And then the fluttering specter slowly raised her arm. As Perry watched in horror, she reached out her finger and pointed at him, accusing him of killing her a second time by letting Flick escape. As his last scrap of sanity fled, Perry saw blood begin to shoot in pulsing bursts from a tiny incision on her throat. She was screaming. Or was it Amanda? Or both? He couldn’t tell. It might have even been him.
It didn’t matter. His vision began to falter. Trina began to dissipate before him, until she was little more than fog, then a mist, then nothing. As she faded and was no longer between Perry and the timer on the bomb, it seemed to his failing mind that the minute digit was a single number now. It could have been nine. It could have been one.
Amanda’s crazed screams suddenly ceased. But not because she had grown silent. It was because Perry, his mind’s boundaries distorted and shattered, had shut down. He slumped into unconsciousness.
But even this provided no relief. For now he saw even more images of horror: the photos of Trina dead on the floor; Duchamp, displayed in the same way; the Trade Center towers exploding and collapsing, his parents incinerated as they did. He saw every painful moment of his entire miserable life compressed into a single instant. Perry willed his eyes to snap open once more. Facing his own end would be easier than seeing the twisted displays of his broken mind.
He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Amanda had truly stopped screaming now. He forced himself not to look at the timer. The end would come when it came.
And at that instant there was a brilliant flash of light and…dog slobber?
Perry heard an unmistakable sound: Fleming’s bark. Perry shook his head, and it cleared just enough for him to realize that, against all reason, Fleming was most definitely sitting, climbing actually, on his lap and up his chest, licking his face as if it were coated in peanut butter.
“What the hell…how…where—?”
“Shh, one moment, Monsieur Eagle. I must concentrate.”
Perry turned to face the voice and saw Piet frantically keying code into a compact tablet, which was connected to the device by a single white cable. Piet’s fingers flew across the screen of the tablet. Perry hazarded one more look at the timer on the nuke.
Fifteen seconds. And still descending.
“Merde!” Piet cursed. “Merde, merde, merde!”
“Less shit and more fingers,” Perry croaked.
“I’m trying!” Piet complained.
Daring for an instant to believe they had been saved, Perry watched as the digits continued to decrease. Eight, seven, six…six…still six.
The counter had stopped. It had stopped!
Piet let out a whoop. “No more merde!” he shouted.
From the other side of the hold, Perry heard a groan as Amanda began to stir. As soon as he was satisfied the counter was not going to restart, Piet spoke into a commlink in his shirt cuff, and a half dozen agents and members of the National Police swarmed into the barge, quickly uncuffing both shaken operatives, and escorting them to the deck. Fleming, not allowing Perry to get more than a few inches away from him, nearly got tangled in his feet as he walked into the sunlight.
As he came on deck, he looked to his left and saw Notre Dame cathedral, still standing tall and magnificent. The barge’s auto-navigation system and the timer on the bomb had worked in perfect synchronization. Had Piet arrived even a minute later…but Piet had made it on time, although with only six seconds to spare.
Once they disembarked, Perry and Fleming were led to an unmarked car. They climbed into the back seat, followed by Piet. As the car pulled away from what was quickly becoming a chaotic scene, the bellhop agent looked at Perry and smiled.
“What’s funny?” Perry asked.
“The confusion on your face. I see this last-minute reprieve has taken you somewhat by surprise.”
Perry huffed. “Tell me, Piet, is massive understatement a part of the French culture or just a specialty of yours. In addition to nuclear bomb disarmament.”
Piet waved one hand, as if brushing away the compliment. “Technically, I did not disarm it; I merely interrupted the detonation.”
“Either way, you are my hero.”
“Non,” said Piet, reaching out to give Fleming a scratch. “This is the real hero.”
“Fleming?”
Piet laughed. “Certainement! You will recall I promised to look after him personally when you contacted me at the desk, upsetting the desk clerk considerably, I might add. I’m afraid I may have forfeited my position at the Hôtel.”
“I’ll see you get work,” Perry laughed.
“At any rate, soon after I arrived in your suite, Fleming began acting quite perturbed, barking wildly and spinning in circles. I assumed he needed a squat, so I affixed his leash and brought him outside for a walk. He immediately pulled free of my grasp and began to tear down the Rue.”
“Tear? I didn’t realize the fat boy had the ability to tear anywhere.”
“He can be speedy when he desires to be, I assure you. But he was also mindful that I have only two legs, and when I fell too far behind he waited for me to catch up before dashing off again.”
Perry looked at Flem’s adoring face. “You tore and dashed? Both in the same day?”
Fleming barked once in response, his tail nub spinning. Piet went on.
“Prior to leaving the safehouse, Monsieur Duchamp had called in the details of your situation, including your conclusions about how the bomb would be transported, as well as Montemarche’s proclaimed location for the detonation. I learned this when I was called by our superior.”
“Moore?” Perry asked.
“The same. He had assigned me to your hotel knowing an explosives technician would most likely be called upon, if we were fortunate enough to locate it in time. So, as I said, I knew these things, and to my great surprise I soon realized this was the direction in which Fleming was headed. When he reached the bank of the Seine, across from the Ile de la Cité, he resumed his mad spinning and barking routine. It was then I spotted the barge, moving north, only a hundred meters from the cathedral. A small launch was moored only a short distance from us, and the Fleming’s antics drew the owner’s attention. I begged him to take us alongside the barge. He refused at first, but I managed to convince him.” Piet patted his holstered Glock. “He then left rather quickly and I commandeered his vessel.”
Perry could only shake his head. “But still, how could Fleming have known I was in trouble, or where I would be?”
“For that I have no explanation. Only gratitude that it does indeed seem to be the case. Animals have ways of knowing what we humans can only guess at. Or perhaps it was your guardian angel.”
Perry smiled, knowing at once who that angel must have been. “Yes…a guardian angel. I like that explanation. We’ll go with that.”
13
The next week was something of a blur for Perry. He remained in Paris, going through endless debriefing sessions, as well as cooperating—to the extent he was allowed—with French officials who spent hours questioning him. The fact Pierre Montemarche was involved in dark practices did not seem to surprise them, but the depth of his depravity did.
One part of the endless grind of paperwork and interviews that did please Perry, however, was that, based upon his description of Flick, they were able to cull through their massive database of known and suspected Scorpion operatives and come up with a “probable match.” That was their term. The moment Perry looked at the dossier he knew it was him, even though the man in the picture had a full beard the Flick in Paris had been clean-shaven. Still the details were incomplete and sketchy. Raul Ramon Hernandez, Spanish national, known to have associated with several confirmed Scorpion agents, though never confirmed to have acted in concert with any.
The evidence might be inconclusive, but Perry knew this was his man. And now he had a face, a name, and a nationality. But he also knew Flick would not be easy to track down, even with the additional information. Montemarche h
ad escaped as well, although that bothered Perry less.
At last, all the necessary bullshit came to an end, and Perry was ready to go home. It was an unsettling thought. He would, until called upon again, be alone once more with his thoughts, and despite the positive outcome of this assignment, that was not a welcome scenario.
When he left the nondescript building that served as SpyCo’s main Paris headquarters, he saw it was night time—a lovely autumn evening. He had been walking for less than a minute when his phone rang. He looked at the screen, which read “Le Gros Fromage,” causing him to laugh out loud. He had forgotten that on the flight to Paris he’d warded off thoughts of Trina for a brief time by humorously changing people’s names in his contact list. “The Big Cheese” was the name he’d selected for J. Carlton Moore, though under the circumstances, he chose to type it in French.
“Sir,” he said as he accepted the call.
“Eagle, you have cheated yourself of a gruesome death yet again.”
“Just can’t seem to get it right, sir.”
“I’ve been told your final debriefing session has concluded. You’re booked on a midnight flight for New York. That should give you time to coerce your dog into his crate.”
“He hates that thing,” Perry told his boss.
“From the sound of things, he should have the first-class seat and you should be in the crate. Odd how things go. You brought him along only because your usual sitter was unavailable, and if that weren’t interesting enough, in your official report you insist on indicating he was led to you by a guardian angel.”
“That was Piet’s idea, although it’s as reasonable as any other I could come up with.”
“Ah yes, Piet. His stock in the agency has certainly risen.”
“Deservedly. He’d proven his worth even before saving the lives of over two million unsuspecting citizens.”
“And thanks to the French government, they remain unsuspecting. It is a thing of beauty when a country can keep something of this magnitude from becoming public knowledge.”
“On that point, you might get an argument, at least in the States.”
Moore cleared his throat. “My point exactly. In any case, get yourself home. You’ve kept the shaking crystal goblet of faith I maintain in you on the shelf for another day.”
And with that the line went dead.
Perry smiled. He understood what Moore had meant. Although he remained able to go into a messy situation and get the job done, he was still a long way from regaining his top operative status. Burke and Archer continued to share that lofty post. But he wasn’t hurt by Moore’s inability to trust him completely. He didn’t trust himself. He had certainly played a major part in the mission’s satisfactory outcome, but it could have very easily gone in a much different, unimaginably horrible direction. And that, just as much as any success, would have rested firmly on his shoulders.
And he still had the empty penthouse to deal with when he got home.
He was just about to slide his phone back into his pocket when he saw a group of women standing together in the glow of a streetlight. They were obviously prostitutes, and as he approached they began to call to him, asking if he needed a date, and offering other, less subtle, services. He smiled and shook his head no, and was about to pass them by when he noticed the prettiest of the group was wearing a black, spaghetti string tank top with the words “Cœur d’or” emblazoned on it in sparkling sequins. He thought at once of Goren Specjemen’s one request. Perhaps he couldn’t bring him a hooker with a heart of gold, but he could text him a picture of one wearing a shirt that said exactly that. He asked her if he could take her picture, and she indicated it would cost him fifty euros.
“Money well spent,” he said, handing it over. He snapped the picture and a few moments later he’d sent it to Speck with the caption, “Payment in full.”
He was again about to slide the phone away when it buzzed once more. He assumed it would be Specjemen sending him a witty retort in broken English, but the caller ID read “Hero.”
Piet.
“Monsieur Eagle. I’m sending you a picture.”
While still connected to Piet, the phone vibrated and he opened the text. It was a picture of an open-air market. Near a stall selling knives stood a man with a face that caused Perry to stop dead in his tracks. Flick was already wearing a mustache, but it was unmistakably the assassin.
“When was this taken,” Perry said.
“Four hours ago.”
“Where?”
“Turkey. Istanbul.”
Perry thought for a moment, but only a moment. “I need you to keep Fleming with you for a little longer.”
“He is sleeping quite comfortably at the foot of my bed, with a poodle lying next to him.”
“Well, tell him not to get too comfortable.”
“I will see to it. And Monsieur Eagle?”
“Yes, Piet?”
“Make him suffer.”
Perry broke the connection and immediately dialed another number. A moment later a man’s voice answered.
“Air France. How may I help you?”
14
15
16
Assignment: Istanbul
A SpyCo Novella #3
1
There was really no reason to hate the city of Istanbul. Perry Hall had never disliked it before, but now he wanted to turn around and go back into the airport. As he stepped out of the terminal, he inhaled the slightly cinnamon-scented air and took in the stunning scenery. Lost in his foul mood, he jostled a fellow commuter who was also making his way to the bus stop and the man turned and smiled at him, reminding Perry of how friendly the inhabitants were. No, there really wasn’t any reason to dislike this city, but at the moment, Perry did.
Of course, his current opinion was likely influenced by the foul mood that had begun at de Gaulle and deepened during the flight. Somewhere in this city of almost fifteen million souls lurked his wife’s murderer, Raul Ramon Hernandez, aka Flick—so named for his trait of killing with a quick flick of his razor-sharp blade into the carotid artery of the neck. His presence in the city was all the reason Perry needed to consider it the vilest place on earth.
This was not Perry’s first visit to Istanbul, though his previous arrival had been very different. In fact, it had been much less an “arrival,” than an “insertion.” He and another SpyCo agent had been ferried in on a rubber raft from the Sea of Marmara under the cover of a moonless night. They spent a total of two hours and forty-seven minutes in Turkey before locating, questioning, and eliminating their target. His partner had been wounded by a lucky shot from a Scorpion operative on the beach as they sped back to open sea, but other than that the mission had been textbook perfect.
A public bus trundled toward him and Perry stepped forward. The already-full vehicle stopped and Perry climbed aboard, even as he felt his phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his jacket. He grabbed the leather hand strap to steady himself as the bus began moving once again, and used his other hand to take out his phone. The words “Le Gros Fromage” appeared on the screen—he hadn’t had time to change any of the names of his contacts back after he’d humorously updated them during the boring debriefing process in Paris. The call was J. Carlton Moore, “The Big Cheese.” Perry groaned. He also knew Moore was not going to be happy and for a moment, Perry’s finger hovered over the “Decline” button. But that would delay the inevitable. He tapped “Accept” and put the phone to his ear.
“Sir,” he said.
“Eagle, I have a question. Why the hell are you in Istanbul?” This wasn’t the first time Perry had heard Moore speak with that particular tone of voice, it wasn’t even the first time he’d heard it directed towards himself. But there was a quality of venom in it he did not recall, and he thought it best to tread lightly.
“Before heading to the airport in Paris I received some very fresh intel indicating Flick had landed here, sir.”
“I see.”
“I thought after the way Paris turned out I might have him a little off balance. I felt it was a good time to strike.”
“I see.”
Perry swallowed hard. “I have to find him, sir.”
“I see.”
A frown creased Perry’s forehead. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
“One more thing. Maybe two, depending upon your answer. First thing: turn around, go back to the airport, and get on the next plane to New York.”
With a suddenness that surprised even himself, the dark presence in Perry’s skull rose to its full stature. “I can’t do that, sir. I’ve been waiting two years for this opportunity. When we were in Paris, I had him right in my kill zone, and I let him walk away. I’m not letting him get away again.”
“Then you’ve left me only one option. I had hoped your success in Paris might begin to steer you back in a direction of greater control and, therefore, greater usefulness to me. Not every case calls for a suicidal loose cannon, Eagle. You have become a liability. And so I will now say the second thing: you’re fired.”
Perry was surprised by how little impact Moore’s words had on him. “I hope you don’t think that bothers me in the least. I’m a liability? I think you need to look in the mirror if you want to root out your liabilities. Your goddamn headshrinker almost killed Burke in Athens, and taking care of the little weasel has not taken care of the problem, because I was attacked even before I left the airport in New York. SpyCo has a gaping security hole, and you’re worried about me hunting down the filth who killed Trina? Fuck you. I quit.”
Generally, when talking with Moore on the phone, the call ended when the SpyCo chief disconnected without saying goodbye. This time it ended as Perry mashed the red button and crammed the phone back into his pocket. That didn’t satisfy the amount of anger he felt, however, and a moment later he pulled it back out and slammed it repeatedly into the metal pole to which his handgrip was attached, snapping it into two pieces. He suddenly realized everyone on the bus was staring at him, but he didn’t care. With a growl, he reached in front of the two women seated next to where he stood and hurled the shattered phone out the open bus window.
Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3 Page 16
