by Mike Brogan
He thought back to when Nina Brower and he had trained together at the CIA Farm in Williamsburg. She was smart, attractive, and tough enough to outperform a few male colleagues in some physical endurance tests. He remembered when she won the midnight navigation test by crawling though the snake and tick-infested forest and reaching the test’s pre-set coordinates before the boys.
After graduating, Nina and he were stationed in London where they teamed up to assassinate an Al Qaeda operative who’d murdered an American judge vacationing there. They also teamed up in bed.
But a few months later, when Smith was posted to Cairo and Nina was sent to Buenos Aires, the distance seemed to pull them apart.
Now, years after they’d both left the CIA, Smith realized Nina still looked great. He told the barman to send a round of drinks over to her table. The waiter delivered the drinks and Smith watched her ask him who’d sent them. The waiter nodded toward Smith. Her eyes lit up as she recognized him. She excused herself from her friends and strolled over toward him, bringing her drink.
“Eugene P. Smith lives!” she said, kissing his cheek.
“He does. What brings you to Cannes?”
“Corporate Security,” she said. “I work for a company that does sophisticated security systems for multinational companies.”
“Fun?”
She shrugged. “Not as exciting as the old days.”
“Our days?”
She smiled. “Yeah, our days. And what brings Eugene P. Smith to Cannes?”
“Like you, corporate security.”
“What kind.”
“The kind where one executive feels more secure if he eliminates the competition.”
“So to speak.”
Smith smiled and held up his scotch.
She clicked her glass to his and they sipped some.
“Maybe it’s time we revisit old memories,” she said.
“How about upstairs in Room 507?”
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
Smith heard a knock on his door. He opened it and Nina strolled in, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a slinky black dress that looked like it had been sprayed on. She was also wearing a new fragrance imbued with human sex pheromones. Whatever the fragrance, it worked. Within minutes they were making love like they had in London.
Later, lying spent in each other’s arms, she turned and whispered in his ear, “You serious about retiring?”
“This is my last assignment.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
She looked pleased that he’d said that.
“What about you?” he said.
“I’m quitting in three months. I just inherited my parents’ farm outside Tampa. A condo developer offered me eight million for the land.”
Smith smiled. “Sell. Retire. Enjoy.”
“That’s my plan.”
Eugene P. Smith glanced out the window at the long row of multimillion-dollar yachts lining the Bay of Cannes. Maybe he should buy a yacht, cruise away from those who wanted his head on a platter, and settle down.
With a little plastic surgery and new ID, he could sail to some exotic island in the Caribbean. Hell, he could buy the island. Disappear with Nina. They could live like a king and a queen. The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea.
But first he had an old debt to settle.
And it was time to settle it.
Fifty Three
Madison looked out at the more than four hundred festival attendees staring at her as she gave her presentation. So far, heads had nodded agreement, mouths had laughed at the jokes, and no one had thrown tomatoes. All positive signs.
She began to relax a bit, thinking she might actually make it through the speech.
One second later, she did not.
She saw him.
The Tall Man. Thirty rows up, standing next to the Exit. Tall, thin, familiar shape. Narrow face hidden in shadows. Dark eyes locked on hers. His hand held something shiny and black.
Her pulse started pounding so loud she feared the audience could hear it through her lapel microphone. She sipped water and continued speaking, but with an audible tremor.
In the first row, Kevin seemed to realize something had upset her. He looked around the auditorium, then back at her. She directed him with her eyes to where she’d seen the Tall Man, but the man was gone now.
Don’t panic, she told herself. Calm down, finish the speech. One page to go. He won’t shoot you here. Not in front of all these eyewitnesses!
Or will he?
Her hands trembling and palms sweating, she continued reading, and managed to finish her presentation to enthusiastic applause. As she stepped quickly off the podium, delegates swarmed around her, offering congratulations.
She thanked them, but Kevin hurried her away from the crowd. “Did you see him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Up there.”
The overhead lights suddenly came on, flooding the room.
She scanned the departing attendees and saw no one even remotely similar to the Tall Man. As she looked back up to where she’d seen him, a tall thin man walked through the Exit and stood in the same spot. A teenage usher. He held a black two-way radio.
“Whoops!” she said, pointing to the usher. “I overreacted.”
He smiled. “Underreacting is not an option.”
“Nor is missing the main event!” she said, pointing to the Exit.
Seconds later, they merged with the noisy crowd hurrying into the magnificent, tiered Grand Auditorium de Louis Lumiere for the festival’s final awards ceremony. She looked around at the twenty-three hundred other attendees, each hoping and praying for a highly coveted Lion D’or. Laser beams danced across the stage curtain and along the massive, low-hanging balcony hovering over the main floor. Suspense hung in the air like static electricity. Music, soft and atmospheric, filled the darkened room.
As they walked down to their row, Madison heard at least six different languages being spoken. They settled into their plush red seats. Kevin began drumming his fingers on his knees.
“Now who’s nervous?” she said.
“That would be me.”
“Why?”
“Bloc-voting.”
“You mean when European judges and others combine to vote lower scores on North American commercials?”
“Yeah, but also North American judges bloc-voting lower on commercials from other countries. It happens when you’ve got 127 judges from 31 countries. Remember 1991?”
“Vaguely.”
“The bloc-voting was so bad the festival president threatened to humiliate certain judges by having them publicly justify their very high marks for their own country’s very ordinary commercials.”
“But didn’t the new computerized voting system fix the problem?”
“Not completely.”
Suddenly, a blast of trumpets filled the room. The festival president strolled out and for the next twenty minutes everyone watched some brilliant, creative, provocative and hilarious Lion-winning commercials. Then the festival president announced, “Madams et monsieurs, la catégorie d’auto. The automobile category.”
Madison watched Kevin lean forward and grip his armrests.
The president continued, “And one Lion D’or has been awarded to ... Campbell-Ewald Advertising for their 60-second Corvette commercial.” The commercial flickered onto the big screen, spellbinding Madison for the full minute. The audience exploded in applause as the winning copywriter jogged to the stage and accepted her award.
“And another Lion D’or is awarded to ... Turner Advertising for their World Motors Scamper II SUV commercial.”
“YES!” Madison shouted, causing the people near her to smile.
Kevin shot his arm in the air and grinned like a kid. The projectionist ran the commercial and the audience roared their approval.
Kevin bounded up onto the stage and thanked the jury in perfect English and halting
French. Then he smiled directly at Madison and she felt like she would burst with pride for him. Minutes later, they were even more shocked when Kevin won a silver Lion for his pickup truck commercial. Winning two Lions was very rare. Other agencies would offer to double or triple Kevin’s salary. She’d have to match the offers to keep him.
After the awards ceremony, and still floating on air, they left the Palais des Festivals with the crowds strolling back toward the hotel parties along the Croisette, the romantic palm-treed boulevard that hugged the Bay of Cannes. Darkness had fallen. The hotel lights glittered around the bay like diamonds on black velvet. A soft, warm breeze rolled in from the sea.
Could this night be any more perfect? she wondered. Her speech had gone well. Kevin had won two prestigious awards, and she was walking arm in arm with a man she cared deeply for, thousands of miles away from a man who wanted to kill her.
In Le Petit Bar of the Carlton Hotel, Eugene P. Smith sat on the corner bar stool, sipping his second cup of strong coffee, and still savoring his amorous rendezvous with Nina Brower. The more he thought about her, the more he liked the idea of disappearing with Nina to some faraway island. Retiring. Forever.
But first, his final job. Now that the Awards Show was over, he watched the door more closely. Minutes later, he was rewarded with the sight of Madison McKean and Kevin Jordan strolling past and heading toward the elevators.
He waited a few minutes, drank the rest of his coffee, then walked out to the lobby and settled into a big leather chair. He pretended to read the International Herald Tribune, but in fact he watched for a man he’d seen earlier. Thirteen minutes later, the man strolled by. Smith put the Trib down and followed him onto an elevator.
“Etage, monsieur? Floor, sir?” asked the man, a tall elderly roomservice waiter.
“Four, monsieur, merci,” Smith said, smiling.
The old man punched Four, smiled back, then faced the door. Smith stared at the base of the old man’s neck. Lots of thick, bushy, gray hair, a veritable forest. Perfect for hiding a microscopic puncture from the syringe cupped in Smith’s left hand.
Smith grabbed the old man and injected him an inch above the hair line. He flailed a second, stiffened, then slumped. The elevator door opened, and Smith carried him out into the hall, then into a nearby housekeeping room. There, he removed the man’s white coat and tie and put them on. A perfect fit. He hid the waiter behind a tall shelf stacked with bath towels. The 2.5 grams of chloral hydrate, the equivalent of a very strong Mickey Finn, would keep the old guy asleep for about five hours.
Smith adjusted his reddish-brown goatee and mustache, a disguise McKean had not seen. Nor had she seen his cheeks puffed out by collagen injections, or the foam hump behind his left shoulder. Now, he was an unfortunate hunchback, a feeble old room service waiter she’d most certainly take pity on.
From the corner of the room, he took a small room service cart with a silver serving dish. He rolled it into the hall, then turned the corner and headed toward McKean’s room. He stopped at her door, leaned close and listened. He heard her laugh.
He knocked on the door.
“Service de chambre ... room service,” Smith said as he flicked his Glock’s safety off.
“Just a moment,” she said.
Seconds later, the door opened and a fifty-year-old woman smiled out at him.
Who the hell is she?
“Sorry, but we didn’t order room service.”
Smith knew this was McKean’s room. He’d checked twice.
“Is Ms. McKean here?”
“No. We just checked in. Ms. McKean must be the woman who checked out of this room minutes ago. The desk manager said we were darn lucky to get it.” The woman grinned like she’d just won the lottery.
Smith felt like shooting her between the eyes.
Fifty Four
Madison breathed out slowly as she and Kevin settled into the plush leather seats of the gleaming white Learjet.
The lap of luxury, she realized, looking around the cabin. They each had their own entertainment center, video monitor, personal computer, and stereo headphones. The galley had sterling silver cutlery and monogrammed Royal Doulton china.
“Feeling pampered?” Kevin said, rubbing the supple leather armrest.
“Feeling safe.”
He nodded.
Detective Loomis had phoned and told her that her attacker was in Cannes. Two minutes later, she and Kevin checked out of the Carlton, hurried out the back door and into a waiting taxi. Loomis advised them to immediately leave Cannes by non-commercial airline, if possible.
It was possible, thanks to nearby l’Aeroport Cannes Mandelieu, a small, modern airport, where the hotel concierge had arranged for them to charter a Learjet from a fleet that whisked VIPs in and out of Cannes daily. She’d almost choked on the thirty-nine-thousand-dollar cost, but Evan Carswell insisted she leave Cannes. The cost would be absorbed in the corporate travel budget.
Now, as the jet taxied onto the tarmac, she looked out the window and saw a halo of haze hovering over Cannes. Once again, she’d evaded the Tall Man, a man Detective Loomis said was named Eugene P. Smith, a man she believed would stop at nothing until he killed her ... or was stopped by the police.
Moments later, Madison felt herself thrust back into her cushy seat as the twin Learjet engines propelled the aircraft down the runway and up into the inky sky. She looked down at the dark Mediterranean, furrowing like black silk up to the shore. Along the docks, rows of white yachts were lit up with the bright lights of festival parties.
My party’s over, she thought. Back home, she’d have to focus on the upcoming ComGlobe merger vote. Feeling exhausted, she sipped more champagne, and seconds later, yawned.
She placed her hand on Kevin’s hand.
“Bon nuit, mademoiselle.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, and somewhere over the Atlantic, they drifted off to sleep.
Eleven hours later, Madison and Kevin sat in Café Cubana on Lexington Avenue, drinking their second cup of strong, Cuban coffee. The high-caffeine, sugary brew, plus the Salsa music blasting from a boombox behind the grill, had jump-started her jet-lagged brain. After sleeping through most of the flight and the refueling in the Azores, they landed at JFK around five in the morning. They taxied to Kevin’s apartment, showered and dressed for work.
Kevin put his coffee mug down and handed her a tiny earplug connected to his cell phone.
“Listen in.”
She held it to her ear and heard a phone ringing.
“Dryden....”
“Hey, Dean, it’s Kevin and Madison.”
“Hey, guys. So how was Cannes?”
“Breathless!” Kevin said.
“Cannes ... St. Kitts ... Manhattan. Wow, you ad biggies sure get around.”
“So does the $8.7 million.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we tracked it to a bank in the Caymans and then to a bank in Curacao.”
“Good work.”
“But dangerous. A guy’s trying to kill us.”
Dean Dryden was silent. “Are you OK?”
“We’re fine, Dean, but two bankers who were helping us are dead, probably murdered by the same man. Also, a woman helping us at National Media was shot. She’s in intensive care.”
“Jesus....”
Madison signaled Kevin that she’d like to say something. He handed her the phone.
“Dean, it’s Madison. I’m concerned.”
“About what?”
“You. The person behind this always seems to know who’s helping us. And like Kevin said, those helping us are dying or getting seriously injured. So, if you want to back off from this, I’ll certainly understand. In fact, I’d feel better if you did.”
Dean Dryden was silent for several moments. “I appreciate your concern, Madison. But our boat basin here has security like Fort Knox. Just two days ago, the guard stopped some computer salesman trying to fake his way onto our dock to visit me. And th
ere’s no way they can learn I’m helping you. My computer network has a very sophisticated series of firewalls, hieroglyphical encryptions and hacker alerts. Even top cyber-sleuths can’t find out where I operate from.”
“You’re certain?”
“Ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain. But if, by some incredible stroke of luck, they discovered my computer’s location, my computer would instantly beep out a Hostile Incursion alert. If that happens, I’ll pull up anchor and cruise to my hideaway on the Maryland coast. Also, Madison, these are bad people. They need to be stopped! So, I’m gonna ride this horse all the way to the barn, God willing.”
Madison prayed God was willing. “Thank you, Dean.”
Kevin leaned close to the phone. “By the way, my banker pal, Craig Borden, just discovered the e-mail address to which Caribe National Bank sent all account correspondence on the $8.7 million.”
“That’s great! What is it?”
Kevin gave him the address and the dates of recent e-mails. “Can you track these e-mails to the recipient?”
“To the computer the recipient used.”
“How?”
“Every computer on the Internet has an Internet Protocol address, the IP. It’s in the e-mail’s header.”
“Is the header that stuff at the top of the e-mail?”
“Yeah. It can tell me the exact route taken by the e-mail, all the way from the sender’s IP number to the recipient’s.”
“So we’ll see who the recipient is?”
“We’ll see the computer the recipient used. Let’s just hope the recipient picked up the e-mails on the same computer.”
Madison began to feel hopeful that they might get some answers.
“Hey guys, the guard just signaled that I have a visitor. Talk to you later.”
They hung up.
“If anyone can locate the computer, Dean can,” Kevin said.
Not if they locate Dean first, she thought.
Leland Merryweather, Turner’s EVP of International Operations, hung up from talking with Jarvis Smythe in London. Smythe had threatened him again, saying that if Merryweather didn’t come up with money from the ComGlobe merger to buy into Smythe O’Rourke, Smythe was going to accept the offer of a British partner.
