Kill Shot (40 page)

Stansfield handed her the phone. “Where is Ridley?”

“He’s in the city.” She checked her watch. “He and his team are prepping the vehicle and hotel for Cooke’s arrival.”

“Was he here last night?”

“Yes.”

Stansfield thought about Rapp’s message. “That must be who he’s talking about.”

“The witness.”

Stansfield nodded and turned his attention back to Victor, who was leaning back in his chair drinking from a water bottle. “Call your service and leave him a number. Use your handler code. Get this set up as soon as possible, and then call Ridley and find out what he knows.”

Kennedy had started punching numbers into the bulky secure phone.

Stansfield considered the overall situation and then added, “And tell Rapp I’m coming with you.”

Kennedy punched in two more numbers before she realized what Stansfield had said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Stansfield did not want to believe that Stan Hurley had betrayed him, but it was a possibility he had to face. At a bare minimum it sounded as if someone had given Fournier the list of targets. It was possible that it could have been electronically intercepted, but to the best of Stansfield’s knowledge the list had never been sent via secure cable, Internet, or phone, or in any other known form. It had been compiled by Stansfield, Kennedy, and Hurley. The list was then destroyed. Stansfield had a photographic memory, as did Kennedy. Hurley did not, and there had been a few times earlier in their careers when Stansfield had had to chide Hurley for writing down stuff that should never be written down.

Stansfield studied Victor through the glass. He seemed relaxed, even confident, either that he was in the right, or that he was going to get away with what he’d done. As Lewis had pointed out, Victor was a man who would do whatever served him best. Rapp, on the other hand, had given them nothing but hard work and results.

The deputy director of Operations looked over his shoulder and said, “Yes, I think it’s a good idea. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”

Kennedy left the number for Rapp and then called Ridley on his mobile phone. When she had him on the line she said, “Hold on, Thomas wants to talk to you.”

Stansfield took the receiver. “Rob, you were in town last night?”

“Yep. Got in about four in the afternoon.”

“Did you happen to run into a mutual friend?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Were you with one of our colleagues last night . . . did you witness anything?”

There was a prolonged pause and then Ridley said, “I’m not following, sir.”

“Never mind,” Stansfield said. “You have everything in place for our guest?”

“Almost done. Maybe another thirty minutes.”

“Good. Call me when he shows up.” Stansfield hung up the phone and turned to Kennedy. “It’s not Ridley.”

“Then who in the world could it be?”

“I don’t know, but let’s not worry about it. We have bigger issues to deal with. Have the document people put together a diplomatic passport for Mitch. I don’t want any glitches if we get stopped by the Directorate. And how are we for vehicles?”

“I assume the Range Rovers are too high-profile?”

He nodded. “No bodyguards. Just you and me. Let’s use something from the motor pool that will blend in. We’ll send the Rovers out first. Dr. Lewis can take a nice scenic drive around Paris with the DGSE trailing him.”

“Good idea,” Kennedy said. “I’d better get upstairs, my cell phone doesn’t work down here.”

“I’ll go with you.” Stansfield then said to Talmage, “I’m going to initiate a lockdown on this floor. No one enters or leaves without my knowledge.”

“Understood.”

Hurley came bursting into the room with his small clamshell phone in his hand. “My phone doesn’t work down here,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“I know. Irene just said the same thing.”

“Well,” he started with a shake of his head, “I completely forgot that I had ordered two assets to relieve Victor and his team last night. Remember Bernstein and Jones?”

“The reporter and the cameraman,” Stansfield answered.

“Yeah, they’re the ones.”

Stansfield gave a disapproving frown. “They don’t seem like the right choice.”

“It’s a longer story than we have time for right now, but I asked them to work their contacts with the police. Beyond that, Victor and his crew had been working all day without a break, so I sent them over to sit in the van and relieve the guys for a few hours.”

Stansfield didn’t think this was the brightest idea, but he got the sense that there was something more important that Hurley was trying to get to.

“I was down here all night and all morning and when I went upstairs, my phone started beeping like crazy. Bernstein had left me four messages so I called him back. He said that when they showed up last night two men had been shot. Turns out it was the two Directorate boys. One dead and one alive. He tells me there was a guy who was administering first aid to the wounded agent. I asked him to describe the guy. He said the guy was midtwenties, thick black hair, fit, and he’s pretty sure he was French.”

“Why?” Kennedy asked.

“He said he spoke French like a native. Started barking orders at Bernstein and Jones. Told them to sit with the agent while he went and got help.”

“And?” Stansfield asked.

“He never came back. Bernstein, who’s been in almost as many war zones as I have, said this mystery man used Quickclot on the wound and field bandages to stop the bleeding.”

“You think it was Mitch?” Kennedy asked.

Hurley couldn’t speak for a moment. He looked at the floor, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on. It sounds like it could be him, but why the fuck would he shoot a DGSE agent and then patch him up?”

Kennedy and Stansfield shared a quick look, and then Stansfield said, “Because he didn’t shoot the agents. Someone else did?”

All eyes turned to the man sitting in the interrogation room. There was a lengthy silence and then Stansfield said, “Stan and I need a moment alone. Irene, I’ll meet you upstairs. Jim and Tom, stay close. This isn’t going to take long.” Once they were all gone Stansfield said, “I need an honest answer from you.”

Hurley nodded.

“I need a verbal commitment. You need to look me in the eye and swear that you are going to answer this question honestly.”

Hurley hated being penned in like this. “Fine,” he said, looking his old friend in the eye. “I won’t bullshit you. Ask away, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

“Remember when we made out the list of targets?”

“Yeah.”

“And we memorized them, and then I shredded the list and put it in my burn bag?”

“Yeah.”

Stansfield could already tell by the way Hurley was fidgeting that he’d done something wrong. To strangers or adversaries he was a world-class con artist and liar, but when it came to his closest friends he was lousy. “When you got back down to the farm, did you by chance re-create that list?”

“How do you mean?” He took a half step back and folded his arms across his chest.

“By writing the names down again?”

Hurley sighed. “Listen, I don’t have your little computer brain. My strengths lie in other areas.”

“How many lists did you make?”

“One . . . but it was more of a file really. I needed to keep track of these guys. Figure out where they were weakest, what they were up to, where they’d be next week and the week after that.”

Stansfield was both relieved and irritated. “And knowing you, this file was kept in an unlocked drawer as opposed to a locked safe?”

“Listen, nobody gets within a mile of that farm without me knowing. The place is as secure as Fort Knox.”

“How do you think Fournier got his hands on our list?”

“I have no idea.”

“I certainly didn’t tell him and I doubt Irene did.” Stansfield turned and looked through the glass. “What about him? He had access.”

“So did Rapp.”

“Do you honestly believe that Mitch handed that list over so he could walk into a trap and get shot? That’s preposterous.”

“I don’t know,” Hurley said, his frustration apparent. “I can’t figure this out.”

“That’s because you don’t want to face the truth.”

“And what truth would that be?”

“That you’re not only wrong about Rapp, but you’re wrong about him, too.”

Hurley studied Victor, trying to discern some truth that he would never get standing on this side of the glass. He rubbed the stubble on his square jaw and said, “Bernstein and Jones are on their way in. I’m going to show them a picture of Rapp and if they ID him, Victor is going to have a really hard time explaining why Rapp would shoot the agents and then try to save one of them.”

“And risk exposing himself in the process.”

“Fuck,” Hurley growled. He didn’t like where this was headed.

“I told Jim I wanted this floor locked down,” Stansfield said. “Victor is to be treated as a potential hostile until I say otherwise. I don’t trust anyone in that room with him other than you. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. You don’t want him breaking some desk jockey’s neck.”

“Exactly. He’s your creation. Do you think you can still handle him?”

Hurley nodded. “If it turns out he’s been lying about all of this, I’ll snap his fucking neck.”

R
APP
hated meets like this. Even when he had the significant resources of the CIA behind him, there was always the unknown, the possibility that someone might go back on his word and kill you. He’d finally gotten to a place where he could trust Kennedy and now Stansfield had been thrown in the mix. Rapp said no when she first told him the deputy director was coming along. Stansfield had bodyguards, and God only knew how many assets the French would have on him. Kennedy told him they had contingencies to deal with all of that. Rapp still didn’t like it and was about to call the whole thing off when Greta talked him down.

“I have known him since I was a little child. He is one of my grandfather’s closest friends. If there is anyone I can trust it is him.”

They were moving from pay phone to pay phone in Greta’s car, running Kennedy through some hoops to make sure they weren’t being tailed or driving into an entourage of vehicles filled with heavily armed men. Rapp had Kennedy give him the description of the car they were driving, and twice in thirty minutes Kennedy had passed within thirty feet of where he was standing. He couldn’t see the backseat, and obviously had no idea if someone was in the trunk, but it was undeniable that Thomas Stansfield was in the front passenger seat.

After an hour of running them around town, he was ready. He’d purchased two very expensive mobile phones and was saving them. The second-to-last waypoint was someplace he and Kennedy had visited together. It was the final resting place of the Irish playwright Samuel Beckett, the unjustly accused French Army officer Alfred Dreyfus, and many other notables. Kennedy had read several books about the miscarriage of justice that had been heaped upon Dreyfus and the national scandal that eventually followed. Rapp had known nothing about the Dreyfus Affair, as it became known, but the previous winter they had stood in front of his grave for nearly thirty minutes while Kennedy explained the tragedy and the national crisis that had resulted from the false conviction and imprisonment of Dreyfus.

Rapp called her cell from a pay phone and said, “We’re getting close. Remember the French Army officer we visited ten months ago?”

“The Jewish one?”

“That’s right. Head there and await my next call.” Rapp placed the phone back in the cradle and walked back to the car. He climbed behind the wheel and said to Greta, “It’s not too late to back out.”

She didn’t bother looking at him. She simply said, “Shut up. I told you to stop saying that. Thomas Stansfield would never harm me.”

“He’s not the one I worry about. It’s Hurley and the guy we saw last night. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

“I have a hard time believing Stan is as bad as you say. He has always been kind to me.”

“Well, he must like blondes, because he’s been nothing but a prick to me.” Rapp drove for a few minutes, maneuvering through the narrow streets. He parked the vehicle a block from the meeting place, and he and Greta got out. He kissed her and said, “You have your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be afraid to use it.”

“You worry too much.” She kissed him back and then headed off.

Rapp watched her walk away and then found his pay phone. He’d timed how long it would take Kennedy to get from the cemetery to the final meeting place. Rapp placed the call and stayed on the phone with her, telling her each turn he wanted her to make. He saw her turn onto Boulevard Raspail, two blocks away from his position. Rapp told her to park the car and get out. From his concealed position he saw Kennedy and Stansfield get out of the car. “There’s an alley about a hundred feet ahead on your right. Take it and stop at the fourth door on your left.” Rapp hung up the pay phone and fished out his first cell phone. He checked his watch and then headed around the block in the opposite direction. Thirty seconds later he punched Kennedy’s number into the cell phone. She answered on the second ring.

“We’re at the door.”

“Good. I disabled the lock. Here’s what I want you to do.” Rapp walked her through the next move, which was pretty easy.

“All right,” Kennedy said after following his instructions, “I’m on the second floor. What next?”

“Head all the way down the hallway. Last door on your right, it’s unlocked.” Rapp entered the alley from the opposite end and continued to the back door. He checked one last time to make sure no one was following him and then went into the building. Quietly he began to climb the stairs two at a time.

“I’m in front of the door. I assume you want us to enter.”

“I said the door was unlocked. Knock twice and enter, and if either of you is carrying you’d better not have them out, or I’ll blow your heads off.” Rapp stopped halfway up the second run of stairs and edged his head up above the last tread. He got a glimpse of Kennedy and Stansfield. Neither was holding a gun. They walked into the apartment with Stansfield leading the way.