Kill Shot (19 page)

“And what makes you so sure I want to be brought in? Knowing how your uncle operates I’ll end up in solitary for a month hooked up to a car battery.”

Kennedy cringed. He was right, of course. Taking a big risk, she said, “I want you to be careful. Check the service and . . . one other thing . . . he sent some guys over yesterday to look for you.”

“Who?” Rapp said, the suspicion evident in his voice.

Kennedy hesitated and then said, “Victor, your old friend, was one of them. I argued against it.”

The omission was greeted with silence. Kennedy imagined him on the other end of the line seething—his laserlike focus feeding off his hatred for Victor. “They’re keeping an eye on the apartment. Don’t go there,” Kennedy offered. “I will be there as soon as I can to bring you in. All right? Check the service. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll think about it.” There was a long pause and then Rapp said, “There were five men who crashed the meeting. I took care of four of them. There was one left . . . the one who winged me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Kennedy’s brow creased with wrinkles, as she tried to decipher what he was saying. “No.”

“I stuck to protocol. I didn’t do anything I wasn’t authorized to do.”

“Okay,” Kennedy said, still trying to figure out what he was hinting at.

“I wasn’t the only one who walked out of there. The fifth man is responsible for the other three. I went out the window.”

“I’m still not sure I understand . . .”

“You’ll figure it out. I have to go.”

The line went dead and Kennedy slowly placed the handset back in its cradle. She replayed the entire conversation in her head, wondering if there was anything that the NSA or FBI could use against her. It was all pretty vague, but it might be enough to land her on someone’s radar screen. She cursed Rapp for calling her at home and then thought about what he’d told her. That it had been a setup. She was moving across the room for the front hall closet without thinking. She needed to brief Stansfield immediately. She grabbed her coat and her car keys from the hook by the door. She hoped Stansfield would see things her way. If he didn’t, she prayed Dr. Lewis was wrong. The last thing they needed was an enraged Rapp looking to settle a score.

T
HE
black Renault sedan had tinted windows that made it impossible to see who was in the backseat. It was double-parked in front of the luxurious Hotel Balzac only a few blocks from the Arc de Triomphe. A policeman had already tried to move the car but was rebuffed by the driver, who sat securely behind the sedan’s bulletproof windows. The driver was armed with a unique badge that sent the police officer on his way. He also wore a gun on his right hip. The other man in the front seat had the same badge and gun and also had access to an Uzi submachine gun, which was hidden under the dashboard. The vehicle was retrofitted with a thin skin of Kevlar between its frame and the metal exterior. The man in the backseat had traveled the world and had seen more than a few men gunned down in their cars, so he took this aspect of his personal security very seriously.

When Fournier was younger he had carried a gun. It was part of his job, and it didn’t hurt that certain women were turned on by the cold steel he wore on his hip. He had killed precisely three men during his career—all of them execution style. His bosses ordered the hits, and he carried them out without question. The men were ne’er-do-wells and reprobates. In one case, the target was a traitor who was selling state secrets; in another, it was an agent who was fomenting problems in Algeria; and the third was a Syrian woman. He was never told why she was to be killed, and she was the one of the three that sometimes visited him in his dreams. She was a stunning woman in her midforties with a perfect oval face, raven black hair, and eyes to match. It had been in a Parisian hotel. She was eating breakfast dressed in a white robe. When Fournier entered the room she gave him a knowing nod, set her coffee cup down, shook out her long black hair, and looked up at him with unblinking eyes. When Fournier drew his silenced weapon she showed no fear and instead offered him a small smile. The other two men he’d shot in the head, but for some reason he couldn’t put a bullet in the exquisite face before him, so he lowered his muzzle a few inches and placed three bullets in her left breast.

His gun-toting days were done. Fournier had access to virtually any gun he wanted, but in general, he found them to be a pain in the butt. They were bulky, and they made his suits look lopsided. Fournier spent enough on his suits that it wouldn’t do to have them look off. He was a man of style. Besides, he was no longer on the front lines. He was the one giving the kill orders now. The guns and his protection could be left to his trusted bodyguards.

Pierre Mermet brushed a wisp of thin brown hair from his forehead, opened the file on his lap, and extracted the first set of photographs. “Mossad . . . Efram Bentov is his name. He arrived this morning along with at least two others. They passed through customs separately, took different forms of transportation into town, and all miraculously ended up at the Israeli embassy.”

Fournier frowned and took the photos. “Not very smart.”

“I agree.”

“Counting yesterday, that brings the total number of suspected Mossad agents to six.”

“That we know of.”

“And the three that flew in yesterday . . . they’re still lying low at the hotel on Rivoli?” Fournier asked.

“That’s right.”

Fournier took the other photographs. “Any weapons?”

“Not that we know of, but we must assume.”

Fournier nodded.

“Do you want them picked up for questioning?”

“Not yet. I want to see what they’re up to first.”

Mermet’s mouth twisted into a pensive frown.

Fournier had seen the look many times. “You don’t like my decision?”

“The three at the hotel have no diplomatic papers. We could force the issue. If they have guns in their room or on their persons we could hold them and question them indefinitely.”

“We could do that,” Fournier said in an easy voice, “and then my counterpart Big Ben Friedman would grab some of our people in Israel and do the exact same thing and where would that get us?”

“Given what happened at the hotel the other night, I think we have more leeway than we could normally expect.”

“We do, but Ben Friedman is a bear I would prefer not to poke.”

Mermet took the rebuke well. “It’s just that we’re spread thin. We have six men following the Russians, eight following the Brits, and ten on the Americans.”

Fournier knew what Mermet was thinking. If this continued for any length of time, they would have to call in more men and ask for more money and that would mean more eyes in the government would be drawn to what they were up to. “I understand your worries. If nothing has happened by tomorrow, we’ll reassess . . . maybe even nicely ask a few of these gents to leave so we don’t have so many heads to keep an eye on.”

“And there’s undoubtedly a few we missed.”

Fournier had thought of the same thing, but he had certain information that he wasn’t willing to share. “One more day and then we will focus on the Jews, the Brits, and the Americans. Any more interesting news to share about our American friends?”

“Yes,” Mermet said, almost forgetting that he had a new face to run by his boss. “The three who showed up yesterday . . . they’re still cooped up in the van on Chaplain. Another man showed up this afternoon.” Mermet found the photo and handed it to his boss.

Fournier’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Oh, my God.”

“What is it?”

“Who . . . who is it, you mean.” He shook his head. “This is a man I have not seen in some time.” Fournier looked out the window, thinking of one of his earliest assignments in Southeast Asia. “He is very dangerous.”

“Who is he?”

“Stan Hurley. CIA, or I should say, was CIA. I had heard he’d retired a few years ago.”

“He looks a little young to retire.”

Fournier nodded. “Hurley is like a shark. They only know one thing. Men like that don’t retire . . . they just simply die one day. I should have known better.”

“I assume he was on the operations side of the business.”

“Yes.” Fournier shook his head as he thought of the time he’d watched Hurley slice a man’s ears off in Vietnam. And then there were the stories he’d heard over the years involving the Soviets. “He was very good at his job. Drove the Russians nuts, or so I’ve been told.”

“So what is he doing in our fair city?”

“That is a very good question. Did your men follow him?”

“No . . . we didn’t know who he was and thought it was better to stay with the surveillance van.”

Knowing how thin they were stretched, Fournier couldn’t chastise Mermet. “Tell our people to check the customs database. Look for the name Stan Hurley and any other aliases we may have on file. The next time he shows up, I want him followed. I want to know every move he makes.”

“I assume they should exercise a fair amount of caution.”

“That is a very astute observation, Pierre. He is a man very comfortable with violence.”

“An ally, though?”

The idea made Fournier smile. France’s relationship with the United States was fraught with complications. “Traditionally yes, but we have no way of knowing who he is working for at the moment.” The truth was Fournier trusted no one, but he knew that position would sound a bit too paranoid to a pleaser like Mermet. “We shouldn’t assume he is still beholden to the CIA. Just find him and let me know as soon as you do.” Fournier reached for the door handle, assuming the meeting was over.

“There are two more things. Your friend, the Spaniard.”

Fournier let his hand fall to his knee. He was parked in front of the Balzac because he was going in to meet Max Vega. “Yes.”

“Well . . . his friend has not left the country.”

Fournier thought of Samir the idiot. He so disliked the man that he didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “You’re certain.”

Mermet nodded. “He’s upstairs in Vega’s suite right now.”

Fournier swore to himself. These fundamentalist morons were turning out to be more trouble than they were worth.

Mermet saw the frustration on his boss’s face and offered, “I can have him forcibly deported if you’d like.”

Fournier shook his head vehemently. “We don’t need to draw any more attention to these fools than they’ve done on their own.” He might have him killed, though, if the man continued to be such an irritant. “What’s the last issue?”

“Your old friend, Commandant Neville?”

Fournier smiled as he remembered the passionate sex they’d had. “Yes.”

“She had a forensics team on the roof of the hotel all morning.”

“There is nothing for her to find. You took care of that problem.”

“I removed the rope, but there is undoubtedly some evidence that was left behind.”

Fournier shrugged. He supposed the problem was unavoidable. Sooner or later, Neville was going to figure out that all the ballistics didn’t add up. The Libyans were holding up their part of the deal, but that would only work for so long. Neville would figure out that the bodyguards weren’t in fact bodyguards. The only question was what type of evidence she could collect to prove her suspicions. The entire crime scene was a mess and he and Mermet had done just enough to make her job all the more confusing. Turning to his most trusted aide, he said, “I would not worry about her. She is not going to get very far in solving this case.”

“Well, she’s looking for you, and I’ve been told she’s suddenly very interested in compiling a list of everyone who was at the crime scene the morning in question. Especially a certain sandy-brown-haired man who was with you.” Mermet was speaking about himself. “What would you like me to do?”

“Lie low. Stay away from the office. I will handle her.”

“All right.”

Fournier reached for the door again and Mermet asked, “Anything else?”

With one foot on the pavement, Fournier turned back to Mermet and said, “Yes. Find me Mr. Stan Hurley. I would very much like to have a talk with him.”

I
N
general, big cities the world over shared the same basic makeup. They had centers for banking and finance, business districts, retail meccas where you could buy almost anything, museums and concert halls, above- and belowground rail systems, and roads that traveled out from the central downtown to suburbs like arteries from a heart. There were parks and neighborhoods that accommodated the super rich, the destitute, and everything in between. The affluent neighborhoods had fine restaurants, fine jewelers, art dealers, and boutique stores that carried the most expensive clothes. The poor neighborhoods had pawn shops, greasy restaurants that had to bribe health inspectors to keep their doors open, gambling shops, houses of prostitution, check-cashing hovels with bars on their windows, and of course drug dealers.

Paris was no different really, other than the fact that Parisians loved their art so much that they had more museums than most. While Rapp was confident that he could handle himself in any neighborhood, no matter how rough, he thought it was best not to complicate things. What he was looking for could be found in little pockets of almost every quarter of Paris. He could jump on the Metro and go out to one of the slums in the outer ring, but a hardened criminal would ask too many questions, and might bring a few of his cohorts along, all of which would unnecessarily complicate things. Rapp didn’t need a true thug. He just needed someone looking to make a little money. Paris was filled with lonely strung-out souls—men and women who had fallen to the addiction of heroin, or crank, or crack, or whatever else they were calling it these days.

Over the last year, Rapp had gotten to know many of the intimate details of the City of Love. Paris had been his base of operations, and other than working out and acting as if he was employed by an American software importer, he was left with time to explore and observe. In between assignments he would return to the apartment in Montparnasse and recharge by attempting to live life like a normal person, which was no easy thing when you were constantly looking over your shoulder. Rapp had been born with a great sense of awareness, but to survive in his line of work, he knew he had to take that awareness to another level. He needed to be keenly attuned to his environment at all times.