by Rob Sinclair
The day he almost died.
She hadn’t been so lucky.
Lost in his own thoughts, the ward was quickly becoming stifling. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. His whole body was stiff. He was locked in place, unable to move. It was as though Logan’s mind was taking him into a waking nightmare, the images of that fateful day flashing before his eyes.
A voice echoed in his head. At first he thought it was part of the nightmare. But then he heard the voice again and some clarity began to return. Again came the voice, from right next to him, and as quickly as the nightmare had started, it began to fade. Logan looked down at the boy standing by his side and apologised, moving out of the way of the vending machine that he had been blocking. The boy put some money in the machine and pressed a button, and a chocolate bar dropped down.
Logan peered over at the girl again, the nightmare now vanquished. She turned her head and, just for a moment, their eyes met. She noticed Logan staring. Seeming just a little unnerved, she quickly averted her gaze and started up a conversation with the man she was sitting with.
Logan looked away too, back at the reception desk, trying his best to keep his head clear. He didn’t need any more unwanted distractions. And it wasn’t long before he saw his chance: one of the receptionists was called into the back office whilst the other was dealing with a very animated old French man. Logan glanced around and then quite simply walked past the reception desk and headed down the ward’s corridor.
Mackie had already given Logan the number of the private room that Vincent was staying in. Looking at the numbering system on the doors, Logan knew that Vincent’s room would be towards the far end of the corridor.
As he walked along, Logan kept his senses on alert. Interns scurried about in front of him, and nurses strolled along the corridor confidently. A whole mob of trainees following a consultant stood to one side to let Logan pass. But other than that no-one paid him any attention. Few other visitors were in the ward, Logan noticed.
But then, as he neared Vincent’s room, someone caught his eye. The man, wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, was of a similar size and build to Logan, though even with his face partially obscured by a baseball cap Logan could see the man was a good ten years older. He had a confident walk but he was anxious, his eyes darting from left to right, an uneasy expression on his rugged face.
Logan kept his gaze on the man and their eyes met briefly as he walked past. Logan’s instincts were already screaming at him. He quickened his pace and found room 9d. He turned the door handle and stepped into the room. Long white curtains were drawn around what Logan guessed was Vincent’s bed. He moved towards them and reached out to move the drapes aside.
‘Oh, shit.’
Logan’s heart thudded in his chest once again. But this time his mind wasn’t playing tricks. The grisly sight before him was all too real. And the blood-soaked sheets, together with the gaping wound in Vincent’s neck, which was still oozing thick liquid, told Logan all he needed to know.
The man with the baseball cap. It had to have been him.
A split second later Logan was sprinting back down the corridor.
The consultant’s posse were milling about by the reception desk and Logan screamed at them to move. He barged through without waiting for them to do so, oblivious to their shouts and cries. He pushed open the double doors and headed for the stairwell. There wasn’t time to wait for the lift. He took the stairs two, three at a time, and crashed through the doors at the bottom, almost taking out a startled old lady.
Running through the central reception area, he was only briefly aware of the bystanders who had stopped to stare at him. Logan looked left and right as he ran, scoping out exits or routes of escape, but there were none that he could see – only the main entrance.
Exiting out onto the street, Logan finally stopped. He was panting, out of breath. He scanned the street, up and down, his brain calculating the options, determining which way to go next.
But in the end he didn’t go anywhere. Logan shouted in frustration and hung his head.
Because he knew it was too late.
The man was gone.
Chapter 10
After regaining his composure, Logan left the hospital immediately. He wanted to be well away before the police arrived.
He was supposed to be operating covertly, and running amok through the ward where a man had just had his throat cut wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He knew Mackie was going to give him a hard time about it. But in the moment he’d lost his head. There was no doubt in his mind that the man he’d seen in the ward was the culprit. And Logan had been so close to him that he’d got carried away with the situation.
The training Logan had received for his job, all those years ago, had been all-encompassing. He had been extensively coached in a whole host of armed and unarmed combat skills. He was proficient in nine martial arts, and had been instructed in the use of knives, handguns, rifles and countless other small arms. There had also been psychological training: learning to control his body and its reaction to external stimuli. They’d taught him survival techniques and how to keep himself alive. He’d learned to handle extremes such as heat, cold, thirst, hunger, pain and physical endurance, and how to control and suppress his feelings.
He used to be proud of each and every one of the traits he’d developed. He’d thought they made him a better man. But they had made him into a living, walking, talking machine. A robot. Something which carried out orders.
Everything was different now. The speed and clarity of thought that had become second nature had been tarnished. He was now rational and emotional and acted on instinct.
He was human again.
The only problem was, humans make mistakes.
And by creating a scene in the hospital, the spot where a bloody murder had just been committed, Logan had done the exact opposite of what his boss had told him to do.
There was also the doom-and-gloom feeling of knowing that the man who’d killed Vincent had got away. But, as unlikely as it would have seemed to him beforehand, it was the sight of the dead, bloodied body that had bothered Logan the most. It had physically shaken him. Until recently, the sight of a dead body wouldn’t have moved him in the slightest.
Logan headed to the Hotel Brittanique to gather his thoughts and to determine what he could do next. The hotel, not far from the safe house in Saint-Denis, was a simple and functional building lacking any kind of elegance. Given its location it was used largely by people visiting the many local businesses rather than tourists, who stuck to the central areas.
Mackie had booked him a room under the name John Burrows. It was one of Logan’s many cover identities. Each had a full range of identification: passport and driving licence at a minimum, with the same picture and date of birth, just differing names and nationalities. They were essential for keeping his trail clean.
‘Good evening,’ Logan said in French to the man at the front desk. ‘I have a reservation for John Burrows.’
‘Of course, Mr Burrows. Let me just check for you. Do you have your passport?’
Logan handed over a British passport for John Burrows.
‘Ah yes, Mr Burrows,’ the man said, typing away on the computer in front of him. ‘We have you booked with us for three nights. I see your company has pre-paid.’
Three nights? Did they really expect him to be done and dusted in that time? Or maybe that was as long as Mackie had been able to buy for Logan from the JIA committee. He was under no illusion that they would be scrutinising his every move.
And they probably wouldn’t be too impressed so far.
‘How very kind of them,’ Logan said.
‘And we have their details already for any extras,’ the man said, looking at his screen, ‘so you don’t need to worry about a thing. Here is your key. Your room is on the fourth floor. Number four-one-two.’
‘Has my luggage arrived yet?’ Logan asked.
He’d left the bag he brought
from Vegas, with his limited belongings, at the safe house earlier in the day. Not that there was anything in it that he really wanted or needed, other than his toothbrush and a pair of clean boxers.
‘Yes, it’s in your room already, Mr Burrows.’
Logan thanked the receptionist and took the key from him, then headed for the small bank of lifts. He exited the lift on the fourth floor and found his door a few yards down the corridor. He reached out and put the key card into the slot and began to open the door. But when the door was open just a few inches, he noticed the lights in the room were already on.
Suddenly, thoughts went thrashing through his mind as to what that could mean. But his body didn’t react and he continued to push the door open. It was only when he spotted a figure in the corner of the room that he finally responded.
His training coming back to him without even thinking, he was already moving into a defensive stance, his hand pulling the Glock out of his trousers, when he realised the figure was Mackie.
‘Jesus, Logan, put that thing away, will you!’
Mackie was sitting on an armchair next to the window holding a tumbler of what looked like Scotch or brandy.
Not for the first time in the day, Logan suddenly felt very foolish. But was that because he was pointing his gun at his boss? Or because of how long it had taken his mind and body to react to a potential threat? He’d got there eventually, but if it had been a real threat he would have been dead the second his head had poked around the door. No doubt about it.
This just wasn’t him at all. Had he really lost it that much?
‘What are you doing here?’ Logan snapped, stuffing his gun away.
‘I thought you might want some company,’ Mackie said.
Logan closed the door, relieved that Mackie was seemingly ignoring his amateurish behaviour. For now at least.
‘Plus, I’ve brought over some stuff for you.’ Mackie nodded towards the bed, where there were four neat piles of clothes. In each was a pressed light-blue shirt, black linen trousers, black socks and black briefs.
‘That’s not my stuff,’ Logan said, coming over to the bed and inspecting the clothes. ‘Where’s my bag?’
‘Left it in the safe house. Sorry about that. Thought you might want something more appropriate. We couldn’t have you running round Paris in that orange Hawaiian shirt, now, could we? The thought alone was giving me heart palpitations.’
‘Well, you could have got me something a bit more stylish,’ Logan said. ‘I’m going to end up looking like you in these.’
‘Ha bloody ha. Looks like you got your humour back then.’
‘I wasn’t being funny.’
‘Do you want a drink?’ Mackie said, shaking his glass. ‘I’m paying.’
‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I need. What have we got?’ Logan said, turning towards the unit that housed the mini-bar.
‘Nothing good,’ Mackie said. ‘Blended whisky and cheap brandy.’
‘Right now, anything that’s strong is good enough for me.’
Logan poured himself a Scotch and took a sip, immediately feeling the pleasant burn as the alcohol slipped down his throat. He sat down on the bed and took another sip, relaxing into the situation, almost as if they were nothing more than two old friends sharing a drink after a hard day’s work. It was, and always had been, clear to Logan that his and Mackie’s relationship was one of subordinate and boss, and their moods and often clipped conversations with each other reflected that. But the two men had worked together so closely for the last eighteen years that they were also unreservedly comfortable in each other’s company and with each other’s ways. There was a mutual respect. A mutual affection. Logan didn’t think it was friendship exactly, but something very close.
‘So, Jean Vincent. What the hell happened?’ Mackie said.
‘Someone got to him.’
‘That’s bleeding obvious. But it wasn’t what I was asking. What the hell were you doing charging through the hospital like that? Those places have cameras everywhere. I’ve had to pull some pretty big strings already to keep the police off your back.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I saw the man who did it. I thought I could get him.’
The expression on Mackie’s face softened. ‘You did? Anything we can work with?’
‘Possibly. If you get the CCTV footage, I’ll be able to pick him out for you.’
‘Okay, leave it with me.’
‘Is there anything more on Vincent?’ Logan said, taking another drag of his whisky and hoping that his attempt at changing the subject would work.
Mackie smiled. ‘There may be. We’ve followed a few leads on the phone records and a lot of them point to the same place. Or the same man, I should say.’
‘So you agree now that Vincent was involved?’
‘Well, there are certainly a lot of coincidences otherwise. The bigger question is, why the hell did someone trash his place and kill him?’
‘Loose ends.’
‘Maybe. But why him and why now?’
‘Who knows? So what did you find on Vincent?’
‘We’ve linked that phone number you found to a passport counterfeiter.’
‘A counterfeiter? How does that fit into any of this?’
‘It fits nicely into the police’s theory that terrorists from outside of France are responsible. A reliable counterfeiter would be very useful, don’t you think?’
‘The terrorist link,’ Logan groaned. The more he’d thought about the case, the less he was convinced that this was a terrorist attack. ‘So we’re all going with that now, are we? I’m sorry, but Jean Vincent didn’t strike me as your usual Islamic extremist. Plus nearly all of the witnesses who said anything even remotely useful said the attackers were speaking English both to each other and to Modena.’
‘Logan, everyone speaks English. I don’t disagree with you but we can’t rule out the link just like that. And it fits with the police’s theory.’
‘What does that mean?’ Logan said, his tone more terse now. ‘The French police think the kidnapping is something to do with terrorists, so we just follow their lead regardless?’
‘I’m not following this line just because it fits with what the police think,’ Mackie snapped. Logan’s defensiveness had obviously got his back up. ‘It’s what I think too. And everyone else, for that matter. We need to take the leads that we have.’
‘This is all weak as piss,’ Logan responded. ‘If terrorists wanted to make a big mark, do you not think they would just blow something up? Why go to all the effort of such an elaborate attack? The biggest question of all is still why was Modena targeted? If we think about what he could have that somebody out there could want, then that’s going to lead us in the right direction.’
‘So what have you got, Logan?’ Mackie said, irritation clear in his voice. ‘You tell me. What does Modena have that got him kidnapped?’
Logan stared daggers at his boss. He didn’t like being challenged. But he knew it was a good question. And he didn’t have an answer. ‘Information, perhaps.’
‘Like what?’
‘Look, I don’t know,’ Logan conceded.
‘Well,’ Mackie said, ‘until you do know, I suggest you go with what we’ve got. The lead with this counterfeiter is worth checking out. I think you’ll see why when I tell you what we know.’
‘I’m all ears.’
Mackie sighed. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, Logan. But I think you’ll agree it gives a bit of weight to the link to Islamic extremists.’
Mackie paused.
‘Go on,’ Logan said.
‘Two days ago Youssef Selim arrived in France. We think he might be behind this.’
Logan almost dropped his whisky.
Chapter 11
Johnny pushed the sleeve of his leather jacket up over his wrist to check the time on his watch. It was almost nine p.m. He’d been standing outside the Hotel Brittanique now for over two hours and there was still no sign of the mark. H
aving followed the man from the hospital back here, he was uncomfortable to have him out of sight for so long. There was always the risk that he’d gone out of a back door or something. But then why would he have done that? Johnny was pretty sure the mark hadn’t figured out he was being followed.
Johnny had seen the look on the mark’s face when they’d passed in the hospital corridor. What with the way the guy had charged down the corridor after coming out of Jean Vincent’s room, he had to be some sort of police. Just as well Johnny had stayed put and hidden or the mark would probably have caught up with him. Luckily the metro and streets were still busy with tourists and commuters, so it hadn’t been hard to follow him back to the hotel. Johnny hadn’t been sure whether or not to head into the place after him, but he didn’t want to be too obvious. The mark had obviously seen him in the hospital.
Johnny’s initial orders had been simple: kill Vincent. The guy had got greedy. Johnny could understand that, to some extent. Vincent wasn’t being paid much; it wasn’t like he had a big part to play. But the accident had been far worse than intended. The doctors had said Vincent may have never walked again. He was understandably pissed off and had threatened to go to the police if he didn’t receive double. Another ten thousand euros. It was barely a drop in the ocean next to what Johnny knew Reggie would be taking. But Vincent chose the wrong people to blackmail. And he certainly wouldn’t be walking again now. Johnny had carried out his orders no problem, exactly as Selim had suggested, though he had been unable to stop himself gagging at the sight of Vincent’s neck opening up. He’d hurt people before, but it wasn’t his route of choice to be so brutal, or to be so close. Killing with a knife was personal.
But after the seeing the big guy in the corridor, Johnny knew something wasn’t right. Why had he been there at all? There was no reason for Vincent to have been on the police’s radar. Which worried Johnny. Because maybe it meant he’d missed something, made a mistake down the line. And the last thing he wanted was to have to admit that to Selim.
