by Rick Jones
“You’re talking about Kimball, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “He saved me. I don’t know where I’d be today if it wasn’t for him.”
“Are you happy?”
“Very.”
It’s amazing how Kimball can bring happiness to so many others but not to himself, she thought.
She smiled becomingly. “Tell Gary that I am hungry. I know he mentioned some place close to the cathedral, where he could pick something up for us.”
Joshua tipped the corner of his beret. “I’ll tell him, ma’am.”
It’s Shari!
For the better part of his marriage with Shari, Gary Molin, his last name different because Shari opted to keep hers, was a house husband who raised his children at home by choice, leaving his CIA admin position to do so.
As a specialist, he was tasked with wending his way through firewalls, intercepting data and restrictive information from insurgent and allied countries, the information gathered crucial to American sovereignty.
In the other room, where a console station had been set up, Gary was typing and hacking his way to any port or ISP that might have had information on times Beauchamp contacted Tolimir or Božanović online.
So far the inspector had hidden his tracks well.
“She’s hungry, Mr. Molin.” It was Joshua.
Gary gave a few quick taps on the keypad, and one final bang on a button like a pianist trying to hit a final note. “Very good,” he said. He stood up and stretched, his arms reaching skyward. “What about you, Joshua? You want something? My treat.”
“No, sir, but I do appreciate the offer.”
“Tell her I’ll be back in about an hour. If there’s a problem, she has my cell.”
“I think we’ll be fine, sir.”
But they wouldn’t be fine.
In fact, it would be the last time Gary would see Joshua alive again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The streets surrounding Les Halles were dark and considered a blind-spot regarding the lack of surveillance cameras on every corner. And that was because the area was a festering eyesore that pooled with strange and moving shadows the moment the sun went down.
Outlines of those who felt most comfortable in the shadows stayed beyond the fringe of feeble lighting. The only thing that gave away their position was when the ends of their cigarettes flared the moment they took a drag.
Sometimes they only come out at night, thought Kimball.
There were five in total, as they took to the streets wearing long coats to cover up their weaponry with the exception of Kimball, who was going in dry. They walked in silence, and their footfalls made no noise.
When they came upon their destination, there was a doorway situated between the entryways of the bakery and the millinery, just as Beauchamp had claimed. But there were no signs or significant mentions as to what the door was for or to where it would lead. It was completely nondescript.
“You think Beauchamp was telling us the truth?” asked Kimball.
“I don’t see why not,” returned Leviticus. “There is a door here, where he said it would be. And it has to lead somewhere, right?”
Kimball nodded. “All right, then. Circle up.”
Everyone huddled together as Kimball quarterbacked his unit. “Leviticus and Isaiah will stay close to the door and watch those who coming in and out. Samuel and Jeremiah will man the opposite corners of the room and maintain a 360-degree view. I want eyes everywhere, people, because they’ll be watching us just as hard as we’ll be watching them.”
“And what about you?” asked Isaiah.
“I’m going to do what I came to do,” he told him. “I’m going to find Tolimir.”
“And if he’s not here?”
“Then I’ll use my diplomatic skills to find out exactly where he is.”
Everyone knew what that meant when it came to Kimball Hayden. His diplomacy came by the way of fists.
The door, a piecing together of metal sheets that were riveted together like a fire door, opened easily. And as soon as they stepped inside, the noise level immediately zeroed out to cold silence, as everyone looked upon them with more than just a critical eye.
The place was dingy, with the surrounding walls peeling curls of off-white paint to show the gray concrete underneath. The floor was so aged that the varnish had worn off to expose wood that was becoming warped and splintered. To their left, along the entire length of the wall, was a bar with a mirror backing so dusty their images were vague figures. Tables and chairs spotted the area with the notion that the establishment only wanted to cater to a few, with an occupancy maximum set at twenty. And to the right, which caught Kimball’s eye, was a thin staircase that led to a second floor. Along the entire wall of the second tier that overlooked the bar area was a two-way mirror. There was no doubt in Kimball’s mind that this was where Tolimir was—the man perhaps even looking down on them as they stood there.
The moment Kimball stepped forward, it was a cue for everyone else to fan out. Isaiah and Leviticus took an empty table by the door. Jeremiah took a post at one end of the bar, and Samuel stood next to the stairwell, close to a Croat who stood guard, the man keeping an eye on the Knight with a sidelong glance.
As far as Kimball could see, there were nine people, including the bartender, that were situated throughout the room, the men appearing capable of extreme violence.
When he crossed the room, his footfalls echoed off the walls, the acoustics poor, until he came upon the bar. When he swiped of his finger across the bar top, the tip came away dust laden. He showed it to the bartender.
The bartender shrugged: So.
Kimball lowered his hand, smiled, and then he leaned forward until his elbows and forearms rested along the top of the bar’s surface.
In Croatian, the bartender said: “Something I can do for you, Father?”
However, Kimball didn’t speak the language. “Speak English?”
The bartender nodded. “You are American.” This was not a question, but a statement made with passable English.
“I am.”
“Something that you…and your friends,” he eyed the Knights suspiciously, “want?”
“As a matter of fact,” Kimball said graciously, “we do.”
“And what would that be?”
“We’re looking for someone,” he said. “Maybe a couple of someones.”
The bartender suddenly spoke Croatian, saying something that was obviously humorous, since everyone lit up with laughter with the exception of the Knights.
Kimball’s smile never wavered as he returned to a seat between Isaiah and Leviticus, removed his jacket to expose his sheer size, folded it over the empty seat’s backing, and then returned to the bar with his grin still intact. “I like that jacket,” he told the bartender. “I don’t want to get it dirty.”
The bartender’s eyes slowly flared as he assessed the wide breadth of Kimball’s shoulders and the thickness of his arms. He also would have noted the shirt that was exceedingly tight, showing off Kimball’s musculature beneath the fabric.
Kimball pointed to his Roman collar. “Don’t let this fool you,” he said evenly, the smile still there.
“What do you want?”
Kimball fell back from the bar and took note of the faces that had grown suddenly tense.
It was here that the bartender saw the large man’s dress of military boots and pants. From the waist up he was piously dressed, from the waist down—not so. Kimball saw the man suddenly grasp that they were not priests.
“I’m here,” began Kimball, “in good faith. We all are.”
“Then you want drink?”
“No.”
The bartender shrugged: Then what?
“I want Tolimir Jancovic.”
The sound of chair legs scraping against the floor echoed throughout the room, telling Kimball that people were beginning to posture themselves for a fight.
Kimball sighed and raised his hands in suppl
ication. “Please, I’m not looking for trouble,” he said. “I’m not. But I do want to speak with Tolimir Jancovic.”
The bartender nodded and waved him off. “No such person here. Never heard of him. Now you go.”
Kimball lowered his hands and looked to the mirror running along the second tier. He pointed. “Is that where he is?”
“You go. No such person here.”
Kimball leaned forward and looked the bartender straight in the eyes. “Come here,” he said, beckoning the bartender with a flex of his fingers. “Come on. I won’t hurt you.”
“I said go. No such person—”
Kimball lashed out with amazing quickness, grabbing the man by the throat and choking him until he turned a shade of candy-apple red. When a patron stood and began to advance toward Kimball, Jeremiah reached out and grabbed the man by the shoulder, stopping him. The man turned aggressively on the Vatican Knight and leveled a right cross. In a swift movement, the Knight raised his left arm, easily deflected the blow, and came up with the flat blade of his right hand and caught the man in the throat. The Croat’s eyes widened as he gasped for air, and then he went to his knees, hard. And then he fell to the floor gagging.
Jeremiah gave Kimball a mock salute. “You’re good to go. No worries here.”
Kimball stared down the rest of the Croatians, who were willing to risk their welfare. “I just want to see Tolimir… Just to talk. A negotiation.”
“And what would a priest want to negotiate about?” This came from a man sitting in the center of the room with two others. His eyes were dark and calculating, and his face held the features of someone who was not impressed with Jeremiah’s skills.
“That’s for me and Tolimir Jancovic to discuss.”
“Just you?”
He nodded. “Just me.”
The Croat waited a long moment before giving the posted sentinel standing at the base of the stairway a signal to go to the second tier. The guard nodded in acknowledgement and began to mount the steps.
“Now release my man,” said the Croat.
Kimball did, the bartender staggering backwards until he was pressing himself against the mirror wall with his hands to his throat.
“Who are you?” asked the man. “It’s apparent that you are no priest. None of you are.”
“That’s for me to discuss with Tolimir.”
The guard disappeared behind the door, closed it, and after what seemed like an eternity opened the door and called Kimball forward with a beckoning wave.
“First, we must check you for weapons,” said the Croat, standing.
“I have no problem with that,” Kimball returned, raising his arms ceilingward for a pat down.
The Croatian glared harshly, as he neared the much larger man. “Do not make a stupid move.”
“I just want to talk to Tolimir. No problems.”
The Croatian patted Kimball down thoroughly, the procedure one of violation as the man searched every inch of the his body, including a methodical inspection of the groin, which caused Kimball to wince with moments of discomfort. “Stop being a dick,” he finally said. “I have nothing on me.”
The Croat gave a smug grin and gestured his arm toward the staircase. “You may now go,” he said.
Kimball would remember the man’s face.
Taking the steps, he knew that he was being watched through the two-way pane of the mirror. The guard at the top of the stairway fell back to give Kimball entrance, allowing him to step inside the room. The door closed softly behind them, the snicker of the bolt locking. Besides Tolimir, there were four other men in the room. Two flanked Tolimir’s desk with each one carrying a bolo machete, the weapons themselves a psychological deterrent. One stood by the door. And another, a man as sizeable as Kimball, stood by the mirror overlooking the room below, maintaining a keen watch over the rest of the Knights.
Sitting behind his desk with his hands tented, Tolimir bounced his fingers thoughtfully against his chin, as he appraised Kimball for a long moment, staring at the Roman Catholic collar around his neck. On his desk were three small TV monitors showing the activity of the floor below, the screens revealing the people who walked in with this man were wearing cleric’s collars as well. He continued to bounce his fingers against his chin as his eyes ventured from Kimball to the TV monitors, and then from the TV monitors back to Kimball. After a long period of examination he asked, “Who are you and what do you people want? And why do you come here dressed as priests?”
“We’re not priests,” Kimball said. “We’re emissaries from the Church.”
“When you say ‘Church,’ do you mean the Vatican?”
Kimball hesitated at this, and then said, “Yes.”
“And I was told that you wanted to negotiate a deal. Is this true?”
“It is.”
“What could the Vatican possibly want from me?”
“First of all, I know who you are and what you do.”
Tolimir smiled at this as he un-tented his fingers and let his arms fall by his sides in mock crucifixion. “I am but a lowly business man operating a bar in Les Halles. My profits are minimal. But I get by.”
Others in the room snickered and chortled.
Kimball, on the other hand, didn’t find humor with Tolimir at all.
“You are nothing, but the lowest form of life on Earth,” he told the Croatian.
Tolimir’s smile faded to a grim line as he hunkered over his desk and set his elbows and forearms on the desktop. “You have the audacity to speak that way to me? Do you know who I am?”
“I just told you I did.”
“No. I mean, do you really know?”
“I know you peddle children for profit. You’re deep into human trafficking, and this dive is nothing more than a front to launder money—perhaps one of many for Jadran Božanović.”
Tolimir’s eyes sparked at this. He then fell back into his seat, tented his fingers, and once again began to bounce them off his chin in thought. “Then you are a very stupid man,” he finally said, “to come in here and tell me my business and to talk to me in the manner that you do. Did you really think I was planning to negotiate with you on any level? I don’t care who you’re an emissary for.”
“I don’t just act as an emissary for the Church. I also head up a very special team of people.”
“You mean those down below?”
Kimball’s face shifted with a nervous tic. This was not going well.
“I’m curious,” said Tolimir. “What exactly is it that you wanted to negotiate?”
“Several hours ago you headed a team to kidnap two children on the streets behind the Louvre. You remember the moment?”
The muscles in the back of Tolimir’s jaw worked. “I remember nothing. But go on.”
“We want the children back.”
“Just like that? You want me to hand them over? I don’t hear anything as to how I’m supposed to benefit from this…negotiation.”
“The benefit…is that you live.”
Tolimir narrowed his eyes at this. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Tolimir then spoke to his team in Croatian, driving intense laughter from them. “You are in no position to bargain or negotiate any terms, especially with me.” And then: “How did you find me?”
One word: “Beauchamp.” Kimball had no qualms about sealing the man’s fate.
Tolimir nodded. “Beauchamp.” He stood. “Well, at least the man sent you right into the devil’s playpen, yes? In the next few moments, you will be dead by the hands of my people.” He pointed to the two men holding the machetes. “Your fate was dictated the moment you stepped inside that door. There will be no discussions, no debates, and no negotiations.”
“Božanović might think otherwise.”
The Croat laughed. “You are nothing to him,” he said. “You’re nothing but a fly in Božanović’s ointment. He will simply be told of this, and he will let it pass without as much as a fleeting thought
.”
“Božanović knows that the Vatican is looking into this matter. He might want to know on this one. I need to get close to him—”
Tolimir nodded. “No. The only way to get close to Jadran Božanović is if he wants you to. And I know that he does not care to hear what you or the Church has to say.”
“That’s very disturbing then.”
“What is?”
“That you’re not allowing me the privilege to meet the man I want to throttle.”
Tolimir questioningly arched the corner of an eyebrow. “Is this what you call American humor? Do you think you’re funny?”
“I want those children,” he told him with no uncertainty. “And if I have to rip out your intestines so that you’ll tell me where Božanović is, where the children are, I will do so.”
Tolimir shook his head. “You, American, are not so funny. But you are stupid. Look around you. I have four soldiers who can kill you within a heartbeat.”
Tolimir was right. His team was rugged and armed. And the quarters were too tight for Kimball to apply his skills adequately. In the end, he realized that Tolimir was right. He was stupid for allowing his raw emotions to dictate his ability to negotiate terms. The moment he stepped inside the room, he automatically hated these people for who they were and what they did. And because of that he could not restrain his inability to negotiate on an objective level. Kimball was being Kimball. And then it dawned on him that he just might have sealed the fate of the children by his unwillingness to play nice.
“Now, American, you will die. And so will your—”
With rage quickly bubbling to the surface, Kimball reacted the only way he knew how.
With a Kimball Hayden-style of diplomacy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Everything on the ground floor was quiet as Isaiah and Leviticus kept careful watch over Jeremiah and Samuel. And Jeremiah and Samuel kept a vigilant eye on everyone else inside the barroom. None of the Croats moved. And no one allowed their steely gazes to drift, either.
“This is a first for me,” Leviticus whispered to Isaiah.
