Deception Game (4 page)

Paris, France – 3 May

With its wide, tree-lined boulevards and rich architectural heritage dating back over a thousand years, Paris had long been considered a jewel amongst Europe’s capital cities; a place that had inspired the dreams of romantics, artists and connoisseurs of every kind, from every country.

But for Drake, crouched in the shadows of a dimly lit stairwell that smelled of stale urine and damp, it was an entirely different prospect. The rundown residential apartment block in which he found himself was, in contrast to the ornate architecture the city was known for, a product of cheap 1940s utilitarianism. Stark, bleak and inhabited by people who clearly wished they were living somewhere else, it certainly wasn’t the kind of place he’d visit by choice.

But sightseeing was the last thing on his mind tonight. If the Agency’s intelligence was to be believed, then his target, Ifzal Fayed, was living in one of these shitty apartments at this very moment.

So here they were in the city’s 18th arrondissement; one of the least desirable areas of Paris due to its high crime rates, low-quality housing and sheer distance from the city centre. But with a high proportion of North African immigrants, he supposed Fayed’s choice of safe house made sense.

Drake was disturbed from these thoughts by noises coming from one of the apartments that backed onto the stairwell; a rhythmic pounding accompanied by strained grunts and cries that could only mean one thing. Either the walls here were paper-thin, or the couple going at it were trying to put their neighbours to shame.

‘Someone give her a medal,’ Cole Mason remarked, flashing a wry grin in the gloomy stairwell as the woman’s cries reached a merciful crescendo. ‘Sounds like she earned it tonight.’

Like Drake, he was wearing a dark brown shirt, trousers and jacket that wouldn’t win any awards in the style stakes, but which neatly completed their cover as delivery men. True, not many companies delivered packages at two o’clock in the morning, but they needed some kind of reason for being here in case a curious resident spotted them.

It also explained why McKnight and Frost, the other two members of his team, were parked in an alleyway outside in a truck commonly used by delivery firms. The cargo they were here to collect was likely to be a little less cooperative than what FedEx were used to transporting, but then that was what the Agency paid them for.

‘What do you think?’ Mason prompted, nodding toward the source of the noise. ‘Girlfriend, or paid for?’

‘Could be married, for all you know,’ Drake mumbled.

Mason gave him a look of pity. ‘Dude, no married couple makes that kind of noise.’

‘Wouldn’t know,’ he replied, reaching for the little radio unit fixed to his throat. Right now he had far more important matters on his mind. ‘Unit One to Overwatch, do you have eyes on target?’

In the rain-soaked alleyway down below, their technical specialist, Frost, was seated in the cargo compartment of the delivery truck, hunched over a portable computer terminal while water drummed on the truck’s steel roof. In her hands was a remote-control unit of the kind normally used to pilot radio-controlled planes, and in this case the reality wasn’t much different.

Hovering in the night sky under her guidance was a miniature surveillance drone, designed for use in urban environments just like this. About a foot wide, roughly diamond-shaped and with a rotor blade mounted at each corner, it certainly wasn’t an elegant-looking aircraft. In fact, to a casual observer it probably resembled a child’s toy rather than an advanced piece of remote-surveillance equipment, but its role in situations like this made it invaluable.

The little four-bladed helicopter was hovering about fifteen feet out from the wall of Fayed’s apartment building; close enough to allow its operator to see into the dwellings but far enough away that the faint whir of its electric engines wouldn’t disturb the inhabitants.

‘Stand by, One,’ Frost replied, gently manipulating the drone’s guidance stick to increase its altitude.

Staring intently at the grainy image being transmitted from the drone’s digital video camera, Frost watched as weathered brickwork gave way to a window ledge, its paintwork noticeably peeling and covered with bird droppings.

She had to hurry. With a battery life of less than thirty minutes to consider, she couldn’t afford to leave the drone on station for long, but hopefully it would stay aloft long enough to give them the confirmation that Fayed was on site.

‘Shit,’ she said under her breath, applying left stick to steady the drone as a sudden breeze blew it slightly off course. One of the drawbacks to these little aircraft was that it didn’t take much to bring them down.

‘Problems?’ McKnight called from the cab up front.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

Keeping the drone under tight control, she resumed her climb, slowly bringing the aircraft level with Fayed’s window. As she’d hoped, a set of blinds had been lowered but not closed, permitting her a slightly truncated view of the living room beyond. The overhead lights were switched off, most of the illumination coming from the glow of a TV screen or computer monitor.

‘Overwatch has eyes on the apartment,’ she said over the radio.

‘Any sign of him?’

‘Not yet. I see a laptop switched on. Stand by, One.’

‘Copy that.’

Up front, McKnight was sitting in the truck’s driver seat, waiting in anxious silence for confirmation from Frost that they could move. The delivery truck was about as good a ruse as they could hope for in an urban area like this, but every moment they spent here increased the chance of being compromised.

She was quite certain that Drake and Mason were entertaining similar thoughts. At such an early hour, there wasn’t much chance of encountering anyone on the stairwell, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

At least the poor weather conditions would help keep people indoors. The steady drumming of rain against the windshield had been their constant companion since they’d started tonight’s operation, and it showed no signs of slacking off.

No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than life stepped in to prove her wrong.

Catching movement in her rear-view mirror, McKnight glanced around in time to see a figure moving through the shadows of the alleyway. Straightaway her hand went for the silenced automatic hidden beneath her seat.

Their orders were to avoid armed confrontations at all costs. That being said, Shepherd teams were trained to defend themselves if need be. There was no telling if Fayed had people watching his back, if this was some local thug out looking for trouble, or simply an innocent bystander on his way home.

‘Three has eyes on possible contact,’ she said, keeping her voice calm and controlled. There was no need to panic at this stage; she knew what she was dealing with. ‘In the alleyway, moving up.’

‘Hostile?’ That was Drake, an edge of tension in his voice now.

‘Unknown. Stand by.’

In the back, Frost leaned a little closer to the screen, straining to make out details through the poor-quality video feed. The drone’s modest size meant it could only carry a small payload, which in this case translated into low image-quality. Still, it was enough for her to make out the basic layout of the sparsely furnished apartment.

Suddenly the interior of the truck resounded with a heavy metallic
thunk
as something struck the outer panelling hard. Frost jerked back on instinct, momentarily losing control of the drone, which pitched sideways and threatened to impact the building.

‘What the fuck?’ she hissed, struggling to regain control. It went against her instincts to sit there and do nothing with a possible confrontation brewing outside, but in this case there was little choice. It was her job to pilot the drone, and McKnight’s job to watch her back while she did so.

‘Just some drunken asshole,’ McKnight called back as the truck reverberated once again, accompanied by a jeering call from outside.

‘Well, I’m having kind of a hard time concentrating,’ Frost said tersely. ‘Can you do something about it?’

McKnight was already moving. Leaving the automatic where it was, she selected a different weapon from the glove compartment, swung open her door and leapt down from the cab to face the intruder.

The source of the disturbance, an overweight man in his mid thirties, was clearly on the wrong end of a heavy night out, judging by his dishevelled hair, unsteady gait and beer stains on his shirt and jeans. At least, she assumed it was beer.

He was leaning heavily against the side of the van, balancing himself with one hand while he urinated against the rear wheel with the other. The banging seemed to be caused by his head lolling forward and striking the metal panelling as he struggled to stay awake.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, employing the slightly rusty French she’d learned in school years earlier. One hand was behind her back, gripping the electric taser that she’d pushed down the back of her trousers. ‘Get out of here before I call the police.’

Unfocussed, bloodshot eyes turned slowly in her direction, registering a moment of surprise before moving up and down her body with the brazen disregard for modesty that only alcohol could impart. Zipping himself up with difficulty, he turned to face her.

‘Sorry, I was...I couldn’t find the restroom.’ He laughed at what he seemed to think was blinding humour. ‘What’s a beautiful girl like you doing out here so late?’

‘Working,’ she retorted, trying to mask her distaste. ‘Now get lost.’

‘But we only just met.’

‘And now we part ways. Go home and leave the van alone.’

With that, she turned and made to return to the cab. Come on, just fuck off now, she silently prayed.

‘Hold on! Don’t go yet, we were just getting to know each other,’ he called out, stumbling to catch up. ‘I’m sorry for pissing on your truck. I didn’t mean to—’

He was silenced abruptly as McKnight whirled around, jabbed the taser into the centre of his chest and pulled the trigger. There was no thought of resisting or fighting her off; thousands of volts of electricity were coursing through his nervous system, overriding whatever signals his drunken brain was still sending out.

He went down straightaway, collapsing in a heap amongst the discarded trash that littered the alleyway. Unable to cry out, he could manage only a low groan as his body continued to convulse.

McKnight kept the trigger held down for a few more seconds before finally releasing him. She’d given him a fair chance to leave, but he hadn’t taken it. His loss.

‘When a girl asks you to leave, you leave,’ she said under her breath.

Kneeling down beside him, she wrapped one arm around his neck, braced herself and pulled tight on it. It didn’t take him long to realize that something bad was happening, but his panicked struggles amounted to little more than some weak and incoherent flailing that certainly wouldn’t break her hold.

She kept up the pressure until his struggles eased as the oxygen supply to his brain was interrupted, and finally he blacked out. Satisfied that she’d done enough, she released her grip and reached out to feel for a pulse. It was fast and shallow, but it was there.

With luck, he’d wake up in a couple of hours, groggy and hung over, and probably with no memory of the encounter.

She and the rest of the team would be long gone by then.

Reaching up, she keyed her radio. ‘All clear here.’

Meanwhile Frost had guided the drone back into position to resume its electronic vigil by the apartment window.

‘Come on, asshole,’ she whispered, staring intently at the screen as if she could will him to appear. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

‘Overwatch, sitrep,’ Drake prompted. She could tell he was getting impatient. He and Mason were geared up and ready to move, adrenaline flowing, nerves taut, but instead they were being forced to stand by and do nothing.

‘Still waiting for – shit, got movement!’ she hissed, spotting a figure moving through the dimly lit apartment. She would have killed for night vision at that moment.

‘Overwatch, what do you see?’

‘Stand by.’ Clenching her teeth, Frost forced herself to stay calm as she gently adjusted the drone’s position, correcting for little swirls of air that were moving it back and forth.

There! A figure suddenly moved into frame, settling himself into a chair facing the laptop, his features now cast into sharp relief by the electronic glow. A man, late thirties, muscular build with a thickening midsection, his head crowned by an unruly tangle of dark curls. In the space of two seconds she compared the face in the grainy video feed with the one she had committed to memory before the operation, looking for differences, variations, distinguishing features that might separate them.

She found none.

‘Confirmed. Target on site.’

That was all the confirmation Drake needed. ‘Copy that. Moving in.’

Signalling to Mason that they were good to go, he ascended the stairwell to the level just above them, and pushed open the fire door to the dimly lit hallway beyond. Mason was close behind, carrying a few essential tools in a canvas holdall slung over one shoulder.

The door they were looking for was apartment 313. Counting down the numbers on each side, Drake moved forward at a steady, confident pace. There was little sense in creeping along inch by inch, since the chances of the hallway being booby trapped were remote to say the least.

‘Coming up,’ Mason said quietly, indicating the next door on their left.

They had rehearsed the next part several times, so there was no need to talk. Laying the holdall down, he unzipped it and pulled the top open. Stowed inside were a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters, a taser, and a single concrete brick.

Mason took the taser while Drake helped himself to the other items, and together the two men advanced the last few feet to the apartment door.

‘Call it out, Overwatch,’ Drake prompted, lowering himself into a crouching position and placing the brick on the floor beside his left foot. Mason hunkered down beside him, keeping the taser at the ready.