The Killer Collective

by Barry Eisler

  “The usual?”

  “For both of us, thanks.”

  Interesting that Graham ordered for both himself and his companion. Did he like to be in charge? Did he enjoy showing off his knowledge and familiarity? She hoped his companion liked martinis, because she knew from John’s briefing that the bar’s signature thirty-euro clean dirty martini was Graham’s tipple of choice.

  Graham and his companion sat at a corner table near the bar—a little far from Delilah and Kent, but still workable. The bodyguard took up a position near the doorway.

  “I need the ladies’ room,” Delilah said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She saw Graham looking her up and down as she passed his table. He was subtler than most, but not as subtle as he probably imagined. Outside the bar, there were two more guards. And it was possible Graham had a pair of advance people positioned in the bar even before his arrival—Delilah hadn’t made anyone for sure, but if they were pros, she wouldn’t necessarily know. All right. Not the definitive answer to what Graham’s detail would be like outside the hotel, but if he had at least three men inside, he’d probably have more when he was moving around the city. Especially given what had happened at Piano Vache, and knowing that John and the others were in the city somewhere and gunning for him.

  Graham eyed her again when she returned, but she didn’t even glance in his direction. The best way to attract powerful men, she knew, was to ignore them. They took it as a challenge, sometimes even an affront.

  She sat. Kent had finished his drink. A bit loudly, he said, “That took a while.”

  “What are you talking about? It couldn’t have been five minutes.”

  “It’s been like that all night,” he said, still too loudly. “And I’m getting tired of it.”

  This time a few people looked over.

  “Really? Well, maybe you’re not the only one getting tired.”

  “Fine. I’ll be more than happy to take you home.”

  “Why don’t you just leave? I’ll find my own way home.”

  “I came all the way out here to see you, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to just dismiss me because you’re in one of your moods.”

  A lot of people were looking now. Including Graham. He was looking quite keenly.

  “I was in a fine mood,” she said, “until you started acting like you own me. I told you, go. I’m happier here by myself.”

  He stood and held out his hand. “Come.”

  “No.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “I said come!”

  She threw her drink in his face and said, “Cochon!”

  There were gasps and murmurs from all around the bar.

  He wiped his face, then flung the liquid from his fingers.

  Instantly, one of the waiters was beside him. “Sir, perhaps you would like a taxi?”

  Delilah had to hand it to the Hemingway Bar staff—they knew how to tell a guest it was time to leave.

  “No,” Kent said. He picked up one of the little linen napkins and wiped his face and hands. Then he took several twenty-euro notes from a pocket and dropped them on the table. “You know what?” he said. “I’m bored with you anyway.” He walked out.

  Everyone stared at him on the way. Except Graham. He was staring at Delilah.

  She apologized to the waiter in French and thanked him for his timely intervention. He told her it was nothing, and asked for a moment to clean up the table. “Please,” she said. “I think I’ll just have a seat at the bar.”

  She got up and said in French to all the people who were now pretending nothing had happened, “I apologize for disturbing your evening.” Then she repeated it in English.

  She took a seat at the bar. Colin the bartender said, “Something sweet to kill the taste?”

  She gave him a little laugh. “That would be perfect.”

  From behind her, she heard, “Please, put that on my bill, Colin.”

  She turned. Graham said, “Would you like to join me?”

  The trick was to always make them work for it. “That’s very nice of you, but no, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? My companion is just leaving, and I hate to drink alone. Are you a local?”

  She looked at him as though trying to gauge his intentions. “Yes.”

  “Then I’d be grateful if you could tell me what it’s like to live here. The real Paris. I visit several times a year, but it’s always the Ritz and Michelin restaurants and a chauffeured Maybach.”

  As lines went, it wasn’t a bad one. Especially for anyone likely to be swayed by money and power, which, in her experience, was most people.

  “You should get out more often,” she said.

  He laughed. “I’m trying to. Won’t you join me? I really would love to hear your impressions of the city.”

  “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Though he hadn’t even finished his drink, Graham’s companion said a quick good night, offering Delilah his chair and claiming an early meeting the next day.

  Over the course of the evening, she and Graham wound up having two drinks each—the clean dirty martini for him; the French 75—gin, lemon juice, sugar, and champagne—for her. She told him about her work as a freelance fashion photographer, which was an opportunity for him to say, “Ah, that explains that beautiful dress.” He told her his company consulted with governments to help improve their security, and seemed pleased rather than disappointed when she pretended not to know who he was. He wasn’t a bad companion. As promised, he asked a lot of questions about Paris—not terribly informed ones, but still it was always refreshing to chat with a powerful man who didn’t think a conversation was simply an opportunity to soliloquize. He did have a way of dropping too many hints about his wealth—the suite at the hotel, the Burgundy collection, why Lorenzo Cifonelli was the best tailor in Paris. But all of that was good. He was clearly bent on impressing her, and compared to that, whether he actually knew how was irrelevant.

  At a little past midnight, Delilah glanced at her watch. “Well,” she said, “thank you for a lovely evening. I have a shoot in the morning, so . . .”

  “Of course,” he said. “Can I have my driver take you home?”

  She hadn’t anticipated that, but it was easily handled. “You’re very nice, but no, I can get a taxi easily enough.”

  “Are you sure? My car is probably nicer than a taxi.”

  She smiled. “I imagine it is. Another time?”

  She’d closed off tonight. But opened the door to the future. Now to see if he would walk through it. Or, more likely, how.

  “I’d like that,” he said. He paused, then added, “This may sound odd, because it’s last-minute, but . . . I’m giving a dinner here tomorrow night. Low key, in the smaller private dining room. A business gathering, with some important clients. I have a friend in Paris who ordinarily helps me host these things, but she’s come down with some sort of stomach bug and is completely out of commission. These men are all quite successful, but some of them can be surprisingly shy. And I can’t imagine anyone who could draw them out and make them comfortable the way you could. Would you care to be my guest?”

  The stomach bug was in fact a quite nasty staph infection. Kanezaki had given them a month-deep map of Dominique Deneuve’s mobile-phone movements, and then pinpointed her that very day at Le Baromètre, where she was having lunch at a sidewalk table with a girlfriend. It hadn’t been difficult for Livia to pop a Kanezaki-supplied staph squib over Deneuve’s wine while Delilah distracted her and her friend with a few confused questions about directions.

  “Your guest?” she said, still playing it reluctant. “It sounds like you’re looking for another host.”

  “Well, both, honestly. But I wouldn’t expect you to do anything other than what you’ve done tonight—which is to just be an exceptionally charming, engaging person to talk to.”

  “Ah, now I think you’re flattering me.”

  “I would if it would persuade you, but really, I’m onl
y telling the truth.”

  She paused. “Would I be the only woman there?”

  “No, not at all. Most of the guests will have companions.”

  If the companions were wives, Graham would have said that. So she imagined they would all be courtesans and mistresses.

  “It sounds interesting,” she said. “But . . . I don’t know that I’m really so charming as you seem to think.”

  “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

  She laughed and said nothing.

  “I know these people,” he went on. “And I know how they’ll respond to you. You’ll make them feel successful, witty, charming . . . exactly what they want to believe about themselves, but tend to doubt without a little outside encouragement.”

  She thought that was actually a pretty astute observation of how women like Delilah ingratiated themselves with men. It was interesting that Graham was able to recognize the dynamic with regard to others, but not as it applied to, say, their own interaction here tonight. Interesting, but not so terribly surprising, either. After all, men like Graham knew all about a thing called a honeytrap. But knowing of the thing’s existence rarely seemed to save them from getting ensnared in one themselves.

  “What time?” she said.

  He smiled. “Eight o’clock.”

  chapter

  forty-four

  DELILAH

  It was a little past eleven the following evening, and the last of Graham’s guests had left the small but sumptuous private dining room, shaking Delilah’s hand effusively on the way. Graham closed the door behind him. Then he turned to Delilah and his face broke out in a delighted smile.

  “Delilah. You were . . . fantastic.”

  She shook her head. “Please.”

  “No. Don’t even try to be modest. You were captivating! And you know it. My God. Mr. Liu, the Chinese defense attaché? You got him to talk more in five minutes than I’ve ever seen him say in an entire evening.”

  “Stop. I think he was just lonely and enjoying a night out.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly the point! You might not realize it, but compared to his usual reserve, Liu was practically bubbling over.”

  “Well, I’m glad.”

  “I put together some major deals tonight. Major. That can’t be done if the mood isn’t right. And you made the mood . . . perfect. What can I do to show you my appreciation?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything. It was a delicious dinner, and you weren’t the only one who did some business. Several of your clients told me they were looking for a photographer for corporate events and gave me their cards.”

  Depending on how things went, she might even tell Mossad about the contacts she had made—they could be useful. But on the other hand, maybe she wouldn’t. Let sleeping dogs lie.

  “That’s not nearly enough,” Graham said. “How about this? The hotel keeps a portion of my Burgundy collection in a private section of its wine cellar. Why don’t I have them bring a 2003 Denis Mortet Chambertin Grand Cru to my suite, and you and I can open it? It’s the least I can do to say thank you.”

  It was almost funny to hear him describe what was obviously a plan to seduce her as a means of expressing his gratitude. She smiled and said, “It’s an enticing offer.”

  “It was meant to be.”

  “But can I suggest something even better?”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be, but . . . sure.”

  “You said you wanted to experience more of the real Paris. Not just the fancy hotels and restaurants, no? So look, while I have no objection to Domaine Denis Mortet—no sane person does—it’s also nothing new for you. Why don’t I take you someplace I like, instead? Where I bet you’ve never been.”

  He cocked his head. “What do you have in mind?”

  “A special bar close to my apartment in the Latin Quarter. Prescription Cocktail Club. A wonderfully private and intimate place, like a speakeasy.”

  She had once seen a Gary Larson cartoon about what dogs hear when their owners talk to them—just their names and “blah blah blah.” She knew it was like that for Graham now: “close to my apartment . . . private and intimate . . . blah blah blah.” She could have said, “A sewage treatment plant, close to my apartment.” Or “An abattoir, close to my apartment.” Or “A toxic-waste facility, close to my apartment.” His reaction would have been the same.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I think that is better. Hmm.”

  She knew what he was thinking. On the one hand, the failed attack at Piano Vache. And doubtless, the advice of the bodyguards, a breed that always preferred the principal to be kept on lockdown.

  On the other hand, quite a lot of wine with dinner. The flush of successful business. And a beautiful, obviously interested French woman right in front of him, who had just said the words close to my apartment . . . private and intimate.

  He smiled and pulled out his cellphone. “Why not?”

  Five minutes later, they were getting into the backseat of Graham’s Maybach, with one of the bodyguards riding shotgun. The windows were smoked for privacy, which was perfect. Behind them was a follow car—a Mercedes, four men inside it.

  In retrospect, it was funny. The part the others were most worried about—whether Delilah could persuade Graham to leave the hotel and take her to a place she herself had suggested—was the one that had concerned her least. After that was where Murphy’s law was most likely to make an appearance.

  John had been the one to propose Prescription. “If Graham’s people check it out,” he said, “they’ll see it’s a legitimate place—a classy, intimate bar, the kind they’d expect you to propose. And it’s on Rue Mazarine—a one-lane, one-way street. And that block has only one street leading onto it—Rue Guénégaud, another one-lane, one-way—because farther north, Rue Mazarine is closed for construction. From Rue Guénégaud, you either have to make a left onto Rue Mazarine, or go straight on Rue Jacques Callot. There’s no way to turn around, and no way to pass because the sidewalks are narrow to nonexistent. So no matter what route the security people might want to take, in the end they’re going to have to come all the way down Rue Guénégaud from Quai de Conti and then make a left on Rue Mazarine. They can stop or they can go forward, but those are the only options.”

  “This is the part where a map might be helpful,” Dox said. “You know, for those of us less familiar with the local terrain.”

  While Delilah fired up a map application on her laptop, John said, “The point is, we know Graham’s hotel won’t work—the security’s too tight, and it’s where Graham’s people will be most alert, especially after Piano Vache. But okay, they get him safely into his car at the Ritz and drive together to the club. Someone riding shotgun, probably a follow car, too. They’ll drive all the way—there’s no chance Graham’s people are going to drop him off anywhere but right in front of the club. That means if Delilah can get Graham to Prescription, we already know the last three hundred yards of the route, maybe more. And I don’t have to tell you, a lot can happen in three hundred yards.”

  Kanezaki’s intel had been critical. He was able to track down the purchase of Graham’s Mercedes-Maybach and confirm that it was armored and equipped with bullet-resistant glass. The other car Graham kept parked at the Ritz was an ordinary Mercedes. Kanezaki was even able to identify a networked video camera inside Prescription, and had people capable of shutting it down at the critical time.

  And he’d come through on equipment, too. For communication, a transmitter integrated in the buckle of a reasonably stylish leather purse. They judged an earpiece too risky, but with the purse, the team would be able to hear everything Delilah heard. And for the follow car they expected, something called an RFVS—a radio frequency vehicle stopper. Apparently, the Pentagon’s Joint Non-Lethal Weapons Directorate had dreamed up the device, which used high-powered microwaves to stall a car engine. Its existence had already leaked, Kanezaki said. What the public didn’t know was that CIA had a muc
h smaller version, which it was using in Paris and elsewhere to help foil the kind of vehicle-rampage attacks that had been occurring all over Europe for the last several years.

  The one thing Kanezaki was having trouble with was a rifle. But Hort’s local contacts had delivered: a suppressed FAMAS G2 with a thirty-round magazine and three-in-one telescopic sight, thermal sight, and laser range finder, all of which Dox had assembled as lovingly as a child with a new Christmas toy.

  Now, as they pulled away in the Maybach, the bodyguard turned to Delilah. “I’ll have to ask for your mobile phone,” he said. “Standard security procedure.”

  Graham turned off his own phone. “Magnus, it’s okay. Delilah, if you could just turn your phone off. No need to hand it over.”

  The guard said, “Mr. Graham—”

  Graham shot him a look. “I’ll confirm it’s off myself. Delilah, if you don’t mind. There have been some threats recently. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. But out of an abundance of caution, these gentlemen want to make sure no one has a cellphone that could be tracked when I’m outside the hotel. Would you mind?”

  “Threats?” she said.

  “Just the sort of thing people in my line of work get all the time. But these gentlemen are the best. They’re just doing their job, taking even remote possibilities seriously.”

  “Okay,” she said, showing him as she powered down the phone. She had switched off the purse transmitter a moment earlier—it had already done its job of keeping the others informed of developments, including the moment they were leaving the hotel. John was concerned Graham’s team would be equipped with detectors that could pick up a transmitter once the devices around it had been switched off. Not that it wouldn’t have been convenient to have a mobile phone or other device to track remotely, but they didn’t need it. Livia and John were already on motorcycles nearby—stolen, courtesy once again of Livia, who, whatever else she might be, was obviously no ordinary cop. In full-face helmets, able to anticipate the route because they knew the destination, and tag teaming when they needed to follow, the two of them would be difficult if not impossible to spot.