The Geneva Decision (31 page)

Tania caught up, her limp under control only by her grim determination.

“Miguel started to say
base
, which must mean basement,” Pia said. “Upstairs should be clear of hostages. You go around the front and fire at the second level. You might get lucky and wing her. You’ll definitely get her attention. I’ll use the distraction to go in the back door.”

“I’ll lay down bursts of three,” Tania said. “Four of them ought to do it. They’ll be three seconds apart. Make your run right after the first burst. She’ll duck, then she’ll look for the source. That’s your chance. If she’s dumb, she’ll walk right into the next burst. I’ll give you a cue.”

“She’s not dumb.”

“Best chance we have anyway.”

Tania limped toward the front. When she was in position, her voice came through the earbud. She said, “Hey, Pia, know what I like about you? You know you’re going to die and you’re all chill.”

Tania fired into the blank wall where the upper floor should start, then counted aloud.

Pia took off running. As she neared the back deck, she looked through the dirty window on the side. A silhouetted figure ran through, headed to the back. Villeneuve wasn’t falling for it. Pia reached the steps and raced up them. Through the dim back door glass, she could see the figure coming. She dove for the deck, her hands picking up splinters.

Three shots. The first blew a hole in the door’s bottom half. The second and third blew out the glass.

Pia rolled onto her back and aimed at the door. Her shoulders and arms shook with strain and fear. Her breath came fast and hard through her nose. The barrel of a Sig Sauer poked out the window.

She rolled off the deck a second before two more bullets fired into the planks she’d left behind. The Glock skittered across the dirt. Pia froze.

Villeneuve’s face came to the broken glass. Her gun and eyes scanned from the left, away from Pia. Faces speak louder than words, and Carla Villeneuve’s face screamed hate. Pia’s opponent intended to win in a game where winning meant living.

Pia rolled again. She grabbed the gun and aimed with trembling hands. Before she could fire, Villeneuve saw her and slipped into the interior shadows. Villeneuve had fired five bullets. Her Sig Sauer had three left before reloading, four if she started with one in the chamber. Pia rose to a knee and fired one dart with more hope than aim.

Villeneuve’s footsteps in full retreat told her she’d missed. Pia retook the back door and bolted through it, confident her enemy had vacated the room. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A simple kitchen with bare places where the appliances should have been. It had two entrances, one straight ahead of her, the other an immediate left.

Pia leaned into the left opening. Just enough to get a look around the corner. A bare room opened to a small hallway with one door, probably a bathroom. Beyond it, another bare room. She leaned back into the kitchen in time to see Villeneuve’s gun reach around the corner and fire another bullet.

Two left.

Villeneuve’s aim was off because she wasn’t looking. She punctured the back door again, but her method was effective. Minimal risk for a small chance at success. Pia copied the move, firing three of her own. She had five darts left. She stepped to the left, into the first bare room. With luck, she could sneak up behind Villeneuve. Without luck, Villeneuve would sneak up behind her. That could still work if she played it right.

She moved down the hall, pushed the small door open and took a glance without breaking stride. A bathroom: tile to shoulder height, small sink, shower and toilet. No wasted space. She continued into the next room and looked through the window that faced Tania’s position. Outside, she saw Tania crossing between houses, limping on her crutch, heading for the basement hatch. A dangerous move that made some sense. If Tania lived long enough and managed to free the Major or Miguel, the balance of power in this dangerous game would tip their way. If Villeneuve saw her or fired through the floorboards—

Villeneuve’s steps were coming through the kitchen. Trying to sneak up behind her.

Villeneuve fired a shot through the window. Tania dove for the ground, her M4 returning an un-aimed three-round burst. Tania was a sitting duck with an injured leg, rolling on the ground in pain. Villeneuve might have ducked to avoid Tania’s burst, but she wouldn’t stay down as long as Tania. And Tania was in the middle of an empty lot.

Pia kicked the wall to give herself away, then squatted in the front room. She was near the bathroom wall, about where the sink would be. Two walls of tile and a sink wasn’t exactly a bulletproof shield, but it might deflect enough energy from the bullet to help. She tensed her legs, ready to propel her body in any direction necessary. She listened. A board creaked somewhere to her right. Villeneuve was coming for her. That was a good thing, it would buy Tania time. Pia repositioned her grip on her gun and aimed at head height.

Her eye darted to the unexplored room across the hallway that connected to the kitchen. Villeneuve might be coming from that direction. She listened. Her enemy was on the far side of the bathroom. Her ears stretched for more sound, her skin sensed vibrations in the air, her nose sniffed for any scent. Another creak.

She could barely hear over the pounding in her eardrums. She smelled nothing but the dust stirred by her movements. She tasted only the metallic adrenaline seeping through the cellular tissues into her mouth. Saw nothing for the strain as she watched the hall for a moving shadow.

Her skin picked it up first, the tiny hairs on her arms sensed the difference in electricity. A static build up to a lightning strike. Villeneuve was near. Very near. In the room opposite the kitchen.

There was a good chance she was going to die in ten seconds.

Sweat formed on her forehead. Her body trembled with fear. Her limbs felt light, the blood that should be in her hands rushed to her head.

Pia shifted her weight to be sure she could jump when Villeneuve came around the corner and fired her last two bullets. She felt the board beneath her foot give half an inch. A creak echoed through the room like a cannon shot.

Villeneuve fired two shots through the bathroom. The tile did what she’d hoped—the first bullet exited the wall far above her and the second came through fragmented into small pieces. One piece sliced across her back, another slammed straight into her shoulder. Two more came out of the wall in front of her. Painful but not life threatening.

That was Villeneuve’s last bullet.

Now was the time for offense.

Pia leapt toward the hallway, reached around the edge, and fired three blind shots. She heard a magazine hit the floor. Villeneuve reloading. She stepped into the hallway and saw her darts stuck in the wall. Wasted ammunition. She stepped around the corner and fired her last two darts.

The first sailed through Villeneuve’s auburn hair. The second stuck in the lapel of her wool coat, a thousandth of an inch short of the target.

Villeneuve fumbled to turn the fresh magazine right side up with one hand. Her other gripped the empty gun. She looked up, her face full of shock and fear and anger and hate.

Pia threw her gun at the woman. It glanced off her collarbone, causing a flinch that delayed the reloading process. First steps are the most critical steps in a fight. They define the offensive and defensive positions. Pia spent years working with her trainers to perfect those steps. Her left foot landed inside Villeneuve’s gun hand. Her shoulder positioned to fully prevent reloading. Her first two jabs landed on Villeneuve’s right eye. Just as Eric told her, Villeneuve’s brain was soaking up all the available oxygen to think, leaving her hands to fumble through a clumsy attempt to strike back using the gun as a blunt instrument. Pia’s knees lowered her six inches below Villeneuve’s outstretched punch. She powered back up, smashed her shoulder into Villeneuve’s elbow, and threw left and right shovel punches as she rose.

Villeneuve teetered backward a step. Pia followed with a left hook to the chin, then a vicious right cross. Villeneuve’s eyes rolled backward. Pia slammed fist after fist into the criminal’s torso. Left and right, over and over. For Alphonse and Ezra and Marty and Jacob. For Clément, Sandra, Reto, Sara. Even for Eren Wölfli. She added a couple more when she remembered Tania’s wound. She felt Villeneuve’s core muscles slacken and give up the defense. She stopped the body blows and landed one last right cross.

Villeneuve’s knees buckled. Her body dropped to the floor and twitched.

“Is she dead?” the Major asked from the kitchen entryway.

“Serious concussion, internal injuries. How long were you standing there?”

“Just got her in my sight when you stepped into the line of fire and started slugging away like T-Rex Shields.”

Pia smiled a mirthless smile. Miguel and Tania stepped into the room.

Hurried hugs of relief went around the group.

“Tania says the cops are coming,” the Major said. “We don’t have much time. How do you want to play the next act?”

Pia pulled out Calixthe’s phone and called Mustafa.

“Hey, Mustafa, feeling lonely? Don’t worry, I’m coming for you. Count on it. But first I have a question for you. See, I figured out a lot of this, but there’s one part I just don’t get. How did it all start? I mean, we know Carla Villeneuve worked at ANPSP to seduce young rich skiers. She hit the jackpot with little neglected Philippe. She couldn’t wait for him to inherit everything because her biological clock was ticking, something like that, right? So they worked out an international piracy ring with her pal Calixthe, the CIA agent who came sniffing around the slopes of Chamonix pining for Alphonse. The operation made money—lots of money. Then Clément discovered the money laundering scheme. He was pissed, confronted his son, gave him a day or a week or whatever to fix it. That’s when he called us. Right so far?”

Mustafa said, “What do you want?”

“So instead of coming clean, Philippe moved the money to Eren Wölfli’s bank and called you in to kill his own father. Right?”

“What do you want?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Here’s what I don’t get—the whole Villeneuve thing. I mean, I’m rich and I can see gold diggers coming from a mile away. Was he that stupid?”

Mustafa huffed.

“OK, maybe you don’t know the gossip behind these guys. You just dove for the blood money and a chance to run Calixthe out of Cameroon. A kid wanting to kill his own father didn’t bother you at all. You must be one hell of a nice guy, Mustafa.”

“What do you want?”

“I have two deals. The first is for Philippe. I’ve got his girlfriend in the trunk of my car. If he wants her back, meet me at the Pont de la Machine. Midnight.”

A long pause. “And the second deal?”

“The second deal is for you, Mustafa. To hear it, make sure Philippe makes the midnight appointment.”

Mustafa huffed.

Pia asked, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Chapter 43

28-May, 11PM

“Y
es, Mustafa,” Pia said into the phone, “I can see you. I knew you and Philippe would come early to set a trap, but I never imagined you’d wear black trench coats. That is just so tacky.”

The two killers stood on the Rue du Rhone, a nice street on the southern river bank. Five- story office buildings with restaurants and nightclubs on their ground floors backlit the men. They twisted one way then another, searching the riverside, the sidewalk, the buildings. Their heads swiveled—they had to be frustrated, furious, and scared, all at the same time. They knew she could see them. They had no idea where she was.

A little more than two hundred feet away, Pia Sabel stood behind a cabinet in a darkened café at the Pont de la Machine. An unobstructed view of the moonlit footbridge gave her an excellent advantage. Her night vision binoculars worked so well she could see their lips moving.

“Listen up, Mustafa. You and I have some talking to do. I noticed you’re holding the phone to your ear. I assume that means you aren’t letting Philippe listen in. If you are, cut him off now, because his girlfriend is selling you out big time.”

Mustafa turned to look at Philippe’s backside. After a few seconds, he resumed his scan of the office buildings. He checked the roofline, hoping to see a figure outlined against the sky. He would find nothing.

Dressed head to toe in black, recessed in the dark building, Pia was invisible.

“I’ve got a problem,” she said. “You told the police I ran amok at Philippe’s house. That I killed Alphonse, Lena Marot, and the butler. One of those all-American rampage shootings. Thanks, Mustafa. Thanks a lot.”

Mustafa said, “What’s the second deal?”

“We’re getting there, buddy. You need to understand how much trouble I’m in here. I’m wanted for murder. But then so are you.”

Mustafa said, “Don’t worry about me.”

“Halfway up the footbridge toward the old power plant, you’ll find an audio player. Listen to it. You’ll recognize Carla Villeneuve’s voice. In her version of events, Mustafa Ahmadi acted alone in killing all the bankers. All the insurance I could get out of her. You and I know that won’t help get me out of trouble, but it sure will make your life a living hell.”

Pia watched Mustafa looking around. He pointed Philippe one way, then headed up the footbridge.

“Not yet,” Pia said. “I have more bad news for you.”

He got close enough to see the audio player and stopped. Philippe called out to him.

“Think about this. They set you up. Calixthe never pulled a trigger in Switzerland. Carla Villeneuve never pulled a trigger anywhere. Philippe Marot never pulled a trigger either until this morning, when he pulled the trigger that killed Alphonse Lamartine. Three bullets in the back. The police don’t like people who kill one of their own. When Philippe blamed my lack of experience with firearms, they believed him. Now I’m in a world of hurt. You help me out with a couple things and I’ll help you out. Deal?”

“Philippe did not shoot him in the back. He aimed at you.” She could almost hear the smirk. “Your flic, the cop, saw him and stepped into the line of fire to save you.”