by James Phelan
Fox was staring blankly at the newspaper in his hand.
“Maybe we should get out of here…” he said. Brujon paddedover for a scratch behind the ear. Fox looked across the drive, lost in the history of this place; wars had been fought on this soil for centuries … He could imagine the young faces of his grandfather’s generation, kids eighteen and nineteen years old, their helmets kicked back on their heads, confident and cocky and victorious, walking under that same arch sixty-five years before, telling the French family living here: It’s okay, those bastards ain’t coming back. You’re okay now. He looked forward to the day when he could say the same about Umbra, about Babich, about so many guys who wore uniforms of corporate suits, who ran companies that hid their money in the Clearstreams and Citibanks and in their lawyers’ names. There was nothing remotely easy about beating an adversary who walked among you with no outward sign of their sinister purpose; greed and consumerism at the core of all such cash-addicted men. The global financial crisis proved that the time had come for the system to change, for some form of capitalism with a conscience, and surely this group of men—for it was almost exclusively men—were on the fringes of globalisation that, like everything at its most extreme, was killing itself.
“Relax, we’re halfway between nowhere and lost,” Gammaldi said, gesturing to the fields that surrounded them. “We’re off the grid here, harder to find than Bin Laden.”
Fox laughed.
“What happened to you going to the air show this weekend?”
“What?” Gammaldi replied. “You and Kate gonna miss your alone time?”
Fox punched him in the arm.
In the kitchen the worn table was covered in produce, and Gammaldi had already started cooking something in the woodfired Aga. Prosciutto, cheese, olives and bread were laid out.
“Get the duck?”
“What duck?”
Gammaldi looked alarmed for a second.
“The confit,” he said, “I asked for confit—”
“Here, fat boy,” Fox said, pulling out a couple of containers of duck slow-cooked in goose fat.
“You really need all that for one dish?”
“Cassoulet, and we’ll be eating it for days—”
“You even know how to make that?” Fox asked, putting the milk away in the fridge.
“I was reading some recipes … You know, you’re meant to leave some of the cassoulet in the pan for the next batch—there’s dishes in this country that have been carrying a little part of the same cassoulet along for decades, centuries even.”
“You really know how to sell a dish, Al.”
“I like my food.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Fox looked through the dining area to the front living room and its open windows facing the drive. Silent, no sign of trouble.
“Keep an eye out for any guests, yeah?”
Gammaldi’s look showed that he understood something serious was up, but he was his old self, never far away from a laugh.
“I’ve got Brujon, he’ll protect us,” Gammaldi said, giving him a scratch. “Besides, we’ve got Big Bertha there to ward off any religious zealots.”
He pointed to a double-barrelled shotgun cradled in a rack above the pantry’s doorway.
“Renard probably put that there to keep out evil food spirits like you,” Fox said over his shoulder as he headed up the ancient timber staircase two at a time. He walked the hall to his bedroom—Kate wasn’t there. He checked the bathroom, empty. He looked out a little window, over the roof and down the driveway. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up …
13
HIGH OVER THE MED
“Uncuff me,” Babich said to the agent opposite, his voice calm and considered, “and I will make sure you are not harmed.”
“What?” the agent, Brick, looked wide-eyed around the cabin.
Hutchinson listened in—it was the first time Babich had spoken on the trip.
Brick, a specialist heavy hitter from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, could easily kill Babich with his hands. He was close to the prisoner’s face, directing his anger well. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Babich lifted his wrists, the chains that ran down to his ankle shackles clanked.
Brick smiled and shook his head, leaned back into his chair and tapped his foot on the Zero Halliburton case that contained the ‘rendition assistance medication.’
“You want me to fucking sedate you?” Brick asked. “That it? Russian fuck?”
Babich’s stare was steady and he delivered his line with an even voice: “Uncuff me. Kill your colleagues, and you’ll be spared any pain.”
Brick’s anger was back and he shoved Babich hard in the chest and then stood to strike.
“Enough,” Hutchinson said quietly, the satellite phone in one hand, the other on Brick’s shoulder to hold him back. For all his bulk and aggression, Brick respected the chain of command and followed Hutchinson’s order. Over his shoulder Hutchinson could see that Babich was enjoying getting under their skin. But that’s all it was—just a game. Capel took the station opposite Babich, where the no-nonsense law-man resumed reading his book.
The aircraft jerked down five metres, sending both Hutchinson and Brick to the ground. This turbulence was really something else. The jet engines whined as if the Gulfstream were trying to take off.
“Severe turbulence!” the pilot yelled back into the cabin.
No shit.
Again they dipped and in a brief moment while the plane was under control, both agents scrambled into a seat and buckled in tight.
Wham!
The loud banging noise on the top of the fuselage had Hutchinson looking at the ceiling, half expecting baseball-sized hail to start coming through. He looked across to Capel, who stared back at him, wide-eyed.
Wham!
This time the aircraft seemed to rise at the nose, quick—then settle out. Something large had definitely hit the plane from above. Hutchinson craned his neck to look forward into the cockpit.
“Got no tailplane control!” the pilot yelled. “Hang on back there!”
“Losing hydraulic pressure,” the co-pilot replied. “Unusual vibration in the rudders.”
Hutchinson looked out the windows, the clouds were grey but wispy and clearing of obvious storm signs. He glanced at Babich, who sat, serene, staring right at him. Big shit-eating grin on his face.
“But why isn’t it…” the pilot’s voice trailed off. “Oh my God!”
14
GIVERNY
Kate wasn’t upstairs. Standing in the lounge room looking out the side windows Fox could smell last night’s roast lamb among the wood-fire smoke of the outdoor pizza oven. Wisteria and grapevines hung down from the pergola’s exposed timber beams, shading the long trestle table where he and Gammaldi had spent the previous night drinking wine, smoking Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill cigars and playing cards under the ripe red grape bunches. Kate had occasionally joined in the conversation from the open window above, where she’d been having a bath and reading, until eventually she’d called Fox up to the bedroom.
He’d been more than happy to join her then but where was she now? She’d woken with him at dawn, waved him and Renard off into the dark morning …
“Kate?” he called.
He found her in a nook behind the staircase—curled up on a cushioned bench-seat by a stained-glass window, her head tilted towards the light. He leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and watched her shift until she finally blinked awake.
“Hey,” Fox said, kissing her head.
“What time is it?”
“About nine o’clock.”
“I tried to stay awake when you left,” she said, looking up, her eyes happier than he’d ever seen them. “Guess I dozed off.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” He went into the kitchen where Gammaldi was still unpacking the shopping bags.
“How was your first
time driving in Paris?” Kate asked, following him into the kitchen, taking some cherries from a small brown paper bag.
“Interesting,” Fox said.
“Crazy drivers?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Fox shook his head, moving around to check the front windows again. All silent out on the driveway. The back of his neck still prickled with sweat, the muscles through his shoulders and back were tense. A good run or swim might help, but he couldn’t afford either today.
“What is it?”
“Huh?” Fox said, looking back to Kate. “Nothing, thought I heard something.”
“Probably Brujon chasing the crows out of the chicken coop.”
“Yeah…” Fox said. To leave or not to leave, that was the question. “Maybe we’ll head out for lunch today?”
“I thought we were going to stay in and send Al out.”
“I heard that!” Gammaldi said banging the pots and pans for emphasis before disapearing out the back door.
Fox caught himself staring down the gravel driveway again through the lounge room’s lace curtains.
“Lach, what is it?”
“Sorry.” He turned to face her and her expression changed when she saw the look in his eyes.
“What?” She took a step back. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s—”
“I’ve got some egg and bacon calzoni in the pizza oven,” Gammaldi called from outside.
Fox shook his head. “It’s—it’s nothing.”
Kate tilted her head to the side, watching Fox closely. Her lips were dark red from the cherries.
“You’re afraid?” She moved closer and put a hand on the side of his face, looked up to him and spoke quietly: “You know no one’s going to find us here … Or isn’t that it? What? Is it me?”
“No,” he smiled at that thought and took her hand in his. “No way.”
He picked her up and sat her on the kitchen bench and they hugged and kissed; one of those long, wet, five-minute exchanges enjoyed by teenagers.
“Get a room,” Gammaldi joked, standing in the doorway.
Fox and Kate laughed and Gammaldi started to make coffee. Brujon came barrelling in and dropped a tennis ball at their feet.
Gammaldi picked it up and tossed it out the kitchen window—the dog was off like a shot.
“You know,” Gammaldi said, eyeing all the food on the kitchen bench, “I might not go back to the States next week…”
“There’s food at home too,” Fox said. “And a wife and kid.”
“There’s nothing like this, though,” Gammaldi said, looking at the basket of fresh produce. He bit the end of a baguette. “And I’m actually sleeping well. Emma’s parents are back home at the farm; they’re having a great time without me. Why not hang around here a bit longer?”
“Because we’ll make you sick,” Kate said, making Gammaldi laugh.
Fox moved to the door and looked back through the front windows at the view across the driveway—Brujon was out there, ball in mouth, ears pricked and watching something, alert. Fox couldn’t see anything sinister out there under the blue Normandy sky, but he knew to be wary: someone was coming.
15
HIGH OVER THE MED
“Losing cabin pressure!” the pilot yelled back to his passengers, through his oxygen mask. “What the hell was that?”
“Something’s hit us!” Hutchinson cried out. He held onto his armrests and looked from the window to the ceiling. “Something’s—”
He didn’t know what to make of it. There was a round hole in the ceiling the size of a quarter and the air in the cabin seemed to change into white smoke as it was sucked out with a high-pitched whistling. A few seconds later the smoke had disappeared, the ragged little hole resembling a large-calibre puncture.
They had been descending fast. Hutchinson was being held up high in his seat, his weight against the lap-band seatbelt. He pulled an oxygen mask down and breathed in the rubber-tasting air. He could hear the pilots talking—loud but calm—running through instruments and flight controls.
“Pressure stabilised,” the pilot said.
“I’m getting no response—”
“Descent levelling—”
“That’s not me, I’m not getting—”
“Holding at Flight Level 140.”
“No rudder—the rudder’s gone!”
Hutchinson unclipped his belt to inspect the hole in the ceiling—
“Keep buckled up! We’ve got massive failure of the flight controls!” the pilot yelled into the cabin.
A shaft of sparks erupted above Hutchinson—then a loud banging noise.
“There’s a larger craft on top of us!”
The two agents jumped from their seats, pulled off their oxygen masks and dived for the case of firearms.
“We’re being hijacked!” Hutchinson tried to yell, struggling for breath. He looked out a window. Nothing but cloud—until … There, through the wisps of cloud cover he could see white wings far out-spanning those of the Gulfstream’s. He looked over at Babich. The Russian was watching the three agents with bemused detachment.
“Capel, take him aft!” Hutchinson yelled, pointing to the prisoner.
The long blade of a sabre saw was cutting a manhole through the top of the thin metal fuselage and plastic cabin lining. Ten seconds and it’d be through.
Hutchinson ran to the cockpit.
“We’re on full power and downward flaps and getting no response!” the pilot yelled. “The thing on top of us is too powerful, too much lift—they’re holding us level.”
Hutchinson looked back: Capel had Babich on the ground, while Brick had strapped on a kevlar vest and was positioned near the cut-out.
“Keep your door locked,” Hutchinson told the pilots, and headed back into the cabin.
The sabre saw was turning for the final section. Two seconds …
Brick fired off a couple of .45 rounds at where the saw operator would be. There was instant return fire, the FBI agent shredded to pieces by submachine-gun fire.
The sabre saw completed the hole, the piece of fuselage fell to the floor and two grenades dropped down at Hutchinson’s feet. Gas began to fill the cabin. He couldn’t see, and his lungs began to burn … He scrambled for the nearest oxygen mask.
16
GIVERNY
“We’ve got visitors,” Fox said.
He couldn’t see them down the driveway yet, but Brujon was barking like he did when the morning bread and milk delivery was made.
“I can’t see anything,” Kate said, also looking down the driveway. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Fox replied, moving to the front room of the house and scanning through all the windows. “Al, look alive, yeah?”
“What?” Gammaldi paused from making coffee, saw the look on Fox’s face and shifted; it was battle stations.
Fox moved from the windows and back into the kitchen. He pulled the shotgun from the rack over the pantry door, opened the breech—an over-under double barrel—and it was empty. He went into the pantry and took a box of ten shells from the top shelf. He loaded up and hid the gun down by his side, the shells on the kitchen bench.
He moved towards the front room, on autopilot, the shotgun by his side ready to shoulder and fire, old instincts kicking in like an animal on the hunt or sensing a predator. Every sound—every breeze—every thing carrying information.
He stood still and took it all in. There were big windows along the kitchen wall and the back door was open to the Golf, its keys in his pocket, but the car itself unlocked. The stairs to the bedroom rose from the little nook between the kitchen and front room where he stood.
“Wassup?” Gammaldi asked, peeking through the lace curtains of the front room.
“Not sure…” Fox replied as he moved across the room to check the side views. “Keep the curtains closed.”
Gammaldi looked at him questioningly—then
saw how Fox always kept in close cover of the solid stone walls.
“The lace’ll stop fragments of glass flying into the room,” Fox explained. He kept scanning sightlines, uncocked and cocked the breech, wishing he had something with more range and rounds than this antique.
Kate stood still against the kitchen door, looking at the gun in Fox’s hands, her dark eyes sad.
“What is it?” she asked.
Brujon continued to bark.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it—”
A speck appeared at the end of the long gravel road that fed into the driveway. Fox strained his eyes to see through the growing cloud of dust—a black sedan. A black Peugeot sedan.
“Please, what’s going—” Kate started.
“Maybe you should get into the pantry,” Fox interrupted, watching the car approach fast. No one knew they were here. Trees, fields, vineyards and olive groves were the only local witnesses to their seclusion. They hadn’t followed him here, so they must have got the address somehow—Renard? Cloud cover moved in, like someone had just dimmed the lights outside. The sound of a jet overhead for the air show.
“You think they’ve found us?”
Fox looked to his friend. They’d been through the worst kind of situations a dozen times or more, always coming out thanking Lady Luck they were still alive. Gammaldi’s arms were tense with anticipation—he picked up the bread knife from the dining table.
“Someone has,” Fox said. “That’s the car from earlier.”
The sedan came to an abrupt stop across the drive, fifty metres out from the house. There’d be no driving out unless he managed to navigate through the rows of trees to the grassed sides. Two figures emerged.
From behind the curtains Fox eyed the new arrivals. Brujon apprached them—and received a pat on the head from the Peugeot’s driver, a tall willowy figure dressed in a tight black suit. The passenger, a big guy, popped a cigarette in his mouth, then leaned against the car.
