Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  Run, Romy! You must leave, now!

  * * *

  Kyrie went down a back alley and waited outside the entrance to the hotel’s parking garage, crouching behind a Dumpster. His cell chimed. It was Kopitar.

  “Casales is set. There is an incremental layer of security, someone from Langley. He just left, but Casales didn’t know where he was going.”

  Kyrie hung up as the mechanical clanking of the steel gate caught his ear. He waited for a vehicle to emerge. After it was out of sight, he slipped inside just before the gate shut.

  He climbed the stairs to the top floor of the hotel, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as he ascended.

  He felt nothing now but purpose and duty. They had found her, and now he needed to do what Bruner had wanted him to do for a decade. He had to kill his own wife. He had to kill Romy.

  He opened the door to the penthouse floor and saw two figures in the distance, guarding Lindsay’s door. One of them was Casales; he was closer. When he saw Kyrie, he walked toward him.

  Kyrie pulled the small canister of spray paint from his coat pocket and held it up to the red security camera, blasting it with a quick spray.

  He nodded at Casales, who turned and fired a silenced slug into the other agent’s chest, dropping him.

  “Has the Agency man come back?”

  “No.”

  “Was he wearing a raincoat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a key to his room?”

  “Here,” said Casales, handing Kyrie a key and pointing to the door.

  Kyrie entered the room and looked quickly around, finding the CIA agent’s gun in the bathroom. A Colt M1911A1. He picked it up, then saw the suppressor, which he screwed into the muzzle.

  In the hallway, Kyrie moved toward Lindsay’s suite, where Casales was waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kyrie, “but it is necessary to make them believe the CIA man did it.”

  “What’s necessary?” asked Casales.

  “This.”

  Kyrie swept the weapon toward Casales and pumped the trigger, sending a bullet at nearly point-blank range into Casales’s forehead.

  Kyrie knocked on the door. After nearly half a minute, the secretary of state opened it.

  “What is it?” asked Lindsay, before the door was fully open, before he could see the stranger now standing in the door frame, weapon in hand.

  Kyrie trained the pistol on Lindsay’s head.

  “You’re the one!” said Lindsay.

  “Where is she?” asked Kyrie, stepping into the suite and forcing Lindsay backward, the gun trained at all times on his head.

  “She’s gone,” said Lindsay. “It’s too late!”

  Kyrie fired. The bullet struck Lindsay in the shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

  “Where is she?”

  “You won’t get away with this!” groaned Lindsay. “It’s Bruner, isn’t it?”

  He looked at Lindsay.

  “Yes, it’s Bruner. Unfortunately, you won’t be around to tell anyone.”

  “Why?” groaned Lindsay, grimacing, holding his shoulder.

  “Because of men like you and Dellenbaugh. Pacifists, content to watch Islam spread like cancer across the globe.”

  “Then help us fight them,” said Lindsay, his shoulder now covered in blood. “Join us.”

  Kyrie laughed.

  “How? When they blow up a bus, all you do is issue a press release. After nine/eleven we should’ve eradicated the Muslims from the face of the earth. Instead, we started two wars that have only made them stronger. Our weakness emboldens these animals. We let them into our country, and when they blow up a school or kill innocent Americans we talk about the need for tolerance and gun control.”

  “You don’t get rid of cancer by killing the patient. You remove the tumor.”

  Kyrie looked hatefully at Lindsay. “And that’s where we’ll have to agree to disagree. We’re willing to kill the patient in order to get rid of the cancer.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “No!” shouted Kyrie. “Insane is to shackle oneself in morals as you fight people who don’t have any.”

  He trained the gun on Lindsay and fired another slug directly into his chest, killing him.

  Kyrie searched the suite, looking everywhere for Romy—but she was gone.

  A laptop was tucked in Lindsay’s briefcase. It was cold and appeared unused. He found Lindsay’s cell phone and checked for calls he had placed. There hadn’t been a call made in half an hour, and the one half an hour ago had lasted less than fifteen seconds. Finally, he went to the hotel phone and dialed the operator.

  “Operator, Mr. Lindsay. How may I help you?”

  “Please tell me the last outside call I made from this phone.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lindsay. According to my records, this phone has not been used to make outside calls, only room service.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kyrie dropped the gun to the floor and left the suite, taking the stairs to the ground floor. He exited the hotel and was less than a block away when he heard the first shouts—then a high-pitched alarm coming from the George V.

  * * *

  Romy heard the sirens just as she finished disposing of the cell phone. She ran across the bedroom, through the living room, then back out onto the terrace. Rain continued to howl down. She went to the edge of the terrace and looked down. She watched in horror as first one, then two Paris Métro police cruisers pulled up to the front of the George V. Despite the cold rain, she felt as if she couldn’t move. Several more police cars, ambulances, and dark sedans rushed to the hotel, and soon the exterior was mayhem. She looked to her right, trying to see the suite where Lindsay was, but the parapets were too high—and she dared not try to get a better view.

  She replayed the conversation:

  “I’m not sure I believe you, but I am obligated to pass this along to the highest levels of my government,” said Lindsay.

  Are they looking for me? Did the U.S. secretary of state turn me in?

  No. Had he turned her in, the police would be in front of the Prince de Galles and not the George V. There would be no ambulances.

  Why are they here?

  She shook her head, trying to make the answer go away, but she knew something was horribly wrong. She went back inside the suite and shut the doors. For several moments, she stood against them as water dripped from her body onto the floor.

  They killed him. Just like they killed Hillary.

  “No,” she said. “It couldn’t be. There’s no way. There is too much security.”

  Romy was desperate. From a drawer in the bar, she found a box of matches. She took the newspaper from the table and lit the corner. Soon, billows of smoke lifted from the burning paper, and then flames. She moved the burning paper beneath the sprinkler head and held it there as the room grew choked with thick smoke. After less than a minute, she heard a loud snap. Suddenly the entire room was consumed in a furious deluge of water as every sprinkler came to life. At the same time, the piercing horns of the hotel’s fire alarms rang out.

  Romy moved to the door, dropping the newspaper, which was quickly doused by the sprinklers. She looked out the peephole and saw hotel guests filing from their rooms, most dressed only in nightclothes. She stepped out into the small crowd, falling in line as they proceeded to the emergency stairs.

  28

  LA CLOSERIE DES LILAS

  PARIS

  Dewey sat alone on a high leather-back seat in the brasserie section of the restaurant. He was almost done with his steak frites when his phone beeped, breaking the silence.

  Emergency priority.

  He looked at the cell phone.

  555SCOM

  Dewey charged from the restaurant, not even pausing to pay his bill, and tried to hail a cab, but there were none. He was on the opposite side of the city. He started running, then saw a sign for the Métro. He descended into the station just as a train pulled in. He jumped the turnstile as a p
air of chimes rang out, indicating the train was getting ready to depart, sprinting the final yards and getting onto the crowded train.

  He went to the city map and scanned it quickly. The train would take him a block away from the hotel.

  He was wet from the rain. He looked around the car for the first time, realizing people were staring at him. He took out his cell, but there was no reception.

  555SCOM: an alarm triggered by Secretary of State Lindsay himself, a small device on a necklace every cabinet member wore.

  555 meant imminent danger.

  After what felt like an eternity, the train stopped at the George V station and Dewey got off, sprinting for the exit. But as he went through the turnstiles, he saw her. It was the woman from Lindsay’s suite.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  She turned, saw Dewey, and ran.

  Another train was arriving.

  Dewey leapt the turnstile and ran for the train. The woman got on. He pushed people aside, trying to get to the doors before they closed.

  The woman was standing in the corner of the last car, drenched, her face flushed with fear. She looked up just as the doors closed and the train started to move. Her eyes met Dewey’s; their eyes locked. He recognized her. From some long forgotten part of his past, he’d seen that look before. Who was she?

  As the train moved faster toward the tunnel, Dewey broke into a sprint. He passed the last car and reached the closed doors, trying to pull them apart as, at the same time, he ran to keep up with the train, which accelerated faster and faster toward the tunnel. He yanked with all his strength, but they didn’t budge. Instinctively, still running, he reached inside his jacket for his gun, but it wasn’t there. A memory flashed. The hotel room, the marble sink. He’d left it back at the hotel.

  The train rumbled into the tunnel. Suddenly, the woman stepped into the frame of the window and stared at Dewey, as if searching for something. Dewey looked into her eyes one last time, just a couple of feet away. Then the train disappeared.

  Dewey stood, breathing hard, his hand against the concrete abutment of the tunnel. He glanced around the brightly lit station. Across the tracks, a crowd of waiting passengers stared at him as if he were insane. Behind him, on his side of the tracks, a few people had arrived for the next train. They averted their eyes; one older couple walked quickly back toward the exit.

  Dewey’s mind swirled. He looked frantically about the platform, his eyes darting wildly. He had to think.

  Who was the woman?

  Dewey ran across the platform to the Métro map. He quickly counted eleven stations in the path of the train. But three of those stations intersected with other lines, and those lines went in both directions across Paris. And in the path of those lines lay yet more intersecting lines. The possibilities were endless.

  She could be going anywhere. Even if he knew the station, what could he do? What would he do?

  The ground shook as a train pulled into the station on the opposite side of the tracks. People got off the train and ambled toward the exits.

  He waited, for how long he lost track. Finally, another train rumbled in. He climbed on. He rode to the next station. He scanned the crowd, looking at people getting off along with him, at others pushing their way on, at empty benches. She wasn’t there.

  He climbed back on the train. He rode to the end of the line, checking at every stop, searching for the woman—but she wasn’t there. He crossed to the other side of the tracks and took the return train back to the George V stop. He felt lost and confused, his mind gripped by a sense of longing—not so much for her but for information, as if he’d accidentally stumbled onto something. But what?

  Outside, the rain was coming down hard, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He stumbled back to the hotel, dazed.

  He saw the lights from two blocks away and broke into a hard run.

  The George V was in a state of pandemonium. Several ambulances were out front, along with at least a dozen police vehicles and even more dark sedans. A perimeter of soldiers clutching carbines formed a semicircle in front of the hotel entrance.

  Dewey pushed his way through the small crowd of onlookers and journalists outside the security perimeter. He came to one of the soldiers and showed his diplomatic passport along with the State Department special ID granting him access to the secretary of state at all times.

  “No one gets in,” said the soldier dismissively, not even bothering to look at the ID.

  “This ID grants me access to Secretary of State Lindsay at all times,” said Dewey, holding up the laminated plastic. “Get your commander. You by law cannot refuse to let me in.”

  “Yes, I can,” said the French soldier, a sneer on his face.

  “No, you can’t,” said Dewey. “Get your commander, now.”

  The soldier looked at the soldier to his left, an older officer, who stepped to Dewey and examined the card.

  “He’s right,” said the senior officer, nodding at the card. He looked at Dewey. “Mr. Andreas, I understand what this means. But I will need to still get sign-off.”

  “That’s fine. Hurry.”

  The soldier moved toward the hotel entrance. Looking through the glass doors, Dewey saw a swarm of people.

  A minute later the officer returned, accompanied by a short man in a dark suit, holding an umbrella. He said nothing. He took the card from Dewey’s hand and examined it. He turned to the younger soldier. “Idiot,” he said.

  He looked at Dewey. “You work for the secretary of state?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do for the secretary of state?”

  “None of your business,” said Dewey. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Bastian with DGSI.”

  The lobby was chaos. It had been taken over by police, soldiers, and men in dark suits. Dewey searched for a pair of familiar eyes, perhaps from the State Department, but saw no one. He followed Bastian to the elevators, which were guarded by armed soldiers, as he dialed his SAT phone. He and Bastian climbed onto the elevator as his phone started to ring.

  “Control eye-zero-two.”

  “Requesting voice RECOG,” Dewey whispered. “Level Two.”

  “Go.”

  “Alpha-bravo-four-one.”

  Pause.

  Then a computer-generated female voice, soft. “Confirming: Andreas, Dewey, nine-zero-nine-two-alpha. Status active. This is a Level Two confirmation.”

  Control: “Who do you need, Andreas?”

  “Calibrisi.”

  “Hold for a sec.”

  Dewey glanced at the French detective as the elevator climbed to the seventh floor. The Frenchman kept his eyes affixed to the dark, polished wood of the elevator walls. When the elevator stopped, Dewey stepped off first and looked right, the phone against his ear as he waited for Langley Control to patch in Calibrisi.

  He felt a cold sensation that hit his lower spine, then spread—a visceral feeling of shock, like walking from a warm house out into a winter blizzard. The floor was crowded with agents, EMTs, and other first responders; the mood was tense and spectral, eerily quiet except for a single male voice, speaking in French. Dewey’s eyes focused. He was dressed in a thin white medical robe, hands purple due to the gloves.

  Coroner.

  Dewey saw movement to his left. His room. The door was ajar. A uniformed agent stood outside looking in, his hand holding a pistol. Dewey moved toward Lindsay’s suite, not quite at a run but quickly. A crowd was gathered. As he came closer, his eyes were drawn to the floor, behind white tape: outside in the hall, flanking the door on each side, lay two bodies; the walls behind each man were splashed crimson, still shimmering wet, fresh and untouched—the State Department security team.

  It’s an operation.

  Both men were dead. Each had a bullet hole in the forehead.

  Double tap.

  The agent closer to Dewey was lying on his back. His face was covered in blood. He stared up to the ceiling, eyes open, a blank, empty express
ion on his face. There was a dime-size black puncture just above his right eye; his chest had also been hit and was drenched in red. Dewey’s eyes moved to the other agent. He was wedged awkwardly against the wall, a puddle of wet blood beneath his head. A medical technician was laying down a strip of white tape to separate the contorted corpse from the agents, coroners, and police gathered at the door. Yet other than this man, no one paid any attention to the dead CONS OP agents. They were secondary. All other eyes and attention were focused toward the inside of Lindsay’s suite.

  Dewey came to the edge of the gathered men. A plainclothes guard, clutching a pistol, held up his hand.

  “Arretez!”

  Stop!

  Dewey pushed the man aside with his left hand as, with his right, he raised his ID.

  “Move,” he barked, as the agent attempted to grab his arm, which Dewey threw off with a hard elbow; the agent went tumbling sideways, off balance.

  Other men tried to stop him entering Lindsay’s suite. Arms grabbed him from behind, which he tried to push off. Someone else grabbed his legs. As he pushed forward, he felt the sudden pain of steel against his head; he dropped to the floor as several men tackled him.

  As the throng of DGSI agents struggled to restrain Dewey, he fought to stand up, but it was no use. He searched through the legs of policemen and agents. Standing inside the long entrance hallway inside Lindsay’s suite was a pair of older-looking men in suits along with several EMTs and coroners. Where the corridor opened up into the large living room, a bright yellow strip of tape cordoned off the room. Blood spatters covered the white walls above the sofa. In front of the sofa, on the floor, sprawled on his back, was Lindsay. His white shirt was ruined in blood. A massive red pancake covered the chest. The oriental carpet beneath him was blood-soaked.

  Then Dewey saw something that made him lose his breath.

  On the floor, a few feet from Lindsay, was a gun. Black hockey tape was wrapped around the butt. A silver Osprey silencer stuck out from the end.