Call me. Written in blood.
He selected the Mamour speed dial and pressed send.
“Ben. You called. I am so proud.”
So many angry words hovered at his lips—accusations, rebukes. “Why, Giselle?”
“You know why. I did this because I love you. I did this because you are stubborn like a mule, and you need a little push to get you moving on the proper road.”
“You said ‘I love you’ last night for the first time, and this morning you’re making career decisions for me? One of us is more invested in this relationship than the other—that’s all I’m saying.” He frowned at the incoming waves. “How long do I have?”
“Days. Decades. The choice is yours, and so is your position at Leviathan, if you’ll only accept it. Jupiter is your cure.”
That phrase again. He is your cure. “You mean he has the antidote?”
“Naturellement. I told you he is a master of control, yes? He is not so foolish as to release a disease without first creating the cure. And he will give you this cure if you go to him humbly and ask.”
“Not a chance.”
“Oh, Ben—”
“I’ll die before I turn traitor, before I sacrifice my soul for my own gain.”
The line went silent for a time, followed by a wavering sigh. “It hurts me to hear you say such things.”
“Good.”
“I did this for us, not me.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Of all the pushy girlfriends. He stopped his plodding and looked out at the sea. Several boaters had made an early start to the day, taking advantage of the calmer morning waters. A green and white sail passed slow across his view. On the rocky point, a pair of kids cast lines into the waves, oblivious to the danger so close at hand. “Tell me this. Am I contagious? Should I wade into the Mediterranean with a stone around my neck and end it now?”
“No, mon rêve. You are not contagious—as long as you promise not to bleed on anyone. I injected you with a special version Jupiter had Dr. Kidan make just for you.”
“I thought your boss wanted me to come to him willingly, without coercion.”
She made a regretful clicking sound with her tongue. “True. But he will overlook the nuance for you, his greatest prize. Go to him now. Be healed and be forgiven.”
Ben hung up the phone and hauled back his arm to chuck it into the sea.
He paused, unable to complete the throw.
How long do I have?
Days. Decades. The choice is yours.
Giselle had told him he had days, not hours. Not mere minutes like poor Massir in Rome. Maybe death had him in its grip, but Ben still had time to stop the Behemoth. And he knew someone who might have the skills to extend his window of opportunity.
Leviathan would be monitoring the sat phone. Ben didn’t doubt it for one instant. He took the risk anyway, opening the text feature and entering a memorized number. He wrote the data bursts to the operator in Company short code.
911//REQ AMBROS
Urgent medical aid needed. Requesting code name Ambrosia. He only trusted one person to help. Tess.
An immediate reply came back.
ID?
The operator wanted his identification number. Not a chance. Ben repeated the message, adding a please.
911//AMBROS//PLS
“Just put her on the line,” he said out loud, pressing the send key.
He waited. The blue glow behind the sat phone’s screen went dark. The surf rolled over his feet, getting higher with each cycle. No reply came back. Why had he expected any different? He laughed to himself and set off again toward the point.
Three steps later, the phone buzzed in his hand.
AMBROS HERE//GO
Tess. Wonderful, amazing Tess. Ben’s thumbs flew over the keys.
BC HERE//REQ RV//REG 1//HZD4
Ben Calix requesting rendezvous in Region 1, the United States. Medical Hazard Level 4. He used his initials for clarity. Code names and ID numbers no longer mattered for him. Leviathan knew he had the phone. As to the medical hazard, the level 4 designation included possible contagions. Ben couldn’t trust Giselle’s assurances. He didn’t want Tess walking into this blind. He told her the risks. She’d choose to help or not. Either way, he wouldn’t blame her.
The screen didn’t stay empty for long.
APPRVD//DT?//FAC#?
Approved. What date and time? Which facility?
Ben pulled his thumbs back and gritted his teeth. Tess expected him to respond with a facility number that translated to a location known only to Company agents—agents like Giselle. Whatever number he typed, Giselle and Leviathan would see, turning Tess’s mission of mercy into a trap. He racked his brain, searching for a solution, then allowed himself a thin smile. Tess would finally get that dinner he’d promised so long ago.
36H//CE DREAM
Thirty-six hours. At the place we dreamed about when we were stuck in that dank hole in Chechnya. At least, Ben hoped she’d get all that from his improvised code. He held his breath, until the answer came through.
CUS
See you soon.
He powered off the device and tossed it sidearm, far into the water.
59
A second dark blotch appeared on Ben’s abdomen before he reached the Hotel Sol.
The walk from the point at Pobles del Sud to El Cabanyal Beach north of the port facility had taken him forty-five minutes and left his muscles aching as if he’d run a 10K. The increased soreness worried him. Lifting his shirt to check, he’d found the second mark, joined to the first by one of the black vein-like extensions.
Ben wondered if Giselle’s estimate of days might be optimistic.
He straightened his clothes and body, looking as healthy as a man with crusted frostbite blisters on his face and carrying the plague could look, and walked past the hotel doorman with the confident stride of a paying guest.
The desk clerk posed a larger challenge. Ben needed to convince her to call down a recent acquaintance to whom he’d never given his name—an acquaintance he hoped could solve his next big challenge.
Tess had come through, as always. Now, with little money, no weapon, and no passport, Ben had to find passage to the United States, and fast. He waited his turn at the check-in desk, ignoring worried glances from a young couple seated in the lobby and surrounded by far too much luggage. He pitied the taxi driver coming to take them to the airport.
“Buenos días, señor. Puedo servirte?”
Ben blinked. His turn had come. The clerk had acknowledged him. Where was his brain? “Pardon?”
“Ah. You are American.” The young woman gave him a condescending smile. “I asked if I might help you.”
“Yes. Thank you. I arranged to meet a new friend here for breakfast. I think he overslept. Will you ring him for me?”
“Yes, of course. The name?”
“Basile.”
“Basile what, sir? I’ll need a surname.”
How could he be so foolish? He’d never gotten Basile’s last name.
“Sir? The surname?” Her smile morphed from condescension to suspicion. “I will need it so I can check our registry.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve forgotten. Like I said, he’s a new friend. But I owe him breakfast, and I’d hate to welch on this debt. It’s bad form and bad luck.” He shrugged. “How many Basiles can you possibly have staying here at this moment?”
The clerk gave him a flat look.
Ben slid a fifty-euro note across the desk, the last one in his pocket. “Please. It’s important.”
She accepted the note and shifted her gaze to her computer screen, expressing her exasperation with a steady, heavy tapping of the keyboard’s down arrow. After several seconds of this, she frowned, eyes still on the screen. “As it turns out, there are two. Basile de la Fontaine and Basile Palomer.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. Ben snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Palomer. That’s it. Well done. Tell him Hey-you
is here to see him.”
Another flat look.
“Trust me. He’ll understand. Just make the call.”
He’d taken a gamble, but the odds were heavily in his favor. Palomer—French for “pigeon keeper.” A last name like that meant birds and bird terms were an inescapable part of Basile’s life, hence The Lazy Ostrich. Besides, Ben doubted he’d find a single De La Fontaine running a fishing trawler anywhere on the planet.
The girl spoke Spanish on the phone, and the Basile on the other end seemed to understand. Had Ben’s Basile given any indication he spoke Spanish? He began to question his choice.
She looked at him sideways, nodding, frowning, said something sharp, and set the phone in its cradle.
Ben raised his eyebrows.
The clerk pressed her lips together. “Señor Palomer remembers a Hey-you—I think. He did not sound very sure. Nevertheless, he’ll be right down.”
Outside, an irritated cabbie argued with the young couple from the lobby, probably attempting to explain the significant difference between the volume of his trunk and the collective volume of their luggage. Ben claimed the couch where they’d been sitting and watched the elevators.
Moments later, the doors of the center elevator opened to reveal a man who looked nothing like the skipper Ben remembered. From his loafers and white slacks to his straw fedora, the clean-shaven Basile waltzing through the lobby might never have dropped a net in his life, except for the flash of black on his belt. Ben saw it only for a nanosecond when the breeze of his stride parted the man’s linen sport coat—a scaling knife in a black sheath.
Ben stood, and would’ve laughed if not for the growing ache in his bones. “I hate to be trite,” he said in French. “But you clean up nice. You look fifteen years younger than you did on your boat.”
Basile removed his fedora and bowed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, which is the manner I believe you intended. The Spanish beaches have been kind to me.” As he replaced the hat, concern creased his brow. “But I see they have not been as kind to you. Are you okay, my friend?”
Ben let the gravity in his expression answer the question. “We need to talk, Basile.” He glanced around the lobby, noting the number of ears that might perk up with alarm at whispered words like plague and attack. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Few beachgoers disturbed the sands of Playa del Cabanyal. The early hour and December’s cooler weather afforded Ben that advantage. A fisherman tugged at his line. A pair of women jogged together, insulated from each other by their earbuds and whatever music or podcasts played on their phones. No one else.
Ben waited for the joggers to pass, then drew a breath to make his case to Basile. The act of expanding his lungs doubled him over in pain.
Basile bent beside him, laying a hand on his back. “You really aren’t okay, are you?”
“Don’t touch me.”
The fisherman jerked his hand away. “My apologies. But I am no threat to—”
“It’s not that.” Ben straightened, groaning. “Please keep a little distance, for your own safety.”
“A social distance, you mean?”
Ben set off again without answering the nervous joke. He set a slower pace than before.
Basile followed, walking beside him, but staying more than an arm’s length away. He let out a low whistle. “So we are no longer talking in hypotheticals, as we did on the Ostrich. The madman found the plague.”
“Correct. My enemies injected me with a weaponized version.” Ben could see the growing fear in Basile’s eyes. “Try to relax, the version I carry is not contagious unless I bleed on you. And you can call me Ben now. My time in this world is short. I no longer see the point of anonymity.”
“All right, Ben. What can an old fisherman do to help?”
“I need to get to the United States.”
Basile laughed—a hearty laugh that wiped away the somber tone of Ben’s declaration. “My friend, my friend, you overestimate the capabilities of my boat.”
Ben pressed his lips together. “I’m not talking about sea travel. I need to get out of here by air. Tonight.”
The fisherman remained silent for several paces, then released one of his deeply French grunts. “Mm. What makes you think I can help you with air transport? I am no travel agent.”
“I saw the panels on the Ostrich.”
“Panels? What panels?”
Ben would’ve felt insulted if he hadn’t detected a hint of playfulness in the question. “You’re a smuggler, Basile. The beach life suits you because you know it well. You didn’t buy that fedora in a shop yesterday. I noticed the inside rim when you bowed at the hotel. The band is dented from the hook where it hangs, most likely in that closet on the bridge of your boat.”
“Okay. Perhaps I am, but smuggling is an expensive affair.” Basile looked him up and down. “And I no longer see your bag of money. Can you still afford such help?”
“Give me your knife.”
The fisherman’s eyes narrowed.
“I’ll give it back. I promise.”
Slowly, Basile removed the fillet knife from its sheath and placed it in Ben’s waiting hand, watching him carefully. “You keep it. You know, in case you are contagious.”
“Thanks.” Ben removed his belt and turned it over to run the blade down a long track of crisscrossing threads. They snapped as he bent the leather, revealing a shallow pocket with pink bank notes inside. He withdrew four 500-euro bills, folded together. “Is this enough?”
“So, you’re a smuggler too,” Basile said, reaching for the bills. “You have any more?”
Ben pulled the money back. “Not enough to spend foolishly. This will have to do, and I’m hoping another five hundred will buy back the SIG I gave you.”
“What happened to that nice little Glock?”
“My girlfriend stole it.”
“Meh.” The smuggler bobbled his head. “It happens. With the dying-friend discount, I think I can return the gun, clean and with a full magazine, and make your travel arrangements for twenty-five hundred.” He rubbed his fingers together. “But I’ll need the cash up front.”
“Done.” Ben placed the bills in his palm.
Basile tucked them away, then seemed to consider what had just transpired and rubbed his hand on his pants. “Are you sure you’re not contagious?”
“Yes. Now—” Pain shot through Ben’s abdomen. He grunted, forcing himself to stay upright, and drew a breath to start again. “Tell me how this works.”
Basile shrugged. “I don’t know. But I have a friend in the air cargo business in Marseilles. She’ll have the necessary connections here. But I can tell you, if we pull this off and get you on a plane, it’s going to smell bad. Very bad.”
60
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC
Goats are mean. Ben had no idea the gregarious farm animals could turn into such vindictive tormentors, but then, he’d never been trapped with the bearded terrors in an eight-foot-by-ten-foot air-cargo livestock pen before.
And they stank.
Basile had not lied about the smell. If anything, he’d understated the problem. But the stench was a key piece of the smuggling puzzle, shielding Ben from discovery.
The wall of musk had hit Ben like a force field ten feet away from the pen. Basile’s contact explained that the stench mostly belonged to the billy, the only adult male in the shipment, who had an excellent track record of hiding contraband. The EU and US inspectors checked a sampling of the cargo pens during loading and unloading for every flight, but they always avoided the male’s pen, thanks to the smell. The same billy had made more than a dozen journeys back and forth across the Atlantic.
The pen’s top half was mostly chicken wire, so Ben had to bury himself under a pile of straw during loading and unloading at each transfer of a two-stop flight. Unfortunately, the vindictive goats peed on the same straw with impressive regularity. Worse, the male refused to let him sleep. Every time Ben managed to nod off, the billy
rammed him in the arm, leg, head—whatever he left exposed. The goat seemed to blame him for each bump and burble of turbulence.
When the jet bounced on the final landing, the billy lowered its horns and threatened to charge him again.
“Stay in your corner,” Ben said, flashing Basile’s knife. “I promised your owner I wouldn’t gut you, but you can only push a man so far.”
The billy snorted.
Of everything Ben had suffered, burying himself in urine-soaked straw to sneak through the lengthy US customs process ranked among the worst. By the time he sat up, gasping for air, the pens were on a flatbed trailer, accelerating up a highway on-ramp at the eastern extent of Dulles International Airport. A cold wind bit at his cheeks. Empty trees and piles of brown slush flew by on a wintry afternoon. Virginia’s Route 50, outside Washington, DC, looked the same as always. He leaned his head against the chicken wire, holding the knife out behind him to keep the billy from attacking again, and let out a rueful chuckle. “Welcome back, Ben.”
The trucker topped off his tanks near Fairfax, at the I-66 interchange, and Ben bailed when the guy went inside for a snack. Even with the pen far behind him, he couldn’t escape the smell. He sniffed his jacket and grimaced, shooting a glance at the truck stop. He had some US cash. The air cargo smuggler had graciously changed out his last euros for dollars—after a hefty conversion fee. His rendezvous with Tess wasn’t for three hours. Plenty of time for a shower.
On a day that seemed like a thousand years ago, a Red Cross chopper had dropped Ben off five klicks outside the Chechen village of Vedeno for his first mission for the Company—a solo job. It went south fast.
Posing as a South African buyer, he met with an arms dealer who claimed to have the market cornered on one-kiloton suitcase bombs. As it happened, Company intelligence said a similar weapon had gone missing from a classified Spetsnaz outpost near Grozny two weeks earlier.
The Paris Betrayal Page 23