by Joseph Nagle
Four floors below, the French Security Force and the Secret Service worked feverishly and frantically to shut the building down. Every occupant and guest was forced to the ground and covered with a weapon. No one was allowed in or out, or even to move or speak.
The men and women were of society’s most elite; it mattered not that the men were dressed in expensive, hand-tailored suits with the best haberdashery, or that women wore their finest designer dresses, matching shoes, and hard-tofind accessories. They weren’t meant to be facedown on the floor and treated as social parasites.
Present circumstances dictated otherwise.
In the street, the news vehicles hummed to life as their respective crews witnessed live the drama that was occurring. Armed men stormed through the front of the hotel. A few stayed and were posted ominously at the hotel’s front door. Soon all cameras were pointed at them and the hotel; the journalists were in front of the guards with microphones in their hands, broadcasting the events to the world.
The armed men made for a dramatic backdrop, to the delight of a number of the unseen producers.
Inside of the hotel, the French and American security teams were efficient and worked well together. They had all the stairwells covered, running a wellchoreographed, pre-organized drill. The power had been shut down, and all of the automated fire doors were closed and magnetically locked shut.
The onsite agent-in-charge (AIC) issued a command through his bone-mic, ordering the men to simultaneously sweep upward using the stairwells.
Balletic and precise in their movements, the heavily armed teams entered the hotel’s four stairwells with their weapons pointed at the ready as they made their way upward.
Looking down the spiraling stairwell from the fourth floor, Michael could see them coming. He knew this would be happening throughout all of the hotel’s stairwells. Certainly there would be a helicopter hovering above, ready to drop in a team to the roof.
Prophetically, the distinctive clapping sounds of a Blackhawk, painted in the national colors of France, came to a hover over the hotel.
Time was running out.
Michael tried the door, but it was sealed shut. Without hesitation, he fired two rounds into the door’s brass hinges and then roughly threw Faust through the unhinged door and into the hallway of the fourth floor.
The senator rolled twice, landing on his hands and knees; Michael kicked his ribs without hesitation. The senator let out a weak scream. Michael reached down, grabbing him by the lapels with one hand and yanking him to his feet.
Michael buried the pistol into Faust’s left eye and demanded, “Where is she, where is my wife?”
“Your wife? I don’t know—I know nothing about her. What is this all about, just talk to me! I can help you if you just…”
Michael shoved Faust into the wall. “Shut up! Don’t play stupid with me, Senator. I know who you’re with and about your plans, I know about Senator Door! You lost the primaries but needed a way back to the White House! So you cut a deal, didn’t you? I know about the shroud and the crown, Senator, I know all about Operation Merlin! I know that you traded the plans for a nuclear weapon for cash with al-Qaeda to bankroll your election, and that you arranged for the material for uranium-enriching centrifuges to be sent to them! And for this, you were promised the fucking presidency!”
Michael thrust his pistol emphatically forward.
“Wait—wait! Don’t shoot me! I don’t know what you are talking about! Senator Door? Nuclear weapons? This is rubbish and complete nonsense; I know nothing of these things. You have to believe me! But if you just let me help you, maybe I can help get to the bottom of it! What do you want?”
Michael growled, “I already told you, Faust—I want to know where my wife is. The next word out of your mouth had better be the answer.”
“I don’t know!”
A shot rang out; the senator’s face went white. Michael lowered his voice and raised his pistol. Smoke was coming out from its barrel. “That wasn’t the answer, Senator.”
It took a moment for the pain to register. The senator’s legs gave out, but Michael stopped him from falling completely to the floor.
Senator Faust lifted his left hand and peered through the hole put there by Michael’s shot. He could see light coming through it. It wasn’t neat, nor was it small. To the contrary, the hole in his hand was rough and jagged. The bullet had exploded both bone and flesh, sending an oblong and jagged portion of the center of his hand from his body.
His face turned from its shade of white to green; he felt the nausea come.
Michael put the pistol under Faust’s chin; he pressed it deeper into his flesh. Michael’s voice was calm but contained the pure tone of a man of conviction: “Senator, I will only ask you one more time. The next bullet will be through your head! Where is my wife?!”
Faust was saved.
The moment Michael’s question ended, a team of armed men stormed through the stairwell door.
Michael spun around with the senator at his front, shielding him from the armed men, the weapon still under Faust’s chin.
One man shouted out, “Put the weapon down! Move away from the senator!”
The team slowly crept forward.
Michael fired a shot at their feet and screamed out, “Don’t move another inch this way!”
He put the pistol back under the senator’s chin. “I will end his life! Now back up and get off this floor!”
The senator’s cocksure nature, fed by his years in politics, started to return; he tried to negotiate, feeling that the advantage had shifted in his favor. “Dr. Sterling, listen to me, I can help you. I don’t know why you think I am a part of Door’s death. I know nothing about the Order. I don’t know anything about your wife. You have to believe me. Just let me go, and I promise you that I’ll do all that I can to help find your wife.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the team’s commander shouted once more, “Put the weapon down—move away from the senator!”
And then the quiet returned.
A cell phone rang.
Michael’s mouth was pressed against Faust’s ear, and he growled, “Answer your phone, Senator.”
The phone rang again.
The team of armed men looked at one another in confusion.
Slowly the senator reached for his phone.
Looking at it, he saw the incoming call was from Justine. He was confused. He answered it with an uneasy voice. “Justine? Justine, where are you?” But, instead of hearing the voice of his assistant reply, he heard only the echo of his own voice.
He didn’t understand.
Michael raised Justine’s cell phone in front of the senator. Faust eyed the screen and read his own name.
Michael shoved the pistol deeper into Faust’s chin and whispered, “I never mentioned anything about the Order, Faust—you did. Justine is dead, and before she died, she gave you up. I guess you never learned that it is unwise to leave a woman scorned.”
Senator Matthew Faust cringed, his face cascaded white. Michael watched as the senator’s skin went erect where each hair follicle met flesh. He saw the slight increase in the man’s blood pressure as the senator’s carotid artery bulged fatter and faster. These were the signs that only a trained interrogator would see.
Michael had him.
The senator knew it, too: he knew he had fallen into a trap. There was only one thing left to do. His political instincts fired up—he wanted to strike a deal.
Faust replied quietly, at a level that only Michael could hear; his voice had a trained ease in it: “Dr. Sterling, I am surprised that you made it this far. They told me you were good, but I didn’t expect you to be this good. Goddamn, son, bravo,” Faust cleared his voice slightly and continued. “But this time you are in over your head and way above your pay grade. Kill me and, rest assured, these men will kill you; your wife will die, too. Your mission is over. Let me go, and I will make sure that she is freed; at least one of you will live. That�
�s my deal. You have no other option.”
Michael didn’t hesitate; his response had already been calculated. “There is always more than one option, Senator.”
Behind Michael was a window. The impending night cast a growing black shadow through it.
Michael’s movements were fast. Grabbing the senator once more by the hair, Michael shot the window with a three-round burst and dove through it, pulling the senator roughly backward and with him.
Together, the two men disappeared through the window. The shatter of broken and falling glass was interrupted only by the waning screams of the defenestrated senator.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CURB APPEAL
67 RUE DU CHABROL
The neighborhood could have been any in Paris. The streets were narrow and constricting, the traffic allowed to flow only one way. The façade of each building rose to the same uniform height, obeying codified Parisian conformity, and they were demarcated only by distinctions in color or choice of stone and style.
A stray, disheveled dog, followed by another, darted across the street, causing the driver of a small speeding car to hit the brakes hard. Narrowly missing the mutts amid screeching tires, the driver sped away, the dogs, too.
York was as alone as he had ever felt.
In a foreign country and on the run, he was hungry, tired, and had no resources. To make matters worse, the Doc had lost his mind. York had no idea what had occurred at the hotel. He only knew that he was told to come here: 67 Rue du Chabrol, #4.
In front of him were two dark-colored, wooden doors above which the number 67 was painted. The doors split two street-level shops. The one to the left was for a local real-estate broker; its windows were pasted with photos of apartments and neighborhoods. To the right, a colorful display of fantasy wares and gifts lined the length of the store’s window, showing the adventurous at heart what types of spice, frill, or lace—rubber, too—could be added to their amore.
The sun had set, and the life that belonged to the night made its presence known. Scantily clad women pockmarked the street both left and right, but these weren’t the kind for whom the lonely dreamed. To the contrary: these women appeared well used, dirtied even; they were the kind reserved for use by the lowest elements of life. York ignored them, and they returned his gesture, having the street smarts long ago cultivated to know that he wasn’t a customer.
On the cut and worn stone of the building, next to each of the two wooden doors, were numerous signs and warnings. One read Jour et Nuit and was in the middle of a red circle with a line through it. York didn’t know that it was a clear message from the occupants behind the door that they didn’t want to be bothered Day or Night. York couldn’t speak or read French, but the message was nonetheless clear: stay away.
However, ignoring the sign, York rang the bell for #4—just as Michael had told him to do.
From above, he was sure that he caught the flicker of a shadow move away from one of the windows.
York waited.
Nothing.
He pressed the button for #4 once more; this time he held it down for much longer.
A few moments dragged by, and then static spat through the small speaker of the intercom.
“Oui?” Her voice was soft, almost quiet, like that of a child’s.
York pressed the button and flatly, albeit nervously, responded, “The Doc sent me here.”
“American? You have the wrong place. Now go!” she spat back.
York could feel a mixture of anger and worry. The wrong place? And then it hit him; he pressed the button again and shouted slightly, “Michael! I meant Dr. Michael Sterling, deputy director of the C…” York froze, instantly realizing his mistake. He had almost shouted out to any within earshot “the deputy director of the CIA.”
The door buzzed, snapping York from his moment of stupidity. He pushed and walked through. Quickly, he climbed the four flights until he was in front of a door that had a brass #4 on its front.
Raising his hand to knock, he didn’t have to. She opened it.
She was young—and attractive.
In the doorway she stood barefoot and curiously eyed the young Green Beret. Her arms were long and lean; the rest of her was the same. Her body was light and delicate but magnetic, and it was accentuated by the loose fit of her white silk top and matching sleeping shorts. Her black hair was worn with no style and fell alongside the prominent bones in her cheeks, framing the milky white skin of her face perfectly.
She wasn’t classically beautiful but attractive and sultry nonetheless.
The French woman stared back at the young soldier, having done the same thing he did: she noticed his sturdy and well-shaped frame and saw that he looked tired—really tired.
Stepping to the side, she said, “Best that you come inside, monsieur.”
York complied.
Inside, York saw that the apartment was voluminous and took up the entire fourth floor of the building. “What is this place?” he asked.
The young woman reached under the small, ornamented glass shade of a table lamp and turned it on. The low light from the bulb cast a shadow across her body and face that York found slightly tantalizing. He noticed that she wore nothing underneath her billowing nightclothes.
Clearing his throat, York could feel his face flush as he suddenly felt ashamed.
The young woman smiled slightly as if noticing the soldier’s sudden tussle with decency, but more so, it was a smile at his youth. She sat down and slowly crossed her legs purposefully, playing with the man who had now reverted to the uncomfortable behaviors of a boy. She pointed to a chair near hers. York understood the message and sat, too.
From the table, without taking her eyes off of the handsome young man, she picked up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Tossing the pack to York, she offered him the same pleasure. Catching it clumsily, he said, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
As the smoke curled around her lips and through her nostrils, she smiled and replied coyly, “You should. It’s a dangerous game you are playing; one with a short lifespan—you should enjoy as much of life’s sins as you can.”
“So,” York repeated, “what is this place?”
“Officially, this is the address to a business called Curb Appeal, an export company for men’s skincare.”
“That’s just a cover, right?”
She smiled and thought that this one was as much a child in the spy game as one could be. “This is a safe house, Monsieur…?”
“York.”
“Monsieur York, you are in my safe house. My name is Danielle.”
“And you live here?”
“Oui.”
“And you and the Doc are…?” York didn’t know how to say it, so he went into a fit of awkward pantomimes and gestures.
Danielle rolled her eyes backward and forcibly blew out a long plume of smoke. “You Americans! You are so afraid to speak about what is in your minds! What Michele is to me is not any of your concern! This is a CIA safe house; this is why you are here—to be kept safe; that is your only care at the moment! Mon Dieu! The CIA must be running out of men to send to me a boy!”
Danielle stood and stomped toward an oak table, atop which were a number of bottles of alcohol. She took out two glasses and poured a whiskey, no ice, for herself, and then asked York, “What would you like to drink?”
“Nothing, nothing for me; just tell me what’s next.”
“Don’t be silly, have a drink; this is going to be a long, interesting night, and you could use something to help you relax. You are too wound up, how do you Americans say it, like a top.” Danielle poured more whiskey into the second glass and brought them over to York.
She tapped her glass on York’s, and with one quick swallow, she emptied hers. York looked from Danielle to his glass and, not wanting to be one-upped by some clichéd, uppity French chick, downed his.
It burned as it trickled down his throat, and he held his composure the best that he could, but his eyes s
lightly watered. She smiled and took his glass, apparently entertained by the telltale signs of a rookie whiskey drinker.
At the table, she poured another round, but this time she added two more glasses. Into the third she poured whiskey, but to the fourth, she added three fingers of vodka, no ice.
When she returned to York, all four glasses were on a tray. She set them under the lamp of the side table between where she and York sat.
Danielle picked up a glass and handed it to York.
York eyed the other two glasses. “Are we expecting more people?”
Danielle picked up a remote control and pointed it at a small flat-paneled television that hung on the wall. Turning it on, the screen was emblazoned with live footage of the Westminster hotel. The screen was split, showing a second image; this one was from above. A news reporter and cameraman were in a helicopter, showing dramatic footage of the city from overhead.
“They’ve been broadcasting nonstop for the last hour.”
York watched as a series of events looped over and over again. In the scene it was barely dusk, with just enough light to see clearly. The first time he saw it, York jumped, spilling a bit of his drink. The footage started innocuously, showing only the hotel from above. Then suddenly two men came crashing out of the fourth-floor window. York recognized one of them right away.
It was the Doc!
He looked at Danielle; it was hard to tell, but there was a slight twinge of emotion that surrounded her eyes.
Turning back toward the television, York watched as the two men fell fast. Clouds of shattered glass surrounded them.
The reporter in the helicopter could be heard screaming something. Within moments, the helicopter banked fiercely and toward the scene. Hovering above, the camera caught the drama as it unfolded.
The two men hadn’t fallen four floors. It had been a calculated move by the Doc. He had known what was outside of the fourth-floor window. Two floors down, a second, lower rooftop cut away from the hotel’s edifice.
The cameraman had caught the event live, and now it looped in dramatic fashion over all of the world’s news networks.