by Pro Se Press
That was it. Monroe had now heard the confirmation phrase. The complaint about her shoes was the indication that it was Garrett Khan who Winter was talking to. Monroe listened even more intently now as Winter continued her game of attraction.
“In that case,” Khan said, “we will sit down, have a drink, and talk.”
A minute of nothing but grating, chaotic sound ensued as they, Monroe assumed, made their way from the dance floor to a less crowded corner of the club. Then:
“To answer your question, I’m a Briton by birth…but my ancestry is far more impressive I think.”
“Do tell.”
“You have heard, I assume, of the mighty conqueror Genghis Khan.”
“Of course I have.”
“Then I must warn you that you are in the presence of one of his descendants. I am Garrett Khan!”
“Fascinating!” Winter said. “It seems you might run into anyone in the Paris night.”
Monroe, listening, noticed that Khan was using his real name—supposedly real at least—instead of his current alias of Conan Garrett. A sure sign of pompous overconfidence.
“And now you must tell me your name and where you are from,” Khan continued.
“April,” Winter said, using the alias that she and Monroe had agreed upon, “Oakes.”
“And you are American?” Khan asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to the most discerning ears and eyes,” Khan said, “not that national origin has any bearing on whether or not a woman is as stunning as you are. And what brings you to Paris, Miss Oakes? It is Miss isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Winter said, “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m just here to see a city I’ve never seen before.”
“And what do you think of Paris so far?”
“It’s beautiful, enchanting even, and I’ve met some very interesting people here.”
Monroe wondered if she was reaching out and touching Khan’s hand with the way she said that last bit.
“But,” she continued, “there have been disappointments as well.”
“And what parts of Paris,” Khan asked, “have not risen to your expectations, April?”
“It’s not that they’ve fallen short, but that they haven’t made themselves available. As nice as this club is, it isn’t really my thing. I’d prefer something a little more cultured.”
“Give me an example.”
“Well,” Winter said with a slight whine under her purr, and probably a pretty pout to go with it, Monroe guessed, “I had hoped to go to the opera while I was here…but every performance seems to be sold out. So I suppose I’ll have to make other plans.”
“Perhaps,” Khan said, “our chance meeting here is a perfect opportunity for us both.”
“What do you mean?”
“As soon as you spoke to me,” Khan said, “I began to hope that I might see more of you…and it happens that I have some friends in the Paris Opera and I’m quite sure I can get you in to see a performance despite the apparent unavailability of seats.”
“That would be amazing!” Winter squealed, really pouring on her act now. Monroe thought he heard the sound of a quick kiss, probably just to Khan’s cheek.
“You would like that then?” Khan asked.
“Yes, definitely!” Winter said. “I’d be very grateful.”
“Then tomorrow night, your wish will come true. But we still have tonight ahead of us. Tell me, would you care to go to a quieter place for the rest of the evening? Perhaps we could become even better friends.”
“Don’t do it, Winter,” Monroe said, though he knew she could not hear him. “Just make him wait.”
“I’m sorry, Garrett,” Winter said, causing relief to rain down on the listening Monroe’s head, “but I just stopped in here tonight to dispose of a free hour. I really do have to be elsewhere in a short while. But here, let me give you my number and hotel and I really hope you mean it about tomorrow night.”
“I look forward to it very much. You will be the most beautiful sight in the audience at the opera. You may even distract everyone from watching the show. I’ll come for you at seven.”
“Goodnight then, Garrett,” Winter said, and Monroe heard what might have been another kiss. A few seconds later, the transmitter dropped the focus on her voice and went back to sending an avalanche of noise into the van.
Arnaud Lafleur shut the receiver off, turned to Monroe and said, “This is where I end my support of your little pet project, Richard. I am finished with your game of death. I will not hinder you at all, but the deed itself as well as your escape is up to you to accomplish. I will not risk my career or the lives of any of my men, but I wish you well.”
“I know, Arnaud,” Monroe said. “Thank you.”
Winter got into the van a minute later, followed by Geoffrey who took the driver’s seat. The van zoomed out of there and cruised through the Paris streets.
“How did I do?” Winter asked.
“Perfectly,” Monroe said. “Things are set now, no turning back. What was it like talking to him?”
“If I didn’t know who he was,” Winter said, “I’d be attracted to him.”
“He seemed quite full of himself,” Arnaud Lafleur remarked. “But still you liked him?”
“I said if I didn’t know who he was,” Winter repeated. “I’ve been around my share of dangerous men, and I might even include you guys in that category. But Khan is something else, a snake among serpents. Knowing what he was responsible for,” and she looked at Monroe pityingly, “I can’t like him. He’s pure scum, despite his interesting face.”
“Do you feel okay, Winter?” Monroe asked.
“Yes,” she said, “I do, but I want to get back to the hotel. I feel like I need a shower.”
Chapter 14: Or Not to Be
“It’s all set,” Monroe said into his phone. It was early in the morning and he was updating the chief. “I wanted to make sure I had the go-ahead to proceed. Say the word and Garrett Khan will be on his way to Hell in just about twelve hours from now.”
“You have the word,” Mr. Nine said, “but I hope you have this planned out carefully. I can’t bail you out if you step on too many French toes, Monroe.”
“Everything’s covered.”
“Where will it happen?”
“Poetically enough,” Monroe said, “outside the Paris Opera, right where the bastard stole Genevieve from me. Winter will get him there and I’ll be across the street. There’s an empty office building with just the right height balcony outside one of the management suites. It’s the perfect perch for a perfect shot, quick and easy. One bang and down he goes…forever.”
“Be careful with the civilians!” Mr. Nine snapped.
“Winter knows to lead him clear of the crowd, sir, for just a second. All the time I need. And you know what kind of shot I am.”
“I’m willing to trust you. You haven’t disappointed me yet. I just ask one thing.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Call me when you’re in position on your balcony. I want phone contact when it happens. Use your earpiece. I want to know what’s happening and I want immediate confirmation that you’ve made the shot and cleared yourself from the scene as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, sir, I’m happy to have the audience.”
“Then I’ll talk to you this evening. Now go make your preparations.”
Click.
***
That afternoon, for the first time since arrival in Paris, Winter Willows and Richard Monroe went their separate ways. Something had changed now and they trusted each other, as if an unspoken bargain had been made—a mutual oath that they would see things through to their conclusion. They each had preparations to make and so they split up, leaving the hotel together and then parting on the sidewalk to go and acquire the tools of their respective trades: seduction and execution.
***
The Opera Bastille, as the current home of t
he Paris Opera is known, was erected in the nineteen-eighties and is a much more modern structure than the classic Palais Garnier which was made famous in the various film versions of the novel, Phantom of the Opera. Despite its newer face and more contemporary architectural style, the Opera Bastille is still an impressive building.
Across the wide avenue from the opera house is a modern office building, filled with businessmen and their clients during daylight hours but abandoned at night. Richard Monroe had no difficulty breaking into the building, for he had vast experience in getting past even the most modern and expensive security systems. Disabling the alarms was child’s play. He made his way in and ascended by elevator to one of the higher floors, then made his way through various office areas, past cubicles and more proper desks, and into the private suite-sized office of one of the firm’s highest-ranking executives. Ignoring the stylish office and all its extravagant amenities, Monroe slid open the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked across the street and down and saw the people beginning to gather before the steps of the Opera Bastille in anticipation of entering for the evening’s performance.
Monroe was dressed in tight-fitting black from head to foot, only his eyes exposed through the windows of the ski-mask. He carried a long bag with him, bulkier than its contents to disguise the fact that it contained death-made-easy.
Monroe knelt down on the balcony, glanced around to make sure the shadows gave him proper cover, and, feeling secure and confident, took out his one necessary tool. He had bought it earlier that day from an old contact, a retired French colonel. It was a high-powered precision sniper rifle of a model Monroe had used before. The rifle was equipped with a night-vision scope and notable for its great accuracy. Monroe would not have wanted any other design in his hands on this night. He trusted the weapon and had utter confidence that it would not let him down. He practiced perching it on the balcony railing a dozen times before he found the spot that felt perfectly balanced to his instincts. He marked the spot with a piece of chalk and sat down to wait, taking out his night-vision binoculars—his nocturnal version of opera glasses, he thought with a grim smile—to scan the crowd.
He checked the time, saw that he was ahead of schedule, and remembered Mr. Nine. He took out the phone, dialed, and then placed it back inside his shirt. The answer came through his earpiece a second later.
“Are you high up and out of sight?”
“Affirmative,” Monroe said.
“Have they arrived?”
“Not yet, sir, but I expect them any minute now.”
“Good,” Mr. Nine said. “Remember what I said earlier: careful of the crowd and get out of there as soon as you do what you have to do. Don’t sit around admiring your work.”
“Understood, sir,” Monroe said. “I’m not a rookie.”
“I know, but your emotions play a role in this show and that can get in your way if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll be fine, sir. Done talking, here they come!”
Monroe visually identified the car’s license plate number as it pulled up to the curb to let its passengers out. A man and a woman disembarked and the car rolled away. The man was large and athletically built and the woman slim and fit. He was clad in a tuxedo and she in a graceful gown with a shawl around her shoulders, her freshly arranged hair up and elegant. The woman raised her right hand and patted it against the back of her head three times as if checking to make sure her hair was in place; that was the signal Winter and Monroe had agreed upon for identity verification.
Monroe dropped the binoculars and reached for the rifle, placed it on the railing and looked through the scope. The scope provided just as clear and accurate a view as the glasses had and he watched as Khan and Winter, now holding hands, began to merge with the crowd and head toward the front doors of the opera house. Monroe waited for Winter to change their course as had been worked out in advance. He hoped the choreography of the night would stay on schedule.
Winter stopped. Khan stopped too, turned to look at her, the annoyance on his face visible even to Monroe from high above. Winter flashed a “please forgive me” smile, reached into her bag, took out her cell phone, fiddled with it for a second, shook her head, spoke, and turned to walk back the way they had come, holding the phone up in front of her face as she walked, searching for a stronger signal. Khan, having let go of Winter’s hand but determined to stay close to her, followed along like a usually-independent wolf suddenly turned into a leashed poodle.
They walked to the very edge of the crowd and then Winter glanced up and to her right, stared at a spot at the corner of the front of the building where there was no congregation of opera-goers gathered, and took hold of Khan’s hand again to lead him in that direction. Winter seemed determined to get the phone to work and determined to have her date come along.
“Good girl,” Monroe muttered to himself, aware that Mr. Nine could hear the comment, but not caring. He watched the couple move away from the thickness of the crowd and closer and closer to open ground. All he needed was a few feet of clearance on each side, a little circle of safety in which to send the bullet home.
They were clear then, just the two of them apart from the rest of the crowd. Monroe watched as Winter stepped to the side, setting up the kill zone. He focused his sights on Khan as the criminal king stood there with a mixture of boredom and exasperation on his face. At that moment, Monroe decided to aim for the head, take no chances at inflicting injury but not death. The king was about to be swiftly and surely knocked down from his high horse. If poor Winter got splattered with blood and brain, so be it. All the gore would come out in the wash.
Monroe had his sights set and his finger began to squeeze.
“Monroe, stop!” said the voice of Mr. Nine.
The finger went further.
“Monroe, abort!”
Monroe paused, relaxed the finger just a fraction.
“No!” Monroe cried out.
“I said stop! Let the trigger go! Put the damn rifle down!”
Monroe had no choice. He wanted Khan dead but, as Mr. Nine had once said, there was not an ounce of treason in Monroe’s blood. Orders were orders, not that he had to like it.
The rifle fell from the railing and into Monroe’s lap as he slumped back against the balcony’s glass doors.
“God damn it! Why?”
“I’m sorry,” the voice of Mr. Nine said, calmly and clearly but tinged with regret, “but something just came through on my end of things. We need the target alive.”
Monroe let out a cry of anguish, frustration, disappointment. He howled for a second and then fell silent. He grabbed the binoculars and looked down and across the street. Winter knew the shot should have come but had not. She put the phone away in her handbag and walked beside Garrett Khan as they resumed their journey in to see the performance.
Monroe shook as he sat upon his perch, the opportunity he had wanted so badly now having slipped away like slick sand between greedy fingers.
“What now?” Monroe asked. He intentionally pushed his anger down deep and tried to focus on professional concerns. “I have to get Winter out of there. I can’t leave her alone with that monster!”
“Monroe,” Mr. Nine said, “you have to relax. Breathe. The woman is not alone. She’s inside the opera with two-thousand other people. Even if Khan knew who she really is, he’s not going to do anything to her with an audience. The French are on their way now. They’ll take the bastard into custody. Stay where you are until they have him. Don’t move from that balcony until I say so…and don’t do anything stupid.”
“But why stop me now, sir? What can Khan possibly have that you need so badly?”
“Garrett Khan,” Mr. Nine said, “and this was just confirmed, so I’m sorry about the timing, very possibly has information on a certain terrorist organization that’s been plaguing us in the Middle East something terribly in recent weeks. For now, you’re just going to have to settle for the fact that your quest for re
venge is second to the good of American troops in a zone of considerable conflict.”
“Of course, sir,” Monroe said. “That’s understood.”
Monroe sat quietly for the next ten minutes. His connection with Mr. Nine was still open but neither man said anything. Monroe finally moved when he heard car doors slamming across the street. He stood up on the balcony, put the binoculars to his eyes again, and watched six men in black suits rushing into the opera house. He saw that one was Geoffrey and knew that they were Arnaud Lafleur’s men from the DGSE.
Less than five minutes after that, they reemerged, this time with a prisoner. Garrett Khan was there, hands cuffed behind his back, a smug look of defiance on his face. They shoved him into the van and sped off into the night. Winter Willows came out next, calm and slow, walking out of the building and to the curb where she hailed a passing cab and got in. The cab disappeared down the street.
“That’s that,” Mr. Nine said. “You can move now, Monroe. Go back to your suite. Punch the wall or get drunk or ravage that lady friend of yours or do whatever you have to do to blow off your steam. I’ll be in touch.”
Click.
“Damn it all,” Monroe spat, and collected his gear.
***
By the time Winter Willows let herself into the hotel room, Monroe was halfway through his bottle of room service scotch. Winter found him on the couch, still in his jacket, staring into space with the bottle in his hands.
“What happened, Richard?” She was loud, visibly upset.
“Things got in the way,” Monroe mumbled.
“Things got in the way,” Winter repeated, heavy on the sarcasm. “I waited for you to shoot the bastard and the shot never came! I had no idea what happened to you. And then I had to go inside with Khan and sit through the start of that opera wondering if you were going to leave me with him and he was going to force himself on me after the show. Then these men in black come busting in like they just walked out of The X-Files and drag Khan out of the place and there I am all alone wondering what to do or if more goons were coming for me. So I decided to get the hell out of there and I got a cab and circled around for a while before I decided I might as well chance coming back here. And here I am and I find you just sitting there with that stupid bottle in your hand like you’re an overgrown baby! What happened? Shit, Richard, I just risked my life to help you out. At least you can fill me in.”
