by Steve Richer
He hung up, waited two seconds, and removed the crypto-ignition key.
“Everything all right?” Terry enquired.
“Superfly. Are these my envelopes?”
She handed him the envelopes and he went to work. He put the DVD inside the smaller one and wrote Bellamy’s address on it. After sealing it he signed his name across the seam and inserted it into the larger envelope. He did the same with it except sign his name.
“Could you make sure this left with the diplomatic pouch ASAP?” he asked as he handed her the parcel.
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” He picked up his laptop case. “Thanks for getting the gadgets to the hotel.”
“No problem. Are you flying back tonight?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
“Well, why don’t you come back here tonight? There’ll be a party at the residence to welcome the new ambassador. The all-Paris is going to be there, we’re all invited.”
“Okay, sure.”
What the hell, he didn’t have anything better to do. It beat watching TV.
Chapter 7
Hingle hadn’t wasted any time. It was not even one o’clock yet and he was back in Ottawa, sitting at his favorite table at his favorite restaurant. He’d even ordered. He was having a twelve-ounce filet mignon with half a rack of baby back ribs and a loaded baked potato. He normally wouldn’t have such a heavy lunch but today was different. He wanted to celebrate.
There was only one moment in his life that had brought him more joy and that moment was long gone. Now he lived life one day at a time and took whatever pleasures he could get.
Having the prototype and the documentation that came with it was as big a pleasure as he’d have now and he relished every second of it. It’s the thought of what would happen next that filled him with bliss.
“This is better than losing your virginity,” he said as he chewed a piece of bread. “It’s better than losing your virginity to a willing supermodel in the back of a Rolls Royce after winning the lottery.”
Julian Farris smirked at his boss’ enthusiasm. He had known him for four years and he’d never seen him this happy. He shared his zest when he thought of what his cut would be. Surely it wouldn’t be as large as his, but he knew his dreams would still turn into plans. He took a sip of soda and checked his watch. He was on his lunch break and they’d surely be waiting for him at the office.
“You do realize the money isn’t in the bank yet, right?”
“Details,” Hingle said dismissively. “In a week or two, you’ll be a member of the eight-digit club.”
He broke off another piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth. He had butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach and in his experience the best way to swat them was to smother them with food.
“I was certain you’d be pissed as hell today. You surprise me.”
“I am pissed off, it’s just that my happiness weighs more.”
Farris cleared his throat; he had to get down to business and he would rather do it sooner than later. At least if he got paged or called he could leave without having left things unfinished.
“You think it was an inside job?”
Hingle stopped chewing. “Of course it was. Has to be. One of them saw more money coming from the other side.”
“Do we leave it at that?”
“Did you suddenly grow dumb on me? Of course not, we gotta take precautions so it doesn’t happen again. I want you to get in touch with Harker. Tell him the team he chose for the job has served its purpose and that he should seriously consider dismantling it.”
“He’ll ask for more money.”
“No, he won’t. Christ, with the money he picked up in Atlanta the guy would get down on his knees and blow the Pope. Don’t worry about a thing, Julian. Everything’s falling into place. Before you know it we’ll be gods.”
The main dish arrived and Hingle suddenly forgot his troubles. He forgot that he’d just ordered the death of subcontractors, he forgot that he still had a lot to do before bathing in money. All that mattered at that particular instant was that the steak was juicy and that the ribs were tender.
The official residence of the Canadian embassy on Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré was a sight to behold.
The land had begun as a tree nursery under Louis XIV. The king had bought the land between the Champs Elysées and Chaussée du Roule to develop the area which so far had remained rural. In the late 18th century, stables had been built for what was to become a large building complex.
Ionic columns and a portico were added to the entrance and soon the edifice became an aristocratic residence. General Vanier was the first ambassador to occupy the embassy in 1950 when the Duchess De La Rochefoucauld sold it to the Canadian government.
Jeff barely believed what his tax dollars went to. Waiters roamed the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne, a bartender prepared special requests, and a string quartet filled the room with chamber music. It was a black tie affair and he couldn’t help but feel greatly underdressed with his double-breasted outfit.
At least he hadn’t dirtied it up last night. He saw a few other guests wearing dark suits, but instead of making him feel better it made him feel apart. He felt like the three guys who never wore costumes on Halloween back in high school because they were too cool. Now he didn’t feel cool. Standing out was the last thing an intelligence officer should do.
Terry Raper took him around the room and introduced him to the people she knew. Jeff briefly wondered whether folks would think he was her date, her boy toy, but decided he didn’t care. He met the secretaries as well as the military attachés. The naval attaché proved to be the best conversationalist.
“I was in the Gulf back in 1990,” the commander stated. “People think we were only there as a backup, but we saw a lot more action than what was said on CNN. It’s because we were in charge of supplies and patrol that we were such an asset. There was this time, it was in November I think, we had to deliver a SEAL unit.”
Jeff interrupted him with a frown. “You sure you should be telling me all this, Commander?”
“You don’t work for the enemy, do you? I’m telling war stories, not divulging national secrets. Besides, you might wanna make a movie about me someday.”
That was what brought Jeff to reality. He wasn’t who he said he was and it pissed him off. He’d finished a fairly easy mission, his first, and now he was living the good life at a diplomatic party. But he couldn’t enjoy it as Jeff Riley, only as Jean Tremblay. James Bond never seemed to be bothered by this.
He concluded he was no James Bond.
He took the excuse of needing another scotch to leave the Navy man. He mingled some more on his own, glad Terry wasn’t making the introductions anymore. It was probably known throughout the intelligence community that she was the CSE contact and people could make the assumption that he was too.
For an instant he wondered about the credibility issue. What would a grad student do at a diplomatic party? He’d had wind that a professional soccer player was on the other side of the room and rationalized that all was needed were connections. He prayed he wouldn’t have to meet the new Canadian ambassador; it would be too high profile. Luckily, there was a noticeable crowd hogging his attention.
Jeff chatted with a secretary or aide or assistant of someone he didn’t bother paying attention to. They talked about architecture, Europe versus North America, and Jeff wondered if yawning in the man’s face would shut him up.
“Oh,” the man interjected. He touched the shoulder of a tall man pushing fifty as he passed by. “Monsieur le Secrétaire, I’d like you to meet monsieur Jean Tremblay.”
The man stopped but didn’t seem particularly happy to. Jeff could tell the man was a snob, but there was something else about him. He looked cold, mean even.
“Monsieur Tremblay, meet Monsieur Didier Ledoux, Secretary of State for Industry.”
Jeff’s mouth suddenly went dry.
Chapter 8
His heart pumped faster and his hands moistened. Here he was facing the enemy. That wasn’t in his job description and it scared him shitless.
Act cool, he told himself. Nobody knows about you.
“Enchanté,” Jeff lied, shaking his hand.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Ledoux also lied. He had better things to do than to hang out with tourists. “What brings you to Paris, Monsieur Tremblay?”
“I’m doing post-graduate studies at the Sorbonne.”
The man could check all he wanted, his cover identity was indeed registered.
“Really, in what field?” Ledoux could be civilized with his worst enemy.
“Cinema. I’m writing a thesis on neo-German expressionism and its influences on new wave-educated filmmakers of the post-modern art generation.”
Jeff had attended film school and for the sake of confounding the statesman had compressed three years of study into one sentence. Ledoux was unfazed but the assistant excused himself.
“A fascinating subject.”
Fuck you, Jeff wanted to scream back at the man. Here he had a corrupt official standing before him, a man who took bribes, who disregarded the interests of his countrymen for his personal gain, and Jeff wanted to yell it at the top of his lungs. With luck, he’d be in jail soon.
Jeff decided to push the man as far as he could. “Yes, but I’m more into thrillers myself. And this place seems like an unlimited source of inspiration.”
Ledoux smirked. “It is. The security measures alone could be at the center of a very interesting film.”
“Absolutely. Or think about all the guests. A million stories waiting to be told: politics, espionage, romance, greed, corruption.”
Jeff hadn’t meant to utter the last word, but it had left his lips before he could fathom what he was really saying.
“This party would be a perfect playground for a spy.”
“Well, maybe the tight security isn’t so bad after all.”
“I still say it’s the new plague. It’s practically impossible to go somewhere and not be under some kind of surveillance. Cameras, microphones, security checkpoints, photo IDs, it’s maddening.”
“It’s my belief that people who don’t have anything to hide have nothing to fear.”
“Perhaps so,” Ledoux admitted.
There was a long uncomfortable pause. Jeff had to bolt before he compromised himself even further.
“Excuse me, I’d better get myself a refill. Last time I was at the bar I saw that the scotch level was dangerously low.”
He walked away and gulped the alcohol down. He had played with fire and still didn’t know if he’d gotten burned. His mission was over, of course, and it was now out of his hands, but what if Ledoux was suspicious?
What if he disappeared before the French could arrest him? No, he had to get these thoughts out of his head. He’d be back in Ottawa soon and onto something else. The mission was over, nothing should concern him anymore. But Jeff still knew sleep would be hard to come by tonight.
Assassination was a business like any other.
It was an industry of services, just like accounting. A specialist filled the demand. There were more dignified professions, but few that paid this well.
As a soldier of fortune, Harker had his share of murders under his belt. It wasn’t what he preferred in the job but it paid the rent. For him a successful mission was when no one lost their lives, something he had learned from his days in the military. Now he didn’t have that luxury.
The email he had received a few hours ago had ordered him to eliminate the team he had worked with on his last mission. The lack of ethics it implied was staggeringly disturbing. Killing your brothers in arms was the diametric opposite of what the SAS had taught him. But the conscience had to be checked at the door when slipping into mercenary shoes.
Moreover, this deal would make him wealthy enough to quit his day job.
Harker hadn’t lost any time once he’d been notified. The first thing he had done after he had gathered his gear was order a pay-per-view boxing event that reran from last night. At fifty dollars, he figured it was a good alibi. Who would pay fifty bucks for a major event when they’re not even there? He’d heard the results in the news anyway.
He had then taken a bus from his Venice Beach apartment to Los Angeles International Airport. He’d rented a Honda, a popular model, at a busy counter using fake IDs. He had driven south to Oceanside and headed east for an hour upon seeing that Braun wasn’t home. It was 2pm when he finally stopped the Accord.
It was warm and he wished he hadn’t worn that ugly sweat suit, but it was a perfect disguise since he never wore them. And it wouldn’t break his heart when he’d burn it later.
He glanced around and all he saw was the black Bronco he was looking for. There wasn’t anybody else and it suited him perfectly. Harker made his way through the brush and reached the creek.
Like he had expected, Braun lounged on the bank with a fishing pole propped between his tanned legs, a beer can in his right hand, and a cigarette in the other. A tape deck blasted Bavarian hymns through the air and the man seemed in heaven. As if it were possible, his smile broadened when he saw the Englishman.
“Hey, Bradford!” he shouted.
“Cheers.”
“You have the money? Already?”
Harker shook his head. “No, not exactly.”
What Braun saw next frightened him down to his marrow. He had seen the same swift move countless times in combat, when he was prepared for it.
But now he wasn’t. His mind was spending dollars, not thinking about ways of dodging death.
Harker brought his right hand forward; it held a pistol outfitted with a potato as a silencer. He fired three rounds into his chest and two more into his head. He then picked up the cigarette and threw it into the water. There was no sense in letting Braun’s death contribute to a forest fire.
AUGUST 3
SATURDAY
Chapter 9
Jeff wasn’t his real name.
The embassy party had made him realize how being himself had always eluded him. He had never regarded it as being someone else until today. Had this tendency to live between identities guided him toward that career in the intelligence business? He was forced to seriously consider it.
He’d been born Jean-François Riley from a French-speaking mother and a father of Irish descent. He’d spoken both languages fluently by the age of five, something his teachers had attributed to his acute intellect.
Languages had been so easy for him that in high school he had studied Spanish and he had taken some German classes while attending college. Because the curriculum had been tailored to accommodate only the average student, he had never reached a level above being conversational. He had always meant to take additional private courses, but it had not panned out.
He’d never regarded languages as a career opportunity however. Articles he’d read in magazines and on the Internet convinced him that Hollywood was the surest way to get rich. His excellent grades had gotten him an interview at Concordia University’s prestigious film school in his native Montreal and his loud mouth had gotten him in. For three years he had studied the ins and outs of filmmaking.
But art required talent and Jeff had none, not in the arts anyway. He had spent the following year trying his hand at screenwriting, but discovered he hated writing.
Feeling his parents’ despair, urging him to join the family retailing business, Jeff had then decided to study something else. He’d studied history at McGill University for another three years thinking that knowledge of the past could get him something to write about. But when he’d received his degree, the idea of writing a movie had long since escaped him. He’d been once again adrift and knew he’d had to find what he had been made for really fast.
That’s when he had come upon the Communications Security Establishment website. He’d had no idea what the agency was about, but it had openings. It was his degrees
that had gotten him a meeting, but it was his language skills that had retained their attention. A week later he’d been hired and he moved to Ottawa.
For the first six months within the CSE Jeff had been assigned to what the agency advertised. He did translations, spoke with department officials, participated in threat risk assessments, all matters requiring a language specialist.
What had made him climb the ranks was a strain of influenza.
The NSA had forwarded a conversation between Algerian terrorists relating to how they would set up in Canada to better infiltrate the United States. The language specialist who usually handled French matters had called in sick that morning, having woken up with the flu. The urgency of the matter had made Kenneth Easton give Jeff a crash course in security measures and counterterrorism.
From then on, his security clearance was upgraded and he was included in hush jobs. He attended in-house classes on intelligence gathering methods and for the first time of his life he’d thought he was actually making a difference with his work.
For the first time of his life he mattered.
And now he was smack dab in the middle of something he had been prepared, but not ready, to do. Yes, he thought, maybe this was a job he could see himself doing for the rest of his life.
He was aware that James Bond-type operations were confined to works of fiction, but he was sure his job would never be boring nonetheless. He looked down the Eiffel Tower and wondered if his missions would always require him to impersonate others. Would he get used to it?
He had gotten used to Jeff. The kids at the schools he had attended, both French and English, had always called him JF, getting bored pronouncing such a long name as Jean-François. With time JF had become Jeff and everyone had adopted it, except for his mother. Was using a false name robbing him of his identity? It hadn’t so far.
But what about using an entirely new name, a new background? A new personality? No, Jeff decided. He was too strong for that. Everything was temporary. He knew who he was and he wouldn’t let any person or agency change that. They could have his time, but they could never have his soul.
