The Paris Betrayal

by James R. Hannibal

  “Those pieces likely fell in the night. The fire weakened the stone more than anyone guessed. Two years later, the church is still crumbling. Shoring it up is an endless task.” She lifted a folding chair from a cart, popped it open, and patted the seat. “Come. Sit.”

  He obeyed, removing his backpack and gloves and setting them between his feet. Otto sniffed at the backpack. Ben shooed him away. “You still haven’t told me how you knew about the panel.”

  “And you still haven’t told me why the police showed up the moment you called your precious boss.”

  She had placed so much faith in him—undeserved despite his earlier confidence. But her faith had waned. He heard it in the question. A reckoning was coming. He delayed a little longer. “So, the panel. Do you work here?”

  Clara pulled a first aid box from a plywood cabinet and brought it back, dragging a metal stool close to his chair. “Do I look like a construction worker?”

  “Maybe.”

  She frowned.

  He shrugged. Giselle had taught him the proper escape route for such moments. “Who am I to throw up arbitrary gender barriers?”

  “Funny.” Clara sat with the first aid box on her knees. She drew a miniature water bottle from her purse and poured some on a strip of gauze. “I’m an artist, thank you. I came to Paris to study.”

  “And that study includes breaking into cathedrals?”

  “Take off that silly hat.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What’s silly about my hat?”

  “The way you’re using it to hide the gash on the back of your head. It bled through.” She yanked the hat off for him and pulled his head down to dab at the wound.

  “Ouch!”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “When did you first notice the blood?”

  “On the train.” She paused her work to add more water to the gauze.

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  “We were busy.”

  “The panel, Clara.” He raised his head.

  She grabbed both his temples and pulled him down again. “After the fire, I moved to Paris to sketch the restoration . . . and to avoid returning home to my father. I pitched the project as a master’s study to my university in Bratislava. They bought it, and here I am with a full stipend.”

  “And this project included permission to enter the construction site?” He found it hard to engage in meaningful conversation while staring at his knees.

  After a few last painful dabs, Clara lifted his head. “Not exactly. I tried to get permission, but the contractor denied the request. Then one day, while sketching the western façade, I saw two crewmen sneak out for a smoke break. Same thing the next day and the next. The following Sunday, when all the crews had the day off, I took a chance.” She lifted a sketchbook from her bag and handed it over. “I’ve been sneaking in every Sunday since.”

  The detail in her work stunned Ben. He flipped the page to a sketch of the north gallery columns, shifting his gaze to the real columns and back. A perfect match in both appearance and emotion. The broken stone on the paper bore such texture and loneliness, he imagined he might feel the depth of the cracks and divots if he dared touch the page.

  He flipped backward in the book through buttresses, angels, and gargoyles, until he reached sketches from before her arrival in Paris. The earlier work felt darker—a young man bruised and crying, an older man in grubby coveralls passed out at a mechanic’s worktable. He wasn’t sure she’d meant for him to see those, so he turned back to the column sketch before handing her the book. “These are incredible.”

  “They’re okay.”

  Clara gave him the bloody gauze and first aid kit in trade and pointed over her shoulder. “The trash can is back there. On your way, you can return the kit and tell me why your call for help brought the Police Nationale down on top of us.”

  The gauze went into Ben’s pocket, not the trash. He’d wiped his DNA trail by destroying the apartment. He didn’t feel like starting a new one in the middle of Notre Dame.

  He wandered up the nave to the altar, gazing at chipped masonwork angels and crumbling prophets. He struggled to find even one intact. “Duval—the man in the brown jacket who grabbed you on the bridge—I think he works for a terrorist group called Leviathan, but he carries a French anti-terrorism division badge.”

  “So he’s a dirty cop.” Clara appeared behind him in one of the patches of filtered light. “You said that before. But can a dirty cop command so many police and make them appear at our precise location even after we’d escaped him?”

  “I don’t know.” It killed Ben to say those words. “I made the call. My agency’s automated system picked up, and then the line went dead. Maybe the system sensed a local hack trying to break in.”

  He was reaching—finding excuses for the Company. And he knew it. The operative side of Ben’s mind shouted about timing and traces. If Duval or Jupiter’s people were trying to hack the call, why had the system waited ten rings before cutting him off? He buried the thought. “Cell tower triangulation.”

  “What?”

  “A hack. Like I said. Leviathan intercepted my call. My agency cut the line, but too late. They’d already gotten a trace.” He nodded, trying to convince himself as much as her. “If Leviathan’s people infiltrated the Police Nationale, they’d have the local resources and the clout required to send in the troops.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy her.

  He wished it had satisfied him. “And now the whole Paris police force is looking for us. They’ll have all the exits from the city covered.”

  “So, we’re trapped here.”

  “I didn’t say that. We just need to wait until late tonight, that’s all.”

  Clara stepped closer, lifting her chin. “You sound like you have a plan.”

  “Don’t be fooled by my confidence. It’s a spy thing. Fake bravado. I don’t have a plan. I have a loosely formed idea that will probably get us both killed.”

  16

  Luis Duval shoved a handkerchief into his sergeant’s chest as the two reached the third floor of 36 Rue du Bastion, the Police Nationale’s headquarters for criminal investigation and anti-terror operations. “You’re bleeding again, Renard. Go to the infirmary.”

  “But, Capitaine, I—”

  “Now.”

  The sergeant tilted his head back with the kerchief to his nose and walked off, feeling his way along the hall’s marble panels.

  “And you can keep the kerchief, you understand? I don’t want it back.”

  Renard waved.

  How had Calix gotten the better of them both?

  Foolish question. Duval knew how. The do-not-kill order. Calix had blown up a flat and killed a man—the act of a terrorist. Even with the witnesses and Renard watching, Duval could have justified shooting him. He needed to make a call.

  On his way to the tiny windowless office he shared with Renard, he pointed at the section’s intern. “I’m not to be disturbed. I don’t care if the director general calls.”

  The young woman opened her mouth to respond.

  Duval cut her off with a shake of his finger. “No interruptions.” He slammed the door, and the impact’s percussion passed through his broken ribs. He groaned and lowered himself into his chair. “Calix.”

  The secure line took ninety seconds to connect using the encryption app on Duval’s smartphone. By strict police regulations, all employees left their personal devices in their lockers, but the rank of captain came with certain privileges—certain rules that no longer applied. Everyone knew this.

  He heard a click and a change in the static.

  A young voice answered in English. “Go ahead.”

  “This is Alpha Eight One, secure. I need to speak with your boss.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  An appointment? Imbécile. Duval leaned forward to place his elbow on the desk, but the pain in his side made him rethink the move. He sat back again, speaking through clench
ed teeth. “Just put me through. It’s urgent.”

  “One moment.”

  The line clicked.

  “Hello?”

  He recognized the American’s voice, the touch of Manhattan Greek. He’d never gotten a name, only threats and money. “This is Duval. We need to—”

  “I know who you are. There is a reason we talk so rarely, Captain. The risk is too great.”

  “Your man Hagen. He’s dead.” Duval lifted a paper from his desk. “According to a preliminary report, Calix stabbed and shot him before dismembering him with an explosive.”

  The American laughed. “Not unexpected. Is that all?”

  “No. I need clarification.”

  “You have thirty-five seconds. Go.”

  Duval checked the clock hanging above his desk. He’d learned from past experience that when the American set a time limit, he meant it. The second hand passed the one. “Why the do-not-kill order? I can justify shooting Calix on sight. I’ve done it for you before with targets who’ve done less.”

  “I don’t want him dead. Not yet. Call it a recruitment exercise.” The second hand raced on, passing the three. “Calix is a favorite of my primary competitor. Think of him as the biggest prize on the carnival shelf. You are the ring I’m tossing at the peg to win him in this particular round. Got it?”

  Not really. Duval let out a huff he instantly regretted. He needed to get his ribs looked at. “Your competitor is a fool. Calix isn’t that good. A civilian spotted him in the park, flashing his gun. The anonymous tip brought half the force flooding in before I could reach the location. I almost lost him to a pack of patrolmen.”

  “An anonymous tip?”

  “Yes.” The second had passed the six. Ten more seconds. “Anonymous.”

  “So, to rephrase, you had a squadron of patrolmen at your disposal, and he escaped you again?”

  Duval had walked right into that one. He flattened his tone. “Correct.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t criticize. Find Calix. Hold him alone in a soundproof interrogation room and notify me. I’ll send someone to fetch him.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “She’s spent too much time with him. I don’t want her talking to your people, lending credence to anything Calix tells them. I want him isolated—completely. When you take him down, make sure she doesn’t survive.” The second hand hit the seven. The line went dead.

  17

  Suspicions nagged Ben. He needed confirmation. “I’m going on an excursion.”

  Clara lay between the shelves of tagged stone fragments, snuggled under her coat with Otto. She pushed herself up on an elbow. “It’s ten to eleven. You said we should wait until after midnight.”

  “I know what I said. Stay here.” He checked the magazine of his Glock 42 and slid it into the holster inside his waistband.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you didn’t like guns.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Duval’s gun. You threw it away. You said you didn’t want it.”

  “My gun is a .380. So are all my spare rounds. Duval’s was a Beretta nine-mil, which I emptied ticking off the French police. A gun with no bullets is just a burden.” He covered the Glock with his sweatshirt. “You get some rest. There are egg white protein bars in my pack if you’re hungry. I’ll be gone two hours.”

  “And what if you do not come back in two hours?”

  “I will.”

  During the hours of quiet, staring up at the cathedral’s torched stones, Ben had tried to link all the day’s events to the mysterious Jupiter. But every solution required leaps of logic he couldn’t afford. The answers, like lost sheep, wouldn’t come home on their own. So, like any good shepherd, he set out to find them.

  Notre Dame sat on an island in the Seine, known locally as Île de la Cité and to the rest of the world as the Island of Paris. He crossed to the city’s south side using the Double Bridge, named in antiquity for its toll rather than its size. Restricted to foot traffic, with foliage at three of its four corners, the Double Bridge offered more cover than the island’s other four. The late hour and the long manhunt had thinned the police presence. Cops patrolled the streets as pairs instead of troops.

  More than once, waiting for a patrol to pass or turn their backs, the temptation to ditch Clara struck Ben. Justifications came at him in his own voice.

  Traveling with a civilian and her dumb dog is insane—bad craft, and you know it.

  You’ll both be caught. What good will that do?

  Leave now. It’ll be a gift, not a betrayal.

  He shook the arguments off. Until he learned more, he couldn’t leave her. To walk away might mean handing her over to Leviathan, an organization that had murdered thousands in the last six months.

  At a quarter to midnight, Ben’s day came full circle. He cut across Rue Cler and ducked into the dead-end alley where the sniper’s bullets had almost removed his head. He went straight to the spot where he’d dropped his phone, but it had vanished. Either the sniper or some passerby had taken it, as expected. But Ben hadn’t risked this journey for the phone.

  Voices. Two men.

  He pressed his back against the alley wall, behind the dubious cover of a nineteenth-century rainspout, and turned his head as much to hide the moisture from his breath as to shrink his profile. Duval might be dirty, but not these men. Ben had no desire to hurt them. He willed them with all his might to move on.

  The cops paused at the alley entrance. “How much longer must we continue this madness?” one asked, speaking French. “The night is cold. I’m starving. And this American imbecile and his woman could be in Calais by now, for all we know. They’re gone.”

  “We’re done when the lieutenant says we’re done.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So you keep saying.”

  The wall across from Ben lit up. A flashlight beam panned to the alley’s end and froze.

  He held his breath. After too many heartbeats, the beam evaporated.

  “Come on. I know an all-night bodega on the next block. I’ll buy you a bag of macarons to still that rumbling belly.”

  The voices drifted off.

  Ben released a great fog of breath and continued his work. He clicked on a penlight and searched the cobblestones.

  A streak of char marked the spot where the sparking phone had fallen. He panned the light up the wall beside it to head level and found a pockmark—a hole, really. Limestone never held up well against high-velocity rounds. He shined the light inside, and his shoulders drooped.

  Nothing. The sniper had cleaned up his own mess, digging his slugs from the wall.

  The second and third holes confirmed it. No slugs. No answers. A wasted trip. Ben sighed and let himself fall back against the limestone to rest and prepare for the trip back through the police net.

  Something glinted in the beam of his penlight.

  Ben panned the light over the cobblestones and found the object again, in the crack between two blocks. He dropped to a crouch. Fingers wouldn’t do the job, but the multi-tool he’d brought along worked nicely. Steel scraped against stone and grout as he worked the tool’s needle-nose pliers into the crack. Carefully, he drew out a metal sliver—a curved piece of a dark alloy. He held it under the penlight. The sniper had not been so thorough after all. He’d left a bullet fragment behind.

  The alloy looked familiar. Ben dropped the sliver into his fingers to measure the weight and rigidity. Tungsten carbide.

  He sat back on his heels and lowered his head. A name fell from his lips. “Sensen.”

  18

  A trio of policemen unknowingly pinned Ben down in the boxwoods of René Viviani Square, across the water from Notre Dame. The cops hadn’t seen him, but they hung out on the Double Bridge, smoking and shooting the breeze at the dead center.

  Often the best thing an operative can do is wait. Diversions and distractions are designed to draw attention. Gunshots and broken windows are great for pulling a sentry away from
a gate or street corner, but in the long run, when you’re trying to disappear, they only invite more trouble.

  French cops and their smoke breaks.

  The group hung around for another thirty minutes, so long Ben almost nodded off. When he finally got moving again, after more than two hours in the city, the cathedral island’s streetlamps looked like warm windows in a cabin at the edge of a dark wood.

  Ben checked the river on the way across. A thin coating of vapor hung over the surface, building fast. The cooling air trapped in the canal above the Seine had started its nightly winter magic. He and Clara needed to get moving, but as he quickened his steps, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  He heard heavy breathing. Or was it the scuff of his own soles against the cobblestones?

  The river made sounds hard to trace. Ben put a hand near his gun and checked the steps to the water at the north. Silent—nothing but stone and moss. He relaxed.

  The crunch of steel against the base of Ben’s skull sent a shock wave through his body. He crumpled, groaning, blinking to banish the haze from his vision. Instinct kicked in. He felt the Glock’s grip already in his palm, halfway out of the holster.

  “Do it, Mr. Calix. Draw your weapon.” A man, breathing heavy and wearing a familiar brown jacket, materialized from the blur in Ben’s vision. He bent close to hold a compact revolver a foot from Ben’s nose. “Give me a reason to shoot.”

  “I’d rather not, Monsieur Duval.”

  “It’s capitaine. Capitaine Duval. Get to your feet. I’m tired and hurt. And I’m sick of this game.”

  Duval’s gun arm hung a little low, a result of his broken ribs. Ben guessed he couldn’t hold the revolver much higher than his navel without serious pain. “Is that your spare?” He grinned and answered his own question. “Must be. Your Beretta is probably in an evidence lockup by now. I bet it’s embarrassing for an SDAT investigator to have his piece stolen, emptied in a standoff with patrolmen, and tossed into the street.”

  “I said, get up.”