Noble Intent

by William Miller

  “Act like you belong here instead of on a wanted poster,” Sam said. “And stop looking around. You already draw attention with that limp.”

  He leaned forward and hissed, “I can’t help somebody shot me.”

  “Are you still mad about that?” Sam had traded her tactical vest and cargo pants for a pair of denims and a black fleece jacket. The coffee was starting to drive back the cloud of sleep and at the same time made the pain in her ankle worse. “You’d be dead right now if I hadn’t beaned you.”

  “Are you looking for gratitude?”

  “No,” Sam told him. “I just want answers.”

  “Careful what you wish for.”

  “I stuck my neck out for you,” Sam reminded him.

  “So now I owe you?”

  “Yes,” she told him. “You’ve been held up inside the embassy for nearly a decade. You were safe there. Why did you decide to move? Why now? And what have you got on Frank Bonner? Why was he after you?”

  Duval shook his head. “Never heard of any Frank Bonner.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.” She put her coffee down and turned to him. “Come on, Duval. What’s going on?”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Duval asked. He put his brioche down and licked crumbs from his fingertips. “You come out of nowhere, kill my bodyguards, shoot me, and then force me to jump from the back of a moving train. How do I know this isn’t some twisted CIA scheme?”

  Sam winced and glanced around. “Keep your voice down. I didn’t kill anybody… or at least… I didn’t mean to. I was using rubber bullets.”

  “Frank Bonner looked dead enough.”

  “Thought you didn’t know who that is?”

  Duval didn’t bother to comment.

  “It was an accident.” Sam told him, and she felt a barb dig into her heart. When she joined the CIA, she had taken a battery of tests. The interviewers wanted to know if her faith would prevent her from killing another human being. Sitting in the safety of the interview room, imaging herself working for the greater good, Sam had told them no. In her mind’s eye the hypotheticals were always cut and dry. The bad guys wore black hats and twirled handlebar mustaches, but real life had proved very different. It was hard to tell the good guys from the bad. She told Duval, “I was aiming low. One of the bullets must have taken a bad skip and hit him in the head.”

  “And it killed him?” Duval asked. “A piece of rubber?”

  “A piece of rubber fired at thirty-two hundred feet per second,” Sam told him. “If it hits you in the head, it can jar the brain hard enough to kill you.”

  He whistled low. “Was he a friend?”

  Sam shrugged. “He was my boss.”

  “But was he a friend?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, a little irritated. “He was a friend.”

  “And you still tried to save me?” Duval asked.

  “It was supposed to be a clean getaway. I had it all planned out. I was going to hit the bodyguards, snatch you, and disappear before Bonner and his crew showed up. They were never supposed to know it was me.”

  Duval turned his attention to the street. “I thought you were there to kill me. Why did you do it? Why did you save me?”

  “I’ve got my reasons,” she said. “Why did you leave the embassy and risk capture?”

  “I’ve got my reasons,” he said.

  “Look, Duval, there are a lot of people who want you dead. I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.”

  He set his jaw and shook his head, intent on keeping his secrets. “We should be headed for Montenegro as fast as we can, not sitting around sipping coffee.”

  “That’s exactly what they expect us to do,” Sam told him.

  “So what’s your plan? A leisurely trip across Europe?” He thrust his chin at an old cathedral across the street. “Maybe we should do some sightseeing while we’re at it?”

  Sam leaned forward and spoke through clenched teeth. “First of all, we’d be in Switzerland by now if you hadn’t tried to run. I had a clean, unmarked van with a tank full of gas waiting at the pier. Second, if you’d rather take your chances on your own, be my guest. I’m not stopping you.”

  Duval sat in sullen silence.

  Sam arched her back, stretched her neck, and rolled her shoulders. Other than the sprained ankle, she had survived the jump from the back of the train but it wasn’t something she wanted to try again. Every muscle in her body ached. Her limbs were covered in scrapes and bruises, and a whole bottle of Advil wouldn’t cure the pounding in her skull. The sharp, unrelenting pain made Duval’s constant complaining unbearable. She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I lost my temper.”

  “I’m sorry too.” He took a hit from his inhaler, held it, and asked, “What is our plan?”

  Sam said, “You know anything about the chateau?”

  He shrugged. “Like any of the other castles in France, I suppose.”

  “How long do you figure it would take someone to walk through and have a look?”

  “An hour,” he said. “Maybe two. Why?”

  “Finish your breakfast,” Sam said. “There is a clinic down the road and I need a blood pressure cuff.”

  He stuffed the last bit of bread and jam in his mouth before following Sam outside into the bracing cold. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her fleece jacket and limped along the avenue to a small clinic, the French version of a CVS, where she bought a blood pressure cuff, aspirin, and several crushable ice packs.

  “What are you going to do with all that?” Duval wanted to know.

  Sam led the way up the hill to a flat parking lot for visitors to Gaillon’s only tourist spot. The spires of the Norman castle reared up into the slate gray sky, an imposing reminder of the French monarchy that had competed with Great Britain for the New World. Now it was little more than an economically collapsing socialist state with tourist traps and expensive wine.

  As they moved along the rows of cars, a beige SUV swung into a parking spot and a family of four piled out. The kids slammed the doors too hard and dad barked at them. Mom made sure the youngest had his shoes tied while Dad checked that the van was locked. Then they headed off toward the castle.

  Sam watched them go, blew out her cheeks and muttered, “Thou shalt not steal.”

  “What?” Duval asked. He was looking around, making sure no one saw them.

  “It’s a verse,” Sam told him. She stuffed the blood pressure cuff into the driver’s side door and started squeezing.

  “Huh?”

  “From the Bible,” she said.

  “I know that,” Duval said. He shrank against the side of the vehicle like an escaped convict hunkering next to a prison wall. “Why are you quoting it? Are you a Christian?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  The blood pressure cuff filled with air, pressing on the frame until the door popped open with a loud clonk.

  Sam winced.

  Duval put a hand to his chest, like he might be having a heart attack.

  They both looked around to make sure no one was watching, then Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, reached across and unlocked the passenger side.

  Duval piled in next to her. “It’s just that I never would have pegged you for a Christian.”

  “Thanks a lot.” She pressed her lips together and reached under the dash. Using a pocket knife, she cut and twisted together a pair of wires. The engine roared to life.

  Ten minutes later they were on the road. Sam had her ankle wrapped in ice packs. The cold was helping with the swelling and keeping her awake at the same time. They were half a kilometer from the castle when Duval muttered, “Thank you.”

  Sam, intent on the road, said, “For what?”

  “Saving my life.”

  She looked across at him and then back at the road. “Why don’t you stretch out? Get some sleep.”

  Duval crawled into the back, laid out across the seats and was asleep in minutes.

  Chapter Se
venteen

  For Matthew Burke, it had been a long night and it was looking like an even longer day. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. His stomach let him know about this unprecedented turn of events with frequent, loud rumbles. Burke had grown up in Georgia and played college football. He still had the shoulders of a defensive lineman, but years behind a desk had softened him up around the middle. He clutched a chipped mug emblazoned with the CIA logo in one giant black paw. His tie hung loose and the top button of his starched white collar was open.

  A low-level buzz filled the situation room on the third floor of Langley. It reminded Burke of the quiet noise that filled a stadium before a big game, when the crowds are filing in, excited but not yet screaming. Someone in the room had bathed in cologne—Burke suspected Ben Jameson—and the stink mixed together with the odor of moldy carpet to form a lethal cocktail.

  A dozen surveillance experts crowded around the array of computers, sifting through every piece of security and traffic footage across France and half of Europe. The large center screen showed images from three separate drones orbiting the operation area. Full color images zoomed in on vehicles cruising the A13. The pilots snapped pictures of the drivers and computers filtered the images through facial recognition software. Every time they got a possible match, they had to reroute one of the drones for a low pass to get a better look. In the movies, facial recognition software is close to perfect. Reality is far different. Humans share facial characteristics. Computers can look for similarities, but the processors can’t actually recognize an individual face. An hour ago, they had gotten a possible and done a low pass, only to find an Asian man with long hair behind the wheel. If Burke squinted, the guy kind of resembled Sam.

  Burke had been doing this so long now he started to wonder if there were only so many faces to go around. If you lived long enough maybe you would see the same faces recycled. Maybe someone was walking around with Helen of Troy’s face. Perhaps simple mathematical combinations reproduced exact replicas of humans dead and gone. Burke was reminded of all the time travel movies where a man finds his long-lost love reborn under a new name at some point in the future or distant past. Always played by the same actress of course.

  The door cranked open and Dana came in, pushing a trolley piled with sandwiches from the cafeteria. Their eyes met. A half smile turned up one side of her mouth. She wore navy blue slacks that hugged her curves and a white button-down with a pale blue scarf. Her blonde hair was up in a ponytail. The frosted glass door sealed shut behind her with a soft sucking noise.

  Analysts left their stations long enough to grab a sandwich from the trolley and pour coffee before returning to their vigil. Dana joined Burke, handed him a turkey on rye with mayo. The smell of her perfume enveloped him in a secret lover’s embrace. “I saw Coughlin in the hall,” she said under her breath. “He’s right behind me. I think he was checking out my butt.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.” Burke set down his mug, tore open the white paper and took a bite.

  The door opened and Coughlin came in. His tie was missing and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His left eye winked in rapid fire. “Bring me up to speed.”

  “Nothing to report yet,” Burke said around a mouthful of food. “It’s like she dropped right off the face of the planet.”

  Coughlin stuck his fists on his hips. “She didn’t just disappear. She’s out there somewhere. We need to find her.”

  “We trained her,” Dana pointed out. “She knows everything we know. She’ll stay off the main roads.”

  Burke nodded. “She might even have her face disguised. Any idea what she’s up to?”

  Coughlin shook his head. “None.”

  Burke put his sandwich on a nearby desk and dusted crumbs from his fingertips. “Surely Grey has some idea why she killed Bonner? He was there. He’s closer to this than anybody.”

  “Don’t you think I asked him?” Coughlin’s tick turned his face into a grimace.

  “Noted,” Burke said. He was pressing Coughlin’s buttons, looking for a reaction. There was more going on here, but Burke had no way of finding out unless they managed to make contact with Sam and that didn’t seem likely. He picked up his sandwich. “Has Grey made any progress?”

  “They’re doing everything they can from their end,” Coughlin said.

  “He’s our boots on the ground,” Burke said.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Stands the best chance of finding Gunn.”

  Coughlin took his eyes off the screens and turned to face Burke. “I run France. You run the surveillance. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  Burke took a bite. “This’ll be easier if we all share information.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would,” Burke said.

  Dana cautioned him with an elbow to the ribs.

  An incredulous grin turned up one side of Coughlin’s face. “Of course you would, Burke. Another recruit blew a gasket. Seems like every couple of months we have to run down one of your people. You have a history of recruiting officers who go off the reservation. Why is that?”

  “We can’t all spend our career safe behind a desk at Langley,” Burke said. “Mistakes happen in the field. You’d know that if you’d ever been there.”

  “You son of a—”

  “I have a possible,” Ben Jameson said.

  Burke and Coughlin both leaned over his shoulder. The cloying stink of Jameson’s cologne filled Burke’s nose. He tried not to breathe and said, “Let’s see it.”

  “Eighty-seven percent,” Jameson muttered. He was in his forties, balding and recently divorced. Burke suspected the overdose of cologne had something to do with his new status as a single man. He pulled up a video feed of a beige minivan. An Asian woman was behind the wheel. The distance and speed made it hard to be sure.

  “Let’s get a pass over,” Burke said. “Where is this?”

  Jameson consulted a map. “It’s on the A13 southeast of Paris.”

  “Who’s closest?” Burke wanted to know. His heart was tap dancing inside his chest.

  “Able-6-1 is passing over Paris now,” came the reply.

  Burke looked around for a headset.

  Dana was faster. She snatched up a set from a work station and passed them over.

  “Patch me through.” Burke put one of the headphones against his ear and adjusted the mic. “Able-6-1, this is Command. Do you copy?”

  “Copy. This is 6-1-Able. Go ahead. Over.”

  “I need a low pass on the A13 southeast of Paris, headed east. You’re looking for a beige Renault, license plate…”

  He turned to Jameson.

  Jameson consulted the still photos and read off the number.

  Burke relayed.

  All eyes turned to the main screens.

  Burke said, “Bring that up.”

  Dana tapped a command into the console in front of her and Able-6-1’s video feed filled the screen. They watched as the unmanned drone turned a tight arc over the French countryside and then swooped low over a parade of cars on the Autoroute. Thick cloud cover forced the pilot to go lower than usual and that meant the gleaming white fuselage was visible to any drivers who happened to look up. Fortunately, people rarely look at anything but the tail lights of the car in front. The camera singled out a beige Renault.

  Burke said, “There. That’s it. Give us a look at the driver.”

  The angle changed as the drone pulled even with the car and reduced airspeed. The pilot, a twenty-two-year-old kid working out of the 70th ISRW at Fort Meade, Maryland, maneuvered his craft so that they could see right in the driver’s side window.

  “Can you zoom in?” Burke asked.

  The image jumped in size. It was an Asian woman, about Sam’s age, but the chin was all wrong.

  Burke shook his head. “That’s not her.”

  “Are you sure?” Coughlin said. He was looking at the Company head shot of Sam on every monitor in the
room.

  “I’m sure.” Burke instructed the drone pilot to resume course. The angle banked sharply and for a moment they were looking at sky, then more French countryside.

  Coughlin cursed and stalked out of the situation room.

  Burke waited until he was gone and turned to Dana. “Something doesn’t add up. I want you to work with Jameson and see if you can bring up video of the pier at Honfleur. I want any angles he can come up with.”

  “Does it have to be Jameson?” Dana whispered. “He smells like he showered in Calvin Klein.”

  “And keep it quiet,” Burke said.

  She shielded her mouth with a mug of coffee and dropped her voice. “What are you going to do if we actually locate Sam?”

  “I’m not sure.” Burke put his hands on his hips and grimaced, showing the gap between his teeth. “Let’s hope we don’t find out.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Noble felt the tires touch down with a shriek. The sudden friction gave him a gentle shove against the seat back. The flight across the Atlantic had taken nearly five hours; an eternity. If Sam had a reliable set of wheels, she could be in eastern Europe by now. She could be dead by now, whispered a little voice at the back of Noble’s mind. He pushed that thought away. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Operate on the assumption she’s still alive, he told himself. Sam was tough and resourceful. She knew how to avoid detection and had the skills to drop off the radar, which would keep her alive but make Noble’s job of finding her that much more difficult. His first stop would have to be her apartment. She might have left a clue about what she was doing, or at least where she was going.

  While the jet taxied, Noble inspected the contents of Duc’s care package. Inside the messenger bag, he found a titanium fountain pen, a handcuff key, half a dozen microdot transmitters small enough to fit in a pocket, and a ruggedized laptop. It wasn’t much, but for Noble—who normally scrounged what he needed from local hardware stores—Christmas had come early. The handcuff key went under the padded insole of his hiking shoe and the titanium pen went into his breast pocket. The rest of the gear stayed in the bag.