framing.

  “There’s nothing in here…”

  “Are you sure?” Zoe asked. He made room for her to crouch down next to him and she put her hand in the nook, feeling around. She looked annoyed and disappointed.

  He took an antique gold lighter off the desk and put it in the opening.

  Zoe put a hand on his forearm.

  “Careful.”

  He nodded. He wasn’t going to start burning down national palaces. Then again, the way this day was going …

  He lit the lighter, looked around inside, the orange glow flickering—

  There, tucked in the hollow of a vertical timber stud to the left was a rolled-up, dusty leather cylinder the length of a piece of A4 paper. They’d found it.

  “Let’s move.” Malevich turned to the smaller guy and tapped a small schematic of the palace’s first floor to reiterate his point: “We go in, you follow me to this study, and you just watch my back and get us out in one piece.”

  “Okay. This is good, very nice.”

  “A couple of minutes,” Malevich said. “Right?”

  The shorter guy smiled, revealing gold teeth.

  “Don’t forget,” Malevich addressed the other guy, “The emergency response crews will come from the same direction as where you’ve parked the van.”

  “Good. I’ve packed it with enough incendiary to burn a hole to China—set it off when we need it, not before.”

  The big guy showed the mobile phone he’d use to trigger the detonation.

  “Kaboom! Ha!” The guy with the gold teeth laughed.

  Great, Malevich thought, as he climbed into the back of the van, loosening his overalls to reveal the hidden fireman’s uniform underneath, I’m heading into this with a maniac.

  Fox placed the leather cylinder on the table and undid the binding.

  A single sheet of paper inside. US Secretary of State letterhead. About a dozen lines of text, two sprawling signatures, the names of the American and Russian diplomats. This was the secret protocol to the Alaska Purchase.

  “The dates are correct,” Zoe said.

  “Give me your BlackBerry.”

  Zoe handed it over and he took a couple of photos before he put the sheet of paper back into the cylinder.

  “We should go,” Fox said.

  “You take your friends back to New York, I will wait at the guard station here, with the—”

  Noise at the door. One of the door handles rattled.

  “Quickly!” Zoe whispered.

  Now there was a banging at the door.

  Fox popped the panel back—it looked okay, although it was slightly a
jar at close inspection—and Zoe shifted the little bookcase and side table back in front while he stashed the sabre in an umbrella stand that was next to the desk.

  “What should we do?” Fox asked, tucking the cylinder into the back pocket of his pants.

  Zoe undid her top few buttons, messed up her hair—

  The banging on the door grew louder, the handle rattling hard, a muffled voice—

  She kissed Fox, long and wet, her tongue in his mouth as she pressed him up against the door.

  She took a step back and Fox caught his breath. He noticed that her bright poppy red lipstick was smeared around her lips; no doubt it would be even more obvious around his …

  She opened the door, Fox straightened his shirt. Baldy was standing there with a can of Coke in hand, flushed with stress. Zoe made a show of doing up her shirt buttons and Baldy’s annoyance changed into the slightest smile. Then Fox walked out, appearing embarrassed as he made a show of doing up his fly.

  Baldy nodded as if he understood, smiled like they’d made his day. Zoe took the Coke, and the three of them went down the corridor.

  Fox adjusted the cylinder as he walked, he couldn’t help but check out Zoe’s sway as they passed through the glass security wall.

  “You did good back there,” he whispered as he stepped into stride next to her.

  “Not bad yourself.”

  “Stanislavski method of acting,” Fox said. “I’m always in the moment, yet never quite lost in it.”

  She smiled, about to say something—

  Baldy pulled over and held out an arm to signal they should take some side stairs down to the—

  BOOM!

  69

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The CIA desk was a hive of activity. McCorkell hung around the periphery, listening, watching.

  “Fox!” A tech called out and Bowden looked up from the transcript he was reading. “Sir, we’ve got a new visual in Paris.”

  Bowden moved quickly to the tech’s side.

  “Where?”

  “Elysée Palace has security footage of his entry. Twelve minutes old.”

  “Elysée Palace? The French President’s home?”

  McCorkell looked back to the FBI corner—Valerie had heard, she was repeating the info to her team.

  “He signed in as a French reporter from Le Figaro, a Renard Rochefort.”

  Renard? McCorkell thought back—he knew the name … He looked around … The TV screen in the corner.

  “Isn’t that the reporter who was just killed at the Louvre?”

  Yes, McCorkell thought. Jesus. The cop had taken the guy’s ID from his body. Fox had just used it. This was going to feed the sharks up this end of the room.

  “He sign in with anyone?” Bowden asked.

  “Officer Zoe Ledoyen signed in at the same time.”

  The tech brought up an image of an attractive woman McCorkell already knew plenty about.

  “Well, that’s not Kate Matthews,” Bowden said, looking at the image closely. “Who is it? Bill, can you shed any light?”

  “Wish I could,” McCorkell replied. Wouldn’t take them long to realise that she’d changed outfit since the Louvre just before, that it was one and the same woman.

  Bowden looked across at the grainy image close-up from the Louvre—

  “Elysée’s security log has her down as a senior officer in the National Police … Here’s her file; it’s legit, she’s a cop.”

  Bowden read it over the tech’s shoulder.

  “Jesus. What are they doing in there?”

  McCorkell said, “It’s the same woman from the Louvre.”

  Bowden compared the two images and nodded back to Bill. McCorkell hoped her being a cop would end all this rubbish and Bowden could go back to waiting for intel on Babich to emerge.

  “Want me to call the palace security?” a CIA analyst asked.

  McCorkell could almost hear Bowden’s cogs turning.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “Get her superior on the line. I want to find out what she’s working on. Move our assets to the area, I don’t want to lose them when they leave.”

  70

  ELYSÉE PALACE

  Fox slipped in and out of consciousness.

  In his mind, all he saw was Kate in a slideshow of memories. Wearing a striking dress in an ornate ballroom. Dancing. Him smashing in a door and seeing a big guy on top of her. Blood and death and then they were on a train heading out of Russia, Kate in front of him taking his hand and—was this happening? She took his hand—moving it down her body—staring at him the whole time—both of them silent. His hand—her skin—overwhelming … Pulling her towards him—kissing—she’s on top of him, naked, moving slowly, crying into his eyes.

  He opened his eyes, felt pain, heard nothing, blacked out again.

  Manhattan … Kate’s there. She’s come to see him. He feels relieved, but then … there’s someone else in her life … He sees her again; a different view of Manhattan. It’s raining and he’s cradling her in his arms and she’s dead, dead … dead …

  Fox opened his eyes. Zoe’s face was close above his, as if she’d just given him mouth-to-mouth.

  His head was pounding. No, it’s another explosion … Or someone at the door. Zoe’s lips are moving, but he can’t hear.

  Then, sound. Piercing, monotonous. A fire alarm—

  “Lachlan!”

  “Yeah,” he groaned, and Zoe smiled with relief. She helped him to his feet.

  Baldy was on his hands and knees, coughing, but okay. The room was full of smoke. A beam had come down from the ceiling. Fox’s head was spinning.

  “Come!” Zoe said, taking his hand. She ran, pulling him along with her. In her other hand, she held the cylinder.

  “Left!” she yelled, and they ran down a corridor, a couple of office workers running past them holding clothing to their faces to shield them from the smoke.

  “It’s tear gas!” Fox said.

  “Keep going!” Zoe said, pulling him on. They rounded a corner. Up ahead were empty offices on either side of a carpeted hallway—a big hole was blown in the side of the wall. Through the smoke and gas Fox could see down to ground level and into the street as half the hallway they were standing in had already fallen through to the floor below. Tear gas poured into the hole as two figures appeared like ghosts …

  71

  WASHINGTON, DC

  McCorkell studied the image on the screen in front of him. Zoe Ledoyen. Her police ID photo. “She’s thirty-seven,” Valerie said beside him. “Born in Nice. Mother was an actor. She died in ninety-five. We don’t have the father, left when she was a kid. Two sisters, we’re trying to track them down.”

  An agent manning a phone, covered the mouthpiece: “Got one in Madrid, works as a teacher, married local with two kids.”

  McCorkell took it all in; he was going to work this angle and get to Fox first: two FBI agents from the embassy in Paris were en route to the palace now. Screw Bowden.

  “Personnel file on the screen, here.”

  McCorkell read through it—political science background at university, masters degree in modern history, worked in human resources for a political party and then joined the French National Police as a researcher. Worked her way up through their banking fraud department, then shifted into their counterintelligence branch. Brought down a few major intel networks—on paper, Zoe seemed damned good at her job.

  “Kate still on her phone?”

  The agent responsible didn’t need to check. “Yes.”

  “Keep on it,” he said. “Get through as soon as she’s off.”

  McCorkell leaned forward, spoke quietly to Valerie: “Get Zoe’s cell phone, email, BlackBerry, everything. I wanna know when she makes a call and I wanna be able to hear it.”

  She nodded.

  He walked back over to Bowden’s area. He too was discussing Zoe.

  “No political affiliati
ons?”

  “None that are noteworthy,” the CIA analyst reported.

  “What’s the relevance?” McCorkell asked.

  Bowden shrugged, a wanna know, is all that wasn’t going to fly.

  “You think this is tied to the Russian Embassy thing? To Umbra?”

  Bowden’s glasses were low on his nose. He pocketed them in his shirt and motioned McCorkell over to the corner near the urns of coffee, out of earshot.

  “Bill, Babich has been sprung, four are dead—seven now, if we include the cops and the French reporter.” Bowden motioned to the photo of Renard. “And near his body, we’ve got a French cop shooting another cop—”

  “That looked like self-defence.”

  “And we’ve got your amateur spook, this Lachlan fucking Fox,” the rise in volume of Bowden’s voice caused several sets of fingers to stop tapping away at their keyboards, “running around Paris—and now he’s in their presidential palace! I mean, for Christ’s sake, that all?”

  “He’s with a cop—”

  “Who may just be a double agent, have you thought of that?”

  McCorkell’s expression said that he had. All this was far too coincidental to not be tied up with Babich and Umbra, but proving which side they were on was going to be tough. He knew Fox would be thinking the same and wouldn’t let it go … but to take Kate over there, into the dragon’s den, where Umbra people were now kicking around … And this cop, Zoe, had shot another cop …

  “If it’s a cover, it’s a great one,” McCorkell conceded, looking at the image of the beautiful French police officer. “We’re going to have to explore that possibility.”

  Bowden said, “We’re exploring every possibility—”

  A CIA analyst called out: “We’ve got an explosion at the Elysée Palace!”

  72