by Pro Se Press
From across the street, parked and watching, Monroe said, “Good. We know where he’s living and it seems he has at least that one guard with him most of the time. Geoffrey, you’ve done an excellent job tonight. Thank you.”
“Who is that man?” Geoffrey asked.
“One of the most evil men you’ll ever see,” Monroe answered.
“And he runs around Paris free? Why has he not been arrested yet?”
“Don’t worry about that, son. Very soon, he’ll wish he had been arrested. If you don’t mind, we’d like to go back to our hotel now.”
“Of course, Monsieur Monroe, right away.”
***
“That was easy enough,” Winter said as she and Monroe entered their suite.
Monroe said nothing. He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. He removed his gun and holster and tossed them onto the table. He turned and walked over to the couch, sat down, closed his eyes and began to shake, trembling and clenching his fists to try to make it stop.
“Damn,” Winter said, and she went over to him. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, watched him for a moment, wrestling with the question of whether or not to try to talk to him or touch him or just get away and leave him alone.
“Winter,” Monroe croaked, his voice suddenly hoarse and strained, “you need to go away, leave the room, take a walk or something.”
“I thought I wasn’t allowed out of your sight?”
“I’ll take a chance and trust you. I need to be alone. Take some money out of my wallet if you need some.”
“I don’t think you should be alone. Your emotions are running wild right now, you’re not rational.”
“I’m shaking because I could have put down the animal that murdered the woman I loved…and I let him live another night. That was irrational. Regretting not killing the son of a bitch is perfectly rational. Please go away. I need an hour.”
“If I leave, things are only going to get worse. At best, you’ll just punch a hole in the wall, hopefully not break your hand doing it, and the hotel will add it to your bill. But worst case scenario, you’ll go running over to Khan’s place, bust in there like a thunderstorm, and kill him and however many bodyguards he has in there with him, and wind up in jail…or you’ll be the one getting killed because you’ll rush in without a plan or strategy. Now just calm down! And no…I’m not leaving.”
Winter stopped talking then, watched and waited. Monroe stopped shaking. He drew in a long, deep breath. He turned to her and finally opened his eyes. He stared at her for a second and let the words come out.
“I just…I miss her so much.”
Winter grabbed him then. She slid toward him and wrapped her arms around him and held him like a mother holds a crying child. She had no choice. She could not bring herself to let him sit there alone with that terrible hurt in his eyes. Richard Monroe had broken into her life with his lies and his seductive charms and his ruthless ways, and he had gone so far as to force her, under threat of death, to fly across the sea with him on a mission to assassinate one of the world’s most dangerous men. But Winter Willows held him now, like a friend comforting a friend in a moment of deep and profound grief. At that moment, the tension between them was gone—though Winter did not know if it would return tomorrow—and there was no fear in her heart, just the desire to make Monroe’s anguish subside, even if just for that one night. She would hold him for as long as it took, even if dawn came to Paris while they were still on that couch.
She lost track of time after a while and Monroe certainly was not counting either. Eventually though, he pulled away from her, stood up without a word and went into the bathroom. Winter could hear water running behind the door and assumed Monroe was washing his face to cleanse his mind along with his flesh. Eventually, he came out. She could tell by his eyes, he was back—the hardened veteran of a thousand secret wars, with his blue eyes full of ice and his senses functioning again.
“You can have the bed to yourself tonight,” he said. “I’ll crash on the couch. I have some thinking to do and I’m not sure how long I’ll be awake.”
Winter had not expected thanks from Monroe for the holding and the comforting. She would have liked a show of gratitude, but she got none that night. She got up and went to see to her own pre-sleep routine. When she came out, Monroe was on the couch, flat on his back, eyes closed and hands forming a pyramid shape on his chest. It was the posture of a man very, very deep in thoughts of the heaviest kind. Winter smiled at the sight and went to bed alone.
***
“Yes, I do intend to kill him. And no, I will not involve you or your men in the actual assassination. You have my word on that, my promise as a friend and a colleague.”
“All right, all right,” Arnaud Lafleur said. “No gunplay while any of mine are with you! I’ll send him over in an hour or two, dressed as you ask.”
The call ended. It was just past ten in the morning in Paris and Monroe was awake, alert, two cups of strong coffee into his day. Winter Willows had listened to Monroe’s end of the call from the couch where she sat with her own coffee, only half-dressed, sprawled across the sofa with her back against one armrest and her feet near the other.
“What are you planning?” she asked.
“A gathering of information,” Monroe said. “Get dressed, I’ll need you to drive.”
“Drive what?” Winter asked. “You don’t have a car here.”
“We will soon,” Monroe said, smiling, “a big black van.”
***
Geoffrey was dressed in a Paris Police uniform when he arrived to pick them up. He was, just as Monroe had promised, driving a big black van. They got in and Geoffrey drove to start the trip. They went straight to the apartments where Garrett Khan was staying and parked right in front. Geoffrey got out, disappeared into the building after flashing his badge at the doorman. Monroe ushered Winter into the driver’s seat while he climbed into the van’s rear compartment, a windowless box on wheels.
Inside, Geoffrey—looking precisely like a real Parisian cop—located the building manager, told him he was under arrest on suspicion of drug trafficking, and hauled him out past the startled doorman. Monroe, who was watching through windows, opened the back doors on signal from Winter. Geoffrey shoved the arrestee in and climbed in behind him, slamming the doors shut as Winter began to drive.
As soon as the manager felt the van begin to move and saw the hard smile on Monroe’s face, he knew it was no legitimate police investigation.
“Do you speak English?” Monroe asked as Geoffrey held the manager in place against the wall of the van. The man nodded.
“What is your name?” Monroe asked.
“I am Jean-Louis Moret.”
“All right, Jean-Louis, just relax and I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I might make you quite happy. How would you like to make a generous sum of money, tax-free, in cash?”
“What is this about?”
“Answer the question, Jean-Louis,” Monroe insisted. “Fifty thousand American dollars can be yours if you help me.”
Moret’s body relaxed then and Geoffrey was able to loosen his hold. The mention of certain sums of money can work wonders on a man’s outlook.
“I would like the money very much,” Moret said. “But what do I have to do for it?”
“Just tell me some things,” Monroe said, “and then promise—and I will not only fail to pay you, but I will do some unspeakable things to you if you break the promise—that you will not tell anybody of this conversation. When you return to your building, you will simply say that the police were looking for a different Jean-Louis Moret. Can you swear to that for me?”
“I…I promise.”
“Good. Now tell me this. There is an Englishman with a Mongolian face who stays in your building. I doubt he’s registered under his real name. What does he call himself?”
“You mean Mr. Garrett—Conan Garrett.”
Monroe sighed, laughed, and glanced at Geoffrey
. “Basically, just a reversal of names; how unoriginal.” Looking back at Moret, Monroe added, “Yes, that would be him. What floor is he on?”
“You mean to ask what floors!” Moret said with amusement. “He rents much more than a room. The building is ten floors and Mr. Garrett had leased the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth floors. He wants much space around him and much privacy and room for all his employees.”
“And the building’s owners allow all those rooms to go unused?” Monroe asked. “I can’t believe he has enough employees with him to fill four stories of rooms.”
“No,” Moret explained, “he has perhaps a dozen men with him and there are more who come and go. And also there are many young ladies…but my bosses do not mind that the rooms go empty, for Mr. Garrett has paid twice the yearly rate for all of his rooms. He is a demanding, loud, strange young man…but his wealth gets him anything he asks for.”
“All right, Jean-Louis,” Monroe said, “you’re doing very well so far. Let me ask you something else. Have you ever seen the men who work for Mr. Garrett carrying guns or weapons of any sort?”
“But of course!” Moret seemed to think the answer should have been obvious. “Always they have guns, but we are less afraid of the guns because Mr. Garrett is very generous with his tips. One of the maids quit because of the guns, but she was a frail woman, easily scared. Those of us who remain are quite happy with the arrangement. There is more money to be made, but not so many customers to have to please!”
“Jean-Louis,” Monroe said, “I knew you could help me. You’ve done very well.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and thrust it into Moret’s hand. “Here, my friend, is one-fifth of your payment. You will get the rest when my time here in your city is at its end, perhaps in no more than two or three days. And remember, Jean-Louis, the promise you have made and what will happen to you if you break it.”
Jean-Louis Moret nodded enthusiastically.
“How far from the apartments have we travelled?” Monroe called into the forward part of the van.
“Not far, she answered, “maybe a mile.”
“Pull over,” Monroe said. He felt the van slow and halt as she obeyed.
Geoffrey, anticipating, opened the rear doors.
“Jean-Louis,” Monroe said, “it’s been a pleasure. I’m sorry to just drop you off here, but it’s better if you make your own way back. The police, after all, are very upset that you turned out to be the wrong man. Enjoy the walk…or you can always use some of your new money to get a taxi. Good day, my friend!”
With that, and a wave of Monroe’s hand, Geoffrey shoved Jean-Louis Moret out into the street. Winter climbed back to join Monroe while Geoffrey took the wheel again and drove them out of there.
“Did you really just give that man ten thousand dollars?” Winter asked.
“I did,” Monroe answered.
“And what did you get in return? Confirmation that Garrett Khan is a greedy little bastard surrounded by armed guards? You probably could have just assumed that and saved the money.”
“No,” Monroe said seriously. “I had to know for sure that I couldn’t get into that place and finish him quietly in the night. Just one man against a dozen armed guards won’t work, at least not in a way that I can extract myself once it’s over. That means we need to get Khan out of that place for the kill. Making that decision was worth the full fifty-thousand. When Khan is dead, I have every intention of paying Jean-Louis in full.”
***
“I know why you brought me to Paris with you,” Winter said in an accusatory tone as they ate lunch in the café on the first floor of their hotel.
“For the sparkling conversation of course,” Monroe said without looking up from his salad.
“I’m the bait, aren’t I?”
Now Monroe put his fork down, looked up and straight at Winter and said, “That’s one way of putting it…but I won’t force you to do it.”
“I won’t sleep with him,” Winter said.
“Don’t worry,” Monroe assured her. “As long as you don’t play easy to get, as long as you don’t decide you want to do that, I won’t let it go that far.”
“If you get me killed, Richard Monroe,” she said with half a smirk and half a sneer, “I swear I’ll come back and haunt you into chronic insomnia. Do you have a particular plan in mind?”
“Later,” Monroe said, “when we have some privacy. Finish your lunch, Winter.”
***
With a little help from Arnaud Lafleur, who still insisted on any gunplay not happening with him or his men around, Monroe had things rolling by nine that evening. Now he sat in a van with Lafleur, across the street from one of Paris’s most prominent nightclubs. Lafleur had put a man in front of the apartments where Garrett Khan was staying. The watcher had eventually called in to report that Khan and two of his guards had just left the building. The watcher followed and reported a second time to inform Lafleur that Khan had stopped at the club in question and gone inside. At that news, Lafleur had called Monroe and the plan went into action.
Lafleur and Geoffrey had picked up Monroe and Winter and driven them to the block upon which the club was situated. Winter was as dressed up as one can be for a nightclub, in a tight, quite short black dress and strappy heels that took considerable skill to walk in. Her now brown hair was wild and free and Monroe thought she was stunning, though he refrained from saying so. Geoffrey was dressed much differently too; gone was the policeman’s uniform or the standard DGSE suit. Instead, he wore a bright red t-shirt under a black leather jacket and jeans of a current style.
The van parked across the street from the club, Winter got out and went in alone, making a solo entrance and hoping to attract the eyes of all the men in the place, but one in particular. Geoffrey followed, entering two minutes later to appear unconnected to the stunning woman who had preceded him.
Monroe remained in the van with Lafleur. It was not the ordinary van they had used earlier; this one was something else entirely. Arnaud Lafleur was a surveillance expert, a master of the skill of listening, and he knew the ups and downs of every listening device and system on the open market, black market, or clandestine market. This van was a big travelling ear, equipped with receivers, microphones, and radios of all sorts. Winter was bugged, a small transmitter hidden where almost no man, hopefully not even one as used to getting what he wanted as Garrett Khan, would dare put his hands during a first meeting. The transmitter was designed to send its signal to the listening apparatus in the van, which would filter out all but the voices closest to the origin of that signal. It would enable Monroe and Lafleur to hear Winter and also to hear Khan, assuming contact was made. Geoffrey’s purpose inside was simply to keep watch, from a distance, just in case. He was to do nothing but appear to be having a good time. He was to stay alert, stay sober, and his only act, should it be necessary, was to be to inform Lafleur, via a microphone in his collar, of any trouble.
Once Winter and Geoffrey were inside, Lafleur sat back to relax as he listened. Monroe, however, was more on edge, sitting up straight in his seat, able to feel the Glock in its holster inside his jacket, part of him wishing something unexpected might happen to give him an excuse to end Garrett Khan’s existence then and there. But the rest of him fought to stay calm; he hoped things would go off without a hitch, for he truly wanted to minimize the danger to Winter Willows. She had been a good sport about being dragged across the world on a mission of vengeance, and he was grateful for that.
Then the sound from the club began to come through the equipment in the van. It was noise: the chaotic gibberish of the loud thumping music, the pounding of a thousand feet on the dance floor, and hundreds of voices speaking at the same time.
Monroe cringed at the sound. “Damn it, Arnaud, can’t you clean that up?”
“Relax, Richard, the transmitter will filter out the background when Winter begins to speak. It is programmed with a sample of her voice, if you recall our preparations.”
And it worked. Winter’s voice came through loud and clear when she ordered a drink. The bartender’s French reply was quite audible too as the transmitter picked up the voice closest to its wearer. Monroe felt better and he waited for what would come next. All had been planned and Winter had been given a specific phrase that she would only speak when she encountered Khan. Monroe just hoped that whatever was happening in there, with all those people crowded together and enjoying the night, would not prevent Winter from getting close to the target.
Ten minutes of incoherent noise came through, and then twenty and then half an hour’s worth of repetitious music and crowd babble. Monroe’s patience was beginning to wear thin when Winter’s voice finally cut through the confusion again.
“Excuse me,” her American accent came through to the listening ears of Monroe and Lafleur, “can I ask you a question? It might be a little weird!”
“Sure,” said a male voice, English in accent. “Shoot!”
“Can I ask where you’re from? You have an interesting face and I can’t quite place it.”
“It is, I hope, interesting in a good way.”
“In the best way, yes,” said Winter. Monroe could almost see her seductive smile despite the lack of visual.
“In that case,” said the male, “perhaps we could dance while I reveal the secrets of my origin.”
“I’d rather not,” Winter said. “Not yet. I need a break from all those people. These shoes are starting to wear me out.”
