by Sam Powers
Younger cut him off. “Now, let’s not go there quite yet, Mark. There’s still the matter of the president’s endorsement. I’d much rather know for certain… I’m sure you understand that POTUS’ backing means a lot right now. His numbers are finally tracking north again, we’re out of the worst of our overseas adventures, and the donation base is building.”
It wasn’t that Younger distrusted the president; he just wanted everything locked into place before any of their policy differences intruded, or one of the ‘also rans’ began to raise offense. His relationship with the man had been tenuous until the last year, when both started to become nervous about leaving a legacy.
“You know you’ve got my support, John.”
Younger got up from his desk chair and pushed it in, then walked around his desk and offered Fitzpatrick a hand to shake. “You’ve been loyal and I won’t forget it; just know that.”
“I know, I know. And I’d like to think that if anyone in House has a respect for the long tradition of naming new directors for a new administration, it would be you. That’s why you can be sure I’ll be there for you when you need me. ”
“You’re still clear of any agency grief?”
“Sure,” Fitzpatrick said. “Your NSC role gives me a plausible rationale for our visits.”
Younger patted him twice on the shoulder. Fitzpatrick was nothing if not straight about his ambitions; he wanted the director’s spot when Wilkie retired which, judging from appearances, could come any day. “Better days ahead, my friend. Better days ahead. Did we get any word on what the final disposition was?”
“The agent who went rogue is suspended. Walter Lang is back in a purely admin role, though Fenton-Wright taps him for a lot of advice.”
“Suspended? Unfortunate,” Younger said. “Is there anything we can do about that?”
“Uncertain. I’ll keep my ears open.” The trick, Fitzpatrick knew, was talking to the right folks; nothing slipped out of the agency without someone having an ax to grind. But there were plenty of those.
Younger was sure he would. Fitzpatrick had become a dependable asset, able to get things done, willing to roll the dice on the senator before a nomination was tied down. Fitzpatrick wanted passage to the corridors of power, and he knew the price was unswerving loyalty.
6./
Sept. 4, 2015 PARIS, FRANCE
The asset arrived at Paris Charles De Gaulle Airport at just after nine o’clock in the morning, a man with dirty blond hair cut short under a black baseball cap, a quilted navy blue vest jacket, a tan turtleneck sweater, jeans, dark blue hikers. He was tall and had a blue-and-white carry-on bag over his shoulder and was about as anonymous as any of the million or so blond westerners who’d pass through the airport on any given day; and he looked younger than his actual age, which accentuated the effect.
Not that it mattered. He was trained to move with a natural gait, deliberate, head down, uninterested in those around him and uninteresting in return. He blended into the crowd effortlessly despite his height. If he did catch an eye, his facial mimicry would convey a perfect expression of ambivalence or fatigue.
No one paid attention as he passed between the glass-case walls of the duty free area, where he managed to turn his head the seventy degrees required to obscure his face from each security camera in turn; nor as he stopped and bought a small decaf coffee; nor at Passport Control, where his thoroughly forged documents were stamped and passed through without so much as a question by the bored-looking officer in the booth.
The inside of the airport was the closest he’d seen to a 1960s science fiction set, like they’d decided to design it using cast-off props from Barbarella; the escalators were inclined planes: sliding, stepless walkways at acute angles, enshrouded in Perspex bubbles. Some passengers looked around with an obvious mixture of puzzlement, amusement and admiration, but the asset remained nonplussed and completely uninteresting to anyone.
The baggage carousel was mercifully quick. The case was the fourth item offloaded, and it circled its way around to him inconspicuously, looking every bit the hard-sided electric guitar protector it appeared to be when run through the airport’s supposedly infallible scanners. He picked it up, slung his carry-on back over his shoulder, and headed for the sliding doors that led outside, to the taxi stands and pick-up zone.
He flagged the next cab in line.
“Où voulez-vous aller?” the driver said in African-accented French.
The asset gave him an address in Clichy-Sous-Bois, a nearby suburb, and the driver made a disappointed noise. The thirty-minute ride would have few opportunities to stretch the trip for additional fare and the neighborhood in question was not good; the driver knew – he lived there himself.
“Voulez-vous prendre le ‘D40’ ou l‘N370’?” the driver asked.
“D40, d’accord?” The asset said it forcefully to make it clear he didn’t want the driver messing around.
The trip took ten minutes longer than expected, even with the driver cutting in and out of traffic so quickly the asset found it difficult to sit up straight in the back seat. He was at least twenty over the speed limit most of the way, the asset noted, but the road congestion was significant, and every so often they would grind to a halt for a few minutes.
The contact’s apartment was in a ten-story block just off Av. Paul Cezanne. It was early evening and getting dark, and it was wet and drab, with numerous street lights either broken or burned out. The apartments were built with white concrete-and-rebar blocks; the building’s non-descript exterior was long mottled and stained by dirt and water, just another in a line of mottled concrete blocks. Across the street, a building was broken down completely, the two remaining exterior walls covered with elaborate graffiti. It was the last in a row and had fared worst; most of the apartments lacked balconies, making the surrounding buildings hard to tell apart from offices. Even the inhabited blocks had been scrawled upon with spray paint, though mostly by untalented taggers, the signatures woeful attempts at artistic style, slashing black scribbles that did little but accentuate the grime.
Six wide concrete steps ran up to the front doors of his destination. The asset scanned the street; cars were crammed end-to-end on both sides but it seemed quiet otherwise. Housing in the neighborhood was cheap, and along with the poor it drew the unfortunate and those who preyed upon them. He wasn’t surprised the contact lived here; the contact was considered unreliable and untrustworthy, a backup plan, to be used only in the most necessary of circumstances due to inherent risks. But the asset was working without a net; no handler, no support. He had limited assets and fewer options. Anyone more reliable might check back on him, as well; the last thing he needed was outside static.
The front security door’s lock was broken and it swung open freely. The building’s lobby was near featureless, a plain linoleum floor, the tiles dirty and torn, with the right-hand wall covered in tiny metal mailboxes. At the end of the lobby was the elevator. To its left was an office, and to its right, the stairs.
The elevator car smelled of urine. The asset took it to the fourth floor, the doors beginning to open before it had actually settled and was level with the hallway.
Only one hallway light bulb still functioned, along with an exit light at the very end of the corridor that cast a red shadow. The contact was in Apartment 4D and was expecting him. The door wasn’t the standard issue, but rather a steel reinforced barrier, painted off-white, with a spy hole and a camera above it. He knocked three times, the metal echoing deeply. After a pause, a panel slid back near the top of the door.
“Yeah?” The voice was deep.
“I’m here to see Petr,” the asset said in French.
The panel slid shut. Twenty seconds later, he heard the bolt being drawn back. The door swung open. The man guarding it was large, well-built in overalls and a t-shirt, toting a Mac-Ten machine pistol. Inside, the main hallway opened into a bachelor apartment, with everything but the bathroom contained in an open floor space. Th
e walls were empty, painted a drab green and the floorboards were scuffed and dull. At the back of the room, a dark brown wooden desk sat before the windows, and behind it was the contact, Petr. He was short, with a mop of blond hair that went to just below his collar and green eyes hiding behind undersized glasses. He had a guard on each side, both muscular again, both standing with their hands politely in front of them. The asset didn’t see any weapons, which he assumed meant they were concealed, probably just tucked into waistbands. The one to the asset’s right had a bulge by his ankle suggesting a backup piece. Both seemed focused.
“Come in my friend, come in,” Petr said. “So I’m told through a mutual acquaintance that you require some special paper.”
“You got my specifications?” The asset had forwarded them before leaving the U.S. If he’d had his preference he would have used someone back home for the detailed work; but his mission was off the books, strictly unofficial. Anyone working with spooks was out of the question. So he had gone to Petr, who had a reputation as a ruthless gangster but a superb forger.
“Sure, of course,” the man said, his accent eastern European. “It wasn’t easy, pulling that many identities together that quickly. Why you want this, anyway?”
That made the asset anxious. Solid suppliers knew not to ask those sorts of questions. “I like to travel a lot,” he said. “And I’m collecting airline points.”
Petr laughed at that and his boys quickly joined in. “Funny guy eh? I like funny. You got the money?”
The asset took a wad of crumpled euros from his inside pocket and threw it onto the desk. “That’s five thousand.”
Petr nodded. “That is what we agreed. I tell you, Mr. American, you have some balls to come see me, eh? I mean, we don’t know each other, you just get my name from some contact I haven’t seen or heard from in two, three years. If I didn’t know better,” he grinned, “I would think you might be a cop. Or planning something illegal.”
“Just give me my paper and I’ll be on my way.” Keep it cordial and professional, the asset told himself. No reason to suspect…
The wire looped around his neck swiftly and silently from behind, but the asset’s training kicked in and he managed to get two fingers under it as the guard from the door tried to pull the garrote tight, to choke the life out of him. He dropped his case onto the ground, freeing up his other hand.
“Maybe since we don’t know you,” Petr said, “we take whole thing and keep paper, yes?”
The wire cut into his hand. The asset threw himself backward, the weight bowling the strangler over, the pressure released for a moment. The wire was still in place, and his attacker grabbed at each of the wooden handles on its either end, then wrapped his legs around the asset’s waist, making him near impossible to pry loose.
“It is nothing personal,” the forger said matter-of-factly, “just business.”
The wire cut deep, blood beginning to drip in busy patterns all over the floor.
“Don’t struggle,” Petr said, “Victor is much too strong for you, my friend. It will all be over sooner if you just give in.”
Both men lay on their side battling for control; the asset tried to kick backwards with his heels, to catch a shin or kneecap; but instead, the garrote got tighter as the attacker pulled with all of his might. He felt his air diminishing, face flushed from the artery that was being cut off in his neck. He pushed his left hand upwards, so that his arm was between the wire and his neck, knowing he’d only have one chance for the move to work. He thrust the arm through the loop, pulling it away from his skin, then flung his head backwards, smashing the man in the face with the back of his skull.
The tension in the wire temporarily slacked off and the asset pushed hard against it with his arm, the attacker letting go of one end of the noose. The asset threw a hard elbow backwards, catching the guard on curve of his cheekbone right below his eye socket and sending him to the ground screaming, clutching the bone.
Guards number two and three were coming for him now. The one on the left had already retrieved a pistol from the back of his waistband and tried to level it; but the asset was nimble, ignoring the pain in his hand and arm from the cuts, rolling sideways and coming to his feet, wrist-locking the gunman’s arm, swinging it toward his colleague even as the guard opened fire, the three shots catching the second guard flush in the chest.
As his partner went down, the asset broke the first man’s wrist with a hard twist, the crunch of the small bones audible, then drove the side of his hand into the man’s larynx, crushing it and sending him to the ground, spluttering for air, his pistol bouncing loose and sliding a few feet. The first assailant was almost to his feet again, and the asset turned smoothly, grabbing the man by his hair and driving his knee into the man’s face, the initial cheek damage compounded with a shattered eye socket. He repeated the action twice with furious strength, the guard dead before he hit the floor.
The asset picked up the pistol. Petr hadn’t moved throughout, seemingly stunned by how efficiently his men had gone down, but now reached quickly for the gun that lay flat on his desktop. As he grabbed it, the asset used his free hand to grab the letter opener that lay next to it and drove it through the top of Petr’s hand, pinning it to the desk top. The forger screamed.
The asset twisted the letter opener slightly and the man screamed again, this time ending it with a deep, woeful moan of pain.
“The paper: did you get it done or was rolling me the plan all along?”
The man looked at him blankly, sweating profusely, the shock of the moment paralyzing him. The asset twisted the opener blade again and the man moaned once more. “No! Please, no more! Top drawer, is in top drawer!”
A manila envelope sat on top of the other drawer contents and the asset grabbed it. Then he contemplated the forger. The man could identify him, and had proven completely unreliable; it was unfortunate, the asset thought, but the police would probably be there soon, drawn by the gunshots. Response times were likely as bad as any country, in the fifteen to twenty minute range. In any case, there was no point being quiet about things. He turned back to Petr who was wide-eyed with fear.
“No, please… I have family,” the forger said.
The asset picked the wad of money back up off the desk then shot Petr once through the forehead; the gangster slumped forward on the desk, his life draining away like so much spilled ink, his eyes wide open but empty, his face displaying nothing less than a final moment of surprise.
7./
Sept. 6, 2015, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE
The odd camera flash was still going off, though most of the press had gotten their shots at the beginning of her speech, thirty minutes earlier. The representative to the World Trade Council’s Special Committee on Environmental Security took an extra-long pause.
Marie La Pierre wanted to frame her final words dramatically, to lend them some gravitas. The pause just fit. She’d learned early in her thirty years in politics that due to her short stature, she needed her diction and delivery to be perfect, to make up for any bias her audience might hold towards her size. Then she moved slightly closer to the podium again, brushing an errant brown hair away from her glasses before looking out over the roomful of delegates once more. “And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, we must be ever vigilant in an age where our planet is under assail daily; we must never shirk our duty to protect this planet from those who would care nothing for future generations but only for profit in the now, gain in the immediate, at the expense of our children, and our children’s children.
“And so the Special Committee thanks the EU delegation today for its continued, unwavering financial and legislative support, for the working relationships we have forged, and for the efforts the committee has made around the world in ensuring nations, businesses and their leaders respect the environment, as well as the concerns and cultures of indigenous peoples.”
She surveyed the room. Most of the delegates were elderly men, overweight, suit wearing, long accu
stomed to high pay for little work. A parade of grey-haired, aging policy addicts with too much ear hair and collections of warts. The speech was a prolonged handshake, a chance for the committee to ensure the delegates went back to Brussels with the right message; in truth, the conference had been one long government junket, a chance for the committee to host European movers and shakers for a weekend by the Mediterranean. The purpose was to send them home with a head full of happy memories and a nice gift bag. As pompous and self-important as most of them were, La Pierre knew, the committee’s work was her focus of her public life these days. She considered it too important to fall victim to bureaucracy or politics, and that meant keeping everyone fat, happy and inattentive.
After the session had adjourned, she waited until most of the audience had shuffled out. Her assistant, Miriam, joined her as La Pierre descended the short flight of steps off of the stage.
“That went well,” Miriam said. “They seemed very receptive.”
La Pierre smiled politely. The girl was barely into her twenties and had only been working with her for a few months. She was six inches taller than the politician, pretty and slight of build, with narrow hips and a flat chest, the kind of figure that looked good on a runway in designer fashions. Secretly, La Pierre wondered if Miriam wasn’t biting off too much, wading into the fray. She was a help -- but a naïve one, at that.
“They seemed ready for the roast beef lunch,” La Pierre said. “Never mistake politeness for engagement. People in leadership are always polite, even when they’re skinning you alive. Come on, let’s go have a drink.”
