by C. M. Palov
‘I see a space a little further down the street. How good are you at parallel parking?’
She shot her passenger a questioning glance. ‘Why do I need to park?’
‘I thought you might want to come in and, you know, mingle.’
‘You want me to go with you to the party?’
‘Yeah. You on board?’
Taken aback by the invitation, Kate stared at the uniformed man seated beside her. Under no circumstance would she describe him as handsome. Although she wouldn’t go so far as to say that he was un-handsome. Rugged-looking best summed him up. And it had been nearly two years since the divorce.
Unfortunately …
‘I’m afraid that I have to decline the, um, gracious invitation. As you can plainly see, Sergeant McGuire, I’m really not dressed for an embassy soiree.’ Kate lamely gestured to her navy-blue linen skirt. Paired with a sleeveless cream-coloured blouse, it was the sort of nondescript office fare that rarely garnered a second glance from the opposite sex.
‘Hey, I think you look great. By the way, my first name is Finn.’ The sergeant stared expectantly at her.
‘Oh, right … and I’m Kate.’
‘Kate. I was damned close.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. Listen, this is just my way of saying “Thank you”. And, I promise, no strings attached. Come on. I bet there’s free booze and a long buffet table. What do you say, Kate? You look like you’ve had a helluva day.’
While that was true, she barely knew Sergeant McGuire. A few weeks ago at an office birthday party, she’d accidentally bumped into him and spilled coffee on his uniform. She’d offered an awkward, bumbling apology. He, in turn, gruffly refused to let her pay for the dry cleaning. In the whole of that sixty-second exchange, there’d been no sparks. Not even a dim flicker.
Which might explain why she was tempted to accept Finn McGuire’s offer. It was a ‘no strings’ opportunity to do something other than eat carryout and watch a DVD. ‘No strings’ was about all she could handle emotionally.
Giving the invitation serious consideration, Kate glanced at Finn’s left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. More importantly, there was no telltale tan line. Two years ago she swore that she’d never do to another woman what had been done to her.
Finn gave her a coaxing smile, managing to look almost handsome.
Okay, so what if he’s not my type. A glass of wine and a little banter with a living, breathing member of the opposite sex might do her some good.
Mind made up, Kate steered the car towards the vacant parking space.
5
He was a bastard. No doubt about it.
But if the situation turned dicey, Finn figured he’d need the Camry to escape the premises. That’s why he’d cajoled Kate into coming inside. And why he then lifted the key ring out of the leather bag hanging from her shoulder.
Having gone on red alert the moment they stepped inside the joint, he again scanned the well-heeled crowd.
‘The smoked salmon canapé with caviar is to die for. You have to try one,’ Kate said, wiping a crumb from her upper lip.
Not nearly so impressed, Finn glanced at the buffet table; a twenty-foot-long floral and candle-strewn extravaganza with enough food to feed an entire platoon. Although no red-blooded soldier of his acquaintance would willingly eat the crap that the French were serving at their fancy chow line.
‘Thanks, but I’m more of a pigs-in-a-blanket kind of guy.’
Kate gave a good-natured chuckle. ‘I’m afraid to ask.’ As she spoke, a distinguished-looking African man dressed in a flowing yellow and brown agbado strolled between them, causing a brief separation.
‘Jeez, we should have brought our own UN interpreter.’
‘I’ll have you know that I can say “Hello” in twenty different languages,’ Kate informed him, a challenging cant to her chin. ‘Although I’ll spare you the litany.’
‘Appreciate that.’ Lightly placing his hand on the small of her back, Finn guided Kate through the crowded reception hall. With two hundred or so jibber-jabbering attendees, it was the perfect place for an assassin to lurk. No wonder FJ-58 stipulated the embassy party.
‘The opulent fête champêtre and sumptuous joie de vivre put me in mind of a Watteau painting.’
‘Sorry. Not registering. You lost me at French fries.’ Flagging down a penguin-suited waiter, Finn snatched two glasses of champagne from a silver tray. ‘Here you go. What’s a party without a lil’ bubbly?’ Forcing his lips into a semblance of a smile, he handed Kate one of the glasses.
‘What I was trying to say is that I feel out of my element.’
‘I hear ya.’ A few feet away, Finn observed two female guests bend and sway as they gave each other a well-practised air kiss.
‘You know, Sergeant, er – I mean, Finn –’ Kate took a measured sip of her champagne – ‘I don’t know anything about you. However, if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that you hail from the Boston area.’
‘Guilty as charged. I’m a Southie born and bred. The lady clearly knows her accents.’ Mimicking his date, he took an obligatory swallow. Christ. Talk about French pansy piss.
‘Given that you sound like Mark Wahlberg in The Departed, it wasn’t so difficult. Good movie, by the way, although a bit on the violent side. It’s all about all these Boston gangsters who –’
‘Yeah, I saw it,’ he lied.
‘I grew up in Pasadena … in case you were wondering.’
He wasn’t.
‘Right. Pasadena. Rose Bowl parade.’ He surreptitiously searched the tight clusters of champagne-swilling partygoers. Come on, asshole. Come to daddy.
‘Don’t they teach children to speak in full sentences in South Boston?’
‘Nope. Can’t recall that Sister Michael Patrick ever used a complete sentence. “Stand.” “Sit.” “Pray.” “Open your books.” ’
Clearly amused, Kate laughed, champagne sloshing over the side of her glass. ‘Which are complete sentences, albeit commands.’
Knowing it was time to cut her loose, Finn cleared his throat. ‘Listen. Kate. I just caught sight of someone I know and I, um, need to talk shop for a few minutes. Would you mind if I –’
‘Not to worry. I’m a big girl. Besides, the dessert table awaits me.’ A good sport, she waved him on his way.
‘Shouldn’t be gone too long,’ he said, the lies fast mounting.
Spying a double set of French doors that led to an outside courtyard, Finn headed in that direction. According to the email he’d received, he was to wait there until he received further instructions.
As he stood at the open doorway, Finn knew that he made an easy sniper target, although he figured that whoever lured him to the embassy wouldn’t try to kill him until after they’d interrogated him. That was, after all, the point of the exercise. If they’d wanted him dead, he’d already be six feet under. Just like Dixie and Johnny K.
He still couldn’t believe his two buddies had been murdered. No, correction: tortured and then murdered.
Once, in a drunken stupor, Lamar Dixon confessed that he liked the Dixie Chicks. Despite being one of the biggest, baddest, blackest men you’d ever want to meet, the inebriated admission instantly earned him a new nickname. When the team tried to stick John Kelleher with the handle ‘Baby Huey’ – on account of his shaved head and ruddy cheeks – the trooper went on a rampage and actually opened a bottle of Killian’s Irish Red with his teeth. Thereafter he was known as Johnny K.
Corporals Dixon and Kelleher were not just personal friends, they were valiant soldiers. Dixie had joined the army two days after 9/11; Johnny K signed up soon thereafter. Both men were true patriots who put their lives on the line numerous times to protect and defend their country. They did not deserve to die like animals led to slaughter.
I swear that I will get you guys the justice you deserve. Or die trying.
Finn glanced at his watch. 1700.
‘Right
on time,’ he muttered under his breath as a tall, dark-haired man broke away from the crowd. FJ-58. Coming round the mountain.
‘Monsieur McGuire, I am pleased that you managed to elude the two CID agents,’ FJ-58 said by way of greeting, the words spoken with a cultivated French accent. ‘But, then, we knew you would successfully escape your would-be captors. No doubt, it was child’s play for a man with your training.’ The Frenchman extended his right hand. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Minister of Cultural Affairs, Fabius Jutier.’
Finn glared at the proffered hand, refusing to take it.
‘How about we cut the crap and get down to business,’ he growled, not in the mood for phony pleasantries.
‘Ah, you Americans … such a colourful way with the language. Perhaps we should take this conversation to my office.’
‘Lead the way.’
6
‘May I offer you a cigar, Monsieur McGuire?’
Seated in a sleek white leather chair situated in front of Fabius Jutier’s desk, Finn tersely shook his head. The Frenchman clearly thought that he was the one in control of this lil’ shindig. They were, after all, on his turf – an ultra-modern office that gleamed with lots of shiny metal and shimmering glass. What the French dude didn’t know was that Finn intended to yank the bright red carpet right out from under his leather-shod feet.
Jutier extended the inlaid walnut cigar box a few inches closer. ‘Go ahead. It’s perfectly legal. We French are not bound by the same trade restrictions with Cuba as you Americans.’
Again, Finn shook his head, determined to keep his cool.
‘D’accord.’ The Frenchman strolled to the humidor on the other side of the office. ‘I imagine you’ve had a difficult time adjusting to your new job at the Pentagon,’ he remarked casually as he placed the cigar box in the cedar-lined humidor. ‘A pity, what happened to you in Al-Qanawat.’
‘It’s obvious you flipped someone in the command loop. There’s no other way you could know about the Al-Qanawat mission in Syria. It was strictly black ops. Mind telling me who the turncoat is?’
‘Was.’ Robusto in hand, Jutier walked to the sideboard where there was a miniature guillotine set on a black marble plinth. ‘Given that General Cavanaugh died in a car accident yesterday morning, the question should be framed in the past tense.’
Finn sat up straighter in his chair, surprised the treachery went so high up the chain of command. General Robert ‘Battling Bob’ Cavanaugh had been a top planner at JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. He was also the same general who had put the Al-Qanawat mission into play.
‘Dead men can’t talk. Making me think the General’s accident wasn’t so accidental.’
‘Alas, the General did not keep up his end of our bargain.’ Smiling, Jutier slid his Cuban into the miniature guillotine and, staring directly at Finn’s missing finger, let the blade drop.
A bolt of pain shot through Finn’s phantom finger.
‘Trust me when I say I derived no pleasure from the General’s death,’ the Frenchman glibly continued as he next removed a wooden match from an ebony container. ‘However, we offered him a great sum of money and he failed to deliver as promised.’
‘How about Dixie and Johnny K? Did you enjoy slicing them from stem to sternum?’
With a crisp snap of the wrist, Jutier struck the match against the side of the ebony container. In no apparent hurry to answer the question put to him, he held the match to the foot of the cigar, his cheeks moving like a bellows as he unhurriedly lit it. Finn assumed the theatrics were for his benefit and wondered if he should give the French jackal a round of applause.
Jutier blew a puff of smoke, filling the office with the tobacco’s pungent scent. ‘I am not the bloodthirsty fiend that you make me out to be. If you must know, I did not approve of how that particular matter was handled. But we took a vote and a majority of the Seven decided otherwise.’
‘The Seven? What’s that, some sort of crime syndicate?’
‘Most certainly not. That implies we are little more than brigands and thieves.’ He set his cigar on the rim of a huge sterling-silver ashtray.
‘I was thinking more along the lines of murderers and thieves.’
‘Again, you have jumped to an erroneous conclusion.’ Jutier poured a healthy measure of fifty-year-old single malt whiskey into a cut-crystal tumbler and handed the glass to Finn. ‘Given your last name, I assume that Irish whiskey is your drink of choice. If you like, I can have some ice sent up. Although personally I prefer my whiskey neat. It allows the underlying flavours of oak and peat to come through.’
Finn set the tumbler on the edge of the desk. ‘I told you once already to cut the crap. I’m not here for the chitchat.’
‘Very well.’ Strolling over to his desk, Jutier reseated himself. ‘The Seven is prepared to offer a most generous compensation package in exchange for the Montségur Medallion.’
The Montségur Medallion! Was this fucker actually saying that Dixie and Johnny K were killed because of that gold pendant that he’d found in Syria?
His gut tightened, every muscle in his body quivering with a barely repressed rage. Jutier’s cronies used Dixie and Johnny K like cannon fodder. No, worse than that. Like something you’d tie up in a plastic bag and dump into the garbage.
Four months ago, during the Al-Qanawat mission, he’d taken the gold medallion to prevent some higher-up from using it to pad his retirement account. Royally pissed off, when he returned from Syria, he held on to it. In fact, during the mission debrief, Finn did something he’d never done before – he lied his ass off, claiming he didn’t find anything inside the Al-Qanawat chapel.
For four months now, he’d been waiting for someone to dispute the claim so he could expose the rat bastard. Not only did the fraudulent mission put US military personnel needlessly into harm’s way, but it had been funded with US tax dollars. He’d just never figured they’d resort to cold-blooded murder to get what they wanted.
‘The Montségur Medallion?’ One side of Finn’s mouth turned down at the corner as he shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘Do not play me for the fool, monsieur. I speak of the thirteenth-century gold pendant that you recovered in Al-Qanawat.’
‘What makes you think that I have it?’
‘Because you are the only man on the Delta team who could have it.’
‘Like I said –’ folding his arms over his chest, Finn leaned back in his chair – ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Jutier slapped the palm of his left hand against the glass table top. ‘Do not lie to me, monsieur!’ A blue vein throbbed at his temple. ‘Before his death, General Cavanaugh was kind enough to provide us with a copy of the Al-Qanawat mission debrief. You were the only Delta trooper who entered the chapel where the Montségur Medallion was kept.’
‘And so you naturally assume that I have your freakin’ medallion.’
‘Mais, oui,’ he replied, lifting his shoulder in a Gallic shrug. ‘In addition to the one million dollars that will be deposited into an offshore account, we will provide DNA evidence to prove your innocence. Not only will you be a free man, you will also be a very rich one.’
Even with the price of gold being sky high, the medallion couldn’t be worth that much. Which meant it had some value other than a purely monetary one.
Just what the hell did I step into?
‘You knew before you killed Dixie and Johnny K that you’d be offering me this deal, didn’t you?’ Finn shoved aside the untouched whiskey and leaned towards the desk. ‘That’s why you set me up for both their murders. With my back to the wall, you figured I’d be in no position to turn you down.’
‘We even went to the trouble and expense of recovering your knife from Al-Qanawat. A clever plan, n’est-ce pas?’
‘How about I take that plan and shove it up your skinny French ass!’ Lurching to his feet, Finn strode behind the desk. Very deliberately, he placed his right
hand on the back of Jutier’s chair, imprisoning the Frenchman. ‘I didn’t come here for a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. And I didn’t show up to get my share of the blood money. I came here for one reason: to get the name of the bastard who killed Dixie and Johnny K.’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
Finn took a moment to ruminate on that. He already knew that Minister Fabius Jutier wasn’t the killer. Men like Jutier never got their hands bloodied. They hired men like Finn – i.e. ex-commandos – to do their dirty work.
Finn leaned in close. Their faces separated by only a few inches, he could see the faint meandering of blood vessels splotched across the other man’s cheekbones. ‘Unless you want things to turn real ugly, real quick, you’re going to give me that name.’
‘Do not threaten me, monsieur.’
‘Okay, fine.’ Finn hauled Jutier out of the chair and bent him backwards over the glass-topped desk. ‘Consider what I just said as a statement of intent.’ He wrapped his hands around the Frenchman’s neck, forcefully pressing his thumbs into Jutier’s windpipe.
Eyes bulging, Jutier tried, unsuccessfully, to pull Finn’s hands away from his neck.
‘Please … let me go,’ he gasped, his face starting to turn blue.
‘I’m going to ask you again … who killed Dixie and Johnny K?’ Knowing a show of mercy would get him nowhere, Finn tightened his hold. Strangulation wasn’t an exact science, but he figured Jutier had another thirty seconds of life left in him. He also figured the Frenchman would surrender before those thirty seconds lapsed.
As if on cue, Jutier began to frantically beat his hands against Finn’s forearms. He eased his hold just enough for the other man to speak.
‘The Dark Angel,’ Jutier sputtered, his chest heaving as he noisily drew in a deep breath. ‘The … Dark Angel … killed them.’
The Dark Angel? If there was an assassin operating under that name, Finn had never heard of him.
Granting a reprieve, Finn removed his hands from the Frenchman’s throat. ‘Next question: where can I find this Dark Angel?’
