Violence was power. Violence and terror and death.
Neuilly had excited Alexis. He watched the news reports endlessly, picturing the fat American rich kids screaming and running for their lives, like squealing pigs.
Tonight, at long last, it would be Hunter Drexel’s turn to squeal.
The Americans, the British, Interpol, they were all here in Paris, swarming the city like flies on shit, searching for Hunter and the three Group 99 gunmen who had wreaked such delicious havoc. But they knew nothing. He, Alexis Argyros, had outwitted them all.
The pleasure of killing Hunter Drexel would be his and his alone.
Tonight.
In his dingy caravan at the campsite, he slipped on his overalls and the thin black balaclava he would use, right up to the moment of the kill. He wanted Drexel to see him then. Not just the look in his eyes but the smile on his face as he took the American’s life, the ultimate act of domination.
The days of his humiliation were over.
I am Apollo the Great.
The God of plague and destruction.
Scourge of the boastful.
Slayer of Giants.
It would be done tonight.
JEFF STEVENS CALLED MAJOR General Frank Dorrien.
“It’s tonight. Tracy’s going to a poker game at Pascal Cauchin’s apartment.”
Frank took a sharp intake of breath. “Drexel’s going to be there?”
“Possibly. All I know for sure is that Tracy’s going to the game posing as a rich Texan widow with a hundred thousand euros in cash.”
“Shit.” Jeff could hear the general’s mind racing. Presumably Tracy Whitney must believe Hunter Drexel would show up tonight, or she wouldn’t be going. And it made sense. Cauchin was probably the biggest name in the fracking industry in the whole of France. “Does the CIA know about this?”
“I don’t think so. Walton thinks she’s tracking Althea.”
“And Cameron Crewe?”
“She hasn’t called him today,” Jeff said. “I think she’s working alone on this. We have to get down there, Frank. We have to protect her.”
“Of course,” Frank Dorrien said smoothly. “We’re on it. Just sit tight.”
“Sit tight?” Jeff said. “I’m not sitting anywhere. I’m going to that game.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’ll blow your cover. The moment Tracy sees you she’ll . . . Jeff? Jeff!”
The line was dead.
PASCAL CAUCHIN WAS IN an excellent mood.
He’d just finalized a lucrative deal to joint rights in a new gas pipeline, running from Bratislava to Poland and the East. His mistress had returned from a trip to Florida last night with even bigger breast implants that Pascal couldn’t wait to get his hands on. And tonight’s poker game looked set to be extremely interesting.
Lex Brightman, the flamboyantly gay New Yorker, was attending. Pascal Cauchin had only met Brightman once before, at a house party last weekend, but in that short time the theater producer had impressed him as displaying a uniquely American combination of arrogance and stupidity that boded well for tonight’s game. “I’m a pretty great poker player, if I do say so myself,” Brightman had informed Pascal, proceeding to talk him play by play through some of what he considered to be his top techniques for outwitting his opponents.
Pascal was looking forward to relieving Lex Brightman of a considerable sum of money.
Another new player was expected too, a last-minute addition by the name of Jeremy Sands. Pascal’s good friend, the art dealer Antione de la Court, had called just an hour ago to have Sands added to the guest list.
“You’ll like him. He’s a good player. Funny. Very well connected.”
Pascal wavered.
“He invested four hundred million in alternative energy companies last year.”
Sands was in.
And finally there was the lovely Mrs. Morgan Drake. Mary Jo. The Texas widow wasn’t Pascal’s usual type. He normally went for curvy blond girls, and rarely looked at anyone older than twenty-five. Mary Jo was a grown woman, and slender to the point of boyishness. When he’d bumped into her at the Ritz bar last week, her small, apple breasts had been discreetly concealed beneath an expensive gray silk blouse and her dark hair swept up in a demure chignon. And yet there was something intensely sexually compelling about her. Perhaps it was the intoxicating green eyes? In any event, in the week since they met Pascal had found himself fantasizing more and more about taking Mrs. Morgan Drake to bed, ripping off those demure clothes and unleashing what he very much hoped would be the tigress within. When she admitted an interest in cards, he immediately extended an invitation to tonight’s game and arranged for his wife, Alissa, to pay a visit to her sister in Lyons.
He would make sure that Mary Jo won a few hands at least, and that her cocktails were double strength. After that, it should be plain sailing.
“Excuse me, Sir.” A liveried butler appeared in the doorway of Cauchin’s palatial salon. “Mrs. Morgan Drake has arrived early. Should I have her wait in the library?”
Pascal smiled broadly.
Perfect! She’s the first to arrive. She’s obviously keen.
“No, no, Pierre. That’s all right. You can show her straight up.”
JEFF SAT IN THE back of the taxi, his fists clenched. All around him drivers were leaning on their horns, a cacophony of stress that was having precisely zero effect on the crawling rush hour traffic.
“Can’t you do anything?” Jeff asked the driver, in faltering French. “Try another route?”
The man gave a nonchalant, Gallic shrug. “Friday night. Les embouteillages sont partout.”
“It’s very important I get there quickly.”
Antoine de la Court, an old friend from Jeff’s days as an art thief, had pulled some serious strings to get Jeff invited to tonight’s game. But if Hunter Drexel got there before him . . . and if Tracy tried to confront him alone . . . Jeff felt his blood pressure soaring.
“Please!” He thrust a fat wad of euro notes at the driver. “C’est très important.”
Reaching back to take the money, the driver smiled, leaned uselessly on his horn, and inched forward into the gridlock.
“WHAT’S HAPPENING?”
Jamie MacIntosh paced tensely around his London office. The Thames crawled sluggishly beneath his window, which was smeared by a steady stream of gray drizzle. It was the most inauspicious of days. Rainy. Dull. Lifeless. And yet in Paris, Jamie’s team might be just minutes away from apprehending Hunter Drexel.
“Have you got eyes on Drexel?”
“Not yet.” Major General Frank Dorrien sounded equally tense. Jeff Stevens was planning to go rogue and show up at the poker game as a player, revealing himself to Tracy and potentially blowing the whole operation out of the water. Frank was in a café directly opposite Cauchin’s apartment building. He had a man on the roof, one more in the lobby, and two on the street entrances at front and back of the building.
“What about the others?” Jamie asked.
“Tracy Whitney’s inside. So are the other three players. Stevens is a no-show so far.”
“Maybe he couldn’t get on Cauchin’s list so late in the day?” Jamie suggested hopefully.
“He’ll get in there somehow,” Frank said grimly. “He’s terrified for Tracy. I showed him Drexel’s file yesterday.”
Jamie erupted. “You what?!”
“It was a calculated risk.”
“Miscalculated! Are you out of your mind?”
Frank’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“He’s here.”
“Who? Who’s there? Drexel or Stevens?”
“Gotta go.”
“FRANK!” Jamie MacIntosh roared. But it was too late.
Slamming the phone down in frustration, he started pacing again.
“MARY JO. LET ME get you another drink.”
Pascal Cauchin was leaning over Tracy on the chaise longue, so close that she could smell the toothpaste on his brea
th and the desire seeping through his pores. Cauchin was tall and thin, with dry skin and thin lips that he kept darting his tongue over to keep them moist. He had long fingers and large, wide-set eyes that bulged and swiveled constantly around the room, as if searching for danger. Or perhaps opportunity. He reminded Tracy of a lizard. Cold-blooded, quick, and slippery, with a nasty bite.
“Oh, ahm fine thanks, darlin’, ” Tracy protested. Her last gin and tonic had been ridiculously strong. She still hadn’t formulated a definite plan for what she would do once Hunter Drexel arrived, but she knew she would need her wits about her.
“I insist,” Cauchin purred. “Pierre? Another gin for the lady.”
“Isn’t it time we got started, Pascal?”
Albert Dumas, a newspaper mogul and regular at the Montmartre poker evenings, was getting irritated. It wasn’t like Pascal to wait for latecomers. If the two Americans, Jeremy Sands and the other chap, Brightman, couldn’t be bothered to show up on time, they didn’t deserve to play at a top French table.
“We’ll give them five more minutes,” Cauchin said, not taking his eyes off Mary Jo, who had pulled out all the stops tonight in a backless green dress that was making it very hard for him to concentrate. The drunker he could get her before they started, the better.
HUNTER SAW FRANK DORRIEN first. He recognized the man in the café from Sally Faiers’s description, although even without it the general’s hiding behind Le Figaro was crashingly obvious.
So. The British are here.
From the direction of Dorrien’s glances, he ascertained that they had a man on the roof and possibly another at the back of Cauchin’s building. There was no sign of the CIA.
It’s risky, Hunter thought. Very risky. But not impossible.
From his alleyway vantage point he saw the other players arrive. He recognized Albert Dumas, but not the quirky little fellow in the bow tie, nor the overdressed but beautiful woman in the green evening dress.
Hunter wanted to play tonight, badly. He wanted to beat Pascal Cauchin, to see the look on his face when he lost his shirt. But not at any cost.
Sliding farther back into the shadows he watched and waited.
“I EXPECT JEREMY’S STUCK in traffic,” Antoine de la Court said nervously. “He’s usually very punctual.”
Albert Dumas gave the art dealer a disdainful look. He’d never been fond of the mincing de la Court, with his bow ties and gossipy anecdotes about the art world and affected way of tossing his bald head back when he laughed. It didn’t help that Antoine was an excellent poker player, as cunningly skillful as he was charming. Albert had lost a lot of money to the ghastly little fag over the years.
Apparently one of the newcomers Cauchin had invited tonight was another queer, a theater type from New York. Pascal probably wants to limit his competition for the Texas woman, Albert thought bitterly. Pathetic the way he’s all over her.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably Jeremy now,” Antione de la Court said, sounding relieved.
“Good.” Pascal beamed at Mary Jo. “That only leaves Lex Brightman. As soon as he gets here, we’ll get started.”
Jeremy Sands. Lex Brightman, Tracy thought. One of them is Hunter Drexel. I’m sure of it.
Was Hunter about to be shown into the room?
Tracy’s heart began to beat faster. Maybe she did need that second drink after all?
ALEXIS ARGYROS PULLED DOWN the visor on his motorcycle helmet.
Where the hell is he?
Where’s Drexel?
A laundry van passed him, pulling round to the back of the building and disappearing into the underground garage. Alexis felt his stomach churn.
Had he missed Hunter somehow? Was the bastard already inside?
He turned on his engine.
“THAT’S STEVENS!” FRANK DORRIEN hissed at the man stationed in front of Cauchin’s building. “He’s crossing the road now. For God’s sake stop him.”
The man started walking towards Jeff, when another voice in his ear made him hesitate.
“Target sighted!” It was the man on the roof. “Repeat, Drexel sighted.”
“Where?” Frank scanned the street frantically.
“Coming towards you, General. You should be looking right at him in about twenty seconds. Blond hair, black jacket.”
“Shit!” Frank jumped to his feet, spilling hot tea all down his crotch. “Keep him in sights but don’t shoot,” he told the man on the roof. “Jim,” he told the first man, “get over here, now!”
JEFF STEVENS STOOD ON the doorstep of Pascal Cauchin’s apartment building, panting and mopping the sweat from his brow.
He was late, but only by a few minutes.
Had Drexel arrived already? Was he inside? Was Tracy?
More than anything it was the prospect of coming face-to-face with Tracy again that made his heart race and his palms sweat uncontrollably.
Get a grip, Jeff told himself sternly. You are Jeremy Sands. You are a wealthy energy investor from Manhattan.
Tracy wouldn’t give him away. She couldn’t risk blowing her own cover. But once she saw him the game would be up. Tracy would want to know how he’d found her, not to mention why he was following her. Jeff would have to tell her the truth, or some version of it. I’m here to protect you, wouldn’t go down well. Tracy didn’t appreciate being protected. She could take care of herself. She would also doubtless be furious with Jeff for ruining her chance of confronting Hunter Drexel.
Too bad. She should never have run out on me after Nick died. She’s the one who owes me an explanation, not the other way around.
The door swung open.
“May I help you?”
Jeff drew back his shoulders and smiled. “Jeremy Sands. I’m here for the game.”
HUNTER HAD BEEN ABOUT to blag his way into the service entrance when he heard the motorbike engine revving just a few yards behind him.
Even before he looked over his shoulder he knew.
Apollo!
Risky had just turned into fatal. He had to get out of here. Darting out of his shadowy hiding place like a cockroach out of its nest, Hunter forced himself to keep to a walking pace as he turned the corner into the street.
Left was a dead end. Right took him straight towards the café where MI6 were waiting.
No. I can’t let it end here. Caught like a rat in a trap.
I won’t.
The front entrance to Cauchin’s building was directly opposite him now. A smartly dressed man was standing on the stoop. A doorman opened the door and was talking to the man.
Changing course suddenly, Hunter ran towards the open door.
TRACY WAS STILL FENDING off Pascal Cauchin’s advances when she heard the first shot.
“What the hell was that?” Antoine de la Court asked.
“Probably somebody’s car backfiring,” said Albert Dumas.
Then came the second and third shots, in quick succession, followed by loud screaming from the street below.
“That’s gunfire!” Pascal dropped Tracy’s hand like a hot stone and dived for the panic button on the far wall. “Everybody get down!” His voice had shot up an octave with fear. Despite this, everyone in the room flattened themselves to the ground as commanded.
Everyone except Tracy. Moving calmly to the window, she pulled back the curtain and surveyed the street below. A man dressed in black and driving a Ducati motorbike roared past and out of sight. The shooter, presumably. But had he found his target?
At first it was hard to tell what was happening. People were running everywhere, scattering in panic, screaming. But Tracy’s trained eyes swiftly settled on three individuals amid the melee.
The first was Major General Frank Dorrien, standing in the street yelling into his telephone, gesticulating wildly.
So MI6 knew Drexel would be here! Interesting that they never said a word to the CIA.
The second was a blond man who appeared to be trying to hide a limp. Tracy couldn’t ma
ke out the man’s face from this angle but she saw his muscles tense in pain as he attempted to run in the direction of the river.
The third individual who drew Tracy’s attention she could only see from behind. This man was tall, well dressed with dark curly hair, and he was the only person walking, rather than running, toward the metro station.
Tracy’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach.
I recognize that walk.
Just then, a hand grabbed her roughly by the waist and manhandled her down onto the floor.
“Mon Dieu, Mary Jo, have you lost your mind?” Pascal Cauchin hissed in Tracy’s ear. “Stay away from the window. It could be a terrorist attack! The police are on their way but you must stay down.”
“Sorry, Pascaaaal,” Tracy drawled. Decades of practice had taught her never to slip when in character. “Ah guess ah was just curious.”
Lying on Pascal Cauchin’s parquet floor, Tracy’s heart and mind raced.
I must have made a mistake. It can’t be him.
It just can’t be.
HÉLÈNE FAUBOURG ALMOST JUMPED out of her skin. A handsome, blond man with wild eyes and a terrifying expression on his face stepped right in front of her Renault Clio, practically hurling himself across her windscreen.
“Help me,” he panted, wrenching open the passenger door and climbing inside once Hélène screeched to a halt.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my car!”
She had pepper spray in the glove box, but would have to reach across him to get it.
“Please. I won’t hurt you. I’ve been shot. See?” The man pulled up the leg of his pants to reveal rivers of blood.
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” Hélène said. “The one on Rue Ambroise Paré is the closest. You’ll be OK.”
“No,” said the man. “No hospitals. Please. I need to get out of Paris. Just drive.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out what must have been tens of thousands of euros, maybe more, in cash.
“Take it,” he wheezed, wincing in pain. “Please. Just get me out of here.”