Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  A small army of forensics experts had already scoured the suite several times, dusting for fingerprints and other evidence. All the furniture had been removed, along with the carpeting and any paintings that had been hanging on the walls, and was now in a DGSI laboratory at the agency’s headquarters building for further examination. He went into the large bedroom. It, too, was stripped, even though the crime envelope hadn’t contaminated the room.

  Beauxchamps wanted his team to determine two things. First, if there was any physical evidence inside the suite other than the gun that was tied to Dewey. Second, if, in fact, a woman had been inside the room, as Andreas claimed. Several dozen hairs were found throughout the suite, embedded into carpet, along edges of walls, so small they were, for the most part, too hard to see. Because it was a hotel room, the hairs were probably useless, accounted for by previous visitors or chambermaids. Andreas’s DNA had been run against all of the hairs found; none matched.

  Beauxchamps went around the rooms, studying and thinking. Saint-Phalle’s oversight rattled him, though he understood why the young detective made the mistake. In all likelihood, the slug in his pocket would in fact be a match to the others.

  After more than an hour, he opened the doors to the terrace. It was a sunny day, a bit brisk, with a stiff wind that tousled his hair. He walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out on Paris. At times like these, he craved a cigarette. It had been two and a half years since he’d quit, and yet at least once a day he felt the urge to have one, especially at times like this, when he was alone, outdoors, with an interesting, even beautiful view, thinking, trying to figure something out.

  A child’s laughter came from somewhere to his left. Casually, he walked to the side of the large terrace. Below, on a small terrace that belonged to the building next to the George V, he saw two young girls throwing a tennis ball to each other. He watched for several seconds.

  Back inside, he shut the doors and looked out one more time, his eyes cutting to a small object that was stuck to the fence. He went back out to the side of the terrace that overlooked the two girls. Between the George V and the next building was a tall, forbidding-looking fence, with thick steel prongs that jutted up high above both buildings. On top of one of the iron prongs was a small patch of black material.

  He dragged a chair to the side of the terrace. He climbed on top of the brick wall that formed the edge of the terrace, reached up, and removed the swatch of material.

  As he walked quickly back to the elevator, he dialed Saint-Phalle.

  “I have the slug and I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Have ballistics standing by.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the meantime, I want the guest list for everyone who was staying at the Prince de Galles the night Lindsay was murdered, separated by floors.”

  46

  NSA

  Follett dialed the number for the third time. This time, instead of going to voice mail, someone picked up.

  “Yes?” came the voice. Nasal, slightly soft.

  “Mr. Flaherty?” said Follett. “Andrew Flaherty?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Zachary Follett, sir. Um, I work for a government agency. I have a few questions I wanted to ask you.”

  “What agency?” said Flaherty.

  “The National Security Agency.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Flaherty got the NSA’s main number from directory assistance. A few minutes later, Follett’s phone beeped.

  “Zach Follett,” he said.

  “So you do work for the NSA,” said Flaherty. “What do you want? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “No, nothing like that, sir. I just am trying to get some information on an incident that occurred when you were, ah, working in Germany.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I know. I was hoping you might remember or perhaps have an old file or two.”

  “By law, I’m not permitted to retain any files from my service. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

  “Well, I … I work at a different agency, of course. I just didn’t know. Now that you mention it, of course I should’ve known that.”

  “It’s fine,” said Flaherty. “I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night, Mr. Follett, much less something more than two decades ago, so I’m not sure I’d be much help. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m taking my wife out to lunch. It was nice talking with you—”

  “The incident,” interrupted Follett.

  “Oh, yes, the incident. What are you referring to?”

  “Bonn, 1994. Two of your agents were killed at a nightclub along with an executive from Lockheed Martin. Well, the thing is, I was wondering if you had any recollection of that or of something called Order Six?”

  * * *

  Flaherty was in Reston, seated inside the windowless conference room on the fifth floor of the office building. He clutched his phone as he listened to the young NSA analyst, Follett. His face remained placid and emotionless, but his eyes shot to Bruner, who was seated across the conference table from him.

  A large plasma screen on the wall had CNN on—a live report from Capitol Hill, where Congressman Bobby Largent had just been elected Speaker of the House of Representatives. Bruner was watching the report, though when Flaherty looked at him, he stopped watching TV and turned to Flaherty.

  Flaherty sat up in the chair. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher on his head. “I believe I do recall the incident,” he said. “Yes, it was a very sad night for all of us.”

  “Could you explain what happened exactly?”

  “I’d be glad to try,” said Flaherty. “I’d prefer to meet in person, however. I don’t trust all these newfangled listening devices and recording tools. I’m a retiree. I’ll try and tell you what I can.”

  “Can you meet tonight?” asked Follett.

  Flaherty knew he needed to buy time. He also knew he couldn’t say no. Whoever Follett was, he spoke and acted inexperienced. Were the suspicions real, it wouldn’t have been a phone call Flaherty received.

  “I can’t meet tonight,” he said. “Would next week work for you?”

  “I’m afraid our investigation is more active than that,” said Follett. “What about tomorrow? Breakfast?”

  “I can meet in the afternoon,” said Flaherty. “There’s a restaurant in Great Falls. It’s called L’Auberge Chez François.”

  “I know where it is,” said Follett. “How about one o’clock?”

  “That would be excellent.”

  “Great. Thank you, Mr. Flaherty.”

  “Please, call me Andrew.”

  “Of course, Mr., ah, Andrew. One o’clock at L’Auberge Chez François.”

  Flaherty hung up his phone. He gazed at Bruner with a hollow, distant look.

  “What’s wrong, Andrew?” said Bruner. “Bobby was just elected Speaker. You should be very happy. Soon, I have no doubt, Romy will be eliminated. We’re getting closer.”

  “They found Order Six.”

  47

  CIA

  Calibrisi entered his office, looking around at a half dozen men and women, all of whom had their eyes glued to the plasma screen in the middle of the room. The television was tuned to a French news channel. The screen showed a pair of cranes on the banks of the Seine, illuminated by bright klieg lights. Dozens of police cars and other emergency vehicles lined the banks, blue and white light bars flashing in the night.

  Calibrisi stared at the screen for a few moments, then went to the TV and turned it off. He turned to the group, a stern look on his face.

  “What happened?”

  Angie Poole spoke first. “Dewey escaped from the DGSI holding facility,” she said. “There was a high-speed chase through the city, culminating in Dewey’s car plunging into the Seine.”

  “We need to stop the French authorities before they go to INTERPOL,” said Calibrisi. “Any sort of notice that mentions Dewey
will alert his enemies that he’s on the run.”

  “It’s too late. France is about to issue a Diffusion to all countries in Europe,” said Poole, referring to a specific type of INTERPOL alert seeking help in arresting a known fugitive. “I’d expect INTERPOL will follow up with a Red Notice any time now.”

  She handed Calibrisi a piece of paper, which he quickly scanned.

  “He had to have had help,” said Calibrisi, his voice rising with frustration. “We need to speak with him.”

  The room was silent.

  “He’ll need money. I want every asset we have in-theater focusing on this. That means they need to expect Dewey moving to one of the safe houses.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” said Mack Perry.

  Calibrisi shot him a look.

  “We can’t control his actions,” he said, “only ours. If he moves to one of the safe houses, I want him locked down. Shoot him up with tranquilizers. Whatever we need to do to get him off-grid before Hezbollah or someone else reads this.” He held up the INTERPOL alert. “We’ll extract him later.”

  “Angie, did you get a make on the car he was driving?” said Polk.

  “Lamborghini,” said Poole. “Aventador. Brand-new.”

  Polk glanced at Calibrisi. “Borchardt,” he said.

  48

  VILLA BLANCHE

  SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

  Borchardt’s property was set on a hill a few miles from the center of Saint-Tropez, playground of the rich. Although there were people in the area with extraordinary amounts of wealth, ready and willing to spend it on virtually anything, only one could possess Villa Blanche.

  Borchardt normally would’ve flown to Southern France on one of his private jets, but French authorities would be searching all flights out of Paris. He chose instead to make the trip in his chauffeur-driven Maybach. He knew they were looking for him—in particular for his cargo: a two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound, headache-inducing individual who sat across from him in the back of the limo.

  It was morning. They had driven through the night. The sky was bright blue, though clouds interrupted from time to time. The road was a narrow two-lane that meandered up from the bustle of Saint-Tropez to the countryside that ringed the ocean from above. The higher the road climbed, the more beautiful grew the views of the Mediterranean.

  “Have you been to Saint-Tropez before?” asked Borchardt.

  Dewey was staring out the window. He didn’t say anything.

  “It’s quite nice this time of year,” continued Borchardt. “Fewer tourists. Most people who do not live here are away. It’s the only time I come, to be honest.”

  Dewey turned to Borchardt. His normal look—of confidence, even coldness—was not there. Instead, Borchardt saw a different expression. Dewey’s eyelids drooped slightly. He was slouched in the leather seat. Borchardt saw sadness.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about it,” said Borchardt, “but you need to. I can help. I already did help.”

  “My question is, why?” asked Dewey, his first words since leaving Paris.

  “Why what? Why did they kill Lindsay?”

  Dewey shook his head.

  “Why did they frame you?” said Borchardt.

  “No. Why did you help me?” muttered Dewey.

  Borchardt was silent for several moments, then sat back with a wry smile. He pushed a button on the door. A piece of black titanium arose behind him until it reached the ceiling, separating and sealing the back of the limo from the driver.

  “It’s a fair question,” said Borchardt, his German accent sharp and authoritative. “I know you think it was calculated, that I have some sort of ulterior motive, but the truth is, I don’t. You called and my first instinct was to help you. To protect you.”

  Dewey studied Borchardt for several moments.

  “Who’s waiting at your villa?” he asked. “Did you sell me back to the French government?”

  Borchardt’s expression grew cold.

  “Why would I help you escape from the prison if only to sell you?”

  “We both know the answer to that,” said Dewey. “Money. Self-interest. Being the center of attention. You sold me once to the Fortunas and once to the Chinese. You’d do it again and we both know it.”

  “Perhaps, but not today. People change.”

  Dewey stared into Borchardt’s eyes. Borchardt looked slightly hurt.

  “I helped you escape because you’re about the closest thing I have to family in this ludicrous world, as insane as that may sound.”

  Dewey shook his head.

  “You’ve eloquently cataloged all the times I betrayed you, but what about Iran?” continued Borchardt. “Without me, you never would have penetrated the country. I also got you into China. Then there was Russia last year, a totally clean insertion with no back-pull. Do you think that was easy?” Borchardt was pointing at Dewey as he spoke. His face turned red and his voice grew loud. “And now I seem to recall a certain French jailhouse I may or may not have helped you escape from a few hours ago.”

  Dewey laughed.

  “Okay. I apologize for questioning your motives, Rolf. Just remember what I’ll do to you if you’re lying.”

  * * *

  The country road was lined on both sides by a succession of majestic, fanciful iron gates behind which ran long driveways that swept away and into the distance, out of sight. Overgrown lilacs in full violet bloom spread in clusters near the road. Stands of old birch, dogwood, and apple trees covered the olive-colored hills on both sides.

  The Maybach eased into a pebble stone lane. A hundred feet ahead was a pair of dark green security gates. As the vehicle came close, the gates slowly opened.

  As the limousine passed through the gates, Dewey glanced back. The ten-foot-tall gates swung shut. He saw nothing, and yet he continued to watch. Just as the Maybach turned the corner and the gates were almost out of sight, he caught a glimpse of a man standing just to the side of one of the brick stanchions that supported the gates. He was dressed in tan camouflage and clutched a submachine gun.

  The pebble stone drive continued through a gorgeous estate of apple, pear, and lemon trees for nearly a half mile. A final stretch was elongated through a dark stand of perfectly manicured fir trees. Then Borchardt’s villa appeared. It was the largest house Dewey had ever seen. As much as he wanted to, he could not hide his momentary shock. Columns punctuated the front of the mansion, like an English country estate, but instead of limestone or brick, the house was constructed in white marble. It appeared as white as if freshly snowed upon. What wasn’t white was glass. It spread as far as the eye could see and was three stories tall. Green ivy grew in flourishes across several walls of the massive villa.

  Dewey stared at the house as they drove closer. When the limo came to a stop, he continued to stare. Past the house, the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea looked stunning, with diamonds of refracted sunlight dancing across the surface.

  “What do you think?” asked Borchardt.

  “Not bad,” said Dewey. “Reminds me of my dad’s toolshed back in Castine.”

  49

  JETÉE KHÄIR-EDDINE

  SOUSTARA, ALGERIA

  NORTH AFRICA

  The apartment building was nine stories high. Because it sat on top of a jetty that reached out into the ocean, every window in the building offered bold ocean views in virtually every direction. Yet it was a forlorn-looking building, its white concrete stained with age, windows on every floor smashed, a few of them boarded up with wood that had already started to rot. But if the exterior was neglected, the interior was even worse. When it was constructed in 1962, it was one of Algiers’ most exclusive apartment buildings. Now the apartments were seedy remnants of what had once been. Floor after floor, apartment after apartment, were covered in dirt and filth, broken glass and chunks of crumbling concrete. Only a few apartment doors remained, the others long since torn from hinges by vagrants. Toilets—those few that were left—were backed up. Whole rooms wer
e burnt out, black soot covering walls and ceilings like wallpaper. It was a wasteland.

  If exclusivity had to do with beautiful views and luxurious amenities, 2 Khäir-Eddine epitomized the very opposite. If exclusivity had to do with how difficult it was to gain entrance, however, it was the most exclusive building in all of Algiers and perhaps all of North Africa.

  Armed gunmen patrolled the property twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. No one came within a quarter mile of the building unless invited. Those who were invited moved in and out of 2 Khäir-Eddine with nihilistic swagger. Most were young, some still in their teens. They lived and worked in the building, sleeping on floors, rarely bathing, even when the water worked.

  All of them were Arab. All were jihadis.

  For three years, 2 Khäir-Eddine had served as the primary staging ground before infiltration into Europe by Al Qaeda recruits. Most of the young Arabs were bomb makers. A few were suicide bombers. Some were document specialists. A handful were propagandists proficient with technology. All were coming from one of Al Qaeda’s camps in North Africa, traveling via Algiers on the road of jihad.

  The first floor of the building was empty except for gunmen, positioned at the entrances as well as in several rooms, constantly looking outside to survey the surroundings. The next four floors were used to make IEDs, which were then packed into vessels of every size, shape, and color, always pulling up to the jetty in the dead of night. Those vessels then departed before daylight with a fresh batch of bombs and jihadis bound for Al Qaeda affiliates in Lebanon, Turkey, Syria, and Egypt. Floors six and seven were where the young Arabs slept and ate. There were no beds, only blankets and mats, and none were reserved. They slept where they could find a place. The eighth floor was largely empty, save for the last third of the floor, closest to the city. The walls had been torn out with sledgehammers, leaving an open area haphazardly arranged with desks and tables. This was where a dozen hand-picked, carefully screened men performed three key functions: forging documents, such as travel visas; monitoring news and manufacturing propaganda; and managing finances. For despite the group’s appearance, and the general squalor of the surroundings, they had plenty of money.