There was an awkward silence. Then Andrea looked over Caine.
“Look, I’m sorry, it’s just … ”
“I understand. We’re both tired. In fact, I can barely keep my eyes open, so can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure, I guess I owe you at least that much slack,” Andrea said, in an apologetic voice.
Caine surprised her with a small smile. “I think we need to find a safe place to get some rest. In the morning, we can try to get our bearings and put a plan together.”
“I don’t want to sound like a recording, but I think we have to go to the police, and we should do it tonight.”
“If that’s what you want to do, I’ll do it, but I think you have to recognize what we’re getting into. The sign back there said Williamson County. A minute ago, you mentioned the Austin police. Do the Austin police have jurisdiction over Williamson County?” Caine said.
Andrea hesitated, and then she realized what he was saying.
“No. We’d have to talk to the county police, and they would probably bring in the Texas Rangers.”
“Like I said, I’ll do whatever you want, but I have an idea that one way or another we’re going to wait until morning to get any real help on this thing. We’ll either be parked in a station somewhere, waiting until morning for a real detective to show up, or we’ll meet this person in the morning, after a few hours of sleep in a comfortable hotel room. Nothing is going to get done tonight, and since I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, I have a real bias in favor of the second alternative.”
Andrea looked over at Caine and then looked back at the road ahead. She knew he was right, and now that the adrenaline had subsided, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The idea of waiting four or five hours in a small-town police station, waiting for the morning shift to show up, seemed a waste of time. On the other hand, if they waited until the morning, they would have to explain the delay to the police. As she struggled with the problem, a solution came to mind. Michael. Michael was assistant district attorney for the City of Austin. He could introduce them to a senior detective in the Austin P.D. tomorrow morning. That would eliminate any credibility problem and give them the support of a top-drawer police force.
Andrea let out a breath and raised one hand off the wheel in a gesture of acceptance.
“Okay, John Caine, we’ll do it your way tonight.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
San Bernardino, California
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 2:15 a.m.
Paquin and the rest of the team had relocated to the Sheraton Hotel in the City of San Bernardino after the chase. Paquin suspected they were all sleeping. Although he was tired, Paquin had stayed awake to field incoming calls about the status of the ongoing search effort. His operatives back in Austin were running Caine’s name through the California Department of Motor Vehicle records, county real property records, national credit records, and phone records. As the information was collected, it was sifted for useful contacts and then handed off to a second group that was trying to find Caine through a discreet phone campaign. So far, all of their efforts to regain his trail had been unsuccessful.
As he reviewed another e-mail, his mobile phone rang.
“Paquin.”
“Ray Insonna.”
“Go ahead.”
“We followed the woman to a lodge outside Austin. Chaney grabbed up the woman when she tried to run out the back door. Then someone else showed up and took her away from him.”
“Did you see them?” Paquin interrupted.
“I only saw one attacker, a white male,” Insonna answered.
“What happened?” Paquin said, restrained anger in his voice.
“Chaney was bringing the girl in the back door of the cabin. The guy followed him in and took Chaney out. Then—”
“How did he take him out? Is Mr. Chaney dead?”
“No, sir. He’s alive. Chaney says the guy hit him with something, but I think he’s lying. The guy used his hands.”
“Where did they go?” Paquin asked.
“The two of them escaped in a pickup truck. We chased them and would’ve caught them, but this guy … the son of a bitch set up an ambush and took out the car. He blew the shit out of the windshield, and we went off the road. The car was totaled,” Insonna said, his voice trailing off.
Paquin looked out the hotel room window at the dark mountains to the east. It had to be Caine. The coincidence was too great for any other explanation. Somehow he had made contact with the girl and taken her away from the team Paquin had assigned to interrogate and kill her.
Paquin looked over at the picture sitting on the small desk, which had been e-mailed to him an hour earlier. It showed a squad of Rangers in front of a building in Fort Bragg. The eight lean young men in the picture were all smiling. The man in the picture was a young soldier; probably enthusiastic, tough, maybe even smart. The man they were chasing was something more than that, a lot more.
“Were there any casualties?” Paquin said.
“No, all our players are okay.”
“Is there any official involvement?”
“No. The site is way outside the city, and a tow truck will be here in minutes. Once it gets here, we’ll head back to Center.”
“Do you have any idea where the target is now?”
Insonna hesitated. “No, we’re trying to track down the truck, but so far no luck.”
“Very well, I’ll be back tonight. Assemble as many assets as you can from our local resources and have Vargas call in anyone who’s available in Mexico.”
Insonna hesitated for a minute, remembering the figure on the hill in the fraction of a second before the windshield exploded. Without thinking, he said, “Sir, this guy … he’s a serious player.”
Paquin looked over at the picture again, remembering a similar comment made by Severino in his debrief.
“Paquin out.”
Paquin called Severino and told him to wake everybody. They were flying back to Austin tonight.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Alsace, France
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 7:00 a.m.
Etienne Ricard walked slowly down the cobblestone path that meandered along the perimeter of the seventy-acre vineyard. The light frost covering the dormant vines woven through the rows of trellises glistened in the early morning sun. When he reached the crest of the small rise, Ricard could see his chateau below him.
The stone tower at the center of the rambling brick and mortar building dated back over three hundred years. Three additions had been added to this core structure over the years, leaving a six-room home, surrounded by a low wall. The chateau was located in a small valley surrounded by a series of rolling hills lined with row upon row of wooden grape trellises.
Ricard was sixty years old, but he moved with the understated athletic grace of a fencer. His spare muscular frame and erect bearing would have been more at home on a man twenty-five years younger. Ricard’s tanned face was Romanesque in the classic sense, with a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. His eyes, which were a striking blue-gray, revealed more than a hint of the highly disciplined intellect within.
The chateau at the foot of the hill had been in Ricard’s family for over a century. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all been vintners, producing a well-respected red wine. Ricard had worked in the family business until he was nineteen years of age. Then, like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him, he’d become a soldier, serving with the French army for thirty-five years.
During the last ten years of his service, Ricard had led a special operations unit attached to the French Foreign Legion. The unit’s existence had been a carefully guarded secret, providing the French government with a lethal, but deniable, military option that could be deployed on a moment’s notice. During its tenure, the unit had been quietly deployed throughout the world on missions ranging from rescue missions to assassinat
ions. When it was disbanded, Ricard had quietly retired.
When he reached the low wall that separated the gardens surrounding the main house from the path and the fields beyond, a petite young brunette opened the back door of the chateau and waved to him with a smile. It was Marie, his twenty-two-year-old niece. She was visiting him from Paris for the week.
“Good morning, Marie.”
“Good morning. You have a phone call from America. His name is Jacques.”
An image of a tall, lean Haitian dressed in combat fatigues came to Ricard unbidden. He could almost see the smile on the rogue’s handsome face, and the rakish cant of his beret. A small smile came to his face.
“Thank you, Marie, I’ll be right there.”
Ricard wiped his feet on the entrance rug and walked through the anteroom to his office. He draped his coat on the back of the chair in front a small desk and picked up the phone.
“Bonjour, mon ami,” Ricard said, with a smile in his voice.
“Bonjour, Colonel, I was just calling to inquire about that fifty-year-old Bordeaux you’ve been saving for me.”
“Poor man, the Texas sun must have addled your brains. I would never waste such a fine wine on a culinary Philistine,” Ricard said, his smile widening.
It was a running joke between the two men. Jacques considered himself an aficionado of the world’s finest wines, and after a near miss during the midst of a fire fight in Africa, Jaq had turned to Ricard and said, “Now, don’t get yourself killed, sir. You owe me your best bottle of Bordeaux, after all.”
“To what honor do I owe this call?”
“The honor is mine, old friend. However, I am concerned about our American friend.”
Ricard knew Jacques was referring to John Caine, the only American who’d served in the Legion’s black operations unit.
“Our friend believes that he is the subject of a professional inquiry. We are talking about a major player, with substantial resources.”
“Does he know the player?
“No.”
“Does he know their objective?”
“Only that they want to retire him.”
“Is there any question about this?”
“None. They … have been very persistent.”
Jacques related everything Caine had told him, and Ricard considered the information in silence when Jaq finished.
“The resources … suggest a government outfit, but the tactics don’t fit the profile,” Ricard said, mentally working through what Jaq had told him. “I also can’t imagine any government starting a fight like this on American soil. It would be too big a problem if the operation became public.”
“We made a lot of people unhappy, sir.” Jaq said.
“Yes, but very few of those people knew that we were the cause of their unhappiness. We need more information and we need our American friend to stay alive in the meantime.”
Ricard’s reference to “we” brought a knowing smile to Jaq’s face. Jaq had been reluctant to disturb Ricard’s well-deserved retirement, but he also knew that Ricard would never forgive him if he failed to tell him about Caine’s problem. Although Ricard would never say so, Jaq knew the old soldier viewed the members of the unit as his family. When the unit had been disbanded two years after the end of the Cold War, Ricard had elected to retire at fifty-five, rather than accept a different assignment.
“I will contact some friends here and find out what I can. I’ll also let our Polish and Italian comrades know about this problem. How can I contact you?” Ricard said.
“Use the same number. It will forward to me wherever I am, and I’ll call you back within five minutes, unless I am dead, or enjoying a fine wine,” Jaq answered.
Ricard smiled when he answered, “Au revoir.”
Ricard looked over at a picture on the wall behind the desk. It was one of the few pictures of the four men together—Jaq, MacBain, Vlasky, and Caine. The picture should never have been taken, because of the unit’s covert nature, but Jaq had never been particularly interested in the Legion’s regulations. Jaq had sent Ricard a framed copy of the picture several months after he retired. Caine was on the far left, Vlasky and Jacques were in the middle, and MacBain was on the far right.
Ricard reached over and picked up the picture and looked at it for a long moment. MacBain. He’d never thought about it before, but he realized that the picture must have been taken just before they were sent on the mission in the Republic of Congo.
The unit had been sent to Africa to deter an attack by a local warlord on a remote village along the Congo River. When the crisis arose, a French mining consortium was in the middle of negotiations with Kinshasa over the renewal of certain mineral rights. When the Congolese government politely asked for help with the warlord problem, the consortium pressured Paris to intervene. In order to provide an excuse for the intervention, Paris and Kinshasa put together a story about a group of French missionaries who were at risk. In fact, the missionaries were further down the river.
The operation should never have been assigned to the unit. It was too small to do the job without artillery and air support, which was unavailable. Although Ricard’s superiors knew this, politics overrode the military reality.
Ricard had been assured that the mission was political, not military, and it would only last two days: the warlord would not risk an engagement with the French army. Ricard had also been told, in confidence, to evacuate the area in the unlikely event the enemy showed up in force, ready to fight.
When the warlord’s company-size force had arrived unexpectedly, Caine, who was unaware of these facts, changed the game. As soon as the rebels threatened a group of local women, the American had provided defensive fire, sparking a general engagement. The warlord had initially pressed the fight, but after fifteen of his men were killed, he withdrew. MacBain had been fatally wounded in the fight, and died within minutes.
Ricard had never mentioned his orders to Caine, and his superiors had dropped the issue when the papers turned the incident into a heroic vignette: a small but unnamed Legionary force, facing impossible odds, had saved three hundred villagers from slaughter, which indeed they had. The French people loved it.
Unfortunately, Caine had discovered the truth on his own. Caine had been at a bar frequented by the Legion’s soldiers in Paris one night, a month later. An indiscreet staff officer from Battalion HQ had described the incident, in generic terms, to a group of legionnaires. Caine was listening. The officer had explained to others at his table that the whole incident should never have happened: “some trigger-happy soldier” had started the fight. Caine had recognized the mission from the description, and he’d also recognized that he was the “trigger-happy” soldier in the story.
Ricard had belatedly learned of the incident in the bar after he had retired. He’d never had the opportunity to speak with Caine about it, and it was one of the few things in his life that he truly regretted. Now it seemed that fate was offering him a chance to make amends with the past. It was not an opportunity he intended to miss. For the first time in the past three years, he forgot the growing pain in his stomach.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Austin, Texas
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 6:00 a.m.
Paquin looked out at the dark and semi-deserted streets of downtown Austin from the rear of the limousine and tried to ignore his irritation at Mason’s insistence on a meeting. He should be working on finding the target, not listening to Mason’s complaints and less-than-subtle threats. When they had spoken earlier, Paquin had considered refusing Mason’s request, but decided to concede the issue. A delicate balance had to be maintained in his particular client relationships. If he tipped the scales beyond a certain point, Mason would quietly hire a replacement, and the new man’s first assignment would almost certainly be to eliminate Nicholas Paquin. Paquin didn’t think matters had reached that point yet, but then, he could be wrong.
Paquin remembered engaging in this same kind
of analysis after he’d receive a call in the middle of the night from STASI headquarters, ordering him to attend an unscheduled “meeting.” As he drove through the deserted gray streets of East Berlin each time, he would ask himself whether the Ministry or the KGB had decided he was a threat that needed to disappear.
The guard waiting in front of Helius for his arrival opened the rear door to the limousine.
“Good evening, sir.”
Paquin nodded and followed the guard to the elevator bank inside the building. The guard inserted a key into the inside panel and pressed the button for the fifty-second floor, which held a secure conference facility.
The elevator opened to a spacious reception area. The twelve-foot ceiling was covered in a white marble striated with gray and gold. The walls were a jet-black marble, but the stark effect was offset by the series of golden sconces that were spaced at three-foot intervals throughout the room. A depiction of the Greek demigod Helius had been sculpted into each of the sconces and the light from within illuminated the outline.
Paquin ignored the room’s elegance and walked down a broad hallway framed by two black Doric columns. The décor in the hallway transitioned from wall-to-wall marble to mahogany, and the floor to a black-lacquered wood. A plush red-and-green Oriental runner ran down the center. The walls were decorated with portraits of the Mason family patriarchs extending back 120 years. The only lights in the hallway other than the small lights along the ornate baseboard were those illuminating each portrait.
The double doors at the end of the hallway, which were also made of mahogany, extended from floor to ceiling. Paquin and Mason had met in the room on several other occasions. The room was Mason’s personal conference room. A black keypad was located on the wall just outside the doors. As soon as Paquin touched the glass, the number pad lit up and he typed in the code provided to him on the way over.
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