Kill Shot

by Vince Flynn

  Hurley smiled at her and thought back to their first meeting. It was at a party in Moscow hosted by the French Embassy. LeFevre, with shoulder-length shiny black hair, was dressed in a pair of form-fitting black pants, a white blouse, and a pair of black leather riding boots. From Hurley’s vantage she looked to have the nicest ass he’d ever laid eyes on. She was an intoxicating combination of simple and stunning at the same time. Hurley couldn’t resist her pull and began to make his way across the crowded room. Within an hour he had talked her into leaving the party. Unlike most foreigners, Hurley knew the local hot spots. One of the secrets of his success was that he understood the inherent economic need for a black market economy in the one-size-fits-all Eastern Bloc. Hurley specialized in getting to know the people who ran these underground markets. He’d done so in Budapest, Prague, and then Moscow. It was a world where American cash was king and the profit margins were enormous. Hurley helped these individuals set up new lines of distribution for goods, especially American ones, that were in high demand but extremely hard to come by. His wares ran the gamut from jeans, to music, to pharmaceuticals, to booze, to cars, and everything in between. The CIA was hesitant at first, but when Hurley explained that the venture would generate a profit and also enable them to find out which Communist Party officials were on the take, the powers that be back in Langley, Virginia, got out of his way.

  LeFevre was amazed at the clubs he took her to. She did not think such places existed outside of Paris or New York—never in Moscow. After consuming large amounts of vodka they ended up back at Hurley’s apartment. Neither was very inhibited where sex was concerned, so they were naked within minutes. The next morning the reporter in LeFevre kicked in, and she began to ask a lot of questions. Hurley didn’t think his apartment was bugged, he knew it was bugged, and the people who bugged it knew that he knew. That was the way the game was played. After a few hand gestures he got her to understand that it wasn’t safe to talk in the apartment, so they went for a walk, and it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship that to Hurley’s great surprise ended up being about much more than just sex.

  LeFevre was an intellectual dynamo with a tireless thirst for the truth and a mind that could quickly dissect the incongruities in an argument, movement, or philosophy. He remembered her saying on that walk, “If communism is so wonderful, then why must they force people to participate? If it is so wonderful, why do they control the press? Why do they have to spy on their own people?”

  Hurley would have asked her to marry him right there on the spot, but he was already twice divorced and had come to the conclusion that marriage was not an institution he should participate in. His life was full of too many lies, too many late-night phone calls, too many sudden business trips where a long weekend turned into months away from his family, and worst of all too much death. LeFevre had somehow managed to make it work. She’d been married for eleven years and seemed to be happy, which sometimes irritated the heck out of Hurley.

  He snagged a fresh cigarette and asked, “So how is your husband?”

  Without bothering to look, LeFevre smacked him in the shoulder. “The last time I saw you, you promised you would put your jealous ways to bed.”

  “I said I wanted to take you to bed. I never said anything about putting my jealous ways to bed.”

  “You always want to take me to bed, so that is nothing new. As for my husband, he is fine.”

  “And he’s home tonight . . . ?”

  LeFevre folded her arms across her chest and leaned back. “Where he is, is none of your concern. I have told you before. We have an open relationship. He has his mistresses and I have you. As long as we are discreet there is not a problem.”

  Hurley did his best to look wounded, and she laughed him off. “Are there any other men that I need to know about?”

  “I have lost track, there have been so many, but you are definitely in the top five.”

  Hurley felt his cell phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He snatched it out and looked at the caller ID. It came up as private. There was a good chance it was Stansfield. Hurley closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. He didn’t need HQ ruining a promising evening. Looking back at LeFevre, he said, “I’m sorry, where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me about all the women you have been sleeping with.”

  Hurley laughed. “There’s only you, baby.”

  “I am not so naïve. I know you too well. You are a very thirsty man. It would be impossible for you to be so saintly in between our rendezvous.”

  Hurley was about to reply when the phone began to vibrate again. He checked the small screen and again it came up as private. He grunted disapprovingly and silenced it again. These new phones would be the end of him. Hurley detested the notion of his bosses’ being able to get hold of him whenever they wanted. He was used to going days, weeks, and sometimes even months without checking in with them. These phones were nothing more than a leash, and he had known it the first time they gave him one. He closed the phone, stuffed it back in his pocket, and forced a smile on his face. “I’m sorry, darling. I hate these things.”

  “You are a man of international intrigue,” she said with a thin smile. “I would imagine the call might be important.”

  “Not as important as you.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.” The phone began to vibrate for a third time. The smile melted off Hurley’s face and his chin dropped in frustration.

  “I don’t want to see you this way,” Paulette said. “Take your call. Get it out of the way. I will go to the washroom and when I get back you will be relaxed again.”

  Hurley nodded, knowing she was right. If the phone kept ringing he might kill someone. “Thank you.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and watched her slide out of the booth. Flipping it open, he pressed the green Send button and said, “This had better be good.”

  The metallic voice on the other end said, “Don’t be a prima donna. I didn’t send you over there to ignore my calls.”

  It was Stansfield. “And I’ve done just fine all these years without you snapping my leash every time the wind blows.” Hurley listened to silence for a long five seconds. He hated these damn phones. The call had probably dropped. He was about to hang up when he heard an uncharacteristically angry Stansfield begin to speak.

  “Things have changed,” the old warrior snapped. “I’m on my way over in the morning. I want you to pull Victor and the boys immediately . . . stick them in a hotel and tell them I don’t want them to move unless I say so. Have I made myself clear?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got things under control. I don’t need any help.”

  “And I don’t need you second-guessing me. There are things you don’t know. I will explain in the morning.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing,” Stansfield said. “Consider it an order to be followed precisely, as you should have done back in Beirut all those years ago. If there are any decisions that countermand my order between now and tomorrow morning you are done. Am I understood?”

  Hurley looked around the restaurant. Covering the phone and his mouth with his free hand, he asked Stansfield, “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t be stupid. We’ll talk in person. Now carry out my order and give my best to Paulette.”

  “How did . . .” The line went dead and Hurley pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the screen. How in hell did Stansfield know he was with Paulette? He stared at the phone for a long moment. Every instinct he had was telling him not to make the next call. Rapp was no good. He had broken every rule in their dirty little book and if he wouldn’t come in on his own, he needed to be dragged in. But Hurley had rarely if ever heard Stansfield more adamant. The individualist in him wanted to ignore his boss’s order and leave the men right where they were for another twelve hours, but Stansfield had made his intentions clear. After another m
oment of indecision, Hurley said, “Screw it.” He pressed the number 2 and held it down until the phone started to dial the number.

  “Hello.”

  “You’ve been yanked. Head back to the hotel and sit tight until I give you further orders.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Listen, dickhead. You think this is a debate club? If I wanted any shit out of you I’d come down there and squeeze your head. Pack everything up and get your ass back to the hotel, and do it now. Get some sleep, and I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing. Do what you’re told. End of discussion.” Hurley stabbed the red End button, flipped the phone shut, and dropped the small black device on the table. After two big gulps of wine he called the waiter over and told him he wanted a bourbon on the rocks. Why in hell would Stansfield be flying over here? he asked himself. He’d bring way too much heat. He was the damn deputy director, for Christ’s sake. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. The bourbon arrived before Paulette and Hurley took a big gulp. He was trying to sort through the different possibilities so he could put this thing out of his mind and focus on Paulette for the rest of the evening when a man approached the table. Hurley looked up, assuming he worked for the restaurant. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and was dressed in an expensive suit. As was his habit, Hurley sized up the fit of the man’s jacket for any bulges that might mean a concealed gun.

  “Stan. It’s been a long time.” The man spoke in English with a French accent.

  Hurley studied the face of the vaguely familiar man. It must have been the mustache. He couldn’t place him.

  “I know,” the man said with an easy smile. “It’s been a long time and your reputation was far beyond mine back then.”

  “I’ve been to a lot of places over the years. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Just then LeFevre returned from the washroom. “You two know each other? I should have guessed.” She eased into the semicircular booth and inched her way around until she was nestled next to Hurley. She pointed to the other side of the booth and said, “By all means join us for a drink. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.”

  Hurley said, “I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea who this guy is.”

  “Oh,” LeFevre said, surprised. “This is Paul Fournier. He runs the Special Action Division for the DGSE. The same spooky black bag stuff that you do. I would have thought you two would know each other.”

  Hurley instantly knew the name, and it helped the face fall into place. “Shit,” he said to Fournier, “it sure as hell has been a long time. Vietnam more than twenty years ago. You were a virgin.”

  Fournier smiled. “We all have to start somewhere.”

  Hurley vividly remembered the brutal interrogation he’d conducted all those years ago. “You weren’t squeamish like the rest of those pussies.”

  “That has never been a problem for me. The ends almost always justify the means.”

  Hurley held up his glass and gave him a salute.

  “Sit,” LeFevre commanded. After she flagged down a waiter, she asked for another glass and ordered another bottle of wine. “Paul,” she said to Fournier, “I get the feeling that you have some things you’d like to discuss with my friend.” She hooked her arm around Hurley’s.

  “Men like us can always find something useful to talk about.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but I know you well enough that I think it highly improbable that you just happened to wander into this particular restaurant tonight.”

  Fournier shrugged as if to say guilty as charged.

  “I am very possessive of Stan. I do not get to see him often enough, so I am going to sit here and quietly listen to the two of you share state secrets. I give you both my word that none of what I hear will be published until I write my memoirs in thirty years. If you cannot abide by that, I suggest the two of you meet for breakfast tomorrow. Are we all in agreement?”

  Fournier laughed. “Yes. We are in agreement. I would not want to ruin your evening. Although, Paulette, you do not have to go to America to find your lovers. There are plenty of men here in Paris who would jump at the chance to worship you. In fact I would place myself at the top of the list.”

  The congenial smile melted from Hurley’s face. “Listen here, douche bag. I don’t give a fuck where you work. One more comment like that and I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth and shove it up your ass.”

  Paulette squeezed his leg under the table and said, “Darling, there is no reason to get angry. Paul is merely trying to pay you a compliment. Aren’t you, Paul?”

  Fournier did not answer. He remained locked in a staring contest with Hurley. He knew Hurley was capable of extreme violence, but then again this was not the jungles of Southeast Asia. This was Paris. It was his city. “As my friends will tell you, I am exceedingly polite. My enemies, though, will sing you a different song.” Fournier tilted his head to the side and asked, “Are you my friend, Stan, or are you my enemy?”

  Hurley didn’t blink. “I stopped taking applications for friends years ago. I’m full up.”

  “Surely you have room for one more . . . or at least a professional acquaintance.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If you’re going to drop your little bullshit charade and get down to business, or keep blowing smoke up my ass.”

  Fournier smiled. “Fair enough.”

  The waiter arrived with a fresh glass and new bottle. He poured a taste for Fournier, and after it was approved, he poured more into the glass, set the bottle down, and retreated. Fournier took a drink and placed the glass on the white tablecloth, holding the stem between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Looking across the table at Hurley, he asked, “So what brings you to my beautiful city?”

  “Just a little sightseeing, and Paulette, of course.”

  Fournier laughed. “You’ll have to excuse me for being so blunt, but I think it is you who are blowing smoke up my ass.”

  Hurley smiled in return, but inside he was boiling. Stansfield had pulled the plug on Victor, he’d announced he was flying over in the morning, and now this suit from DGSE had shown up. Individually, none of it was good, taken together, it was a mess, and now he had to dick around with this asshole for God only knew how long before he and Paulette could be alone. A night that had started out with such great promise appeared to be going to shit.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE alley was dark and narrow, six feet wide at one end and just four at the other. It was one of those antiquated paths that made sense before the invention of the internal combustion engine. Back in the day, a horse could have pulled a small cart down the alley to collect garbage and make deliveries. Today the garbagemen drove a three-wheeled scooter down the alley to collect the refuse.

  Rapp had seen them do it and was fascinated by how they adapted. Growing up in the suburbs of D.C., all he’d ever seen were big lumbering garbage trucks with a massive steel maul in the back that swallowed and compacted the refuse as it rolled through the spacious neighborhoods. Paris was older and more cramped by American standards, but compared to many of Europe’s other gems it was downright spacious. At night, the space was like a tunnel, but Rapp wasn’t worried. This was a gentrified neighborhood, and if he happened to run into a criminal it would be the other man’s unlucky night, not his.

  He took one last look around and then disappeared into the darkness. He had been in the apartment before. It had been a breach of protocol, or least not reporting it had been. In just one year’s time in the field Rapp had grown tired of the tedious aspects of his job. He also had a healthy skepticism of the one-way street that ran between him and his handlers in Virginia. While they kept him in the dark on a great many things, he was supposed to report to Kennedy the minutiae of his relatively mundane life. When he was on the hunt things were different, of course, but here in Paris, where he cooled his heels betw
een assignments, his life was as boring as the average Joe’s.

  Kennedy wanted weekly reports that contained, among other things, the particulars of any person Rapp came in contact with. Her fear was that another intelligence agency would target him for surveillance and possibly try to turn him or worse eliminate him. There was one other concern, but until recently, Rapp hadn’t thought it was possible. Kennedy feared that a terrorist organization, possibly with the help of a friendly state security service, would somehow ensnare him, torture him, and then show the world that the hated Satan employed assassins. The video would then end with them slicing his throat and Rapp drowning in his own blood.