The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

He joined me at the window before going into the back bedroom. “There’s another van out back.”

  “Great, if only I had an invisibility cloak,” I muttered. Ryan looked at me like I was an idiot. “C’mon, you and that accent, you must be familiar with Harry Potter.”

  “I’m Irish, not English,” he insisted, even though I was very much aware of this fact, given his name and his accent.

  “Such a cliché,” I teased. Ryan and I were slowly forging a friendship of sorts.

  Dinner arrived, and while we ate, he explained how his family had moved from Belfast to Paris when he was four years old. It made sense why English was his first language. After our meal, I looked out the window. The surveillance van wasn’t going anywhere. What the hell, if Delacroix had a problem, he could kiss my ass. I investigate my way; he investigates his.

  “I’m going out the front. I’ll deal with the fallout if and when I have to,” I announced.

  “Hang on.” Ryan wrote down the number for his new burner phone. “If you need anything, I’ll be there.”

  “Okay. And Ryan, the next time you put cuffs on me, they damn well better be the pink fuzzy kind.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.” He smiled slyly.

  “You do that.”

  I shut the door and headed out the front of the building. As I passed the Interpol surveillance van, I gave them a big smile and a friendly wave. You guys are complete idiots, I thought as I passed. They were annoyed by my overt actions, ruining their pathetic attempt to be stealthy. I was just pulling away when my phone rang.

  “Parker, what the hell did I tell you?” Delacroix sounded angry.

  “You know what? I don’t work for you. I don’t actually work for anyone at the moment, so unless you want to argue that I’m doing something illegal, stay out of my way.” I hung up before he had a chance to respond. I was tired of his attitude and his inability to run a productive operation. Everything he had done so far seemed counterintuitive, and I no longer needed him or his help.

  I got to my hotel a little before midnight. Ryan’s CO, Captain Reneaux, would be stopping by first thing in the morning. I needed to be well rested for tomorrow, but I was too keyed up. Turning on my computer, I attempted to learn the finer points of basic table games from blackjack to roulette to craps. With the exception of watching some celebrity poker shows, I knew absolutely nothing about casino games. By two a.m., I had the proper terminology down, and by four a.m., I familiarized myself with the odds of each game. Hopefully, this would be sufficient enough to make me a believable enough player while I waited for the cavalry to ride in and save the day.

  Seventeen

  At seven, my alarm woke me from what I considered a nap. Three hours of sleep didn’t count for much, but it was the best I could do. I was dressed and anxious to get everything worked out. A few minutes past eight, the hotel phone rang, and I was informed a couple of gentlemen were waiting in the lobby. Giving the front desk permission to send them up, I was nervous. Although, I had no idea why.

  “Madame Parker?” a male voice bellowed. Opening the door, I found two men standing in the hallway. “Captain Reneaux,” one of the men introduced himself, pulling his credentials from his jacket pocket. “We spoke on the telephone yesterday. This is our technical specialist, Monsieur DuVall.” The other man presented his identification.

  “Please.” I gestured for them to enter.

  “Merci,” Reneaux replied. “I would like to thank you for your willingness to assist us, but are you positive you want to undertake such an endeavor?”

  This was my last chance to back out, but that wasn’t going to happen. “I’m in.”

  Reneaux reiterated everything Ryan said yesterday but provided a more elaborate explanation of the role the support team would play. Basically, all I needed to do was get inside the warehouse, verify the presence of Abelard and the illegal gambling, and stay out of the way until the police breached the perimeter. It sounded easy enough with one exception.

  “When I first stumbled upon Abelard at the pool hall, I was thoroughly searched.” I emphasized the word thoroughly. “I can’t be wired.”

  “We’ve thought of that,” DuVall piped up. He reached into his briefcase and retrieved a small square. “This is a tracking device, so we will be aware of your location at all times. It’s petite. You can place it almost anywhere.” I looked at it skeptically, not impressed. “Also,” he pulled out a burner phone similar to Ryan’s, “it’s the twenty-first century. Everyone has a cell phone. As a precaution, we can track your whereabouts through the phone’s GPS. Plus, you can use it to call in or send a text.” This is the great technical specialist for the French police, I thought sarcastically. “If they confiscate phones at the door,” he continued, holding up a small earwig, “we can communicate this way. It has a microphone and speaker, allowing for two-way communication.”

  “The only thing is,” Reneaux cut in, “it transmits on a higher radio frequency. If you’re wanded, it will be detected. Keep it off until after they check you.”

  Great, I get a low jack, a cell phone, and half a set of headphones. What could possibly go wrong?

  It was almost noon by the time we finished going over the location, schematics, where the tactical teams would be positioned, and how to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Room service arrived, and we moved on to the legal portion of our day.

  I was granted confidential status to further insulate me from being part of the actual criminal proceedings. It required an agreement to provide a statement of any and all events which might transpire and to relinquish any physical evidence to the Police Nationale. As I signed the dozen forms, Reneaux read my personnel file.

  “Madame, you have a stellar reputation.”

  “Thanks.” Hopefully, we were almost done because I wanted to continue prepping for tomorrow evening and take a nap.

  “We’re lucky to have stumbled upon you at this particular time.” He relayed the story of Ryan’s undercover assignment, emphasizing how the entire case almost crumbled when Jean-Pierre was killed.

  “It’s better to be lucky than good,” I said seriously.

  Reneaux nodded, and he and DuVall excused themselves. If I were to encounter any problems or if the meet at the warehouse was moved or rescheduled, I was to contact Reneaux personally. That was the essence of deep cover. Only a select few ever knew what was going on until the very end. With any luck, by the weekend, this would be over, and I could go home.

  Performing a mental check of everything I was told, I mapped the entire scenario out in my head with a few different outcomes. There were obviously quite a few potential negative possibilities. Abelard may not be present. The address I was given could be a complete hoax. Delacroix could arrest me between now and tomorrow night, or the promise of table games might be ping-pong and pool. I sighed. There were always a lot of unknowns.

  Before calling Mark, I took a two-hour nap. I phoned him around noon, his time. I wanted to run through the entire thing with him just to make sure there weren’t any other obstacles I hadn’t considered. Mark was enthused by the game plan. It was, after all, a lot better than my own plan to do everything by myself. The information on the bomb materials and the DNA analysis of the charred remains were almost complete, and Mark promised he’d try to get that information before I went to the warehouse, just in case. After all, surprises were never good.

  “I got a call from Interpol today,” Mark said. “I heard you pissed off one of the supervisors in Paris.”

  “It’s a good thing I don’t work for you anymore. It means I don’t have to play nice for the sake of interagency politics. Delacroix’s a real ass. He has no idea how to run an investigation.”

  “Try to behave,” Mark reminded me. “Even if you currently don’t work for the OIO, Interpol might still take your malevolence out on my department.”

  “Sure,” I begrudgingly replied. “Hopefully, everything will be over by tomorrow night, and I can come home before I make any
more enemies.”

  “When you have a definite exit strategy, let me know. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Farrell wants the chance to debrief you.”

  I made an ugh sound and hung up.

  I was in pre-op mode. I hadn’t felt this kind of energy surge since leaving the OIO. This feeling was one of the few things I actually missed about my old job. It was a complete high of emotions, anxiety, fear, aggression, and a bit of bravado and arrogance thrown in for good measure. But I needed to relax and wind down in order to sleep tonight, so I would be ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

  Going down to the hotel gym, I burned off as much energy as possible, running five miles on the treadmill before returning to my room, showering, and ordering some dinner. Finally, I began to feel subdued, but my anxious energy was replaced by an unsettling feeling. My subconscious was scratching at the surface of something I had yet to realize, and I was getting skittish.

  To take my mind off things, I dialed Martin’s number. It was after midnight here, so with the time difference, he’d be off work, probably at home or out to dinner.

  “Hello?” He answered on the second ring.

  “Hey. What are you doing?” Why did I call him? Something was eating away at me, and I knew I should hang up before saying something I might regret.

  “Making dinner. Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I took a breath. “If you’re busy, I’ll let you go.”

  He paused, and I wondered what he was thinking. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor filled the silence, and I pictured him taking a seat at his kitchen table. “I’m not busy.” I had a feeling he was smirking. “How’s everything coming along?”

  “With any luck, I will be done by this weekend.” Unless I just jinxed myself into being condemned to Paris for another few weeks.

  “If you want, Luc and Genevieve Guillot are flying in on the company jet Friday morning. He needs to finalize some things here, and she wanted to check out the houses we’ve found for them. You could hitch a ride, my treat.”

  Instinctually, I was going to decline his generous offer immediately, but after that horrible layover in Heathrow last time, I thought better of it. “What time are they departing?”

  “8:30 a.m., Paris time. I’ll have your name put on the manifest.”

  There was no way to know how long it would take to wrap things up with Abelard, but if everything ran smoothly, there was a chance I could make the flight. However, I knew better than to assume things would run smoothly. “I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

  “Okay. If you do, you do, and if you don’t, that’s okay too.”

  “Just for the record, I wasn’t calling to bum a ride on the company jet,” I teased, but my tone betrayed me.

  “I know.” Martin paused. “Why did you call? Did you need me to read some more French articles to you?” His tone was much more teasing than mine.

  “No. I was feeling homesick.” I shut my eyes and sat on the bed. “There’s a slight chance I miss you.” The impending tactical op made me more nervous than I cared to admit. If I was confident things were going to be fine, I never would have said something quite so sentimental and girly. Comments like this were the equivalent of throwing lit matches at a powder keg.

  “Really?” I heard the swagger in his voice.

  “Don’t be a pompous ass.” That was the kind of comment more typical of me.

  “Alex,” his voice betrayed a smile, “I miss you, too.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Oh, the security equipment we ordered is being installed next week. Monday, I think. If you’re back by then, would you care to supervise the installation?” Thank goodness he was back to business.

  “We’ll see. I don’t know if I’ll make it. Best case scenario, I’ll be there. But worst case, I don’t know what’ll happen.” My thoughts went to the indelible images of Jean-Pierre’s car blowing up. Something was off about the explosion, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Optimistically, I wouldn’t meet a similar fate, but it never hurt to have a realistic perspective in order to stay alert.

  “I’m sure the security guys can take care of it if you’re not around.”

  I needed to get some sleep, so I’d be set for tomorrow. “Martin.” The uneasiness returned full blast, and it was getting the best of me. I knew I shouldn’t say or do anything at the moment. Potentially making life-altering changes was a result of anxiety and fear, not rational, clear-headed thinking. This was constantly preached in psych classes and seminars, but the nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. “When I get back, maybe we can discuss what happened in the hotel hallway.” I grimaced, awaiting his response.

  “I’m not sure I remember what happened. You might need to stage a reenactment, just to refresh my memory,” he said good-naturedly. What possessed me to think opening this can of worms was a good idea? After a few moments of silence passed with me failing to come up with a good comeback or quip, Martin decided it best to back off. “Or not,” he added quietly. I was confusing the hell out of him. Me, too.

  “It’s late, and I’m in desperate need of a good night’s sleep, especially before tomorrow.” I couldn’t tell him what was going to happen, but he was intelligent enough to read between the lines. “We’ll talk when I get home.”

  “Good night. Remember, Friday morning, 8:30.”

  Eighteen

  Twisting and turning most of the night with pre-op jitters, I eventually rolled over and checked the time. It was eight, and I didn’t need to be up for another four or five hours. Staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. With my luck, nothing would happen tonight, and Ryan and I would continue to chase ghosts until we were old and gray. I buried myself under the blankets and tried to go back to sleep. Inevitably, I gave up and got out of bed. I did everything deliberately slow, from showering and selecting clothes to wear to carefully slicing into the wedge heel of my boot in order to slip the GPS chip into the now hollowed out space.

  I ordered lunch and ate in my room while I went over my notes on the warehouse and the plan of attack. I memorized both Ryan’s number and Reneaux’s because, in the event I needed to call either of them in a hurry, I didn’t want to be screwed. I went online, looking at street maps and global images in order to see what the warehouse and surrounding area looked like.

  The tactical teams would be waiting in a staging area for my call before they would move in. There were a couple of contingency plans in place, and I had been assured the police would be there when I called or at the first sign of trouble. What constituted the first sign of trouble? I picked up the phone and dialed Ryan.

  “Everything okay?” he asked. His voice mirrored my anxiety.

  “Yes, I’m just running through everything in my head. What are we going to do if Abelard’s not there?” This was my main concern.

  “If everything else is there, we’ll move in and hope we can get some corroboration in exchange for reduced sentences.” Ryan didn’t sound very pleased with this option.

  “And what if my cell phone is confiscated, and there’s some kind of glitch with the earwig?” I was being a nuisance, but it was my ass on the line.

  He didn’t respond immediately, probably because he wasn’t sure what they would do in that situation. The entire mission was based upon my outgoing message. “If we don’t hear from you within a reasonable amount of time, we’ll move in on your location.” He swallowed the unspoken implications. “More than likely, this won’t be the case. I’ve got your back, Alex.”

  “Okay.” If nothing else, someone would at least recover my boot with the tracking chip.

  “Are you psyching yourself out? Because if you want to back out…”

  “No,” I said firmly, mostly for my own benefit. “All in, right? Just like Texas hold’em.”

  “All in. I’ll be at the raid. If you run into any trouble, I’ll verify your involvement, or Reneaux will.”

  Great, that was something
I had forgotten about. Being caught in a raid meant being on the ground and held at gunpoint, just like the bad guys. Fun times.

  “Sounds good,” I said, even though it didn’t. “Be careful out there. You don’t know what kind of lunatics you might be dealing with.”

  “You be careful. You’re walking into the lion’s den.”

  Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence.

  * * *

  It was getting late by the time I got into my rental car and headed toward the address. On the way, I unsuccessfully phoned Mark. He didn’t call like he promised, and when I tried to get in touch with him earlier, it went straight to voicemail. I was annoyed but decided to let it go and not worry about it. There was nothing I could do, and it was almost go-time.

  Picking up the burner phone, I dialed Reneaux and was instructed to perform an equipment and sound check once I arrived at the agreed upon destination, a few blocks away from the warehouse. Acknowledging this request, I continued on my way, running through the plan over and over in my head. Get inside, locate Abelard and the gaming tables, contact Reneaux, and keep my head down until the police raided the building. Simple enough. I took some slow, deep breaths in order to put my game face on as I pulled into a metered parking space, four blocks from the warehouse.

  Performing a final assessment of my clothing and gear, I was as prepared as possible. In a past life, I must have been a boy scout. Dressed in jeans with wedge-heeled boots that went halfway up my shin, I had my knife strapped to my ankle. Hopefully, they would miss this again, if and when I was frisked. The slice cut out of the heel was not noticeable, and the GPS chip was working properly. I wore a white button-up dress shirt and tucked the earwig securely in the center of my bra, hoping the underwire would mask the metallic properties in the event I was wanded.

  During equipment check, Reneaux assured me the GPS was transmitting on both the tracker and the cell phone. I was instructed to turn on the earwig. We conducted a sound check, and then I turned it off and slipped it back into its hiding spot. The burner phone was in my purse, which was empty except for my pepper spray and a stack of Euros. Perhaps the Police Nationale would reimburse me the $750 I lost at the pool hall, but there was no reason to worry about that now. Locking the contact information and content on my personal phone, I slipped it into my pocket. If I was questioned about having two phones, I could come up with a feasible lie. More than likely, they would assume I was involved in some type of illegal activity and let it go.