Storm Season

by Erica Spindler

  I splash the meager handful of water in his face, but it is enough. He sputters and his eyes open. I stand with my arms crossed, waiting for him to again register who I am, and why we are here.

  “Angelie,” he moans.

  I drop to my knees, cajoling now, friendly.

  “Talk to me, Thierry. Tell me what I need to know.”

  I wrap his wounds, binding them against the bleeding. It will feel better that way. He head lolls against me, I smell his fear. The infamous Thierry Florian, helpless and scared.

  “That is all I have, Angelie. I know nothing else.”

  Kneeling back on my heels, I watch him. The letter tells me he is still lying.

  “Thierry, they’ll come for you soon. You must tell me the rest. Tell me, and this pain will stop.” I tug on a lead attached between his legs and he gulps a breath. His head bobs side to side, a metronome of hurt.

  He whispers, “I would tell you you’re wrong, but you will not believe me. “

  “No, I won’t believe anything less than the truth. You’ve been lying to me this entire time. For fifteen years, you’ve looked me in the face, knowing you killed my father. How could you? I thought you were my friend. I thought you were my father’s friend.”

  He sighs, a great, dragging breath. “Dear Angelie, I am not lying. Your father panicked. We had a safe house prepared, guards to keep him safe, but someone got to him. Convinced him he was being double-crossed. Angelie, I do not know who this person was.”

  “Whoever it was, he told the truth. You double-crossed my father. You left him out in the cold to die.” I toy with the knife at the edge of his groin. A lesser man would beg, plead, promise me anything, just to get the sharp edge away from their skin. Florian merely shakes his head.

  “No, no, Angelie. I would never do that to him. He was my friend, yes, but I will be honest. He was too valuable. He was the greatest asset I'd ever trained. But the others, they had no compunction about lying to him to get what they wanted. And he chose to believe their faint words of promise rather than follow my protocols. I wanted you all in the safe house in Annecy, he chose to buy the caravan and stay in the campgrounds. There was no way to protect him, he was too exposed. He exposed you all, and panicked when they came for him.”

  “More lies. This letter is dated three days before his death. He says he knew you were working for the Soviets. That you were a double agent. That’s why he didn’t trust you.” I catch my tone, a petulant child. I add a sneer. “You dishonored your vows, Thierry, and their blood is on your hands.”

  0630 hours

  TAYLOR’S THEORY ABOUT FLORIAN being the shooter changed when she saw the blood by the window.

  “Cherry, over here.”

  “Oh, no. This goes from bad to worse.”

  “It does, but don’t lose hope just yet. There’s not enough blood to assume the worst, not by a long shot. This is just a thimbleful, really.” She stared at the blood drops. “The storm kicked into high gear at midnight. A time of death on Mr. Stamper would go a long way toward telling us whether Florian is still on site or was taken from the hotel.”

  “You’re not making me feel better. I have one man down, and one missing. Where the hell could he be?”

  Taylor tucked her weapon back into its holster.

  “I don’t know. Anywhere – this campus is huge. But if he’s still here you’re missing the bigger picture.”

  “The bigger picture?”

  “It’s entirely possible we’re locked in this hotel with a cold-blooded murderer.”

  Cherry sat down hard on Florian’s bed. “Oh, Lieutenant, trust me, I am well aware of this.”

  There was something in her tone, in the self-defeated flop on the bed.

  Taylor squatted on the floor in front of the woman. “You sound like a woman who needs to get a load off her chest.”

  “I’ve screwed up. I didn’t protect him. It’s my fault.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve screwed up? Cherry, talk to me. What’s really going on here?”

  “You know who Thierry Florian is, I suspect?”

  “He’s worked with my fiancé, but I don’t know him. I just met him tonight. All I know is he’s the head of the Macallan Group, and former clandestine services. The French, right, DGSE?”

  “Always shy with his accomplishments, Thierry. That’s what makes him such an excellent spy. His father was a leader in the French Résistance during World War II. When the French needed information about the Germans, François Florian would put himself in the worst possible situations, get arrested, then find ways to keep himself alive while he gathered information. When he had what he needed, he would escape and bring the information back to the resistance.”

  “An impressive man.”

  “Yes. Thierry was his youngest child, born well after the end of the war, but the tales his family told were intoxicating. While the rest of his siblings went into safe positions as doctors and lawyers, Thierry followed in his father’s footsteps and joined what was then known as the DGSE – the Directorate-General for External Security.”

  “The French version of our CIA?”

  “Correct. He had an illustrious career. When he retired, he was the equivalent of our Director of Counterintelligence. But it was an especially covert side job that put him on his current path. Before he left he worked with the Alliance Base – do you know what that is?”

  “An international cooperative of intelligence agencies, right? Working against Al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, a little sadly. “Thierry has always ruffled feathers in the intelligence community with his theories. He feels cooperative intelligence is vital to deter more terrorist attacks on the Western world. But putting a bunch of spies together – well, friction was inevitable. He saw the ways the organization worked, and the ways it didn’t. He was determined to perfect the mix. Hence, The Macallan Group.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Cherry? The man’s CV isn’t necessary for me to want to help.”

  “Bear with me a few moments more, Taylor. Thierry has made many enemies, and he is a target. It is entirely possible we have been infiltrated by someone he pissed off back in the day and they’re taking their chance at retribution.”

  “You handpicked the conference members, though, didn’t you? Surely you wouldn’t be so careless as to let a known combatant in.”

  She gave a little moan. “Spies, Taylor, we’re all spies. Everyone working at cross-purposes. It’s why I don’t work with Thierry at Macallan, I have a clearer head than he when it comes to the simple fact that for centuries, we’ve been working against each other. It’s all well and good to hope for cooperation, but ultimately, someone will want to get payback for some perceived grievance, and it all collapses.”

  “So who here had a vendetta against Thierry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Cherry, think. If you truly believe the killer is a part of the conference, think!”

  Cherry went quiet, then, in a small voice, said, “There’s one other person unaccounted for. Not from the conference, from our lives. I’ve known her for years. She is a friend, of sorts. Used to be a protégé of Thierry’s before she went out on her own. We’ve worked in some pretty hairy places together. She went off grid a year ago, just when Thierry formed The Macallan Group. He wanted to recruit her, came looking, but I hadn’t heard from her in several months. We put out some feelers, to see if anyone knew where she was. She was for hire, you see, a black market baby, very hush-hush.”

  Taylor knew what for hire meant. “She’s an assassin.”

  Cherry leapt from the bed at the word, shaking her head. “I was silly to bring it up. There’s no way she could be involved in this. She fights against evil. That’s what drives her.”

  “I take it the feelers came up empty?”

  “Yes. Nothing. She's gone gray.”

  “Gray?”

  “Blending in. Hiding in plain sight. She’s most l
ikely setting up for a major job.”

  Taylor’s voice rose. “A major job? Come on Cherry, talk to me. What kind of major job would she have to disappear for a year to prepare for?”

  Cherry just shook her head. “I don’t know. She’s been… reckless, lately. Taking on jobs that are out of character.”

  A sense of foreboding crept into Taylor’s stomach. International assassins on the loose made her very uncomfortable, she’d come face to face with one herself a year earlier and hadn’t enjoyed it a lick. A different tact was necessary; she could see Cherry was shutting down.

  “Tell me this. Something about this set-up makes you think of this woman. What is it?”

  Cherry pursed her lips. “Thierry alluded once, only once, there was history between them. She still worked for DGSE then, was still being groomed to move up the ladder. Something set her off and she went freelance, and I’ve never known what it was. But Thierry did. He must have. That’s what he meant when he told me she’d become a black widow.”

  Ah. Interesting. “She’d get physically close to her prey, then kill them.”

  “Exactly. And she’s one of the best at what she does. She’s a legend, Taylor.”

  A legendary assassin. A wicked snow storm. No power. One dead, one missing. This just got better and better.

  “I take it the scene in Stamper’s room looks familiar?”

  “Very.”

  Taylor took the flashlight, went to the door, unlocked the bolt. Opened it into the dark hallway, then shined the light back into the room. There was no more time to lose.

  “I need a name, Cherry.”

  The harsh light caught Cherry’s face. She looked frightened and old, defeated, a pale specter in the darkness. She sat back down on the bed as if exhausted.

  “She goes by many names, Taylor. But I believe her given name is Angelie Delacroix.”

  “That’s a start. Let’s go. We need to—”

  Cherry shook her head, clearly the truth of the matter was finally sinking in. “No, Lieutenant, we have a bigger problem.”

  “Worse than one dead and one missing? Seriously?”

  “Angelie’s uncle is active MI-6. And he’s downstairs.”

  0640 hours

  I SIT DOWN ON THE floor near Florian. “Oncle Pierre told me the whole story last year. You were on the scene. You were the one who saved me, who took me to the hospital. But you smashed me on the head first so I wouldn’t recognize you. Why did you kill my father, Thierry? My family? Why would you kill them and save me? Pourquoi? Pourquoi?”

  I am shouting, losing control. I resist the urge to hit him again.

  “Angelie. Angelie, it wasn’t me. You have the story wrong.”

  I am beginning to believe Thierry Florian may be telling the truth. He is a proud man, one I’ve watched interrogate a hundred men. He is brave. And as he sits here bleeding, exposed, I must believe I know him well enough to recognize when he is telling the truth.

  “Then what is the story, Thierry?”

  “Don’t make me tell you. Please.”

  This last word is spoken as softly as a lover’s kiss. Finally, after hours of pain and fury, the great man is begging.

  I tuck the muzzle of my Sig Sauer against his chin, and I raise his head so he is forced to meet my eyes.

  “Tell me and I will end your suffering.”

  He leans into the gun, his voice the harshest I’ve ever heard. “Kill me, and you will never get justice.”

  I stand and whirl away. Florian breathes out a sigh.

  “You will not stop, will you? Ah, Angelie. I trained you well.”

  I run back to him, wrench his head back. Spit the words. “The truth, now. I am sick of playing this game.”

  “Pierre,” he says, speaking out loud a terrible reality I’ve never fathomed. “It was Pierre. Your uncle killed your father.”

  Nausea overwhelms me. I drop my hand. “You’re lying.”

  Florian shakes his head. He is disheveled, bloody, has absolutely nothing left to lose.

  “I never lied to you, Angelie. I’ve protected you, all along. I did not want you to suffer the pain of this knowledge. Indeed, I’ve protected you from it since you were a child. Yes, it was I who rescued you. I got wind of your uncle’s plan, the day before the attack, though at the time I did not know he was behind it. I was in Germany, I drove all night to reach you, to take you all to safety.

  “Your father ignored our attempts to get him into the safe house in Annecy. He was fleeing back to Paris on Pierre’s orders. He believed Pierre was trying to help. He listened to him, and drove directly into the trap.”

  I stagger against the wall, tripping on something in the darkness. A pain I have not felt in twenty-five years rises in me, tears through my body, my brain, leaving me breathless.

  “This can not be the truth.”

  “It is the truth. I arrived on the scene moments after the shooting. Gregoire Campion was riding his bicycle down from the safe house, he met me on the westbound street. We were too late to save them, Angelie, too late by five minutes. But you were still alive, clinging to your mother’s skirts, covered in your parents’ blood. I couldn’t leave you there, and I couldn’t let you see our faces. I did the only thing I could, which was rescue you and get you to a hospital. And I spent the next twenty years trying to determine what happened that day.”

  I try to digest this information.

  “Why did you not tell me the moment you determined Pierre was behind the execution?”

  “Ah. Angelie. And cause you that much more pain? Your uncle raised you, taught you well. He knew where your heart lay, knew you would try to avenge your parents some day. He’s the reason you were hired into the DGSE. Gregoire Campion was worried about you from the first because he suspected Pierre’s involvement, kept an eye on you, eased your path in the service. And you killed him. The man who watched over you, dead by your hand. Angelie, you disgrace yourself.”

  Campion, on the side of the angels?

  I harden myself against Florian’s words. “Pierre told me Campion was the one who let my parents’ path slip, that he told the Iraqis where my father was going to be that day.”

  “That was Pierre, mon cherie. Pierre was receiving money, so much money, that he was willing to sacrifice his brother and his family. He has lied to you, Angelie, about many things. I am not a double agent. And I did not kill your father.”

  There is great finality to his words. I know he is telling the truth.

  I slide down the wall, the pistol dangling between my legs.

  Mon dieu. What have I done?

  0645 hours

  TAYLOR HUSTLED DOWN THE four flights of stairs, Cherry on her heels. The minute they reached the bottom floor, Taylor asked, “What does he look like?”

  “Mid sixties, silver hair, six foot or so. He was wearing a blue suit last night, no tie, but I don’t remember what he was wearing this morning. It was dark and I was too concerned for Thierry and Ellis.”

  They burst into the lobby, raced to the room where everyone was staged. The room was still shrouded in darkness, and there was no more time to waste.

  “Stay here. I’ll find him.”

  “But you don’t know what he looks like.”

  Taylor flashed the light on the ceiling a few times, creating a strobe effect that caught people’s attention.

  “Pierre Matthews. Are you in here?” she called.

  Murmurs from the crowd, then one man stood, Taylor could see the outline of his bulk against the window.

  “I’m here. Whatever is the matter?”

  Taylor crossed the room, weaving between people, and took him by the arm. “Come with me, please, sir. There’s a problem, we need your help.”

  The lobby was filled with natural light, the darkness finally easing in the early morning sun. The snow, she noticed, had stopped. Taylor turned off the flashlight, tucked it into her back pocket.

  “What is this about?” Matthews asked.

  �
�Sir, I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, and you know Cherry Gregg. We have reason to believe you may be in danger. Would you please come with us?”

  Matthews was nonplussed, but nodded. Taylor took the lead, Cherry flanked. They got him across into the bar, and Taylor got him into a corner where she felt he would be safest.

  “You two have been scurrying in and out all night. What’s happened? Where are Thierry and Ellis?”

  Cherry spoke plainly. “Ellis is dead, and Thierry is missing.”

  “Bloody hell. Are you sure?”

  “Do you know a woman named Angelie Delacroix?” Taylor asked.

  Matthews sucked in a breath, and Taylor raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She saw him debating with the answer. Finally, he replied, “She’s my niece. Why are you asking about her? Is she all right?”

  Cherry grabbed the man’s forearm. “Pierre, she killed Ellis. She’s taken Thierry.”

  Pierre froze. “Angelie is here? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. She knows.”

  Taylor gave Cherry a sharp look. “She knows what?”

  Cherry and Pierre were locked in a staring contest, no words needed. Taylor recognized there was a bigger issue, something major they were keeping from her.

  “Tell me right now what’s happening, or I’m out. I’ll go warm my hands by the fire and let Fred shoot me dirty looks.”

  Cherry nodded to Pierre. “You tell her.”

  “Ah, bugger me.” He rubbed his hands over his face, the whiskers on his chin rasping loudly against his palm. “Angelie went rogue, abut two years ago. She didn’t like the politics within the DGSE anymore, didn’t want to play by the rules. We were all working together at the time, on the Allied project. The greater good. CIA, MI-6, DGSE, Freedom Forum, Futures Working Group – hell, even Pakistan's ISI was along for the ride. In the middle of the fuck-up in Benghazi, she got a bug up her bum about some old case, took off for parts unknown. All we’ve heard from her since has been at the end of a gun – she’s left a trail of bodies all over Europe, the last one found just two days ago, in London.”