Kill Shot

  Bert stopped right on his mark and squatted down, his left rear leg tapping the ground as if he was priming a pump. A few seconds later, Bert was finished with his business and Talmage slid him a treat and said, “Good boy.”

  Bert took the treat and wagged his tail while his owner got down on one knee and pulled out the shopping bag. With the bag turned inside out, Talmage scooped up the pile and tied the bag in a knot. He transferred the bag to his left hand and then before standing he reached out and steadied himself on the front bumper of the Volvo. Even a trained professional would have had a hard time seeing what he’d done. Talmage then walked over to the nearest garbage can and deposited Bert’s droppings. They started back up the path to the north. Up ahead through the trees Talmage could see the man in the lone scull turning around. He was just a speck at this distance. Talmage knew it was him only because he’d catalogued every person on the river and the walking and biking paths as well. He was as certain as he could be that he was the only person surveilling the deputy director of the CIA. It wasn’t something that he’d been thrilled about at first. If the Gestapo at Langley or the FBI busted him, he would likely spend several long months behind bars being denied his legal right to counsel.

  As to why he was following Cooke, Talmage had no idea, but he trusted the man who had given him the job. Talmage owed Thomas Stansfield his life, and he’d decided a long time ago that he would probably never be able to repay him, but showing him a little gratitude was at least a good start.

  CHAPTER 28

  PARIS, FRANCE

  HIS checklist complete, Rapp moved through the neighborhood with the collar of his jeans jacket pulled up high around his ears and his chin tucked down. The early evening air was damp and cool. A plain blue baseball cap covered his thick black hair and he was wearing a pair of black eyeglasses with clear lenses. With his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes swept both sides of the street. He’d done some loose reconnaissance an hour earlier and had spotted two vans within a block of the apartment. He was fairly confident which one contained Victor and the other men. Rapp’s only real worry at this point was whether his new drug-dealing friend would show up for their meeting. If he didn’t, Rapp would either have to go knock on the door of the van or figure something else out. So far nothing obvious had presented itself, but he had time. His conversation with Kennedy had gone about as well as he could have hoped. She would take his concerns straight to Stansfield, and the old Cold Warrior would never disregard something this serious. If the Orion Team had been penetrated, Stansfield would have a major dilemma on his hands, and he would move at top speed to find out the identity of the traitor.

  Rapp showed up at the café and took a quick look at the crowd. Night was on the city, and the dinner crowd was brisk. The temperature hovered near sixty degrees and there were only a few people sitting outside at the small green bistro tables. Rapp glanced inside. There was no sign of Luke, so he grabbed one of the small tables outside that gave him a good view of the intersection and placed his back to the building. He checked his watch. He was five minutes early. He wondered briefly if drug dealers were punctual and decided more than likely not. He picked up a paper, and when the waitress approached he ordered a glass of red wine. Rapp rested his left hand in his lap and made a fist. A muted stab of pain went from his fingertips all the way up his arm, into his shoulder, and then flared up his neck. Part of his training had covered the nasty hazards of his business, and how to stay alive should he fall on the receiving end of a gunshot or a variety of other attacks meant to kill him. The electric shock that ran up his left arm told him he had some nerve damage. It would more than likely heal, but only if he babied it. The pain pills were a mixed blessing. They allowed him to go about his business without having to deal with the distraction of pain, but they also gave him a false sense of confidence that could cause more damage. His best guess was that his arm was no better than 50 percent. He could use it if he had to do something like making a simple magazine change, but if he had to punch or grab with any sort of force or leverage the damage would be intense. The wound would reopen and the bleeding would begin anew.

  That’s why he’d decided to sew the new holster into the left side of the quilted jeans jacket. This way he could reach across his body with his right arm for an easy draw. Now more than ever, he understood why they’d trained him to shoot with both hands. He was a lefty with a natural eye, but it had taken a good deal of work to get his right hand up to snuff. At twenty-five feet he could place all one hundred rounds in the black shooting left-handed, and he could place all but a handful in the black when shooting with his right hand.

  Rapp glanced down and unbuttoned one of the brass buttons on the jacket so he could have easier access to the pistol, just in case his new drug-dealing friend did something stupid. He had been trained to think ahead, to always cover the gamut of possibilities. He took a sip of wine and placed a pack of Gauloises cigarettes on the table. It was a nasty habit, and one that Rapp had reluctantly begun, but his job required long periods of sitting and watching while trying to act as if he wasn’t watching. He had become the worthless man who hung out at cafés for long hours, drinking, smoking, working on crossword puzzles, and reading important books that barely held his attention. If you wanted to fit in, if you wanted to pass the time without looking like a private eye, a policeman, or an intelligence officer, it was better to adopt the appearance of yet another Bohemian artist who was trying to avoid work.

  As the appointed hour came and went Rapp nursed his wine and lit a cigarette. He decided he would wait until thirty minutes past the hour, maybe ten minutes past that at the most, and then he would abandon his plan, meet up with Greta, and try to come up with something else. Five minutes later Luke approached from the west, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Rapp was pleased to reconfirm that they were roughly the same size and build. Luke hadn’t shaved in a few days and his face was covered with thick black stubble. They moved differently, of course, but on second thought Rapp realized that would help. Victor and his crew would assume Rapp had adopted some kind of disguise and had changed his gait. Only Rapp, Ridley, Kennedy, and Hurley had access to the apartment. When Luke showed up they would jump to the most logical conclusion and Rapp would watch how they reacted.

  He watched Luke stop at the nearest intersection. Even though the light had turned green he did not move. Rapp was wondering what he was up to when he saw Luke turn and greet another man. He was a big fellow, almost six and half feet tall, with a big, knobby, bald head and arms that hung halfway to his knees. Rapp had learned to spot that on the lacrosse pitch. Rapp himself had long arms, but only a few inches longer than most. It was enough to give him a nice advantage in things like fights and stick handling. This mountain of a man, however, looked more like an ape, and his hunched shoulders made his arms appear even longer than they were.

  Rapp had specifically told Luke to come alone, and he could tell by the smile on his face that he had knowingly decided not to honor Rapp’s request.

  With his cigarette dangling from his lips, Luke sauntered up to the table and sat on Rapp’s right. The goon loitered for a moment and then grabbed a small chair and spun it around backward and sat with his arms folded over the back of his chair. He stared at Rapp as if he was contemplating eating him for dinner.

  “Good evening,” Luke said, “I’d like you to meet my friend Alfred.”

  The big man stuck out a scarred and puffy right paw. Rapp reluctantly offered his own hand. Alfred clamped down and began to crush Rapp’s hand. Rapp squeezed just hard enough to prevent the man from breaking any bones. When he was done with his juvenile game Rapp turned his attention back to Luke. “I told you to come alone.”

  Luke shrugged. “I don’t like traveling alone at night. Paris can be a very dangerous city.” With a thin smile he added, “I find that Alfred has a way of deterring people who would like to harm me.”

  Rapp took a closer look at Alfred. His nose was broken in at least two p
laces and there was a fair amount of scar tissue built up under each eye, as well as some cuts above each eyebrow and along his cleft chin. Rapp had to consider the bullet hole in his left shoulder. He was sure he could take him, but if things didn’t go smoothly and quickly he would also probably open the wound and begin bleeding again. If it came to violence Rapp would need to be certain he landed a decisive blow right at the start. He decided to force the issue. He picked up his cigarettes and shoved them in his pocket. “It’s too bad we won’t be able to work with each other.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I already told you.”

  Luke scoffed as if it had been a minor request. “My friend Alfred is very trustworthy. You need not worry about him.”

  “Your friend Alfred will stick out like a sore thumb . . . did you bother to think about that? He might as well have ‘I’m a violent criminal’ tattooed on his forehead. If anyone sees him in the building they will know he doesn’t belong, and they will call the police. You, on the other hand, look enough like me that no one will bother you with a second look.”

  Luke signaled for the waitress and said, “It doesn’t matter. I will be bringing Alfred along for protection.” Turning his attention to the waitress, Luke ordered a glass of wine for himself and a beer for Alfred.

  When the waitress was gone, Rapp said, “This isn’t going to work. I’ll have to find someone else.” Rapp set down his wine and started to stand.

  “Alfred,” was all Luke had to say.

  Rapp felt the pull in his shoulder as the big man grabbed him by the forearm and yanked him back into his chair. Rapp masked the pain coursing through his shoulder and looked at Luke with a cool expression.

  “No need to rush off,” Luke said. “Nothing has changed. I simply wanted someone I trusted to join me for this strange job that you have brought to me.”

  Rapp looked down at his arm, which Alfred still held tightly. He had already taken inventory of his surroundings. In a voice that shouldn’t have left any doubt about his seriousness, Rapp said, “Luke, you have misjudged me. I am not someone you want to screw with. Tell your man to let go of my arm right now, or we are going to have a big problem.”

  Luke gave an amused giggle and the big man leaned forward, his pronounced underbite making him look like he had an IQ of sixty. “I’ll let go of your arm when I’m fucking ready.”

  Rapp gave a quick nod, turned his attention back to Luke, and said, “I’m going to count to ten, and when I’m done your goon will have either let go of my arm, or I’m going to cause him a great deal of pain.”

  Alfred laughed loudly, and Luke said, “There is no reason to make threats.”

  “One . . . two . . .”

  Luke was smiling. “You Americans are so dramatic. Stop your counting and hear me out.”

  “Three . . . four . . .” Rapp’s eyes were locked on Luke, but he could hear the big man to his left laughing. Rapp decided to stop counting, and his right arm shot across his body. His fingers were folded under, his second row of knuckles forming a jagged edge of hard bones. Rapp’s eyes zeroed in like bomber sights on Alfred’s pronounced Adam’s apple and guided the strike with precision, the rigid knuckles of his right hand connecting with the soft thyroid cartilage and the larynx behind it. There was a crunching noise followed by a heavy exhalation of air as it left Alfred’s mouth.

  The big man immediately released Rapp’s arm. His hands shot to his own throat, his eyes bulging in shock. Alfred stood and began stumbling backward, knocking over a table.

  Rapp ignored the pain in his shoulder and scowled at Luke. “Are you done fucking around? I came to you with a serious proposal and rather than doing as we agreed, you decided to bring along this halfwit, and then you try to strong-arm me.” Rapp brought his fist up as if he might strike him.

  Luke flinched and then tried to hide his concern over the fact that Rapp had so easily bested his man. Alfred had tipped over another table and chair and then managed to bounce into a streetlight, which he was now leaning against clutching his throat and gasping for air.

  “He’ll be fine,” Rapp said in an irritated tone. Trying to allay some of Luke’s concern, he added, “I didn’t hit him that hard.” A moment passed while they both watched Alfred lean over and gulp for air.

  “You could have killed him.”

  “That’s right, but I didn’t. Now are you done fucking around?”

  Luke nodded, his eyes still a bit wide from the shocking turn of events.

  “This was probably for the best,” Rapp said, taking a sip of wine. “I’m easy to deal with as long as you don’t try to fuck me.” Placing his right elbow on the table, Rapp looked into Luke’s still-shocked eyes and said, “This is serious business and it’s best to know right now where we stand. You are not afraid to resort to violence and neither am I.” Rapp opened his jacket just enough to give Luke a glimpse of the black grip of his pistol. “We made a deal, and I expect you to honor that deal. If you plan on screwing me, or don’t think you are capable of honoring our arrangement, you should get up and leave right now.” Rapp released the fold of his jacket. “I don’t really care. I will find someone else if I have to.” Rapp let a beat pass. “However, I’d prefer to get this done tonight. Everything is in place. The question is, are you going to be greedy or smart?”

  Ignoring the question, Luke craned his neck around and studied Alfred. He seemed to find some relief in the fact that his friend was breathing more regularly. A couple passed on the sidewalk, and for a moment it looked as if they were going to stop and help Alfred, but once they got a good look at him they decided to hurry past. Luke shook his head and turned back to Rapp. In a voice full of suspicion he asked, “Who are you?”

  For most people it would have been a fairly easy question to answer. You are who you are, after all, but for Rapp his life had become something far more complicated. There were times when even he wasn’t sure who he was. He had five separate identities that he used on a regular basis and several more that were tucked away in a safe-deposit box in Switzerland. His existence had become a lie within a lie. His own brother had not a clue what he was up to, nor did any of his friends. Over the last several years he had distanced himself from all of them. Not an entirely unusual thing after graduating from college, but his reasons were different.

  The kid who had grown up in Virginia and played lacrosse for Syracuse University was gone. Replaced by a killer. There was no melancholy or regrets. He was on a path he had chosen. Rapp softened his hard stare and said to Luke, “I’m someone who could make you a lot of money tonight. All I need to know is are you in or are you out, and if you’re in, I need you to play by my rules.” Rapp sat back, fished out a fresh cigarette, and lit it. After he exhaled a cloud of smoke he asked, “So what’s your answer?”

  Luke did not answer right away. Rapp watched him. He knew what the other man was thinking and answered his own question for him. “Luke, if I worked for the police, why would I go through all of this when we could simply arrest you for selling drugs? This is exactly what I told you it is. You either want to make a boatload of money tonight, for very little work, or you don’t, but I need an answer right now.”

  Luke regarded Rapp for a long moment before nodding. “I’m in, but I’m warning you, I have friends with the police and a very good attorney. If anything goes wrong you will be the one taking the blame. Not me.”

  “Nothing is going to go wrong, Luke. Trust me.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Rapp cocked his head, revealing a bit of surprise. “You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

  “Maybe God is trying to send you a message.”

  “I don’t think so.” Rapp took off his hat and handed it to Luke. “Here, wear this. If anyone sees you, they’ll think it’s me.”

  Rapp fished out the keys and a piece of paper with instructions and the codes for the security system and the safe. He went over everything with Luke and answered his questions as pati
ently as he could. Alfred wandered back to the table at some point and Rapp showed just enough of the pistol to get him to back off. Luke told him he would meet up with him in a few hours. When Rapp was done he pointed to his watch and said, “You have one hour. Be on time. All right?”

  Luke nodded and Rapp got up and left.

  CHAPTER 29

  THERE were days when his job truly sucked, but this was not one of them. Tonight Stan Hurley was a happy man. He had over ten grand in his pocket and a beautiful, classy woman at his side, who he happened to have fantastic intimate memories with. The food was off the charts and the sommelier had come through with two phenomenal bottles of Bordeaux. She’d aged a bit, but so had he, and on her it looked good. Her raven black hair was shorter now, just below her ears, and she’d added a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but in a strange way it made her even sexier. That a woman could age so gracefully was something that turned Hurley on. Whether it was due to genetics or some daily regimen, he didn’t care. The end result was all that interested him, and the end result was a gorgeous forty-four-year-old woman who had never tried to place any constraints on him. There were never any games with this one. No matter how long it had been since they had seen each other, they always picked up where they’d left off. Which was dinner, lots of laughs, and great sex.

  Paulette was a refined metropolitan woman who oozed confidence. She was nearly ten years younger than the rough-and-tumble Hurley, but she had a wisdom about her that Hurley had found extremely unusual for a reporter. She had pegged Hurley for a spook from almost the moment they’d met in Moscow nearly twenty years earlier. Paulette LeFevre had been a reporter back then and was stationed in Moscow, where Hurley was running around doing all kinds of bad things for the CIA. Now she had risen to the position of chief editor of Le Monde, the left-leaning French newspaper. While it was easy to classify the political bent of the newspaper, LeFevre was more complex. She was too independent to march in step with any political party and she had a contrarian streak in her that, depending on her mood, made her either predictable or unpredictable. She had been raised an only child by two devout communists who had thoroughly indoctrinated her into the utopian ways of the Soviet form of governance. She was raised in a commune an hour outside of Lyon where she had grown up speaking both French and Russian. Her parents had taken her on multiple trips behind the Iron Curtain, and she had watched them lie to themselves and their friends about how much better life was under the benign, velvet glove of the Politburo. When she was eleven they were having a picnic in Gorky Park in Moscow with several families from the commune who were all extolling the virtues of centralized planning and shared sacrifice when Paulette’s mother announced that she needed to use the bathroom. She then asked one of their companions for the communal roll of toilet paper. The future reporter looked up at her mother and said, “If communism is so great, then why do we have to bring our own toilet paper everywhere we go?” It was one of Hurley’s favorite stories. He’d spent drunken weekends arguing with entrenched communists and gotten nowhere, but somehow an eleven-year-old girl had managed to break the debate down to the most basic level. How could one form of government be superior to another when it couldn’t even keep its public restrooms supplied with toilet paper?