The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to get started on that accounting degree immediately?”

  “You afraid of crawling on your belly through the jungle?”

  “You did see the size of that snake?”

  “It was full.”

  “It probably has relatives. Hungry relatives.”

  Marc looked at his watch, determining that they might have another hour before it was fully dark. “I think the snakes are the least of our worries.”

  “At least the snakes without legs.” She sighed, leaning her head back into the tree, no doubt figuring that there was nothing left to do but rest until the appointed time. Marc tried to concentrate on Lisette’s breathing instead of the buzz of insects and the rustle of leaves. A primal scream cut through the night. An answering cry caused the hairs on Marc’s neck to prickle, and he rested his hand on the butt of his Glock, unable to tell what sort of animal it was or how near or how far. Very soon the jungle sounds closed in, the air grew suffocating, and the dark surrounded them completely.

  Chapter 40

  December 11

  Paris, France

  “Griff? I think we found that connection on LockeStarr.”

  “Hold on.” Griffin pulled Sydney’s cell phone from his ear, looked for the button to turn the volume up, so that he could hear Tex over the music coming from the café next door to the restaurant where he and Sydney were eating dinner. “Shoot.”

  “I need you to run a black op. Unsanctioned. According to our intel, in order to get what we want from the outlying lab, we need access to the main computer in the Hilliard and Sons Montparnasse office.” He told Griffin about the digital virus that would give them access to the lab’s computer to retrieve what they needed. “Only problem is we’re shorthanded.”

  “We’ve worked under worse conditions,” Griffin said. Tex was holding something back; he was sure of it. “What gives?”

  “The information—which we believe is legit—may have been . . . compromised.”

  “Compromised? How?”

  “We’re not yet sure. Marc and Lisette are both missing. They were last seen on that hijacked freighter found floating off the coast of Brazil. Entire crew was dead from some unknown hemorrhagic virus, which we think could be connected to this lab.”

  “They’re missing?” The information hit Griffin like a ton of bricks. He should have been there for them. McNiel had assigned Griffin to accompany Marc on that mission. Had Griffin not gone AWOL, searching for his wife’s killer, he would have been there. He could have helped them . . .

  “We think it has something to do with the article in the paper about a French double agent in the CIA employ, and—”

  “You’re thinking this article refers to my wife?” Sydney had mentioned the article after Carillo had left her a voice mail, and Griffin had looked it up on the Internet. He turned his back, not wanting to face Sydney during this conversation. Lowering his voice, he said, “If she’s alive, there is no way she’d be guilty of espionage, so if anyone’s thinking of using this as a witch hunt—”

  “I have no idea if she’s alive, Griff. All I’m saying is the timing’s suspect and we could use some help getting into that lab.”

  “And what? You think I’m going to be able to walk in there and get it? By myself?”

  “I hear Dumas is in town.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “You could always turn yourself in and I could send a real team, once we have one available.”

  “Give me Dumas’s number.”

  “Thought you’d see it my way.”

  “Only because I have a few questions for him myself.” Two years ago, Father Emile Dumas, a Vatican spy, had been there right after the explosion that Griffin had believed had killed his wife, Becca.

  But he thought about the fact that no one had yet seen Becca alive. Who’s to say that Petra really saw her? This whole thing could be an elaborate trap, a setup, and he wondered if that had also been the case for Marc and Lisette? That they were targeted? Tex was right. The timing of it all was suspect and he knew in his gut they were related.

  Even worse was the realization that had he not been selfish, had he gone with Marc as ordered instead of on this one-man quest for revenge, Marc and Lisette would not be missing. “I’ll call Dumas,” he told Tex, “and I’ll give him our location.”

  Father Emile Dumas, dressed in the black garb and crisp white clerical collar of his faith, briefcase in hand, walked into the Paris hotel room he’d procured for Sydney and Griffin. Griffin had mixed emotions about working with the man, and not just because Dumas was somehow linked to Becca’s death, as it were. Dumas had an unshakable faith in God, the Catholic Church, the pope, and the free world, in that order. Griffin had no such faith, especially after his wife’s death. Unlike the other agents Griffin was used to working with, Dumas did not carry a weapon. Even so, he was highly trained, one of a small number of priests handpicked by the last pope to assist the allied agencies in investigations that might cross paths with the church. And since terrorist threats often affected the church, Griffin and Dumas ran into each other at regular intervals.

  “You seem troubled,” Dumas said, eyeing Griffin in return.

  “You’ve undoubtedly heard the rumors about my wife?”

  “Tex informed me.”

  “And?”

  “I know what you know. Nothing more. Like you, I believed she was killed.”

  Griffin saw no sign of subterfuge in the priest’s steady gaze. But then, the man was as skilled as any spy Griffin knew. Even so, Griffin had to be content. He needed Dumas if he was to succeed with this latest assignment. “What can you tell us about this lab?”

  “The main office is located in the Montparnasse district. The building was used as a makeshift hospital during World War II, first by the French, then later by the Germans during the occupation, and in the last two years was under extensive remodeling.”

  Dumas took out the plans as well as a map of the city, showing them to both Griffin and Sydney. “I drove by there this morning. Armed security guards man the reception area in the lobby. There is also an armed guard at the rear entrance.”

  Griffin studied the map. “Short of blasting through the back and storming the front, what do you suggest?”

  “If you had the time, underground via the catacombs—and that’s assuming you could find the way. As I said, the Germans occupied this building during the war, and there are bunkers below in the tunnels that they entered from inside the building. I can check with some contacts to see if there is a tunnel rat who knows the area, but to my knowledge, most of these tunnels have been blocked off by the authorities to prevent unauthorized access.”

  “You mean there is authorized access?”

  “To some tunnels, yes. Such as the Cimetière du Montparnasse, where most of the tourists visit to view the many bones. But kilometers of these tunnels are not mapped, and there are many areas not even the authorities go into.”

  To which Sydney asked, “What do you mean, if we had time?”

  “Because the only access to some of these catacombs is from the outskirts of the city. A ten-hour walk below ground, due to the many twists and turns. And that is only if you know the way. If you do not, you are lost in an endless maze down there and your bones will join with the millions of others.”

  “What is it with spies and tunnels and bones?” Sydney asked.

  Griffin ignored her, saying, “So if not underground, then how?”

  “There is the rooftop,” Dumas replied. He opened up his laptop, punched in the address, and brought the building up via satellite map, showing a rooftop garden with tables and potted plants around the perimeter, clearly taken during the spring or summer. “Of course, we’ll need real-time satellite for a more current picture, but as you can see, entry can be made from here,” he sa
id, pointing to the garden area. “Your initial access can be the adjoining building, an apartment building that has been converted to business offices above this brasserie. I dined there for lunch this afternoon to case it. The restroom is at the rear. Just beyond it, a staircase and the elevator to the upper floors, but the door at the top is locked with a keyless entry. The door appears to be used by the office workers when they come down for lunch to eat at the brasserie, which is owned by the same corporation.”

  “Alarmed?”

  “Yes. A fairly new and sophisticated system. I expect they arm it after everyone leaves the building, and since, at the end of the day, most would leave via the front entrance, not through the brasserie, it is probably armed when the main entrance is armed.”

  “And a gamble if it turns out it isn’t.”

  “One can only hope you make it to the rooftop garden before the gendarmes arrive. Although they would be preferable to the Network’s own armed security. The building is four stories high. You should be able to make it. And the plus is that the brasserie is open late. That allows you entry to the building.”

  Griffin sat back, watching Dumas go over the plans, thinking that a few days ago he’d come to Europe, knowing full well that there had to be a link between his wife’s murder and the old LockeStarr investigation.

  And now he was this close to finding out . . .

  Griffin went over the plans one last time, confirming their roles. Real-time satellite photos showed that though there were guards at both the front and the back of the building, there were none on the rooftop. Initial access would be made via the restaurant, primarily because any alarms and locks in that building were bound to be less sophisticated than anything the Hilliard labs might have. Dumas would act as the lookout up until the point they entered from the rooftop. After he and Sydney broke in and planted the computer virus, they’d meet up at the designated rendezvous point where Dumas would be waiting.

  “Any questions?” Griffin asked. No one had any. Dumas left to warm up his car. Sydney checked her weapon, holstered it, then waited while Griffin did the same, then sheathed his knife in his boot. Like Sydney, he was dressed all in black.

  He looked over at her. “It’s not too late to walk out.”

  “Someone’s got to look after you.”

  He smiled slightly, took a step toward her, reaching out, placing his hand on her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her seeping through her sweater. He had so many conflicting emotions going through his head on this case, about Sydney, about his wife, that she might be alive. He wasn’t sure what to think . . .

  Except that Sydney was here, now.

  Dumas knocked on the door. Griffin let go, opened the door, and the priest said, “I forgot my gloves.”

  “We should go,” Sydney said.

  They followed Dumas to his blue Peugeot, then rode in silence to the Brasserie Chez Ettore. Dumas dropped them off in front, then drove to the rendezvous. Inside the brasserie, the laughter and chatter provided a perfect cover as they stepped on the lift, which lurched its creaky course upward inside its antique brass cage. When at last they arrived at the top floor, Griffin disabled the alarm, then picked the lock on the solid oak door with a discreet plaque that read “Martin et Bernard, Consultants.”

  They walked through the elegantly appointed office space to a door that opened to a long roof garden. Embedded into the mansard roof, it was well hidden from the sidewalk below, and they wouldn’t have known it existed had it not been for the satellite photo that Dumas had shown them. Unlike the image on the computer, however, the garden was currently enshrouded with snow, lending it a ghostly look, accentuated by the tall, bare rose trees that stood sentinel at equal intervals around the periphery of the garden, each tree encased in a plastic sheath to keep it from freezing during the winter.

  At the end of the garden opposite them, a high wall with a locked door divided the rooftop space between the Martin et Bernard and Hilliard. A blast of northern air hit them as Griffin held the door open, and Sydney stepped onto the hitherto virgin snow. To their left, he saw the great Cemetery of Montparnasse. The bare dark branches of its trees were the only indication of the cemetery’s long intersecting avenues, lined by a multitude of silent statues and sepulchral monuments—row upon row of houses for the dead, all sleeping peacefully under a soft, thick blanket of snow.

  Above them, silhouetted against the light of the moon, were the numerous chimney pots, an unlikely cover should anyone chance to be looking up. He picked the lock of the door that led to Hilliard’s side of the rooftop, a twin of the garden that they had just left, except on this side there were no roses.

  According to Dumas, they had five minutes before the watchmen changed shifts. While he went to work on the Hilliard rooftop building entrance, Sydney walked to the balustrade and looked down to the street below. It seemed an eternity before she raised her hand, signaling that one guard was entering and the other exiting. He opened the door. She hurried over, being careful not to slip, stepped in, and he followed, pulling the door shut. They waited, not moving until they were certain no one was rushing up the stairs to come after them. If so, they figured they had a better chance to escape via the roof rather than be trapped in a staircase.

  Finally, when their sight had adjusted and they felt certain no alarm had been tripped, he said, “Let’s go.”

  He flicked his light on, then off, giving them a quick view of the staircase, narrow, steep. Guns drawn, they descended slowly, pausing to listen every now and then. The office they needed was accessed on the ground floor, and when they reached that level, Griffin held out his hand, stopping her to listen for the guards.

  According to Dumas’s intel, the office with the computer access was three doors down and to the left. It was locked. They didn’t dare use a flashlight, not here on the ground floor on the same level as the guards, and so they moved slow, Sydney running her hand along the wall undoubtedly to keep her balance and perspective. When they reached the third door, they stopped, and Griffin holstered his gun. While Sydney stood guard, her weapon trained toward the front, Griffin examined the door, using a tiny LED light, no bigger than a half dollar, checking for a secondary alarm system, before turning his attention to the bright brass dead bolt. LED in one hand, he took his lock pick set from his pocket, flipped it open. He used his thumb to slide up the picks he needed, pulling them out the rest of the way with his mouth, handing the case to Sydney. She shoved it in her pocket, then held his light for him.

  It took him a couple of minutes to work the pick, teasing it until it unlocked, because the lock was new, more difficult. He slid the picks he’d used in his top pocket, then drew his gun, before opening the door. They stepped in and he locked it from the inside.

  The room had no windows, an advantage to avoid being seen from the outside, but not so good from the inside. Any significant light would show beneath the door, giving them away, and he made a quick survey of the room, seeing a jacket hanging from the back of a chair. He pulled it off, then shoved it into the base of the door to keep the light from shining through to the outside. Flicking on the wall switch, he tucked the LED in his pocket, then immediately moved to the computer at the desk, while Sydney started searching the file cabinet, flipping through countless file folders.

  He inserted the thumb drive into the USB port, then woke the computer. It was locked with a password. Unfortunately, no one had anticipated this most basic of operations.

  Sydney turned her attention to the calendar on the desk, pointing. “ ‘Dispersal P/DC.’ Whatever they’re dispersing it’s listed for tomorrow.”

  And before either of them had a chance to ponder the significance of what P/DC might mean, or come up with a viable password for the computer, they heard heavy footsteps outside the door, then the sound of someone inserting a key into the lock.

  Griffin drew his weapon, aiming it toward the door as it swung open. A m
oment later the room was flooded with a light so bright it blinded him. He squinted, tried to see past it.

  “Put down your gun,” came a deep voice with its cultured French accent. “There is no escape. My men are carrying high-powered automatic rifles. Your weapons on the floor, s’il vous plaît, then slide them over.”

  Griffin glanced at Sydney, then slowly bent down, placing his gun on the linoleum tiles. Sydney did the same.

  They had no choice. Better this than instant death, and he used his foot to slide his weapon toward the doorway.

  “Search them.”

  Two armed guards entered, both carrying semiautos, as well as long guns strapped to their backs. The shorter of the two kept his gun pointed at them, while the other kicked both weapons out the door, then approached Griffin, patting him down first before doing the same to Sydney. He removed Griffin’s lock pick set from Sydney’s pocket, opened it, then tossed it on the desk. “No weapons,” he said in French.

  The blinding light was shut off, and a man Griffin recognized from intel reports, Luc Montel, stepped into view. He was tall, with gray hair, dressed in a suit, the shirt collar open. He eyed the monitor, then the flash drive in the computer tower. “I presume that is the reason for your presence?” he asked. “What were you looking for?”

  “It’s not ours.”

  Luc took a gun from one of the guards and aimed it at Griffin. “What were you looking for?”

  Griffin said nothing.

  Luc pointed the gun toward Sydney, while keeping his gaze on Griffin.

  And Sydney said, “Proof. Computer files.”

  “Proof of what?” When neither answered, Luc nodded toward the guard, whose gun he took. “See what they’ve got, Arnaud.”

  The guard stepped forward, typed something on the keyboard, undoubtedly the password Griffin had needed. He prayed the guard wouldn’t recognize the file.

  Griffin kept his gaze on Luc, hoping to keep his attention fixed, saying, “There’s nothing on there.”