The Paris Betrayal

by James R. Hannibal

The vinyl rustled. The partner. Too bad. From their limited contact, Ben kind of liked the guy, but he couldn’t afford to let him follow. He kicked backward and heard another scream. He motioned to Clara. “Stay behind me.”

  “Why?”

  “Sniper.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  The first bullet came flying the instant Ben pushed Duval through the doors.

  44

  Sensen’s first round clipped Duval’s ear and missed Ben by an inch. Amid the Frenchman’s cries, he heard the ricochet—metal on pavement. It hadn’t hit Clara. “You okay?” He refused to believe the German would intentionally shoot Clara, but a stray round might clip her.

  “I’m fine.” Clara laid a hand on his shoulder and offset her torso a little to the right. A good position, and he loved her calm. Instinct? Or had someone taught her to communicate through body signals in the heat of battle? Either way, they could do this. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “I know. I trust you.”

  “You must be the only one.” He kept sidestepping toward the tree-covered path. The second round passed clean through Duval’s left bicep. As it turned out, dirty French cops made poor shields against tungsten bullets. But if Sensen didn’t mind shooting him, why not center his shots for a better chance at Ben?

  Bulletproof vest.

  Duval was wearing protection. A standard vest couldn’t stop tungsten rounds from entering Duval’s body, but it would slow them, preventing them from exiting Duval’s back and tagging Ben. “Stay low,” he said to Clara. Two strides later, they reached the path.

  Ben hugged the foliage, keeping clear of Sensen’s view. He pushed Duval up against a lamppost. “Leave me alone. Understand?”

  Duval sneered at him. “You’re a dead man.”

  “Not by your hand. You’re out of your league.” Ben smashed the back of his head against the post and let him drop, senseless.

  “Halt!”

  Three security guards raced up the path, batons out and ready.

  Clara moved off to the side. “Don’t hurt them, Ben.”

  He shot her a look that said You’re asking a lot.

  The guards slowed. Clara shrugged. “They’re only doing their jobs.”

  “Hände hoch. Die Polizei kommt.”

  Ben frowned at the guy and forced him into English, just for the distraction. “I don’t understand you, buddy.”

  “Hands up. The police are coming.”

  “Which means I’m short on time. You three should run away now.”

  They didn’t listen.

  The guards advanced, and Ben laid out the first two with three rapid punches each. The third guy raised a can of pepper spray. Ben smacked the crook of the guard’s elbow with the second guy’s baton—which he had confiscated—and turned the arm to point the can back toward its owner. The can went off. The young man fell to his rear, clutching his face.

  Ben took Clara’s hand and the two continued their run down the path. On the way, she smacked his arm. “I told you not to hurt them.”

  “If they want to do security work, they need to learn how to take a punch.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Do you hear me laughing?”

  “The first guard”—Clara pressed her lips together—“the one you punched in the throat. He said they called the police.”

  “Correct.” Ben slowed to a stop at the camel junction, still keeping an eye on his position relative to the FIFA building. “With all this gunfire, I’m betting the entire Zürich police force will be waiting outside the entrance.”

  “So . . .” She squeezed his hand—a signal of urgency, not affection.

  “So, we can’t escape using the front gate.” Ben thrust his chin at a south-pointing sign that read REPTILE HOUSE, AQUARIUM, CHILDREN’S ZOO in three languages. “We need to find some cows.”

  Hale chose the zoo to keep Ben contained, creating something known as a forced funnel. But Ben knew as well as his mentor did that forced funnels were illusions. A good field operative could always find another way out.

  “Cows?” Clara said. Puffs of white drifted behind them as they ran—labored breaths in cold air.

  “I know, right? European petting zoos always have cows. Goats, I get. Ponies? Sure. But cows? Cows are for burgers and milkshakes, not petting or riding.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m asking you why we need them now.”

  The wail of sirens rolled up the hill from the city below. It had become their song. “Big animal. Big access point where we can escape.” He pointed at a sign. “I’ll let you pick. Elephants, lions, or cows?”

  “Fine. I get it. Cows it is.”

  “Thank you.”

  A scene had developed at the petting zoo. What Ben initially took to be a crowd seemed to be a single family with a ton of kids locked in a surreal battle with five zoo guides.

  There were kids everywhere—noisy, squealing kids. Each carried a bag of feed and hurled fistfuls at the sheep and goats while their father shouted and gesticulated at the pack of guides. One, a girl in her twenties, spoke rapidly into a radio, eyes on the edge of panic.

  Chaos.

  Ben and Clara’s arrival didn’t help.

  Radio-girl ditched the argument with Super-dad and pushed out a palm to stop the two newcomers. She seemed to think Ben and Clara were guests fleeing the gunshots. That impression didn’t last. She took a long look at Ben and the baton he’d stolen from the guards and backed away, calling to the others.

  Ben shook his head. So much for hiding his exit point.

  The keepers and the family parted like waves to reveal a pen of furry alpine milk cows at the section’s rear. Ben and Clara hopped the fence, stopping when they found a toddler who’d apparently crawled through wires to join the herd.

  Clara passed the girl over the fence to her mother. She gave the woman a stern look. “He needs to pay for a babysitter, okay? You need a break. Tell him tonight.”

  Ben gave her a quizzical look. “Do you know these people?”

  “Long story.”

  “Later, then.”

  The sirens were loud now. New voices spoke in solid tones on the keepers’ radios. The professionals had taken over, and they’d soon close any windows of escape.

  Doors painted to match the barn setting at the back of the pen opened into a wide concrete feeding station instead of an exit. Ben let go of Clara’s hand and raced to the back, relieved to find a gate to the left. He flipped the latch and shoved it open. “This way.”

  He passed between a line of stalls and a set of offices. Unlit passages led off in both directions. The whir of machinery blocked out all other sound. Ben kept to the main hall, navigating a long curve before pounding up a metal ramp to a garage-style door. He grabbed a control hanging by a thick orange cord and powered the door up. “Loading dock,” he said, breathing hard and looking back. “I told you we’d—”

  The hallway behind him was empty.

  Clara was gone.

  45

  Duval woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed. A sling constrained his other arm, strapped to his body with nylon and Velcro. An attempt to move it sent a shock of pain through his body.

  Oh, yes. Calix had shot him from behind.

  But how could he? Calix had run out of bullets during his charge for the exit—tossed his gun away. Perhaps he had backup.

  A fog of medication obscured his memories. Duval grasped at the images. Calix used him as a shield. Yes. So, the shooter and Calix were enemies, not allies. Maybe the American had sent someone else. It fit. The man had always been clear about Duval’s expendability.

  “You could have told me,” he muttered in French. “I’d have dropped to give your man a clear shot.”

  The curtain next to his bed flew back. Renard lay on a matching bed. He looked angry. Hard to say. A new bandage covered half his face. New yellow bruising spread from underneath it, all the way to his temples. He spoke in a muffled voice, slow, as if each word hurt. “You are a
wake.”

  “Obviously.” Duval jerked at his handcuff. He noted both Renard’s wrists were free. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “We should have taken our time—made a plan, flanked him. You said we would take him together when he came outside. You promised me the first punch. But you chased that woman into the dome. And the moment you saw him, you opened fire.” Renard paused to suck in a breath through his mouth. “You idiot.”

  “How dare you speak to me in that manner. I’ll have you fired.”

  The sergeant tried to snort and winced. He moaned.

  Duval rattled his handcuff again. “Renard, I order you to tell me what is going on. Why am I chained to this bed?”

  “You are not a man who knows how to make friends. Did I ever tell you this, Capitaine? I have known for quite some time. The paramedics, for instance. You thrashed about and called them names. In your flailing, you hit one in the face. This is when the needle went in. You’ve been sedated ever since.”

  “And the thrashing of an abused man is an excuse to handcuff him to the bed?”

  “No. The handcuffs are the work of Major Graf, another of your would-be friends. He did not take kindly to our running an operation on Swiss soil without coordination.” The fraction of Renard’s features that Duval could see darkened. “You told me headquarters had sanctioned this. You told me we were cleared to operate in Zürich. You lied.”

  Duval let his head fall back on his pillow. “We didn’t have time.”

  “We had the long drive from Rotterdam.”

  The door to their shared room opened, and a grizzled police major walked in, followed by a lieutenant. The younger officer carried a file brimming with notes and forms. The major’s name tag read GRAF. So this was the man responsible for chaining Duval, a fellow lawman and the hero of the zoo confrontation, to the bedrail.

  Graf spoke French, acting as if this were a courtesy rather than a snobbish insult, implying Duval did not speak German. “Recovering, are we, Captain?”

  “Slowly.” He raised his cuffed hand as far as he could. “I’d recover better without these chains.”

  “Do you promise not to attack the nurses as you attacked your paramedics?”

  Duval laughed.

  The major waited, raising a bushy black eyebrow. This Swiss blowhard really expected him to say it.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “Good.” Graf gave the lieutenant a nod, and the young officer stepped around him to unlock the cuffs. On the way, he passed the file to his boss. Graf opened it and frowned. “I have a lot of information here—all that I need, in fact. The zoo staff all provided statements. Your sergeant has also been most helpful.”

  “Has he?” Duval, rubbing his wrist, shot a glare at Renard, who looked away.

  “Oh, yes. By all accounts, you fired first—using a weapon you had no authorization or right to carry in my country. I’ll give you one chance to tell me why I shouldn’t lock you in a cell and throw away the key.”

  Duval told him of Calix’s exploits in Paris. He told him about the bleached and burned body at the flat, the cottage explosion, the dead ship captain, and the wounded watch officer in Rotterdam. “And he had a hostage.”

  “You mean the woman you chased into the dome.” Graf referenced the file. “My witnesses tell me she did not look like a hostage at all.”

  “I believe she is . . . confused. Stockholm syndrome.”

  “Thin. And your reasoning for ignoring the proper authorization channels?”

  “We had a lead. We had to move fast.”

  “Ah. Yes. A lead. Excellent. I will follow up for you.” Graf lifted several pages of handwritten notes, turning to a blank section, and readied a pen. “What is the source of this lead?”

  “Anonymous.”

  The pages fell into place again with a pronounced flap. “What a shame.”

  After a long silence, Graf sat on the edge of Duval’s mattress, clicking his tongue, and set the open file on the table beside the bed. A photo paper clipped to the corner showed a dachshund seated on some sergeant’s lap, gnawing a bone like an office pet.

  Duval recognized him from Paris. “That dog is evidence.”

  “That dog is no longer your concern.” Graf closed the file. “Nor is anything related to this case.”

  “You can’t do that. This is my case.”

  “No, Captain Duval. It’s mine. You are going home as soon as you are well enough to travel.” Graf leaned close, supporting his weight with a palm laid directly on Duval’s gunshot wound. “Never return to Switzerland. I don’t care if you are chasing the next Bin Laden.” He squeezed, eliciting a grunt. “Never. You understand?”

  Duval answered through clenched teeth. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Graf took his file and left with his lieutenant in tow.

  The cuffs were gone. His wounds were dressed. Duval had work to do. He eased himself from the bed. “Get up, Renard. We’re leaving.”

  The sergeant didn’t move. “No. The doctors want to keep me under observation. I will stay for two days. The chief sent me an open-ended ticket home.”

  “Open-ended, eh?” Duval snapped his fingers and held out a hand. “Give me the tablet. I want to see them.”

  “I said, he sent me a ticket. Not you. The chief says you can fend for yourself.” Renard yanked the curtain closed. “You’re fired.”

  46

  Ben hunched down in his seat on the train to Montpellier, using the window’s reflection to watch the car’s television. The international manhunt had hit full swing. If he made it to the station, he’d have to give up public transportation for a while.

  The news reports flashed his face across the screen four or five times an hour. They had a pair of videos and one good photo—his fake Interpol badge. The Dutch had pulled it from the lake bottom. Thankfully, he’d made the photo pre-frostbite, so his nose looked significantly different.

  The videos included a webcam from the rainforest that caught his gun-blazing charge and a shaky police bodycam shot from his Paris standoff. The news report on the television froze the image at the juiciest moment. There was Ben, holding a gun to Clara’s head.

  Ben searched. Oh, how he’d searched. But he never found her.

  He haunted the hilltop forest surrounding the zoo far longer than wisdom allowed. After recovering his backpack from the hollow where he’d stashed it, he walked the perimeter, always moving—watching the cops and onlookers for Clara.

  The medevac chopper flew in for Duval and his unfortunate partner. Paramedics wheeled injured guards out the front gates to a pair of waiting ambulances. The SWAT bus rushed onto the scene, late to the party as usual. The beat cops cordoned off sections of the parking lot for reasons Ben could not fathom, and lined up a crowd of witnesses.

  None of the witnesses were Clara.

  The medics didn’t have her. The cops didn’t have her.

  When the K-9 units arrived, Ben knew he’d lingered too long. He pounded a fist into a tree and ran down the hill to the outlying train station at Dübendorf.

  The frozen video behind the reporter took over the train’s TV screen and zoomed in on Ben. They wanted the viewers to see as much of his face as possible, but all Ben saw was the gun he held to her head.

  Why hadn’t he brushed past her in the hallway outside his flat? That day, Ben had convinced himself he needed to prevent Clara from being caught in the explosion, but she would never have continued to the flat once he passed her by. So why did he do it? Had Ben dragged Clara along because—in the first moments of his life’s collapse—part of him wanted her near?

  And now she’d been taken. But by who?

  Leviathan owned Duval. Ben had no doubt. If Duval knew to find him in Zürich, so did they. He’d been too worried about the sniper, the schoolmaster, and the dirty cop—the obvious threats. But the most dangerous enemy is the one you don’t see coming.

  The news program moved on to the French political primaries, and Ben let his head rest a
gainst the window. His reflection faded, leaving only some nameless valley flying by outside. No villages. No lights. Only the deep, empty dark that lies between the setting sun and the rising moon. He closed his eyes, noting no difference, and let himself fall into the void.

  The station announcement woke him. Arrive maintenant. Gare de Montpellier Sud. Ben shook enough blackness away to join the slow march of red-eye travelers shuffling up the aisle to change trains. Most still had hours left on their journeys. Ben did too. His ticket told him to find Platform 7 and catch the 2:15 to Barcelona. He made his way to the exit instead.

  With Ben’s face all over the news, continuing on the rails ceased to be an option. The girl who’d sold him his ticket might recognize the pictures at any time and call the police. He had to find an alternate mode of travel, and he knew just who to ask for a ride.

  Four years in the spy game had taught Ben that money talks, and it talks loudest at the waterfront’s smelliest and goriest piers. Even better, guys with hands drenched in blood and guts rarely mix with screens. One of Hale’s crustier schoolhouse instructors had taught Ben that.

  A field operative needs to know where to find safe passage when the press blows his cover. And there’s only one guaranteed place. After generations of screen addiction, when humankind finally succumbs to phone-in-hand disease and walks with heads permanently bowed, one segment of society will still comfortably and constantly watch the horizon. Fishermen. You’ll find them on a hundred boats, beaches, and docks—eyes on the water or their lines, but never on a phone.

  The predawn crowd at the Sète fish market did not disappoint. The fish, gutted and tossed on stacks of ice, were hake, if Ben remembered correctly from his last trip to a Mediterranean quay. Hake only came out at night, and the night trawling life’s forever-darkness attracted many scruple-free crews.

  Ben’s cuts and bruises—his blistered nose and cheeks—fit in well here. And he didn’t see a single screen. These men had no time to look at tweets or listen to news reports about a zoo gunfight that left no bodies behind. He waited for a skipper to wander away from the pack and followed him out to a boat gently rocking at the quay, not the smallest trawler on the line but far from the biggest.