The skipper stopped a pace short of the water. “If you’re planning to mug me,” he said in French, “at least wait until I’ve collected my due from the market chief. I’d hate for you to waste your time.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Ben held back, giving the man some social distance. “I imagine you’re pretty quick with that rusty fillet knife you’re hiding. I like to keep my throat unventilated.”
The skipper hopped into his boat, glancing back with a grizzled smile. “Not as quick as I used to be. You want something, boy? A job? My crew’s full.”
“I need a ride.”
“Where?”
“Valencia.”
“Two days’ roundtrip for my crew and me. And the fish avoid the Spanish coast this time of year.” With a heavy grunt, the man hauled a crate of netting from his boat and climbed out onto the dock to pick it up. “No sale.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
The man stood there, waiting for Ben to get out of his way.
Ben didn’t move. “We leave now and steam at your best speed to Valencia. No trawling. No crew. I’ll pay you the cost of two nights’ catch, twice what you’d get if you fished east for the night you’ll miss. You’ll make a good profit. We both know you’ll pick up a slack crew in Valencia and trawl all the way home.”
Most people need money. And those who don’t need money want it anyway. Whatever this man’s story, Ben had his attention. He could see the numbers crunching behind the fisherman’s eyes—calculations to decide how much to inflate the price.
“Three nights’ catch, and I want half up front. My boat takes two men to run. You’ll work when you’re told. Understand?”
“Done.” Ben offered him a roll of cash.
The skipper took it and shoved the crate into Ben’s arms. The reek of the sea bottom filled his nostrils. “Welcome to the crew of the Lazy Ostrich. I’m Basile. And your name?”
“I’ll answer to hey-you and crewman.”
“Fine by me.”
Eight hours had passed since Zürich. For eight hours, Clara had slipped farther and farther away. And for eight hours, the world had slipped closer and closer to Leviathan’s next attack.
47
The Swiss doctor’s condescension made Duval sick. Who was she to tell him what his body could or could not handle?
She jogged backward down the hallway in front of him. “Please, Mr. Duval. Return to your bed. A bullet passed through your bicep, nicking your artery. The repairs I made will not hold if you refuse to rest.”
“It is Capitaine Duval.” He brushed her aside with his good arm, plucked a paper bag full of meds from her hands, and hurried on. “You’ve done enough. If the repair ruptures, I’ll seek further medical attention. I’ve got a job to do.”
“What job?” she called after him. “Renard told me you’d been fired.”
Duval silently waved her away, then slapped the exit bar and walked out into the cold Swiss night.
A cab waited for him. He’d called ahead—made a point about getting a driver who spoke French. “Where to?” the man asked in English as Duval dropped into the back seat.
He sighed. Typical. “The Econotel, Zürich Nord.”
With no cooperation from Graf or his own headquarters, Duval had few clues to rely on in guessing Calix’s next move. He needed to call Rotterdam and interview witnesses, find out what Calix wanted with the cargo ship. Time to get back to basics.
His phone rang. He held it to his ear. “Oui?”
No voice. Only static.
“Quoi! Allô!”
Nothing.
Duval lowered the phone and checked the screen. Another pdf file waited for him, like the one in Rotterdam. He clicked it to open, and let out a disbelieving laugh when he read the message. Incredible. His strange American benefactor could work magic.
Duval banged on the Plexiglas barrier. “J’ai changé mes plans.”
The driver shook his head. “English, German, or Italian. No French.”
Imbecile. “I said I changed my plans. No hotel. Take me to the airport.”
Jupiter wiggled his toes in the Zoysia grass, enjoying the moonrise. Soft by nature, the Asian creeper became softest on cool nights when moisture from the soil inflated the blades—like a million tiny pillows for his feet.
Walking beyond the intersecting circles of the patio lights, he found one of his many special creatures. Curled up at the base of a blue wisteria, the scaly pangolin looked exactly like the coiled water dragons on the Ming dynasty medallions hanging on Jupiter’s wall. He made a clicking sound to wake it and watched the little mammal scurry away across the lawn.
The pangolins, protected by their reptilian plate armor, were the perfect neighbors for his blue tigers. And their meat was delicious—the reason they’d been hunted to near extinction. Like the tigers, Jupiter rescued the pangolins, and he managed their population on his reserve, enjoying the fruit of his labors while ensuring both species’ survival. Perfect control.
“Sir.”
Jupiter sighed and turned. “Yes, Terrance?” His assistant stood at the patio’s edge.
“There are news reports you should see. Word has come from Zürich that your—”
Jupiter coughed.
“—our French recruit has failed . . . again . . . and in quite spectacular form.”
Terrance had drive and more raw intelligence than most of Jupiter’s people, but he still failed to grasp his master’s full vision. He failed to see all the paths about to merge. “Don’t panic, Terrance. All is well. Duval’s accomplishments—or lack thereof—are exactly as I hoped.” He strode to the patio, stepping once again into the light. “Like Hagen, I sent Duval to harry Calix and help him see how far his hero, the Director, had pushed him out into the cold. Giving them both a do-not-kill order ensured Calix’s survival. Now we’ll provide Calix with more competent help and shift into our final phase.”
“So, you want me to call the woman?”
Jupiter nodded.
“But the target has gone dark again. What coordinates should I give?”
“Why, here of course.”
“I don’t get it.”
The statement frustrated Jupiter. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the image of the little dragon-like pangolin curled beneath the blue wisteria center him. When he opened them again, he gave Terrance a patient smile. “We set up our own bomber to fail in Rotterdam, leaving him stranded at the docks. The clues left behind brought Calix to Massir, and later to the Princess, where he learned of the Behemoth and Sea Titan’s connection to Leviathan. We even showed him where the Behemoth docks. So . . . now that you understand the path I laid out for him . . . where would you expect our friend Calix will turn up next?”
Terrance opened his mouth to reply, but the light on his face faltered and he closed it again.
“Here!” Jupiter stomped a heel into his precious grass. “Calix will come here.” Had he not just said that very thing? He clenched his fists to soak up the oncoming rage and released it back into the air by opening his fingers. Wisteria. Pangolins. “Calix will want to infiltrate our facility to gather intelligence and destroy our new weapon. He’s coming here. Make your call. Tell our asset to get in place and be ready to engage. And then send your final note to Duval.”
“Yes, sir.” The assistant backed away, turning to go.
“Wait.” Jupiter raised a finger. “Where are we in our production efforts?”
In this, at least, Terrance showed self-assurance. “I checked with Dr. Kidan before coming to see you. The CRTX layer is set, and the seed tanks are in place. The rest are being loaded now. Given the rapid self-replication rate of PB2, the bacteria will propagate through the water vapor in all ten thousand tanktainers by the time the Behemoth reaches her target.”
“And you’ve delivered the captain’s final orders?”
“I’ll do so tonight.”
“Good.” Jupiter lifted his chin, indicating they were done. He wanted
to return to his moonlight. “Go and make your calls. I want my prize before the final phase begins.”
48
Basile’s rusty fillet knife kept Ben awake for the entire journey. Nothing screams Slit my throat and rob me louder than handing over a big wad of cash.
The fisherman gave him few opportunities to rest anyway. Mop, brush, wrench, funnel—he made sure Ben’s hands were always occupied. Shrewd. But the time spent detailing the boat confirmed Ben’s suspicions about the man. He’d chosen his captain well. He found six hidden compartments with cover panels all but invisible to the untrained eye. And he doubted he found them all. Ben had picked a smuggler.
“You know,” he said, laying his mop aside, “I don’t think making me swab the deck is getting us to Valencia any faster.”
“Yet here we are.” Basile thrust his gray-whiskered chin at a row of lights to the southwest, outshining the sunset’s red glow. He turned the wheel a few degrees. “I’ll drop you at the marina.”
“Not the marina.” Ben walked forward to the pilot house and pointed south, where the lights turned from the warm yellows and oranges of resorts and restaurants to a cold, industrial white. “Take me to the cargo docks. I’m in a hurry.”
“The cargo docks are too high for my Ostrich.”
“They must have berths for tugs and runabouts.” Ben opened his go-bag and retrieved the second half of his payment. He laid it on the dash between the radar and the fish finder. “Get me as close as you can to the big ships.”
A mile out from the docks, Basile cut the engines and inclined his head northwest.
Ben looked to see a cutter slicing through the chop, moving fast on intercept heading. The orange paint visible in its deck lights left no doubt. He groaned. “Spanish Coast Guard.”
“Yes. And going somewhere in a hurry. Hopefully not here.” Basile swept the money off the dash and shoved it deep in his pocket. When his hand appeared again, it held the knife—a move Ben did not know how to interpret. A threat to him? To the coast guard? Or maybe Basile simply needed to feel the knife’s cool handle in his palm when he felt stressed.
The trawler slowed to a drift, and both men watched to see if the cutter adjusted course. In the failing light of dusk, Ben couldn’t tell. For the first time since they’d met, Basile spoke English. “Did you see the news reports last night? Strange happenings in Zürich and Paris.”
Ben froze. He’d been too confident in his instructor’s theory about fishermen and screens. He’d tucked his Glock in his waistband hours ago, concealing it with his coat. But could he draw faster than Basile could slash with the knife?
Basile kept his gaze on the cutter. “They say a madman is on the loose. He took a hostage, doused a man with chemicals and set him on fire, blew up his woman’s cottage.”
“You don’t say.” Ben hadn’t heard any mention of the cottage on the train.
“Mm.” The skipper let out one of those deep c’est la vie grunts only old Frenchmen could make. “With the woman inside.” He turned to give Ben a hard look. “It is bad, my friend. Very bad. I wonder if the Spanish Coast Guard is looking for this man, and how much they might pay for his capture.”
The cutter continued on its heading, on a course to pass them by. Basile could change that with a burst of throttle or a touch of his emergency beacon switch.
Ben shifted his weight to prepare for a showdown. “I don’t believe everything I see in the news. There are always two sides to a story. These days, the media services report only one. I believe this man they call a monster is fighting for his life, and maybe a cause—a good one.”
Basile squinted one eye at Ben. “What cause?”
How much should he reveal? “The attacks. Munich. St. Petersburg. Tokyo. Another attack is coming—possibly a disease like the plague. I expect the man in the news is trying to stop it.”
The admission did seem to help. Basile’s hard look turned fearful. “The plague?” He waggled a finger over his own nose and cheeks and thrust his chin at Ben. “Like your blisters?”
“No.” Ben let out a halfhearted laugh. “These blisters are from frostbite. I recently spent some time at the bottom of a frozen lake.”
The coast guard cutter passed between the Ostrich and the shore, speeding on its way to some urgent call that had nothing to do with Ben—so he hoped.
Basile pushed up the throttle again and corrected their heading. He laid the knife on the dash. “The news program I saw made no mention of a frozen lake.”
“And I never said I was the madman in the report.”
“Mm.” Basile made another of his distinctly French grunts and seemed to focus on managing the boat. After a time, as the shore lights grew brighter, he spoke again. “You paid me a lot, my friend—enough to give me a few days off. But I’m going to ask for something more.”
“Like what?”
“I saw inside your bag earlier. The SIG Sauer 2022.”
“You want it?”
“Mm. And don’t tell me you need it. I know about the Glock hidden in your waistband. A very different gun. Makes me think the SIG is a recent acquisition, and that the previous owner is no longer a concern.”
Ben didn’t correct him. And why shouldn’t he do Basile this favor? He pulled the weapon out. “It needs a cleaning. Like me, it spent some time on the lakebed. Also, you’ll need ammunition. The magazine is empty.”
“Not a problem. Ammunition I can get. Guns are more difficult.” Basile hefted his knife for a moment, then dropped it in his pocket and took the SIG. He racked back the slide and looked down the chamber. “Yes. This will do.”
Basile tossed the weapon onto a folded fishing net and glanced around, breathing in the air. “I would not call this warm, but it’s warmer than Montpellier, for sure. I might stay a night or two. I hear the Hotel Sol is nice. Since I’ll be around—and if you were a madman trying to stop the next attack—would there be anything an old fisherman can do to help?”
Ben hadn’t expected such an offer. He grinned and clapped him on the arm. “Enjoy Valencia’s beaches, and forget about the madman. I think that’s best for all concerned.”
49
Duval swallowed painkillers straight from the bottle on his way through Valencia’s small airport. The morphine had worn off fifteen minutes into his cab ride.
A black sedan waited for him at the curb. The driver leaned against the hood, holding a tablet with his name in bright white letters. A woman—attractive. Nice touch. Perhaps he should quit mourning his failed police career and work for his American friend full-time.
The woman said nothing when she opened the door for him and remained silent as they left the airport boundary. The highway shifted from four lanes to two, then one. Streetlamps and office buildings gave way to houses, then dark fields.
Duval coughed. “Où allons-nous?”
Still nothing from the woman. Perhaps, like the cabbie, she didn’t speak French. He tried English. “Where are we going?”
No answer.
He felt a modicum of relief when a town appeared ahead—a little barrio, older than the community surrounding the airport. The sedan weaved its way through a maze of streets built originally for horses, amid houses of ancient brown brick and peeling plaster. But the barrio also passed.
Again the driver took them into the dark.
Towns and barrios came and went. Fields. Suburbs. The woman behind the wheel traded pavement for cobblestone, then gravel, then pavement again. Wherever they were headed, this could not be the fastest route. Duval stomped the floorboard, gritting his teeth against the pain that shot through his arm. “I insist you tell me where we are going.”
Still no answer.
At length, the sedan eased to a stop. The driver stepped out, walked around the hood, and opened Duval’s door.
“Here?” He poked his head from the car and squinted at the dark. No streetlamps. No houses. Only trees.
The driver gestured at a worn path in the grass.
“Ther
e are only the two of us. Where is my contact? Where is the agent who will help me take down Calix?”
“I am your contact, Capitaine Duval. Get out of the car. I want to show you something.”
She spoke French. Melodious French. Relieved, he climbed out, pausing to pop another pill before following her up the trail. The woman moved with easy grace on the rough terrain. Duval did not. He stumbled over a root and bumped his bad arm against a pine. It took all his self-control to bury the pained yelp demanding to escape his lungs. He didn’t want to embarrass himself. What if this beauty became his new partner? A smile crossed his lips at the thought. So much for Renard.
The trees parted a short distance from a cliff overlooking a sprawling industrial complex. Billowing exhaust, silver blue against a sea of mercury high-intensity lights, poured from several factory buildings stretching out like spokes from a central wheel of steel and glass. Warehouses lay between the spokes, and trucks and carts ran through the alleys in steady streams despite the late hour. A central ring-shaped structure had to be the company headquarters, but not—Duval surmised—the place he should expect to find the CEO.
The woman caught him looking past the complex to a house on the small mountain above. More than a house. A modernistic, gleaming white castle. “Yes,” she said. “That is his enclave. His Olympus.”
“The American.”
“His name is Jupiter. And he’s quite pleased with all you’ve done.”
Duval tore his gaze from the castle to meet the woman’s eyes. “Pleased? I have failed time and again. Look at me. A mess. I was meant to capture Calix, not absorb bullets for him.”
“You were meant to drive him.” Once again, she turned her gaze to the complex. Her body followed. The toes of her elegant mid-calf boots flirted with the edge of the cliff.
Duval took the meaning of her body language. “Here? This whole time, he wanted me pushing Calix toward this place? Why not simply say so?”
The Paris Betrayal Page 19