by Gavin Reese
Opening his eyes, Gerard looked back to the monitors and resigned himself to abandoning the case. Even after what Luc told him this morning about the foreigner, Gerard had no other viable option. He can’t reach this mystery man, his ‘Father Andrew,’ and I can’t risk everything important in my life on the mere hope he’ll materialize.
Gerard exhaled and wondered how to salvage his career with Algeri. I’m fucked. My life might not have to be over, but I’m about to endure the greatest schism I’ve ever known.
Movement. There. A Caucasian man moved casually across the screen on camera #4, which faced north and covered the sidewalk across the street from the entrance to the apartment building. As the man walked toward the traffic stanchion that concealed that camera, he slowly grew larger on Gerard’s monitor. I’ve seen him before, but, where?
Rifling through his memory, Gerard required only a few moments to place the outsider. He has the same gate as that man from last night, well, at least, before he sprinted away from the imam and his small mob.
The unidentified man strolled along the sidewalk, and then bent down to pick up a plastic wrapper near his path. He cast a sideways glance toward the target. Momentary, but obvious to Gerard’s training and experience. Time to meet the man I’ll either arrest or die next to. Whatever the outcome, there’s no reason for us to remain strangers.
May 8, 09:42am
Rue de République. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
Michael reached the south end of the target street, Rue de Corbillon, and turned right on Rue de République, which placed him in front of the small bodega his pursuers had patronized last night. Now devoid of the crowds and street-fair atmosphere, the area was almost abandoned. Bright restaurants that had boisterous mobs of diners spilling out their doors last night were silent, shuttered, and unwelcoming. Michael assumed the area catered to a late-night crowd, but pressed on and kept a covert, vigilant watch over his eerie surroundings. He needed to familiarize himself with the target environment and establish what defined its “normal,” which he couldn’t accomplish from a distant laptop with Google Maps. Once enough of his requested equipment, intel, and analysis came in, Michael intended to commence the heavier lifting of penetrating the apartment building and proving or dispelling the allegations.
He stopped into a small creperie along the north sidewalk, which he believed was a common thing to do on a sunny spring morning. A woman working behind the counter wore a beautifully detailed blue-and-green headscarf, and she beamed as Michael entered. He couldn’t help but return the gesture.
“Bonjour,” she called out.
“Bonjour. Une crêpe au Nutella, s'il vous plaît.”
“Bien sûr.”
Michael scanned the neighborhood from inside the creperie. A white male dressed in dark gray slacks, a black long-sleeved dress shirt, and a floppy cap strode by on the sidewalk. At first glance, he looked like almost every other Parisian taxi driver, except for his striking resemblance to the actor Daniel Craig. The man walked next to the street and barely escaped colliding with the sideview mirrors of the small coupes and sedan tightly parked there. As he moved across the front of the shop from Michael’s right, the man looked inside and made momentary eye contact. Although his clothing matched that of an ordinary cabbie, the stranger’s eyes, scars, and tactical positioning announced that he was far more dangerous. A chill descended Michael’s spine. Despite having never seen the man, he immediately and intimately recognized what he was. He’s a hunter, a wolf who’s circling closer to drive his prey.
Michael calmly looked to the clerk, realized she hadn’t seen the exchange, and then glanced back to the sidewalk. The unknown predator passed out of sight to the left. Stepping closer to the doorway to widen his field of view, Michael watched him cross the street and angle toward the bodega. No idea who he is or who he’s after, but there's no mistaking that specific shade of darkness in a man’s eyes.
During his tenure as a patrol cop, even in the small town where he’d worked, Michael had developed into a benevolent predator himself. To survive the streets, he’d grown to recognize those same traits in people around him. While many of his colleagues strove to be sheepdogs, Michael tried to emulate the lion, the king of the jungle. Every hunter must become comfortable with violence, and that irreversibly changes a man. Even the most righteous among us embrace and project a symbiotic darkness that comes from the repeated application of speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence of action to solve otherwise impossible problems. The stranger disappeared into the small market without looking back. Only a sociopath commits violence with smiling eyes.
“Monsieur?”
Michael turned and stepped back to the counter, where the clerk handed him a parchment-wrapped crepe. “Merci.”
“De rien.” She gave him one last smile, wiped off the counter, and disappeared into the back.
Michael shuffled the hot crepe back and forth between his hands as it cooled and scanned the street. With no sign of the cabbie-hunter, he stepped outside and movement to his left arrested his attention.
The cabbie strolled so close to the buildings that Michael couldn’t see his approach from inside the creperie. God dammit. He nudged the top of the concealed pistol to ensure it remained in place and ready. Although he’d planned on walking west, the same direction as the cabbie, he didn’t want the stranger behind him. Michael stood in place, bit a small nibble off the crepe, and tried to appear natural and calm. He’ll walk past in about ten, twelve seconds. If I have to fight him, I want to see it coming. Letting it happen here might mean the clerk will call the cops or medics, depending on how it goes. Better than bleeding out in a back alley on the other side of the block.
Michael casually scanned the street, listened for the man’s steps, and counted off his estimated arrival. Another small nibble. Five...four... He took a half-step back until his right heel pressed against the shop’s exterior wall. Michael wanted the additional leverage and the decreased probability of a ground fight in the street. When the stranger came within ten feet, Michael looked at him and adopted a polite smile. The man veered left to barely avoid Michael, and his predation signals had elevated despite both hands staying visible. Michael anticipated a lunge and braced himself for impact.
The cabbie held eye contact and shrugged, which naturally kept both his hands visible to Michael as he strolled only a few feet away. “If you’re here to help, meet me at McDonald’s in five minutes.” He lowered his hands, resumed a normal stride, and walked past Michael as though nothing had happened.
Michael stood in place and glanced back inside the store. The clerk had stepped out of sight. He scanned the street and didn’t find anyone interested in either of them, or their interaction. Help what? Who? He knows I speak English, but does he know I’m a priest? Does he know more than that? Michael took another bite before looking back at the cabbie, who continued on at the same pace. Only fifty yards ahead of the stranger, Michael spied the familiar golden arches. How now, brown cow?
He worked his way through the crepe and pondered his options. No reasonable, alternate route to the meet. Probably not a second entrance into the place, anyway, buildings here aren’t like the ones back home. It’s a public place, almost guaranteed to be cameras. Not good for my anonymity, but it’s a terrible place for him to try killing me for the same reason. A reasonable authority figure wouldn’t invite a confrontation there, too many kids around at any given time. He’s either an anti-terror cop or a rando who’s nuttier than squirrel shit. Never gonna find out standing here.
Michael crumpled the parchment, tossed it in a trash can just inside the creperie, and gave the immediate environment a long, last look. Nothing obvious, no one’s trying too hard to not be seen. What the hell... Stepping off to follow the cabbie-hunter, Michael kept his guard up and ran through a constant mental string of “what-ifs” to keep potential flight paths and escape routes at the forefront of his conscious mind. Those few critical seconds can be lifesavers if I get surpris
ed and have to jackrabbit.
The restaurant, unlike its American counterparts, was in a common storefront similar to a strip mall, except that the three-story stone structure had been built before the US became an independent nation. This prevented Michael from seeing into the building without standing in front of its windows. He sighed and accepted the additional risk.
A few dozen pedestrians moved about the vicinity, strolled in and out of various businesses, and engaged in the normal activities of daily life. No one’s nervous, attentive, or odd. Even though most of the people he passed that morning had regarded Michael with discomfort, curiosity, or suspicion, he saw no sign of malice or fear. The more powerful emotions are the hardest ones to hide, the easiest to see in others.
His chest tightened as he closed in on the familiar sign, and Michael recognized the irony that the iconic arches had been so comforting throughout his childhood and college years. Now I’m headed inside to risk my freedom and my life. Don't let me down, Ronald, I really don’t wanna die in a goddamned fast-food joint.
Michael slowed his pace a bit, discreetly nudged the hidden pistol again, and glanced through the tall front windows. His contact carried a green plastic food tray from the front counter toward the back of the dining room, and he selected a table deeper in the building just outside the restrooms. He sat against the sturdy back wall and faced the only entrance. Exactly where every cop and operative wants to sit. Michael pulled the door open, stepped inside, and scanned the few tables of patrons. Given that most of the neighborhood fasted during the day, the scant business seemed normal. Although not as helpful at detecting undercover cops, Michael’s first instinct was to scan for military-age males. A couple young families, pretty much who I’d expect to see here. The only single MAMs are me and the cabbie.
Unsure what to do next, Michael strode toward his contact, who nodded and glanced toward the registers. Following the man’s direction, Michael strolled to the counter, fumbled through enough Fren-glish to order a combo meal, and patiently waited for its arrival. The few moments gave him another opportunity to examine everything around him for potential threats. Still seeing nothing of concern by the time his croissant sandwich and espresso arrived, Michael accepted the food tray and strode toward the contact. He hasn’t arrested or shot me yet, but he could just be waiting for the backup to arrive and take me off when he has numbers on his side. That’s the prudent way tactic if you can leverage the resources.
Michael imperceptibly took a deep breath in through his nose, and he held it for a moment as he passed the food counter and strolled left to approach the cabbie’s table. As soon as they made eye contact, the target stood up and Michael instinctively nudged the pistol. In that instant, he pre-planned his threat response: drop the tray, pull the front of his shirt up with his left hand, and retrieve the pistol while stepping left and ducking to cover.
The cabbie had already eaten his food, but made a little show of crumpling a paper, which he abandoned on the table as he picked up the tray and walked toward Michael.
Confused by the events, Michael slowed his pace but continued on toward the same corner of the dining room. The cabbie met Michael’s gaze as he departed and glanced back at the table and its crumpled paper. Alright, so it’s a kind of dead drop, not a meeting.
Michael sat down at the table next to the cabbie’s and unloaded his food tray. He set the empty tray on the cabbie’s table and retrieved the paper by concealing it in his left palm. Just paper, nothing hidden inside it. Michael pocketed the note and again scanned his surroundings. Young parents sat at a few tables and their children played with crayons and shouted, but nothing stood out. Still no obvious threats, no one interested in me or the paper.
As he nibbled at his breakfast sandwich, Michael looked around for cameras and found two that watched the inbound traffic through the front door. A third focused on the food counter and cash registers. He retrieved the crumpled paper and saw rough handwriting in black ink.
“Parking garage. West entrance. 10:45. Not late, not early. 10:45.”
Michael recrumpled the paper and wondered how to destroy it. This shit’s way outside my lane, so John never went over this in training. He glanced at the balled-up paper. Not gonna eat it like some stupid spy spoof...unless, maybe I should?
Instead, he delicately dropped the paper ball into his espresso. Nothing magical happened that rendered the note illegible, but Michael felt confident he’d done enough, given the low probability that a second, additional op-for had been watching him during the last thirty minutes.
He sat back in the vinyl bench seat and considered the next move. The more I follow this guy around, the more I confirm who and what I am. He might not know my employer or assignment, but he’ll understand I’m an operative. There’s only one parking garage nearby, and his team could be waiting to help, arrest, capture, or kill me. Decent tactical move, it’s a much better place to accomplish any of those objectives. Whoever this guy is, he’s forcing me to go all-in to see his hand. Michael sighed, retrieved his work cell, and used its mapping software to examine the garage, which stood only a few hundred feet to the northeast. He checked the time. Twenty-three minutes. I don’t really have a choice about going, but that doesn’t mean I have to walk straight into an ambush.
May 8, 10:44am
Rue de Chaumettes. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
After hustling to cover a half-mile route and clandestinely approach the meeting from the north, Michael stood inside a small food market, sipped at a paper cup of dark, rich espresso, and watched the parking garage entrance. Although the McDonald’s stood only a few hundred feet across the street to his southwest, Michael hoped the cabbie had wagered on him not taking the long way around the massive city block.
From the east side of the street and due north of the three-story garage, the market’s three large southern windows allowed Michael to watch a small brick-paved courtyard between the buildings and see anyone who entered or left the target. With the sun already high enough overhead, the relative darkness inside the store assured Michael no one in the courtyard or garage could see him, not that he’d yet identified anyone there, anyway.
The late spring morning had warmed up and Michael wished he'd visited the famed city under different circumstances. I’d like to take in the sights, listen to the birds chirp in the Eiffel Tower Park, and stop at every crepe stand I pass. Instead, I’m playing spy games way beyond my training and hoping for the best. He rechecked his watch. 10:45.
Michael tossed the cup in a small trashcan and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A brief pause allowed him to scan the street one last time. He consciously felt the concealed pistol’s weight at his front, right waistline and avoided nudging it again. As with much of Paris, the narrow residential street allowed only one-way traffic, southbound in this case, toward the garage. Lined with tightly parked cars on its west side, most of which showed repeated contact on the bumpers, quarter-panels, and doors. A city of a few million shitty drivers from all over the world, narrow cobblestones streets, and not an ounce of elbow room.
Seeing nothing that concerned him, he strode toward the garage’s pedestrian entrance. Immediate escape is back toward the McDonald’s. Gotta cross the street and get on the other side of those parked cars if things really go south. The closer he strode to his objective, the more he limited and prolonged his escape options.
Michael hoped he’d retained some element of surprise, but, as he stepped into the shade of the garage’s ground floor, he realized his failure. The cabbie stood among the line of vehicles parked up against a vertical, north-south concrete support wall in the center of the floor. He’s no more than twenty yards away, an easy pistol shot for either of us. Both the man’s hands were visible, but he made a show of leaving the cover of the engine block and stepping over to the sedan’s cab to place his hands in plain sight on its roof.
Michael stopped, scanned his surroundings, and cautiously approached the man only after he saw no one else around
them. Too easy for someone to pop out between these parked cars. Stay alert...
“Thank you for coming,” the cabbie offered in lightly accented English.
Michael didn't respond. Waiting until he stood just a few cars away, he dropped onto his stomach to look under the cars for anyone concealed among them. Nothing. We’re alone. Maybe. He hurried up from the compromising position and found the man hadn’t moved. Michael walked to the opposite side of the same blue sedan. Stepping between the parked cars, he turned around and leaned back against the concrete support wall, faced the stranger, and crossed his arms.
“I understand the position I’ve put you in.”
Michal held the man’s eye contact for a moment. “Can you explain it to me, then?”
“I suspect you are here to help. If not, then you are very lost and I must help you.”
Michael shrugged. “I don't know what help you need.”
“Of course, not, and that is why you, an obvious foreigner, followed a complete stranger into a restaurant and an isolated parking garage in a neighborhood known across the globe for increasing ethnic violence and segregation.” He smiled at Michael and shook his head a few times. “You can say whatever you and your organization demand at this moment, but you’ve spent the last thirty-two minutes confirming my suspicions. We can continue this futile dance, if we must, but I fear we’re both running out of time.”
Michael realized the truth in the cabbie’s statements and hated the intel disparity that existed between them. He inhaled and sighed, facing the only reasonable choice before him. Have to divulge this in small pieces. “I’m an investigator.”
The cabbie showed no reaction and let silence press on Michael.
