by L. T. Ryan
3
The pounding on the door startled Jack from his nap. He tiptoed to the door, gun in hand, and checked the peephole. No one there. He turned around. Another bang. He cracked the door open with his left hand, gun tucked behind his back in his right, and stuck his head out the door.
A short, stocky, brown haired man stood at the door next to Jack's. He had a thin brown beard. His eyes were covered with amber tinted sunglasses. He wore a blue sport coat, white pants and white deck shoes. He turned toward Jack and raised his hands.
"What the hell do you want?" he said with a New York accent.
Jack didn't respond.
The man stepped wide, facing Jack. "You gotta hearing problem? I said, what the hell do you want?"
"Stop banging on the door."
The man laughed. He grabbed his pants by the waistband, shuffling them side to side. He made a clicking sound with his mouth. "So, you a tough guy, huh?"
Jack tucked the gun in the back of his pants, opened the door and stepped out. Jack towered over the man. He stepped forward. They stood chest to chest, mostly.
"I said stop banging on the door," Jack said.
"Or what?"
"Do you really want to find out?"
The door opened. "What's going on out here?" a female voice said.
Jack didn't take his eyes off the brown haired man.
"Nothing, Marla," the brown haired man said. "Just getting to know your neighbor." The man backed into the room. Shut the door.
Jack heard the double lock click against the door. He grinned and shook his head. Tough guys. He went back into his room and picked up his phone. Placed a call to Bear. No answer. He left a message instructing Bear to call him at a new number when he arrived in Paris. Then he dialed Pierre's private number.
"Allo?"
"It's Jack."
"Jack, everything going ok?"
"Yeah, about to review the info."
"You haven't yet?"
"Had to get settled in first. And listen, before I do..."
"Yeah?"
"Before I do I need you to get my face out of the papers and off TV. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Jack. I am sorry for that. We had measures in place to prevent it, but someone acted independently. We've made sure it won't happen again."
"What's your plan?"
"It's already in action, on the news. We put up dummy footage and a fake photo. The new photo goes in tomorrow's paper."
Jack exhaled. "Sounds good. OK, give me any details not on this thumb drive."
"Your contact is Oscar. You are to meet him in Cap-d'Ail in thirty-six hours."
"Where at?"
"When you arrive in Cap-d'Ail you are to contact me and I will provide you the details."
"Is there a train station?" Jack asked.
"Yes, but the town’s not that far. You could rent a motorbike and get there inside half an hour."
Jack stood and looked out the window, toward the coast. "Yeah, I think I might do that."
"Then at least you’ll have some transport."
"OK, I'm going to review now." Jack hung up without waiting for input from Pierre.
He placed his laptop on the table and turned it on. He twirled the thumb drive between his fingers while he waited for the computer to boot up. When it finished, he inserted the thumb drive and navigated to a folder with its contents. There were three files. The first was labeled 1 - Grigori. He opened that file first. It contained a picture of a man with thinning grey hair and a cropped grey mustache. He wore round thin-rimmed glasses. They sat atop a wide nose, a stark contrast to his thin lips. He had a wide jaw and matching chin. He looked to be around fifty-five or sixty years old. Under the picture was a name. Grigori Dorofeyev. Below that were several labels.
Primary target.
Birthdate: August 23, 1954
Threat Level: Red
Member of the Russian Government Defense Ministry, part of the "Presidential Bloc"
Intelligence confirms that Dorofeyev is planning an overthrow of the Russian government in the next five years. He has the support of several members of the government who want to return to the old ways. He also has support within the military. Those who have been exiled fully support him. Anyone that has been approached and refused to support him has been killed or imprisoned falsely. Threat must be neutralized.
The list went on in a what's what of Dorofeyev's accomplishments.
Jack closed the document and opened the next one. It started with a name. Fyodr Olkhovsky, General of the Army. A picture of Olkhovsky followed. He looked older than Dorofeyev. He was bald on the top of his head with grey hair closely cropped to the sides. His face was stretched long and sullen. Dark eyebrows sat over his dark eyes. He wore a green military dress uniform. His shoulders adorned with a dark patch, red stripes on the outside, four gold stars in a line on the inside.
Below his picture was a list of accomplishments.
4 star General - General of the Army. Reports only to the Marshal of the Russian Federation.
Formerly the Commander of the Western Military District - Western Operational Strategic Command. AKA the "Gateway to Europe"
Now commands all four districts, strategic commands.
Promoted friends to both the Western and Southern District commands.
The list continued with his entire military record including his involvement in the Chechen Wars.
Below Olkhovsky's list was another name. Mikhail Korzhakov. Judging by his picture he was much younger than the other two men. He had a full head of black hair. His face was free of wrinkles and facial hair. He had dark eyebrows and eyes, a heavy brow, and a square jaw. There wasn't much information about him. He was a politician and appeared to be Dorofeyev's right hand man.
Jack closed the second file and opened the third. It contained a vacation itinerary. The men were due to arrive in Paris today. Tomorrow they would take the train to Cap-d'Ail and presumably spend some time in Monte Carlo. Monday a fishing trip. Depart eight in the morning on the Danseur du Vent, or Wind Dancer, for an all-day fishing trip. The page said one more thing. Oscar.
Jack closed the program, unplugged the thumb drive and closed the lid of the laptop. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, mentally reviewing the information from the folder. It didn't take him long to piece it together.
Dorofeyev had considerable power in the Russian Federation government. He knew all the players and likely had strong ties to them. He knew who he could count on and who he would have to kill. He had served in the Army alongside Olkhovsky in their younger days. The days before communism fell. The two weren't happy about the fall of Mother Russia, but didn't have much choice in the matter. They chose two separate, but important paths in their careers. Now Olkhovsky controlled the Army and had trusted friends in place on the Western fronts. They could attack Europe and the Middle East at will. These guys were old school and could care less if their attack sparked a nuclear war with Iran or another nation.
Korzhakov would be their link with the younger members of government. The guys who were teenagers or in their early twenties when communism fell. These were the guys who you saw on TV, smiling, happy that Gorbachev dissolved the Soviet Union. But not all of them felt that same sentiment these days and had a longing for the way things used to be. Korzhakov was one of those guys and he would know the other young politicians who shared the same sentiment.
Jack had the full picture now. These three men were the head of a new Russian Revolution. Jack's assignment? Make sure they failed. Why him though? Why didn't Pierre put together his own team for this? Maybe Jack would ask. Or maybe he'd just do the job, collect his money and disappear for a while.
Jack stepped out of the elevator and made his way through the hotel lobby. Again he turned to the right and walked down Rue Paganini. Stopped in front of the little cafe. The lights were on inside. He went in and saw a different crew working than the one from earlier. He stepped up to the counter and ordered a doubl
e espresso. He found a table with a view of the street and checked his phone. No messages. He dialed an access number to check another line. No messages. He fidgeted with his phone while waiting for his double espresso.
"Nice to see you again, Just Jack."
He looked up. The dark haired woman stood there, holding his espresso, a smile spread across her face. She sat the drink down in front of him.
"May I?" she asked, her hand holding the back of the chair next to him.
Jack scrambled to his feet. "Please," he said.
She sat down and ran her hand through her hair. "What business do you have in Nice?"
"Only here for a day or two, then I'm going fishing."
She nodded. "Want to get out of here?"
Jack sipped on his espresso. "Where do you want to go?"
She shrugged. "Dinner?"
"My favorite meal."
"My name’s Vivienne. Call me Viv." She stood up. "I'll be right back."
Jack watched as she disappeared behind the beaded curtain that hung in the doorway between the back of the cafe and the front. He finished his double espresso and waited by the door for her to return. She emerged from the back, now dressed in a short yellow sundress. The dress stopped mid-thigh and exposed her long tan legs. Her hair spilled across exposed shoulders. She looked gorgeous. All Jack could do was smile and hold the door open for her.
She took his hand and led him through the door into a maze of streets. They made small talk along the way. She told him about growing up in rural southern France. He made up a story about a business he ran in the U.S. that brought him to France two or three times a year to negotiate contracts. She didn't question anything he said, just nodded silently.
"Here we are," she said.
Jack looked up at the plain plaster building. No sign hung over the door to indicate where they were.
"What's this?" he asked. His hand instinctively rested near his concealed Beretta nine millimeter.
Viv smiled and pulled on his arm. "It's a place for locals. No sign means the tourists just walk on by. They have no clue the best cuisine in southern France is inside."
He pulled back at first and then followed her inside. They entered a dimly lit room. The overhead lights were sparse. Each table had a single lit candle placed dead center. The dark red walls served to make the room look even darker. The woodwork appeared to be handcrafted and stained dark. An ornate bar covered the entire back wall of the restaurant.
"Let's sit at the bar," Viv said.
"OK."
They took a seat at the far end of the bar. Jack angled his seat to the corner so he could watch the patrons, staff and the entrance.
"What will you have?" the bartender asked.
"Martini," Jack said.
"Armagnac," Viv said.
Jack raised an eyebrow at her.
"Brandy," she said. "From Gascony, about three hundred miles from here."
Jack shrugged.
The bartender placed their drinks in front of them. She held hers out.
"Try it," she said.
He took a sip and sat it down in front of her. "Too sweet for me."
She rolled her eyes. "That's the problem with you American men."
He shrugged and turned his head to survey the crowd of diners. The place was busy. A local's secret. Funny how people who lived in an area supported by tourism often hated tourists.
"Hey," she said. She reached out and gently guided his face toward hers. Their eyes met. She smiled and leaned back on her stool slightly. "Hungry?"
He thought for a moment about how to answer. Hungry could have many connotations. But the bartender standing in front of him with a pen in one hand and a pad in the other told him how to answer.
"Steak," he said. "Rare."
"Cut?" the bartender asked.
"Whatever the chef recommends."
"I'll have the same," Viv said.
They stepped outside the unmarked restaurant. The cool air felt good on Jack's face after two and a half hours inside the warm, stuffy restaurant.
"Where to?" Viv asked.
"Should probably head back to the hotel."
She pouted and took both his hands in hers. "Are you sure?"
"What do you recommend?" he asked.
"The beach is nice," she said. "And my apartment is only a block away." She blinked slowly and lowered her head a notch, engaging his stare.
Jack stared into her eyes. He thought about how the rest of the night would go. The buzz they had from the alcohol would last another hour or two. Long enough for them to walk to the beach, hand in hand. Once under the cover of the night sky and out of the way of the city lights he would kiss her. She would kiss him back. She'd lead him to her apartment where they would drink a bottle or two of wine. Somewhere during the course of drinking the wine her sundress would slip off, as would his shirt and pants. Maybe they'd go to the bedroom. Maybe they'd just drop to the floor.
"Well?" she asked.
He leaned in to kiss her. "Clarissa," he whispered.
She turned her face. His lips grazed her cheek. "Who is Clarissa?"
Jack dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I should just go back to the hotel."
She took his hand and led him through the dark streets of Nice. They walked in silence, passing through pools of light left behind by the evenly spaced streetlights. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the hotel.
"I don't care who Clarissa is," she said. "I'm yours tonight. If you want me."
"It's not a matter of wanting you," he said. "I do care who Clarissa is. That's all that matters."
She shifted her eyes to the side and gave him a forced smile. "Look me up if you are ever in Nice again, Just Jack." She stood on her toes, leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Jack watched her walk away until she turned right and disappeared from sight. He sighed. Made his way through the hotel lobby and into the elevator. The lift dinged when he reached his floor. The doors opened and the brown haired man from earlier stood outside, leaning back against the far wall.
"Well look who it is," the brown haired man said. "Nice's number one tough guy."
Jack stepped out and avoided looking at the man. He started toward his room.
The man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Where you think you're going?"
"To my room."
"Like hell you are."
Jack cocked his head to the side, rotated his shoulders and cracked his neck.
"Now apologize to me," the man said.
Jack narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"You heard me motherfu--"
The men were barely twelve inches apart. Jack struck fast. He struck hard. The blow landed just under the man's sternum. The man collapsed in a ball on the floor, gasping for breath. Jack stepped over him, catching the man in the groin with his foot on the way to his room.
4
Pierre stepped out of the cab and walked into the hospital. He passed by the information desk. He knew where he was going. He promised Jack he'd look after Clarissa and he intended to uphold that promise. He was flanked by two of his men. They would relieve the two that had stood by her bed for the past twenty four hours.
They rode in the elevator, got out on her floor and walked to her room without saying a word. He nodded at the two men standing by her door. They nodded back and walked off. The two men flanking Pierre stepped in front of him and took their places on either side of the door to Clarissa's room.
"I don't need to tell you what's at stake here, do I?"
"No, sir," they said in unison.
Pierre nodded and stepped into the room. Her unconscious body lay still. She breathed on her own.
A doctor entered the room. "Good evening."
Pierre smiled at him. "Any update?"
"She's fine. Just needs to wake up now." The doctor gestured toward the door. "I need you to step out for a few minutes so we can examine her."
"OK," Pierre said.
"Any chance your men can--"
"No."
Pierre stepped out into the hall. "Stay put until I relieve you." He continued down the hall, looking into each room as he passed. No one seemed to notice. At this time of night the staff on this floor consisted of a skeleton crew. He took notice of a brown haired woman sleeping. He lifted the chart from the door. Lorraine Laurent.
He looked both ways down the hall. Empty. He stepped into the room and let the door close behind him. He nudged the sleeping woman.
She opened her eyes. "What?"
"Lorraine Laurent?"
"Yes," she replied.
Pierre flashed a badge. "I need to ask you a few questions."
"I don't know anything about Mitchell's businesses," she said.
"I'm not here for Foster. Do you remember the man who shot you?"
She nodded.
"Think you can pick him out of a photo lineup?"
She nodded.
He leaned over and helped her sit up. Placed a folder on her lap. He opened the folder and spread out the pictures of six men. "Please point to the man you believe shot you."
"Him." She pointed at Jack's picture.
"Thank you," Pierre said. "Study the pictures a few moments longer just to make sure."
He turned around and reached into his bag. He pulled out a needle and a vial full of liquid. He drew the liquid into the needle, turned to face her with the needle behind his back.
"Now," he said, "are you still certain that is the man who shot you?"
"Yes, absolutely. He was having dinner with Mitchell."
"I see. You've been very helpful Ms. Laurent." He leaned in to grab the folder. He stuck the needle into her neck and injected the liquid into her bloodstream.
Her eyes fluttered. She reached out for him, but quickly lost her balance and fell back in her bed where she slipped into unconsciousness.
Pierre slipped out of her room. Already the sounds of her body failing could be heard on the machines surrounding her bed. He figured it would be just a few more minutes before the skeleton crew gathered around her and fought to save her life. It would be a losing battle.
