by Chad Zunker
Staring out the train window, Sam thought about Pastor Isaiah. Sam had not mentioned anything to him about recently discovering his long-lost father. He regretted that now. Perhaps his wise mentor and friend would’ve advised him to walk away from all this when he’d first had the chance. A month ago, Sam had convinced himself that it was best, and safest, for everyone not to know the truth. Safer for Natalie. Safer for Pastor Isaiah. Safer for his boss, David. But he now realized he simply didn’t want anyone to talk him out of it. Because of that, dead bodies were everywhere. Each of them betrayed by power or money or politics—whatever the reason.
Sam had also been betrayed. And it was looking more and more like it was at the hands of his very own father. He would never be able to come to terms with it. What kind of evil would push a man to invite his own son into a dangerous situation with every intention of betraying him?
Tommy started mumbling in his sleep in the seat next to him. The train car was dark, and Sam assumed pretty much everyone on board was snoozing right now. Sam was grateful to have Tommy with him. They’d been through a hell of a lot together during the past year. Sam had never had a more loyal friend. Tommy was the only person on the planet right now whom Sam had told the complete truth to. After a month of keeping daily secrets, with lies at every turn, it felt liberating not to have to take great care with his words around Tommy. He longed to go back to that place with Natalie.
He stared out into the darkness of the French countryside. Natalie had to be worried. Given his absence, Sam wondered if David had asked hotel security to check inside his room. Most likely. David would’ve remained chill for most of the day, thinking Sam was still feeling the ugly effects of his stomach bug, but at some point, he would’ve also grown concerned.
Sam cursed when it dawned on him that David might have also discovered the note he’d left for Natalie, just in case he didn’t make it back from Moscow. If David had found the note, would he have then shared it with her? Sam sighed, shook his head. If that exchange had happened, Natalie was probably in an all-out panic right now. This made him feel even sicker to his stomach.
He pulled out his phone, began typing in her phone number. Then he paused. What would he even say to her? How could he call his fiancée from an overnight train traveling through Europe and explain that he’d done nothing but lie to her for the past month? Not only that, but most of the members of the CIA covert-ops team that he’d secretly joined were now dead. He also currently had the Gray Wolf back on his tail, along with a new Russian assassin intent on killing him. That was not a conversation to have over a bad phone connection from more than four thousand miles away. Especially when the phone call could immediately put Natalie in grave danger. Sam cleared her number from his phone.
Whether he liked it or not, he could not make contact with Natalie until this was over. Not until he got the truth. Next time he spoke with Natalie, he had to tell her the full truth about everything. And never lie to her again. Would she even forgive him? He couldn’t be sure. After all, he might never forgive himself.
FORTY-EIGHT
Standing outside the front door of FBI director Luther Stone’s two-story redbrick colonial in Forest Hills, Lloyd knocked firmly. Most of the lights were off inside, so he knew he’d be waking up his boss. Not a smart move, but he had no choice. Stone was known for going to bed early but being at the office every morning by four thirty. It was common knowledge to not wake him in the middle of the night unless it was an all-out emergency. Lloyd thought that getting sniped at by an assassin in the middle of downtown qualified. Especially when he was standing right next to a top-level CIA officer who did not survive the attack. Lloyd still felt shaken by seeing his old friend take a bullet to the head and collapse like a falling tree right in front of him. All because he’d asked Markson to share info with him.
He knocked again, looked for signs of life.
Epps had arrived just in time to pull Lloyd to safety but not in time to find the shooter on the opposite side of the water. The sniper had disappeared. Lloyd had decided it was best for them to disappear as well instead of sticking around to deal with the fallout of a CIA agent shot dead on the banks of the Tidal Basin. They’d holed up in a cheap motel room for the past hour, where he and Epps began putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The news had not broken about Markson’s death, but it was just a matter of time. One way or another, Lloyd had a feeling this thing was about to completely unravel. You don’t start assassinating federal agents without being desperate. Which was why Lloyd was on Stone’s doorstep right now.
Another knock and Lloyd finally saw a light come on in the hallway.
Seconds later, Stone was at the door wearing his brown bathrobe, looking like he wanted to bite Lloyd’s head off. The man’s hard scowl had a way of making even the toughest of men’s knees shake. Short and stocky, Stone had a boxy head with a military haircut. He’d won the NCAA wrestling championship for the army back in his day and still looked like he could compete today.
“What the hell, Spencer?” Stone growled.
“Sorry to wake you, sir,” Lloyd said. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent.”
Another grunt. “Come in.”
Stone led him into a study right off the foyer, turned on a few lights. The director sat behind a massive wooden desk. Lloyd stood awkwardly in front of it.
“What the hell is it?” Stone demanded.
“Markson with the CIA was shot by a sniper near the Tidal Basin earlier tonight.”
Stone’s wrinkled face bunched up even more. “How do you know that?”
“I was standing next to him. The sniper missed me by inches.”
Stone cursed, leaned forward in his chair. “Start explaining.”
Lloyd knew he had no choice but to tell Stone everything—including his admission that he’d disobeyed Stone’s direct orders for him to leave the CIA matter involving Sam Callahan alone. Stone didn’t look too happy at this revelation, but Lloyd powered through with all that had unfolded over the past two days. If Stone had any empathy that Lloyd’s father was in a coma in the hospital, his face didn’t show it. His beady eyes were glaring holes right through Lloyd.
To his credit, Stone didn’t butcher him the moment he’d finished. “I assume you’ve already looked deeper into Bradley or you wouldn’t be here right now?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
Lloyd took a moment to tell Stone about their findings on Dan Bradley, assistant deputy director of operations at the CIA, the man whom Markson claimed was leading the charge to find the intelligence mole while using Mike Madrone as a central player in their hunt. Although he couldn’t prove it yet, Lloyd was convinced that Madrone had fired the sniper bullets earlier tonight. At fifty-two, Bradley was divorced with two adult kids. He went to college at Boston University, did five years with the Hartford PD, then joined the CIA more than twenty-five years ago. Bradley had spent most of his career overseas, where he’d held the position of chief of station at several important foreign posts.
“His last post was Moscow,” Lloyd declared, finding that the most intriguing.
“So you think Bradley could be behind this?”
“I’m not ready to make that claim just yet. But Bradley purchased a 1920s row house in Columbia Heights last year for one-point-two million dollars. Pretty hefty price tag for a CIA lifer. I doubt he makes more than a hundred fifty a year, and there is no trace of any family money. Plus, when Markson mentioned Bradley earlier tonight, I could tell he was beginning to put two and two together.”
“Markson said as much?”
“He didn’t get the chance, sir. His head exploded seconds later.”
“And you think Madrone pulled the trigger.”
“Long-range marksmanship is part of his unique skill set.”
That info seemed more interesting to Stone, as he eased back in his office chair, rubbed his clean-shaven square chin. “You’re certain it was Madrone who was inside your condo two nights ago?
And the man who broke into Natalie Foster’s place?”
“One hundred percent.”
Stone cursed, not looking happy. “I knew about Black Heron,” he admitted. “Director Barton shared that info with me last month, which is why I was willing to grant the favor and pull you off this deal with Callahan. By the way, I’m still pissed at you for disregarding my orders.”
“Yes, sir. My apologies.”
Stone continued to ponder tonight’s new info. “Okay, so let’s say Bradley is as shady as you propose. There’s no way he’s doing it alone. The Russians aren’t wiring money straight into his account. If everything you say is true, another big player has to be involved. Bradley would know it’s too risky to turn over classified info himself.”
Lloyd nodded. “We’re searching.”
“You have to find me that player, Spencer. Because I’m not jumping on the phone with Barton and shoving a stick of dynamite like this in his face without having something more concrete in my hands.”
“I understand, sir.”
Stone stood from his chair, walked Lloyd back to the front door. “Listen, I want you to completely close ranks on this for now. No one else can know what you’re doing. I don’t want anything leaking back to Bradley this morning. Call me hourly with updates. I won’t be sleeping the rest of the night, anyway. And don’t get yourself killed.”
FORTY-NINE
They switched trains without incident at a station in Paris and finally arrived in the coastal town of Le Tréport just as the sun was peeking up over the cliffs along the English Channel. The train dropped them at a picturesque station near the water’s edge, with an easy walk to Avenue du Maréchal Foch, the main strip for shopping, restaurants, and hotels. They’d used the train ride from Paris to do their research on the resort town. Sam and Tommy ducked into a café to grab some coffee and pastries, as well as to plan their next move in finding Lucinda.
Sam didn’t know where she was hiding—just that, according to Mack, she was there somewhere. However, they did have a good lead. Tommy had been able to trace Mack’s communication with Lucinda through their use of the secure website to an IP address that belonged to a bookstore along the town’s main strip called La Librairie Pittoresque. The bookstore sat directly across the street from them on the ground level of a three-story redbrick building. It was closed but would likely open soon, as the sidewalks were already growing busy with tourist traffic. The early plan was to go inside once the bookstore opened, describe Lucinda with a cover story, and find out if anyone knew where she was.
It was a long shot, but it was all they had.
Tommy had his laptop open in front of him, as usual. “We’ve got about two dozen hotels all within easy walking distance from the bookstore.”
“Two dozen, huh?” Sam said, sighing. “That should make this easy. And still no alerts yet on Lucinda using her CIA alias at any of them?”
Tommy shook his head. “Still nothing.”
“So how’s she paying for her stay here?”
“She must have a third alias. Or she’s got a stack of euros.”
Sam stared out the window at the sidewalks, sipped his hot coffee. He needed a gallon of it right now, his body dripped with so much fatigue. “I don’t know, Tommy. This feels like an odd hideout for a member of my crew. Can’t be more than five thousand people here. Not exactly where I would go to get lost in the crowd.”
“Beats me. But I don’t think like a spook.”
“There’s more to it,” Sam insisted, taking a bite of pastry. “Still nothing on Pelini?”
“Nope. That man is a ghost.”
After fifteen minutes of drinking coffee, Sam noticed a man in a black cardigan approach the bookstore, unlock the front door, and go inside. Moments later, the FERMÉ sign in the window flipped to OUVERT.
“We’re in business,” Sam mentioned. “Stay here.”
“Roger that.”
Sam slid off his chair, trotted across the street to the bookstore. An older couple had entered right before him. Stepping inside, Sam noticed the fortysomething man who unlocked the store standing behind a checkout counter, sorting paperwork. Sam did a quick scan of the store. Not much to it. Only a few rows of books, some new, some used. A wooden desk in the corner had a desktop computer on it. Sam wondered if that was where Lucinda had sat to communicate with Mack.
Walking over to the counter, Sam got the attention of the store clerk, a man with a thick brown mustache and an easy smile.
“Puis-je vous aider?” the clerk asked him.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, of course. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for my sister, actually. I was scheduled to arrive in Le Tréport tomorrow, but I came a day early to surprise her on her birthday. She’s midthirties, slender, straight black hair just past the shoulders. My sister loves bookstores, so I thought she might have come in here recently.”
The clerk pondered the description. “There was someone in here yesterday who matches your description.” He grinned. “A very attractive woman, I must admit.”
Sam matched his grin. “Did you get her name?”
The clerk’s eyes narrowed on Sam. “I thought you said she was your sister.”
Sam tried to be casual. “Yes, she is, but she’s also a popular actress, and oftentimes uses different names when she’s staying at hotels and such. Just for anonymity. Which is why I need help finding her, if I don’t want to call her up and spoil the big surprise.”
Sam’s explanation must’ve seemed logical to the clerk, as his face relaxed. “I didn’t get the name she was using, unfortunately. Your sister didn’t buy anything; she just browsed a bit and then used the public computer over there.”
Sam sighed. “Okay, thanks.”
“But I did see her again last night on my stroll home,” the clerk added.
Sam perked up. “Where?”
“She was walking into the Yvonnette. A villa off rue Sadi Carnot, a couple of blocks from here.”
“Merci!”
FIFTY
Jacket hood up over his head, Sam stood on a busy sidewalk across the street from the Villa Yvonnette, a four-story redbrick building with bright blue doors and blue balconies. The Yvonnette sat in the middle of a long row of attached redbrick buildings, all with different shades of vibrant trim. In many ways, he felt the place was appropriate for someone hiding out. It was not one of the resort hotels, with their massive lobbies and lots of people around. Instead, the Yvonnette was tucked away on a quiet street. According to Tommy’s research, there were only six units available, which were actually more like small apartments than hotel rooms. All the units had full-size kitchens with separate washers and dryers.
Sam wondered if Lucinda had plans to stay in Le Tréport for a while. He wondered if she’d bolted London at the same time he’d jumped on the middle-of-the-night plane ride to Moscow. He wondered if she’d had any contact with Pelini since all hell had broken loose. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to keep wondering for long. After an hour, Sam noticed Lucinda step out the main blue door of the Yvonnette. Wearing a tan coat with a scarf around her neck and big sunglasses covering her eyes, she walked purposefully down the sidewalk in a crowd of others. Her steps were measured, as she was clearly keeping close tabs on her surroundings.
Hands in pockets, Sam moved briskly across the street, followed her up the sidewalk. He didn’t want to jump out in front of her and spook her. When he’d done that with Mack, Mack had put him into a headlock, and he’d almost caught a bullet. Sam had no idea what Lucinda would do. The woman could certainly hold her own. Instead, he wanted to choose his moment wisely and look for a less abrupt way to engage her properly.
Lucinda turned the street corner, headed to a busier part of the main strip. Sam hustled up to the corner behind her. It was midmorning now, and the coastal town had sprung fully to life. The sidewalks were busy with foot traffic, the streets with cars zipping past. He trailed Lucinda at thirty fee
t, waiting for her to peel off somewhere, like a café or a gift shop, where he could more easily slip in and talk to her quietly outside the mass of crowds. She casually coasted up the sidewalk for a bit, window watching, easing in and out of the people traffic.
Sam did the same, keeping slow pace with her. Come on, Lucinda. Glancing across the street at the opposite sidewalk, Sam suddenly froze in his tracks. He spotted a familiar-looking man briskly walking up the opposite sidewalk. Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. The Russian assassin. The tall man wore the same jacket he’d had on yesterday when chasing Sam and Tommy through Salzburg. How had the assassin found Sam? Had he tracked their train ride from Milan? Was he working with Gerlach?
But then Sam noticed that the Russian wasn’t focusing on him; instead, the assassin’s eyes locked on Lucinda forty feet ahead of Sam. The Russian didn’t even seem to register that Sam was trailing behind her. He was going after Lucinda. How had the Russians found her?
When the Russian reached into his jacket and discreetly slipped out his gun, panic gripped Sam. He was going to take her out right there on the street? Sam had to do something immediately. But what? He couldn’t just scream her name—the assassin might start firing his weapon.
Lucinda paused up ahead to look into a storefront window. In that moment, Sam noticed the Russian begin making a path across the street straight toward her. Cursing, Sam glanced directly to his right, where he noticed a young man parking his motorcycle at the curb. On instinct, Sam stepped off the curb, shoved the guy straight off the motorcycle, causing him to tumble into the street. With the motorcycle still running, Sam jumped on the back of it, grabbed the handlebars, and revved the engine. The bike exploded forward, hitting the curb with its front tire, bouncing up onto the sidewalk, and causing people to dart out of the way and yell at him. He didn’t slow down as he threaded through the bystanders. Lucinda turned to look back at the ruckus going on behind her on the sidewalk. Sam nearly crushed her up against the building as he skidded the bike to a sliding stop. He clumsily hit the brakes, nearly flipped off himself.
