The Geneva Decision (3 page)

After looking at buildings the others already checked, Pia pulled out her phone and turned to the Internet. Jonelle and Marty kept pacing the grid, their eyes working every door and window. In the space of a city block, the neighborhood changed from tourist shops and cafés to sex shops and bars. A scattering of people strolled on the main streets. They turned down another narrow lane and worked it up to Rue Docteur Alfred-Vincent, then turned uphill again and made their way toward the next cross street, Rue de Berne.

“We’re trying to keep a low profile here,” Jonelle said. “It’s bad enough that you’re wearing your USA track suit, but put the phone away. You’re lighting up the street and making yourself a target.”

Pia clicked it off. “I was looking up the
Objet Trouvé
.”

“And?”

“It was hijacked by pirates in Cameroon.”

Jonelle raised a brow. “Cameroon? Like the bus ticket?”

Up the hill, Agent Marty gave a low whistle and waved them over. They trotted to his position. From the edge of a building, he pointed down Rue de Berne at a group of narrow storefronts: Cartes Telephoniques, Barillon Hotel, Marrakech, Parfums de Paris, Funny Horse Saloon, Berne Shop.

Jonelle followed Marty’s gaze, checking the street, turned back to him and nodded. She said, “Worth a look. You take the back.”

Marty looked right down a long block, then left. And looked back at Jonelle. He shook his head. “No alley. Probably a closed courtyard inside the block. Access could be difficult. Let’s do a walk-by first.”

Jonelle and Marty turned into the larger street and took the sidewalk opposite the shops.

Pia tagged along, quiet for a few steps. Then she said, “Wait. What did you see?”

Chapter 4

20-May, 10PM

“W
e’re looking for an Arab.” Jonelle pointed across the street. “In twelve blocks that’s the only place we’ve seen with Arabic in the window.”

Pia glanced at the storefront and recognized two words:
Marrakech
and a huge
OUVRET
on a sign hung in a darkened window. Was the store open or closed? She crossed the street to have a look. Jonelle hissed her name, calling her back. She kept going—just a closer look from a public sidewalk, no big deal. She cupped her hands on the glass and looked inside. A modest store of fashionable dresses with Arabic motifs. Everything was dark except for a sliver of light coming from the back room.

She tried the door. It swung open and a bell tinkled. Pia stepped inside.

Jonelle crossed the street, pushed in behind her and hissed in her ear. “Jesus, what are you doing?”

Marty crossed to their side, looking left and right as he came.

Jonelle tiptoed through the small showroom, circling wide around a doorway at the back of the shop and disappeared from Pia’s sight. Light from the street did nothing but create silhouettes and cast shadows. The scent of Arabian jasmine filled the air. Pia found herself standing in the middle of the room, unsure of her next move. Her confidence drained away and left her cold.

A man’s voice called out in Arabic.

Her heart rate exploded into high gear. From his tone Pia assumed he expected someone, hence the open door, and was agitated by the silent approach. Jonelle gestured from behind a rack of clothing. Pia had no idea what the hand signal meant. Sounds of movement and another Arabic greeting floated from the back room, the voice sounding closer.

Pia pulled two hijabs off a shelf. She wound the cloth around her knuckles.

Lights erupted overhead.

A big man appeared through the small doorway. He shouted and pointed a gun in Pia’s face.

Jonelle pulled her gun and crouched, but she was two display racks away at the back of the showroom.

Half frightened and half angry, the man approached Pia, gun held steady.

Pia put her hands up, not quite raising them above shoulder level. The man took another step toward her. He glanced at the merchandise in her hand and demanded something of her in Arabic, then in French.

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”

He peered at her, his fear gone, his anger rising, and shouted again in Arabic. She took a step closer putting her left foot forward, tilting her ear toward him as if straining to understand him. She moved her shoulder just inside his gun, her hands still slightly above her shoulders but closing in, her face scrunched as if she were trying to translate his words.

He shouted again.

A face popped in from the back room: swarthy complexion, trim beard, haircut high and tight.

Al-Jabal.

He turned and fled into the back room.

The big man craned behind him, following Pia’s gaze. As he turned back, she burst off her back foot, snapping two lightning fast jabs to the big man’s right eye. Her surprise attack went as expected: he dropped his gun, brought up his hands, and leaned away. Twisting her body and springing from her legs, she landed an uppercut under his jaw that snapped his head backward. He staggered. She finished him off with a right cross, smacking his temple with the heel of her hand. He collapsed at her feet.

Jonelle walked up and shot him, leaving the small dart in his neck.

Marty burst in through the door and aimed at the back room. Jonelle ran to the open doorway and crouched near the jamb, covering the left side of the room. Marty stepped close enough to peer inside and lowered his gun.

“Gone,” he said. “There’s a courtyard out back.”

Jonelle shot a nasty look at Pia. “What the hell did you think you were doing—”

“He’s getting away!” Pia started for the back door.

Marty grabbed her collar and yanked her back.

Jonelle said, “If I were him I’d be standing outside, waiting to shoot anyone who pops out that door. Wouldn’t you?”

Pia winced.

Jonelle held her palm in Pia’s face: Stay.

Pia gritted her teeth.

Marty grabbed the door handle, waited for Jonelle’s nod, then burst outside, rolling across the small courtyard’s brick. A shot pinged off the wall behind him. Marty popped into a crouching position and took aim. Jonelle leaned out the door, aiming downrange but holding her fire. The sound of running feet echoed off the surrounding walls. Marty gave chase, ran a few feet, looked back and shook his head. Limited by the dart’s short range.

Sabel Security darts were powered by miniature rocket motors that limited range and accuracy. There were downsides: less range and less accuracy. But Pia felt the tradeoff was worth it: less noise and less collateral damage. Not to mention fewer lawsuits and they were relatively legal in most countries.

“He’s gone,” Marty said. “The construction site must go through to the street.”

They came back inside. Jonelle shook a finger in Pia’s face.

“Let’s get a couple things straight. When you’re on an operation with a former Army major like me and a former Marine lieutenant like Marty, you stay behind us, not in front of us. We had an unspoken plan based on years of experience, and we had the element of surprise—”

“He looked pretty surprised after my first jab.”

Marty burst out laughing. After a glance from Jonelle, he choked his laugh, turned away, and pulled out his phone.

“You were aggressive and lucky,” Jonelle said. “What if al-Jabal had been the first through that door? He’d have recognized you and shot you in the head. In my book, the only thing that ranks lower than working for a spoiled rich kid is working for a dead rich kid. Bad for my street cred.”

“Police are on their way,” Marty said.

Jonelle knelt next to the shopkeeper, pulled out an injector and stabbed it into his leg. Pia knelt next to her and checked the man’s pulse.

“Why did you shoot him?” Pia asked.

“Wanted to make sure he didn’t shake it off and come at us from the back.”

“When I put them down, they stay down.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Jonelle said. “But yeah, that was one hard hit.”

Pia grinned. “Been working on it for ten years.”

“Don’t get carried away by the danger-rush. It can kill you and your team if you’re not careful.” Jonelle stood. “OK. Let’s look for evidence. Something to explain ourselves to
Le Capitaine
.”

Stacks of clothes labeled in Arabic, a pair of men’s sneakers, a small desk, two chairs near the door. Nothing incriminating and no sign of al-Jabal. They returned to the front room and checked the storeowner’s gun, a Sig Sauer P225.

“Same gun al-Jabal used to kill Marot,” Pia said.

“Standard issue for the Swiss militia,” Marty said. “That’s every Swiss male between nineteen and thirty-four. Must be a million of these in Switzerland.”

Within minutes, the small shop filled with paramedics and police. Lieutenant Alphonse Lamartine arrived and took statements from them. Shortly after he finished, the officers in the room stood a little straighter, concentrated a little harder on their tasks. Capitaine Villeneuve’s commanding air preceded her into the shop.

Pia was impressed. In the store’s light, she could see Le Capitaine a bit better. She had auburn hair, maybe mid-thirties, and wore a yellow shirt with a red logo under her bright blue windbreaker. As bad a color combination as Pia could imagine.

Villeneuve listened to Alphonse’s report on the situation, then spoke to him in French.

“She wants to know more about the tranquilizer dart,” Alphonse said. “Will the shopkeeper suffer injury?”

“No,” Jonelle said. “The dart is filled—”

Villeneuve stopped Jonelle with a wave of her hand and pointed at Pia.

“Pardon,” Alphonse said, “but she wants to hear it from your company president.”

Jonelle turned to Pia. “You ordered us to use them, probably best if you explain it anyway.”

Pia looked Villeneuve in the eye. “The dart carries two doses. The first is a concentrate of Inland Taipan snake venom, a neurotoxin that affects the central nervous system with flaccid paralysis within one second of injection and lasts up to twenty minutes. The target is alert but immobile during this phase. The second dose is zolpidem, a sleep medication. It puts the target under for about four hours but takes five to ten minutes to take effect. For a few minutes, the target can hear and see but can’t move. He can’t pull the trigger on his gun.”

Alphonse said, “Nonlethal weapon. You compete with Taser?”

“Not yet. We still need some… testing.”

He tilted his head.

Pia said, “Some people have allergic reactions to the venom. We carry an antidote just in case.”

“How many people have allergic reactions?”

Pia shrugged and sighed.

Alphonse translated and Villeneuve nodded. She inspected the place with her hands folded behind her back. She looked in the back room, in the cabinets, out in the courtyard. She called out questions, and Alphonse translated.

“No sign of al-Jabal when you fired at him in back?” he asked.

“We didn’t fire at him,” Pia said. “He took a shot at Agent Marty.”

“Did you find any proof of al-Jabal’s presence here?”

“No. We saw him. He ran for it. We looked around.” Her hands came up, then fell back to her sides. “Nothing.”

Alphonse nodded. Villeneuve came back and stood next to him. She crossed her arms, faced Pia, and spoke.

“Le Capitaine recognizes your contributions to the safety of the canton this evening,” Alphonse said, “You subdued the murderer at the party and then the Swiss citizen in his shop. It is unfortunate that there is no proof of the killer’s presence here. It is her wish that you refrain from assisting the police any further. Your intentions are honorable, no doubt, but the results,” he motioned toward the shopkeeper, “are uncertain.”

“I understand.” Pia said. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you have a big operation going on.”

Pia could feel Jonelle watching her.

“Le Capitaine wishes me to escort you back to the hotel,” Alphonse said. “I will be with you in one moment.”

Alphonse and Villeneuve spoke in the corner of the store.

Pia looked at Jonelle, glanced over at Villeneuve and back. She said, “Good thing she didn’t arrest me. So, we’re done here. I blew it. I should’ve let you and Marty do your thing. Now she thinks I’m a wacko with a hero complex.”

“You’re not a wacko with hero complex,” Jonelle said. “You’re a spoiled rich kid with a hero complex. She should know the difference.”

They zipped their jackets and stepped outside. Alphonse finished up and joined them. The sidewalk was only wide enough for two, so Jonelle and Marty hung back several steps.

Pia said, “Escorting me back—is she punishing you?”

He shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked.

“Oui, more or less. She is in the foul mood. Much pressure now. The police chief told her,
You lost him—you must find him.
She thinks I encourage you with the… admiration. But, no matter—escorting you is not the punishment. And it is the nice night for the walk, oui?”

Chapter 5

20-May, 11PM

S
he tugged her jacket close against the falling temperature as they strolled along Rue des Alpes. Their route took them out of the neighborhood of shops and cafés toward the glass and steel office buildings closer to the hotel. Their conversation was casual, ranging from women’s soccer to the Olympics and the next women’s World Cup. Alphonse had become a fan as a teenager when his diplomat father lived in Washington, DC. He’d dated a woman who lost to Pia’s high school team and recalled being stunned by Pia’s domination of the field.

“You play like Cristiano Ronaldo,” he said. “And you would leave football to run Sabel Security?”

“No choice.”

“But you are too young. Twenty-five?”

“So were Mark Zuckerberg and Sergey Brin.”

“No, I mean too young to give up the promising career. I don’t understand this.”

Pia inhaled the crisp air through her nose in a long deep breath, pinched her lips, and let her breath out. They crossed beneath a stoplight where Pia saw a strip of plastic in the gutter and pointed to it.

“Hey. These are the plasticuffs we put on al-Jabal.” she said.

“Perhaps.” Alphonse looked around. “This is where Duchamps stopped for traffic and was clubbed on the head.”