Noble Intent

by William Miller

  The Cessna rolled into a private hangar where a Mercedes G63 AMG was parked. Beyond the hangar doors, the airfield was drab and overcast. Iron gray clouds spit icy rain.

  Noble shrugged into his jacket and worked the zipper. The co-pilot emerged from the cabin, handed Noble a set of keys, and let the stairs down. A draft of chilly air spilled into the cabin. After balmy Saint Petersburg, it felt like stepping into a walk-in freezer.

  The Mercedes was a four-wheel drive affair with dark tint on the windows. Not very inconspicuous, but good for wet, rainy streets and ramming other vehicles. Noble dropped the messenger bag in the passenger seat, turned up the heat, and pulled out of the hangar. Droplets of rain dotted the windshield and Noble inspected the dash for wiper controls, but rain sensors did the work for him. From Charles de Gaulle, he took the A1 southwest toward the heart of Paris.

  He had been on the freeway five minutes when he glanced in his review and spotted a fire engine red Alfa Romeo on his tail. The sports coupe had left the airport at the same time. It could be coincidence, but Noble didn’t believe in those. He eased up on the gas and let the Mercedes fall back several car lengths. The Alfa slowed, staying two car lengths behind. Warning bells in Noble’s head started to jingle. He sped up again. The Alfa changed lanes and passed a slower moving Nissan to keep up. Rain streaked the back windshield, making it hard to see, but Noble counted at least two people in the red coupe.

  He took out the cell Armstrong had given him, dialed, put the phone on speaker, and dropped it in the cup holder.

  The Director picked up on the first ring. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. You must have just landed.”

  “I did,” Noble told her. “And I’ve already made friends. A pair of bricks in a red Alfa Romeo are following me. Friends of yours?”

  “They don’t work for me,” Armstrong assured him. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the A1, headed toward the city.”

  Armstrong was quiet, thinking through the implications.

  Noble said, “You need to check your seals. You’ve got a leak.”

  “Duc?” Armstrong asked.

  “Doubtful.” Noble checked his rearview while he spoke. The Alfa Romeo was still hanging two car lengths back. He said, “I’d have a talk with the pilots. See who they talked to.”

  “I’ll do that,” Armstrong said. “Do you think you can ditch your new friends?”

  “I should be able to lose them when I get to the city.”

  “See if you can get a picture for me.”

  “You’re high maintenance,” Noble said. “You know that?”

  “I’m worth it,” Armstrong said and hung up.

  Noble stepped on the gas and jogged around a line of slower moving vehicles. The needle on the Mercedes inched toward eighty-five miles an hour. The Alfa Romeo gave chase. The smaller sports coupe had no trouble keeping up, but the gambit had forced the tail out into the open. There were no cars between them now. Noble swerved into the breakdown lane and stamped the brakes. Tires shrieked on wet asphalt. The back end started to fishtail. He wrestled the wheel in an effort to keep the big Mercedes steady.

  The Alfa Romeo shot past like a sleek red torpedo cutting through the chilly spray. Noble cramped the wheel and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. All-weather tires slipped on wet blacktop, then caught traction. The Mercedes leapt forward with an energetic growl. Noble barely avoided a panel truck. Horns blared. Noble swung out around the Alfa Romeo and pulled alongside.

  A thug with a unibrow and his jaw wired shut glared at Noble from the passenger seat. He had a brace around his neck and both eyes were puffy purple slits. Noble smiled, raised his cellphone, and snapped a picture. The shot was blurry, but should be enough for Armstrong to work with. Unibrow twisted in his seat, buzzed down the window and produced a CZ61 Škorpion machine pistol.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mr. Neck Brace brought the automatic pistol up, with his elbows tucked tight, so the weapon wasn’t hanging out the open window. Noble’s heart jogged inside his chest. What he thought was a simple tail job was turning into a hit.

  He tapped the brakes and cramped the wheel as the assassin squeezed the trigger. A short dull crack rose above the driving rain. Noble heard the angry buzz of bullets whipping past the windshield. He swerved behind the Alfa Romeo and closed the distance. The space between the bumpers shrank to a few feet. Noble was hoping the driver would get cute and lay on the brakes. The heavier Mercedes would smash the sports car like a snowplow through a drift. No such luck. The Alfa Romeo sped up. The chase slalomed through traffic. Try as he might, Noble couldn’t keep pace. The Mercedes had the horsepower, but weighed too much and didn’t handle like the Alfa. He let off the gas just in time. The driver of the Alfa pulled the same trick on him. The car swerved into the breakdown lane. Tail lights flared and rain made halos around the brake indicators.

  Noble shot past. He pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The needle crept up to ninety, edged past, then moved toward one-hundred. Noble barreled along the highway at reckless speeds with his heart ping-ponging off the walls of his chest. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He weaved around slower vehicles while the Alfa Romeo kept pace. At this speed, even the smallest mistake was a death sentence. A high-speed chase is not about who can drive the fastest. Anyone can redline an engine. It’s about who makes the first mistake. When the other driver has a partner in the passenger seat with a gun, it tips the scales in their favor. Noble used the breakdown lane to pass a semi, mashed the horn and swerved back into traffic in an attempt to jackknife the rig. Bumpers almost kissed. The driver braked and twisted the wheel, but managed to keep the big truck steady.

  Noble bared his teeth in frustration.

  The Alfa Romeo came shooting up the breakdown lane and Noble cramped the wheel in a half-hearted attempt to pin the Alfa against the concrete barrier. Mr. Neck-Brace raised the machine pistol and Noble had to swerve into the outside lane. The gun roared. Through the wind and driving rain it was just a distant snap-snap-snap.

  Noble heard a loud thwack against the back door of the Mercedes, like deadly hail drilling through the panel. He veered left, into the outside breakdown lane, pressed his foot down, and willed the engine to give just a little bit more. The Alfa Romeo used the inside breakdown lane and they raced past lines of traffic. Slowing down wasn’t an option. The Alfa could simply match speed. Noble stayed on the gas and looked for anything that might give him an edge. He had just made up his mind to veer back across traffic and use the bigger vehicle as a ramming device when he spotted an exit ramp ahead. The driver of the Alfa saw it too and started across the lanes of traffic, but he would never make it in time. They both knew it.

  Noble waved goodbye and cut the wheel. The Mercedes glided along the exit ramp toward the junction that would put him on the N2. From there, it was a straight shot into Paris. He eased off the gas and watched his rearview as he sailed around the curve and back into the flow of traffic. His pulse rate matched the speedometer, slowly returning to normal.

  He hadn’t been in France twenty minutes and already someone wanted him dead. That was a record, even for Noble. Whoever was behind it had reach. They had an information source inside Armstrong’s camp and deep enough pockets to put a hit on Noble before he had even landed.

  Noble added up the facts; a dead CIA officer, another on the run, and someone who didn’t want anyone putting all the pieces together, someone with enough money to hire a hit on short notice. Noble was left with an incomplete jigsaw puzzle and no one he could trust. He would have to pick and choose what information he shared. Anything Armstrong knew, Noble had to assume, the bad guys knew as well. He let out a breath, reached for his phone and forwarded the picture of his would-be assassin to Armstrong. That much at least was safe.

  Chapter Twenty

  Grey was standing in front of the toilet. A clawfoot tub and a pedestal sink crowded the dingy bathroom on the top floor
of the safe house. The overpowering stink of septic waste backed up through the pipes and made Grey wrinkle his nose. The vicious little rodent inside his belly was back at work, scurrying and biting and gnawing. He shook off, zipped up, and reached into the medicine cabinet for a roll of Tums. He popped two pink disks into his mouth and chewed. His face pinched at the bitter chalk taste. The medicine made it down to his stomach where it helped settle the angry rat.

  Grey checked his watch. Time seemed to be racing by. Every minute brought them closer to another Cypher Punk release. If that happened, it would be Grey on the run. He would have to disappear. Where would he go? His face tightened and the rat in his belly lifted its nose for a sniff. Grey was usually the one tracking down fugitives. He was the guy who walked up behind them on a dark sidewalk and pumped a bullet into the back of their skull. He knew the score, and if that Cypher Punk release went public there was no place he could go they wouldn’t find him. He would have to spend the rest of his life on the move. Eventually he’d get tired, get sloppy, slip up. Then he’d be the one with a bullet in the back of his head.

  He turned on the sink. Water gurgled up through the pipes. Grey cupped his hands under the chilly spray and doused his face. The bracing cold helped drive out those fears and refocused him on the task at hand. Find Duval, he told himself. Kill Sam.

  When he left the bathroom, Preston said, “Everything alright?”

  “Fine,” Grey muttered. “Anything new?”

  “Nothing,” Preston said.

  LeBeau sat with one headphone pressed against his ear and shook his head. He was listening to the French police scanner. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, dropping ash onto his trousers. He said, “It may be time to cut our losses and disappear.”

  Preston seconded that sentiment.

  “Nobody’s going anywhere,” Grey told them. He felt his phone vibrate, recognized Mateen’s number, and put it to his ear. “Is it done?”

  “Non.” Mateen spoke through his wired jaw. “He spotted us and got away.”

  “How the—?” Grey started to ask and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You had one job. Pick him up and find out what he knows. How hard is that?”

  “We were careful,” Mateen said. “He must have known we were coming.”

  “He didn’t know anything,” Grey snarled. “You screwed up. Just like you screwed up at the docks. Now I’ve got another mess on my hands. I’m starting to think hiring you was a mistake.”

  “Duval was not my fault,” Mateen said. “We had everything in hand until the femme fatale showed up and started shooting. I’ll be eating dinner through a straw for the next three months because you can’t control your people.”

  Grey wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the Frenchman. Le Milieu had been paid handsomely and couldn’t even mange to kill one man. He said, “Sam Gunn is on me, but the new player is your problem.”

  “What do want us to do?” Mateen asked. “He’s gone. I have no idea where he is.”

  Grey rubbed the back of his neck. What would his first move be? His eyes went to the computer screen where a feed showed the entrance to Gunn’s apartment. He said, “Send a couple guys to Gunn’s building. He’ll probably go there first, looking for clues.”

  “And if he’s not there?”

  “You lost him. You find him,” Grey nearly shouted. “You’ve got to have people on the street. Put the word out.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Grey dropped his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Don’t give me that crap. Find him, or I’ll put Le Milieu on top of the CIA’s terror watch list. How long do you bastards think you’ll last with the entire United States government after you?”

  “Alright,” Mateen said. “We’ll find him. But it’s going to cost you.”

  “I don’t care what it costs.”

  Grey put the phone in his pocket and shook his head. “They lost him. Can you believe it?”

  LeBeau cursed under his breath. “This is getting out of hand.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Preston said, “Well, I’ve got some good news.”

  He was pointing at surveillance footage of Sam in tactical gear and a terrified Duval hurrying along a side street in Honfleur. The image was dark and grainy, but there was no mistaking them. Sam was limping heavily and leaning on Duval for support. While they watched, she elbowed the back window out of a midsized hatchback.

  “Yes!” Grey hissed. It felt like a lead weight had been lifted from his chest. “Finally. Good work. Pull up all the feeds from the surrounding area. Get the license plate number of the car. I want to know which direction they’re headed.”

  Twenty minutes later the excitement had evaporated. Sam was good. They followed her on traffic cams along the A1 but she pulled off at a tiny hamlet called Gaillon, which was too small for France’s extensive network of cameras.

  Grey sat with his chin in his hand and a frown on his face. The mean little rodent had started gnawing again, ripping and tearing at the lining of his stomach. “She’s clever,” he said.

  “They’re not far from the German border,” Preston pointed out.

  “Would she risk it?” LeBeau questioned. “The Germans want Duval as bad as we do.”

  Grey considered it. Duval was wanted on two charges of rape in Germany. A pair of call girls claimed he had forced himself on them at a rave more than two decades ago, but there was some debate about the legitimacy of the girls’ stories. Grey scrubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what Sam’s game is. She might try crossing into Germany and going south from there. Pull up the Gaillon police blotter.”

  LeBeau rapped the keys. “Bingo. Gaillon police are on the lookout for a beige Citroën SUV stolen from the parking lot of the Château de Gaillon.”

  “When was that?” Grey wanted to know.

  “Two hours ago.”

  Grey let out a frustrated sigh. “They could be half way to Switzerland.”

  “They could already be across the border in Belgium,” Preston said.

  Grey felt the rat dig in with its claws. He cursed. “Get on the phone with French authorities,” he said. “Give them the plate number of the stolen Citroën. Make sure they throw up road blocks and stop anyone who fits the description from crossing the border.”

  “This is France,” LeBeau pointed out. “The border is like Swiss cheese.”

  “Just do it,” Grey said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Noble circled the block half a dozen times. If there was surveillance on Sam’s apartment, he didn’t see it. The freezing rain had finally let up, but a thick blanket of brooding clouds had plunged Paris into an early twilight. Shadows pooled around the overhangs, turning the dingy neighborhood bleak and depressing. When he didn’t spot any watchers, Noble swung the big Mercedes into a spot against the curb and killed the engine.

  Sam lived on the second floor of 14 Rue du Moulin Vert in a building with balconies so small they were barely deserving of the name. The front door was open to the public, saving Noble the trouble of picking the lock. He climbed a groaning flight of steps to the second-floor landing and found Sam’s door hanging open.

  The frame around the knob was splintered. Someone had kicked it in. There were no sounds coming from inside so Noble slipped the gun out of his waistband and nudged the door with his foot. It swung in on tired old hinges that sounded like a chorus of banshees in the stillness.

  The place had been tossed. Sofa cushions were slit and the television lay dismantled on the floor. Stuffing covered every surface like snow drifts. In the bedroom, Noble walked over women’s clothing and chips of broken glass. It looked like a Victoria’s Secret sale on Black Friday. Drawers were turned out, the mattress was sliced open, and picture frames were smashed. Whoever had been here did a thorough job. The bathroom door was propped against the wall with the hinge plates removed. If Sam had hidden any information in the apart
ment, it was long gone.

  In the bathroom, he picked up a bottle labelled Coco Mademoiselle and sprayed. The sweet smell of citrus mixed with jasmine reminded him of the first time they met. Sam had been staking out an apartment in Manila and the scent clung to the inside of her old Toyota like a faded memory. It was a complicated smell for a complicated woman.

  A decapitated teddy bear lay on the bed with his tummy sunken in. Noble’s mouth turned down at the sight. The teddy’s head had landed in a corner. Sad button eyes stared up at him. Noble scooped stuffing back into the deflated bear, collected the head and wedged it in his jacket pocket.

  Back in the living room, Noble surveyed the wreckage of Sam’s life and asked, “What did you get yourself into?”

  He had come looking for answers, hoping to find some clue that would tell him what Sam was doing or, at the very least, where she was going. But he was no closer to finding her now than when he landed. Instead he stood in the midst of the destruction, wondering who had ransacked Sam’s home and why.

  Standard procedure is to collect as much information on a target as possible, but the CIA doesn’t smash up apartments. Field officers are trained to leave a residence exactly as they found it. Whoever tossed Sam’s place either didn’t work for the Company, or they had no time for subtlety. It could have been the same two thugs who tried to kill Noble on the highway, but Noble’s money was on Grey and his buddies. This was probably their first stop after Sam dropped off the radar. Which meant it was the first place they would expect Noble to go.

  A small tickle of fear walked up his spine. He turned in a circle, doing another sweep of Sam’s apartment and found what he had been dreading. A small wireless camera sat atop a bookshelf, pointed at the door. He had missed it amidst all the chaos. Noble cursed under his breath.

  He was turning to leave when he heard the stairs creak. His stomach muscles clenched at the sound of the boots creeping up the steps. Noble went to the window and pushed aside the curtain. A dark SUV was parked in front of the building, blocking the street. The driver sat behind the wheel, engine idling, headlamps blazing on cracked asphalt, and the back doors standing open.