“Got any more?” Noble asked. He pocketed the knife and put the gun to the back of Frack’s head.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Noble said.
Frack hesitated.
Noble said, “Toss it in the passenger seat. Real slow.”
Frack reached under his coat with his left hand, took out a Saturday night special and lobbed it into the car. Noble heard it bounce off the seat and onto the floor.
“Phone next,” Noble ordered.
Frack dug in his pocket, took out a cell, and it joined the gun.
“Now your clothes,” Noble said.
Frack started to protest.
Noble thumbed back the hammer and said, “Go on! I haven’t got all night.”
Frack shrugged out of his coat, threw it in the car, kicked off his shoes and then unbuttoned his shirt. Noble pinched Frack’s ear with his free hand while he stripped down to tighty-whities.
“The drawers too,” Noble said.
“Come on,” Frack begged. “It’s freezing.”
Noble twisted his ear lobe.
Frack winced. “Alright.”
He shed the underwear and tossed them in the passenger seat. Gooseflesh marched across his bare skin in ranks and he shivered from the cold. “What now, cowboy?”
“Start running,” Noble told him. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
Frack took off, naked as the day he was born, without looking back. His bare feet slapped against the slippery asphalt and silver clouds streamed from his open mouth. He reached the corner of one of the abandoned warehouses and disappeared from view.
Noble glanced around. He could see lights in the distance. It must be a mile or more to the nearest filling station. Frack probably wouldn’t freeze to death if he kept running. Noble climbed into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear.
He had been in Paris less than twenty-four hours and he had already been in a fistfight, a car crash, knocked unconscious, interrogated, fallen down a flight of stairs and then stomped a man to death. His suspicions of Grey had proven correct. The freelancer was working hand-in-hand with Le Milieu and whatever they were up to, they were willing to kill to keep it secret.
Noble swung the car around and put his foot down. He didn’t even know where he was going. He picked up Frack’s cellphone and wracked his brain for Armstrong’s number. He should have memorized it on the flight over, but he had been too busy going over the contents of the file. Instead he dialed the switchboard at Langley and asked for the Director. Which did about as much good as dialing the White House and asking for the president.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sam was on a park bench, huddled in her fleece, shivering against the cold. Duval sat next to her. His breath steamed up from his mouth and broke apart in the frigid air. Light snow swirled down from a silent black sky. Street lamps lit the falling flakes, turning them bright gold which melted as soon as it touched the ground. The park was a sprawling patch of green in a little village called Vesoul. University students thronged the sidewalks, bundled in oversized parkas and mittens. Most of them made their way to a Tuscan pizzeria for a slice before heading down the boulevard to one of the pubs lining the street.
Hard to believe, thought Sam. She had been a carefree college student not so long ago herself. Now she was on the run from the CIA with an international fugitive in a little French town that barely showed up on a map. Freezing on a park bench no less. She had planned this whole thing perfectly, or so she thought.
A hard tremor gripped Duval. His lips had turned an unhealthy shade of blue. “Well,” he said through chattering teeth, “we can’t sit here all night.”
“Why ever not?” Sam said. “Pretty view. Be a nice place to visit.” After a beat she added, “In summer.”
They had ditched the minivan on the other side of the wooded park, under a bald oak tree. With a little luck, the drones wouldn’t spot it under the branches. But it wouldn’t be long before police found the vehicle.
“Yes, well, it’s winter,” Duval said. “And I’m freezing.”
“Me too.”
“Two people on a bench in the snow are going to attract attention,” Duval added. He was trying to wear down her resistance. It was working.
Sam nodded, it was a jerky movement. “I could go for a slice.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Be sure to speak French,” Sam told him. She dug into her coat and came out with a fold of Euros. “Pay cash.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not going alone,” he said.
Sam exhaled. “Duval, the game has changed. Don’t you understand? That roadblock was for us. I thought we could make it across the border, but the CIA must have put my picture out to French authorities. My face will be on every news station. I go in there and a dozen people are going to be on the phone to the police.”
He sat there on the bench, clutching the money, staring longingly at the brightly lit pizza parlor. The night was winding down. It was nearly one in the morning; the shops would be closing soon and the students would wander back to their dorms for a few hours’ sleep.
“Like it or not,” Sam said, “You’re our best bet. No one is looking for Sacha Duval, yet.”
“I’ve got a pretty recognizable face,” he said.
“Keep your hat down and your collar up,” Sam told him. “And stay in sight of the windows.”
His eyes went to the words Tuscan Style Pizza in gold script and a pained expression crossed his face. He wanted the food, but he was too scared to go alone. Sam could see the struggle taking place just below the surface.
She said, “They’ll be closing soon, Sacha. It’s now or never.”
That sealed it.
Duval stuffed the money in his pocket and limped across the boulevard. Sam watched him go. Please God, she thought, don’t let anyone recognize him.
He hauled open the door, stepped inside and stamped his feet to shake off the cold. A pretty, young French girl in dreadlocks offered a bright smile. Sam watched the exchange. Duval kept his chin tucked while he ordered, handed over a few bills and then disappeared into the back.
“Where are you going?” Sam said aloud. She sat up on the bench, oblivious to the cold. Her pulse started a slow Latin beat inside her chest, ready to do the rumba at the first hint of danger. Her eyes were wide and she stood up for a better look. Duval was nowhere in sight. Sam wanted to curse, but started praying instead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The smell of freshly baked dough and simmering tomato sauce washed over Duval as he stepped inside. He shook off the cold. A threadbare mat showed the name of the restaurant, mostly obliterated by the foot traffic of countless college students. Square tables marched in ranks toward the restrooms. Friendly chatter made white noise that drowned out an Italian opera piping through speakers in the ceiling. A long counter took up one wall and heat from coal-fired ovens steamed up the windows.
A teenager with dreads and hazel eyes smiled at him from behind the counter. She greeted him in French, asked if he wanted a slice or a whole pie. Duval ordered a large with mushrooms, onions, green peppers, and white cheese. She scribbled his order on a pad and passed the paper into the kitchen. Duval counted out the money and, as he handed it over the counter, noticed a television in the corner with a black and white headshot of Samantha Gunn on the screen. The ticker at the bottom warned people she was armed and extremely dangerous—wanted in connection with recent terrorist activities. A lead weight dropped into Duval’s belly. His bladder threatened to let go. The teenager was telling him the pie would be ready in a few minutes. Duval tried to thank her, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The syllables came out jumbled. She gave him a curious look. He tried again and said, “I need the toilet.”
She pointed him to the back of the pizza parlor.
Duval limped past the line of tables with his head down. His butt
cheek smarted with every step. He pushed through the door into a cramped bathroom with a single stall and a window set high in the wall. Duval bent down, didn’t see any feet and let himself into the toilet.
The words armed and extremely dangerous went through his head on repeat. Terror suspect. The CIA had really put the fix in. With the recent string of terrorist attacks scattered around Europe, people were living in a constant state of paranoia. Any time they left for work or went down the block for a drink with friends, in the back of their minds they were wondering if tonight was the night. If a nail bomb would explode and kill them while they were watching Paris Saint-Germain take on Lyon. But that’s what the terrorists wanted, wasn’t it? They wanted anyone who opposed them to be afraid. Rule by fear.
Duval emptied his bladder, zipped up and flushed. He stopped at the sink to wash his hands and the window caught his eye. He had put on a few pounds living in the embassy. Long hours with nothing to do and nowhere to go had taken a toll on his health. Not that he was in particularly good shape to begin with. He certainly wasn’t going to be competing in any triathlons, but he might be able to fit through the window.
Sam wouldn’t get far with her face plastered all over the news. Maybe he was better off on his own? He was less than a hundred miles from the border of Switzerland. From there to Montenegro would take a day. Two days if he was extra careful.
He turned on the hot water and waited for it to get warm, then splashed his face and inspected himself in the mirror. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin was waxy pale. Living in constant fear had taken its toll. But that’s what governments wanted, wasn’t it? Anyone who exposed their corruption was forced to spend their life in hiding, looking over their shoulder. Rule by fear. Not so different from the terrorists.
He glanced again at the window. Sam had risked everything for him. She had given up her career with the CIA and become a fugitive. Abandoning her on a park bench in Vesoul was low, but Duval had done worse as an investigative reporter. He had scraped the very bottom of the barrel to get the story and put lives at risk when he exposed the truth. Still, he liked Sam. She was a decent person. Where would she go? What would she do?
Fear and simple self-preservation stamped out that line of reasoning. This was about survival. He needed to disappear, and Sam’s face was on every channel.
“Screw it.”
A sign on the wall declared No Smoking and asked patrons not to leave the window open. Thank you. Management. Duval worked the latch on the window. It had been painted over numerous times and the metal squealed in protest. Ignoring the sign, he slid the window up as far as it would go. Outside was a trash-strewn alley bathed in shadow.
He gripped the frame in both hands and heaved himself up. A grunt worked its way up his throat and his face turned beet red. Life in the embassy had taken more of a toll than he thought. His feet scrambled at the tile wall, leaving skid marks, but he managed to get his head and shoulders through.
He hung there a moment, wedged in the frame. Frigid air struck his face and the awful reek of spoiled meat brought tears to his eyes. He gasped for breath, sucked in his gut, and wriggled his body in an effort to get his hips through.
A shadow detached itself from the darkness in back of the pizza parlor. Duval saw the movement from the corner of his eye. His mouth opened to scream. His heart tried to jump out the window and take off down the alley as his body tried to scramble back inside. A hand caught his ear and twisted. His scream turned to a yelp.
Sam’s face appeared in the light spilling from the open window. Her jaw was set and her mouth was a strict line. “I told you to stay in sight of the windows.”
Duval’s chin trembled as he spoke. “You were right. Your face is all over the news. They’re looking everywhere for you.”
“So you decided to ditch me?”
Duval groped for words. Hot tears of shame welled up in his eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked.”
She gave his ear another twist. “Climbing out the window seemed like a good idea?”
“We have to run,” he said.
“You already ordered a pizza,” she said, still holding onto his ear. “If you disappear, they’ll remember you.”
“But—”
Sam yanked on his ear. It felt like she would rip it right off his head.
“Go back inside, get the pizza, and meet me around the corner,” Sam ordered.
She let go of his ear, palmed his face, and shoved. Duval went backwards, hit the tile floor and barked in pain. His butt felt like there was a white-hot lump of coal in the right cheek. He groaned, rubbed at the wound, and used the sink to haul himself off the floor.
Sam stuck her face in the open window. “If you don’t come out with a pizza in five minutes, I’m coming in shooting.”
She shut the window with a rattling bang.
She’s right, Duval told himself. When he didn’t come out of the bathroom, the cashier would get suspicious. She’d send one of the cooks to see what had happened. He would find an empty bathroom and then they would start to talk. Duval fixed himself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and told himself to act casual. Just another guy picking up a pizza after a night of drinking.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Claude Comtois worked the nightshift at Hotel LeBlonde. He slouched in a swivel chair, a cigarette dangling between his lips and his feet stacked on the desk, watching highlights from yesterday’s match. Because he slept during the day, he had missed the game, but working the overnight was better than not working at all and with France’s unemployment hovering close to ten percent, Claude was thankful to have a job that paid the bills. It had been difficult at first to reset his sleep schedule. He spent the first few weeks walking around in a daze, but he had finally rewired his brain and, six months later, he was a bona fide night owl. He took a drag and stabbed the butt of his cigarette out in a plastic ashtray. The small hotel lobby was dingy and smelled of soiled laundry, stale booze, and mold.
Outside, the wind rose to a mournful howl and gusts of snow swirled against the window panes. Claude sighed, rolled his shoulders, looked at the clock. It was just after one in the morning. He had another six hours before he could go home and climb into bed. He poured a glass of red wine from a minifridge under the counter. He wasn’t supposed to drink on duty, but what was the point of working the overnight if you don’t bend the rules a little? Claude lit another cigarette as Vesoul Haute-Saône scored a goal against Dunkerque.
He clapped his hands together. “Oui! Magnifique!”
The front door opened and a gust of cold air blew into the lobby, carrying with it the smell of fresh pizza. An unlikely pair stumbled through the open door, pawing at each other. The man was older, soft around the middle, with early gray in his white-blond hair and he was clutching a pizza box in one hand. The girl was younger and Asian with a butt that made Claude sit up and take notice. They stopped in the doorway for a passionate kiss. Her hands roamed over his paunch, down to his belt. She spoke German with an odd accent that Claude couldn’t quite place. German girls are kinky beasts—Claude knew from experience—and this one proved it with her dirty talk. The man looked like he had died and gone to heaven.
They staggered up to the counter, laughing, and asked for a room. She never even glanced in Claude’s direction. While the man pushed a wad of cash across the counter, she nibbled his earlobe and described all the things she was going to do to him.
Must be a hooker, Claude decided as he scooped up the money. He wondered how much she cost. Maybe after the old pervert finished, Claude would take a turn. Not likely, he told himself. She probably cost more than I make in a month.
He handed them a room key and pocketed the cash. They wouldn’t be here long, two hours at the most. The old pervert would want to hose off the smell of cheap hooker before going home to his wife. Then Claude would remake the bed and management would never know the difference. What was the point of working the overnight if you didn’t ben
d the rules a little?
“Don’t knock holes in the wall,” Claude told them as they stumbled up the steps, still groping each other. He returned his attention to the match, but he couldn’t get his mind off the girl. She was a knockout. He thought about sneaking up stairs to listen at the door, but abandoned the idea. The old man probably wouldn’t last five minutes with prime meat like that on top of him.
On the television, Vesoul Haute-Saône scored another goal and Claude lifted his glass.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sam dropped the act as soon as the door clomped shut. Duval hadn’t showered in days and, with all the running and sweating, he smelled like a hog at the trough. She took a step back and turned her face away. The sour reek of his breath was even worse than his armpits. He leaned in, his mouth open for another kiss. His left hand held the pizza box while the right ventured down her spine toward her bottom. He whispered, “Why stop?”
“There’s only one thing I want from you,” Sam whispered.
He smiled. “What’s that?”
She snatched the pizza box and crossed the room to a tattered chair by the window. Duval’s face melted. His shoulders sagged like a little boy who’d just had his toys taken away.
The room was a standard affair. There was a bed with stiff sheets, thin carpets covering the floor, a television secured to a nightstand, and wallpaper that had yellowed with age. At the very least it was warm and they had food.
Sam peeled open the box lid and a look of horror crossed her face. “No pepperoni?”
“Americans and your meat.” Duval reached for a slice. “You get everything you need from fruits and vegetables.”
“That’s why you’re in such great shape?” Sam took a slice and bit into it without much enthusiasm. Pizza without pepperoni wasn’t deserving of the name. Still, it was food and her stomach didn’t seem to mind. After the first bite, neither did her taste buds. It was good despite the appalling lack of protein. Ten minutes later, they had devoured the whole pie.
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