by Graham Brown
“By their fruits you shall know them,” Lavril said, quoting scripture himself. “You are a killer: an assassin. Sent here to clean up a problem your government has been aware of for years.”
Danielle rolled her eyes. “Oh come on.”
“Monsieur Milan was on Interpol’s list,” Lavril reminded everyone. “No doubt he was on your list as well. One of your most wanted. Admit it, you came here for him.”
The words soaked in as Lavril glared down at them.
“And if you killed him,” Lavril added, “then you are responsible for the deaths of my officers, my men. In which case I will not release you, even if God himself calls on your behalf.”
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on the desk like a drummer, waiting.
Now Danielle understood. In a way, she couldn’t blame Lavril. She’d lost people under her charge before. There was no deeper well of determination than finding a way to right such an act.
“We didn’t kill Ranga Milan and we didn’t kill your officers,” she said. “You know that. We came through customs two days after it happened. Besides, if we’d killed Ranga or your men, do you think we’d still be here?”
“Then you must have a different target,” he said.
Danielle remained still.
Lavril got up and came around to the front of the desk. He folded his arms, leaning back, resting against it.
She guessed it was a deliberate, practiced move. Sitting on the low-slung couch, with Lavril towering over them, they were at a distinct disadvantage.
“Perhaps your target was these terrorists—as you call them,” he said. “Though I must admit they seem a little out of their depth.”
He picked up a rap sheet of sorts.
“Roland Lange,” he said, apparently naming one of the men. “Two counts of purse snatching last year. Three counts of disorderly conduct, and minor assault. He’s gone from swearing at the police from the crowd, to a slab in the morgue, with a hunk of metal where his liver should be.”
Danielle squirmed a bit.
Lavril continued to read. “Dibea Monsigne was once an accomplice in a bungled car theft. Has been charged with two counts of assault for fights he seemed to have lost … public drunkenness … disorderly conduct.”
Lavril put the paper down. “The others are similar. Criminal masterminds one and all. And now they’re dead.”
“Dead?” she asked.
“All of them.”
That didn’t make sense. The men in the house, yes. The poor bastard who’d taken the stick of rebar into his ribs, too, but the others …
“What about the one on the boat?”
“In a medically induced coma, due to a major head injury.”
“What about the other man in the yard?”
“A bullet to the head, small caliber. Perhaps point two five.”
Danielle’s mind reeled. That man had been alive if not well when they’d left him. Certainly she hadn’t shot him, and Hawker had trailed her by only seconds. Even in his anger she couldn’t believe he would do such a thing.
As she went silent, Hawker finally stirred, which seemed to please Lavril. “And the man in the street?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Lavril said.
“I shot him in the leg,”
“And in the head.”
“I shot him once,” Hawker said. “I had no reason to see him die.”
“And if you had such reason?”
“Then I’d have killed him with the first bullet,” Hawker replied sharply, no doubt confirming the commandant’s belief that they were some kind of hit squad.
A smile curled across Lavril’s face as he weighed Hawker’s statement. Whether he believed what he’d been told or not, Danielle couldn’t tell, nor did she really care. Her thoughts were now occupied with the dead men who’d been alive when they left.
Someone else had to have shot him, either the French police—which seemed unlikely, since that wasn’t their reputation to begin with and the building had been surrounded by onlookers long before the police arrived—or …
Another member of the group. One who had remained unseen, one who had escaped. A trailer. A control.
“You have our weapons,” she said. “Neither were twenty-five caliber.”
“You drove five miles,” Lavril said. “He went into the water. Easy to lose a weapon doing such things.”
“You don’t believe that,” she said, “so why don’t you just drop all this, tell us what you want, and we can get this game over with.”
“You are very direct,” Lavril said. “I admire that.”
He looked down at her. “You know, much has been made of the rift between your country and mine. We agree as often as an old married couple. It is easy to understand. European soil has been soaked with blood for five hundred years as men from Paris, Berlin, and London tried to control the world. We have finally let it go. But you … Your country is younger, only now feeling the pain that comes from reaching beyond your grasp.”
Lavril smiled, then went on. “You see our reluctance as weakness and you resent it. We see your confidence as arrogance. But in truth, it is only time that divides our perspective.
“In time you will see things as we do now,” he continued. “Perhaps that will be unfortunate. There are times for caution and discretion, and there are times for anger and for … revenge.”
Slowly Lavril’s focus shifted from her to Hawker. And Danielle sensed a moment that she had begun to fear. Hawker’s own anger had remained beneath the surface so far, but she had no doubt that the fires of vengeance were smoldering inside him.
Lavril reached into his desk drawer, grabbed a file, and then fished out a photograph. Leaning forward he pushed it across the desk. She and Hawker stretched to see it.
It was Ranga, naked and bloodied, on his knees with his arms held up, tied in ropes. His head drooped and his body sagged, held only by the rigging that bound his arms. Bruises, welts, and blood covered his face. Slashing cuts covered his chest and torso, and burn marks left his skin peeling and blackened.
“We believe the burns were done with a blowtorch,” Lavril said. “In places, they were down to the bone.”
Danielle felt as if she was about to be sick. She saw Hawker from the corner of her eye, staring unblinking at the image as if looking away might indicate some weakness.
Mercifully, Lavril took the photo back.
“Whoever killed him could have easily dumped his body somewhere, but instead they left him like this. It is for a reason.”
“A message,” Hawker said.
Lavril nodded.
“To who?” Danielle asked.
“To the whole world,” Lavril said.
He glanced at the photo. “There was a strange mark burned into his chest. Very hard to make out.”
He pushed another photo toward them, this time a close-up of Ranga’s chest. It looked like he had been branded.
“Numbers and letters,” Lavril said. “G, E, N, two, one, seven.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Hawker asked.
“Earlier you quoted Proverbs to me. Surely you recognize it? Genesis, chapter two, verse seventeen.”
Hawker looked back to the photo, silent as to whether he knew the meaning of those verses, but thanks to a strict Catholic upbringing the text popped into Danielle’s mind almost immediately.
“And ye shall not eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil,” she said. “For when you eat of it you shall certainly die.”
As she spoke the words, Danielle’s mind reeled. Ranga was a geneticist obsessed with the building blocks of life, the very ability to control it, change it, even create it. Knowledge previously reserved for God alone.
If the brand was a message, was it a warning? Or a punishment from some radical group that did not want him doing such things?
“We believe a cult is responsible,” Lavril insisted. “We believe they murdered both your citizens and mine.”
&n
bsp; He looked at Hawker. “You are angry. For reasons you will not say, this is personal to you. And if that’s the case, then I would like to make you a deal.”
CHAPTER 13
As she sat there Danielle realized how plainly Hawker had telegraphed his feelings. Add to that his reckless chase of the man on the boat and it was easy to see that he was already more vested in this incident than he should be.
Clearly Lavril had sensed this as well. “Tell me what this is all about and I’ll tell you what I know. As it turns out we may want the same thing.”
“You first,” Hawker said.
Lavril smiled. Of course he wouldn’t go first, Danielle knew that, but now Lavril knew he had Hawker on the hook. He would play it as a trump card, using Hawker’s desire for revenge to reel him in. Possibly driving a wedge between Hawker and her in the process.
She didn’t want him to answer, silently prayed that he wouldn’t answer, but she knew that he would. And the only way she could think to counter the pain it would bring was to take the hit for Hawker. Before he took it himself.
“You want to talk,” she said. “Let’s talk. Ranga Milan was murdered for something he was working on. And we were sent to find the people who did it.”
Lavril looked eminently pleased with himself. “What did you find in the house on rue des Jardins?”
“A lab filled with equipment,” she said. “Rigged to explosives. Since the men who attacked us blew themselves up trying to get whatever was inside, I can only assume it was Ranga’s.”
She kept going. “It looked like Ranga was working on something viral and connected with cellular decay. Shortening cellular life spans. I don’t know why or for what.”
“A weapon,” Lavril asked.
“Probably. Or a drug, or something that could be turned into either.”
Lavril stood still, calculating. “Is Paris at risk?”
Danielle shook her head. “As far as I could tell, whatever stock had been present was already gone, moved or destroyed. And that explosion was extremely hot.”
“Over a thousand degrees,” Lavril said. “Thermite mixed with C-4 according to our bomb squad. Three other buildings burned and the fire melted the steel railings across the street.”
Danielle nodded. “I’d guess he rigged it that way on purpose,” she said. “To destroy any evidence or any pathogens, or both, should something like this occur.”
“So a plague is not imminent?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Danielle said, realizing he was focused particularly on that subject. “Do you have reason to think Paris is a target?”
Lavril had been caught in his own trap, asking one too many questions. “We received a letter,” he said. “The writers claim responsibility for the incident at the tower. And they promise to wreak a plague far worse than any that has gone before upon the rest of us.”
Danielle’s eyes widened. “Is it authentic?”
“It relayed the details of each man’s kidnapping and murder as proof of its authenticity. And then it followed with a list of threats.
“It promises a plague that will wash away ‘all false evidence of a false god.’ It then says: ‘All shall fall, Canterbury, Notre Dame, the Dome of the Rock, and the Wall at its feet. Mecca, Jerusalem, and the Holy See: All will be powerless to the truth revealed.’ ”
Danielle listened intently. Canterbury Cathedral was home of the Church of England. The Dome of the Rock was the second most holy site in Islam, Mecca being the first. The Wailing Wall was the last remnant of the Jewish Temple. And the Holy See was of course the home of the Vatican. Could some madman really be declaring war on every major Western religion at once?
Lavril continued reading. “This is just the beginning,” he said. “It goes on to promise the power of life and death will lie in the cult’s grasp. ‘You will lay all of them down and worship us,’ it says.
“The letter is signed ‘Draco—the serpent.’ ”
It sounded like madness, like the deranged ramblings of a hundred other groups, but if this group had what Ranga had been working on, and if the notes she’d seen in his lab were accurate, they might just wield some great power over life and death.
“Do you know who they are?” Hawker asked.
“Murderers,” Lavril said. “Beyond that …” He shook his head.
It certainly sounded like some type of cult. Perhaps that explained the torture and burning Ranga had endured; perhaps it had been some ceremonial punishment. Perhaps that explained the brand seared into his chest. The French policemen were not killed in the same way.
As Lavril spoke, she saw Hawker’s eyes narrow, saw his jaw clench, and she wished she could speak to him alone, warn him of what she feared.
“What do you know?” she asked Lavril.
The commandant pursed his lips as if thinking hard about what he was about to say.
She would say nothing further, not without something from him. “Quid pro quo,” she said. Something for something.
“Your scientist had been tortured; you know this,” Lavril said. “But he also had old wounds. Healed wounds. Perhaps it was not the first time.”
Danielle took that in.
“And he had stingers in his skin,” Lavril added.
“Stingers?” Hawker asked.
“From a jellyfish,” Lavril said. “On his hands and arms and neck. Does it mean anything to you?”
“No,” she said. “What else?”
“Asbestos and heavy oil under his fingernails.”
It sounded like a random list of things. Almost as if Lavril had made it up on the fly, yet Danielle sensed honesty from the commandant and guessed that these facts would help in some way at some time. For now she racked her brain and came up empty.
Lavril looked on expectantly. “Does it mean anything to you?”
She looked at Hawker, who shook his head. “I wish it did.”
Lavril looked down at the floor, as if disappointed. He scratched at a spot beneath his ear in an almost subconscious way, then looked back up.
It seemed he’d decided something.
He went back behind the desk, sat down, and began scribbling on several sheets of paper.
“Your job is to seek these men, yes?”
Danielle nodded. Hawker did the same.
“Then you will be released,” he said, glancing briefly at Danielle and then focusing on Hawker once again.
“They killed one friend of yours,” he said. “They’ve murdered four of mine. This is not America. Rarely is anyone shot here. And the police … we have not lost an officer in almost twelve years.” He shook his head. “Those men had families. To us this is a tragedy. It will haunt us for an age. But no matter how angry I am, I cannot chase these men out of Paris; I cannot hunt them to the ends of the earth. But you can.”
Hawker nodded.
“What will you do when you find them?” Lavril asked.
“After what you’ve shown me,” Hawker said. He shook his head.
Lavril nodded knowingly. He slid two sheets of paper across the desk toward them: signed release forms, with the key to the cuffs sitting on top.
“If you find them …,” he began, then stopped. “When you find them, please give them our regards along with your own.”
Danielle hesitated. With all the talk of Adam and Eve she felt as if they were making a deal with the devil themselves. She stared at the key as if touching it would bring dark consequences. Beside her Hawker stretched forward and snatched it. Apparently he had no such qualms.
He unlocked his cuffs, dropped them onto the desk, and then handed the key to her.
“Where do you suggest we start?” he asked.
“The man who was with Ranga on the tower has been identified as an exiled Iranian named Ahmad Bashir. He had a ticket to Beirut on Air France 917 for tonight. A similar ticket was issued to another passenger using the address at rue des Jardins.”
“For what?” Hawker asked.
“I don’t know,” L
avril said. “But it must matter.”
Danielle unlocked her own cuffs, stunned at the turn of events and the deal that had just been made. She feared the ground they now stood upon, but after all they’d been through, she wouldn’t let Hawker stand alone.
She tossed her cuffs to Lavril a little quicker than might have been necessary.
“There is a car waiting for you,” Lavril said.
She turned and made her way toward the door without responding.
Hawker lingered.
“Your friend does not approve,” she heard Lavril say.
“I don’t need her for this,” Hawker said calmly.
The words stung, but Danielle kept walking as if she hadn’t heard.
For Lavril, Hawker’s connection to Ranga made him the perfect choice to go after the killers, but it also made him the worst possible choice of all.
Danielle tried to think of a way to reach Hawker, to convince him that he was going down the wrong path, but she feared confrontation might just push him so far away that she would never be able to bring him back.
CHAPTER 14
Yousef sat against the wall in the back room of an abandoned house. He had done what he was ordered to do. But he had failed, failed to get the scientist’s samples or documents, failed to do anything but escape and survive.
He shivered in the darkness and the filth. His clothes had dried hours ago after his swim in the Seine, but now he’d drifted into shock.
He’d lost everything. His friends were dead. The police would find him soon. And he had lost any hope of ascending within the brotherhood.
He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it.
Rats scurried away from the light, disappearing into a gnawed-out section of the wall.
In the dim orange glow, Yousef studied his surroundings: trash and decay scented with urine. Back where he’d started.
He felt the weight of the pistol in his hand. The weapon seemed heavier now, more substantial than when Marko had given it to him. It had drawn no blood, at least not yet.
