The sudden rush of emotion he was feeling was something new, unexpected. He’d spent his life after Rome living within a carefully constructed iron box that the world couldn’t dent, and now this girl comes along and cracks it right down the middle with one kiss.
He made a snap decision. The first rule of snap decisions was never to make them. The second rule was to make one exception. “You’d better leave now. Things could get ugly.”
Big brown eyes, looking right into his. “I’m from Shiraz. You think I haven’t seen ugly things?” She took off her heels, ready to run. Maybe the second rule was right after all.
Third rule: never underestimate a woman. Not her brains, not her heart, not her soul.
The man was heading toward the Seine. Inwardly, Devlin smiled; that’s where he would head at this point in the game too—someplace open, with a clear shot in every direction, one with plenty of shadows among the closed kiosks, lovers galore, bridge abutments. Open spaces could be killing fields, but only when the battlefield had already been prepped; otherwise, they were observation posts.
Okay, they could play it either way. “This could get rough,” he said. “And I want to see you again, after this is over.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Make it snappy.”
“What’s your name?”
“Frank Ross,” he lied.
“Okay, Frank Ross,” she said with a hint of entirely accurate suspicion, “I’ll meet you at the Café de la Paix.”
“When?”
“I’ll be there all night. I’ll be the girl with a broken heart, playing ‘Hearts and Flowers’ on my violin, if you don’t show up.”
He kissed her again, for absolute real this time. “I’ll see you there.”
“Try not to get yourself killed, Frank Ross,” she whispered. Before she could say anything else, he was gone.
He hit the Seine across from Notre Dame. The man ahead of him was jogging now, down the left bank of the river along the Quai Malaquais, heading for the safety of the crowds at St.-Michel.
Devlin trailed him along the various quays. There could be no doubt now that the man was guilty. Or that he was good. Or that he was very dangerous. He had played the pickup just the way Devlin would have, sensing, sorting, then heading for safety, which meant that he had sized up his pursuer and would be ready for him.
It was a cliché, but it was also true: Paris really was for lovers. In the heart of one of the world’s greatest cities, his race along the Seine was run nearly alone, the auto-tunnels buried beneath him, the river quiet except for the passing barge or tourist boat, but everywhere, mostly unseen but never unsensed, in the shadows, were the lovers.
He realized with a start that, for the first time in his life, he had just joined their ranks.
The man tossed a glance over his left shoulder. Devlin peeled off near the rue de Seine, heading south, where he could cross the rue Mazarine and then cut back into the warren of streets in the Latin Quarter. He had a pretty good idea where the man was heading: the rue Galande.
Charles Augustus Milverton. At one time, “Milverton” had been one of the finest operatives in Britain’s most elite fighting force, a leader of the 22nd Regiment Special Air Service at Credenhill. Later, he moved on to “deep battle-space” assignment.
The best part of an SAS posting was that absolute anonymity prevailed, even when operating at home. SAS officers were not required to identify themselves either to police or civilian agencies; in effect, there was no bothersome review authority over them, which meant that Milverton was pretty much free to operate as he saw fit, even after he left the Two-Two’s Mobility Troop and had moved closer to home in the Artists Rifles reserve, in Regent’s Park. He had spent the past few years roaming the wreckage of the old Soviet Union as a kind of hired gun, sorting out communists and capitalists alike and burnishing his reputation for sudden, violent lethality. Milverton could kill you in dozens of different ways, but so could a lot of guys. What made him special is that he could kill you and be gone before you even knew you were dead.
Devlin passed south of the Place St.-Michel and turned left on the rue St.-Séverin, across the rue St.-Jacques. There it was, up ahead—the place he was looking for: 42 rue Galande.
Devlin moved slowly now, down the crowded street. This part of the Quarter was always packed with young humanity, pretty girls and phony-tough boys, the Arabs jostling their way in packs over and through the French, who still had not quite grasped the extent to which they were becoming strangers in their own capital city.
The spires of Notre Dame shone brightly just off the west: from the sacred to the profane in five minutes, and all you had to do was cross the Pont St.-Michel. It was as if the great cathedral had deliberately faced west, down the Seine, turning its back on the sin and sacrilege behind it.
He took a spot in a darkened doorway and waited. Mentally, he reviewed the intelligence. It was all NSA stuff, nothing from Langley, which meant that on a scale of one to ten it scored about a six, as opposed to a one. The rue Galande was where Milverton kept a safe house, a flat, in one of the last places in Paris that anyone would ever think to look for such a thing.
Maryam wandered briefly into his thoughts, but he cast her aside. He had her parting promise to meet him at the Café de la Paix, near the Opéra, and if she was true to her word, so would he be. He had no intention of getting killed by Milverton. He was there as judge, jury, and hooded executioner.
“I am the Angel of Death,” he said, under his breath.
There was no chance that Milverton would go through the front entrance. But he didn’t want him to. That was the way he was going to go in. And so he bought a ticket and entered the building.
Everybody was dressed for the occasion except him. Men in bustiers, fishnet stockings, and high heels. Women dressed as virginal brides, but wearing no underwear. Mock-hunchbacks. Vampirish whores. All there for The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
The cult movie had been playing at the Studio Galande since forever. It had taken the French a few years to catch on to the fact that the Tim Curry movie was not just a movie but an audience-participation extravaganza, but once they got the hang of it, they showed up with the same fervid and flamboyant enthusiasm as their counterparts in Boston, New York, and elsewhere.
Devlin had long since memorized the layout as he took a seat near the back of the auditorium. Thanks to NSA, liaising with DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, run out of the DoD), he knew that Milverton’s lair lay to the rear of the screen and just above, on the first floor, in Euro-speak. He gave Milverton about fifteen minutes to get comfortable, to feel safe. The audience was in the middle of “Let’s Do the Time Warp Again” when he made his move.
There was a conga line up on the stage in front of the screen. As he rose, several girls cheered him, got out of their seats, and sandwiched him as they propelled Devlin toward the stage. The girl behind him put her hands on his ass and squeezed it tight, while the one in front reached back and grabbed his balls.
And then they were up on the stage. The audience was screaming with delight and shouting encouragement.
Hands on hips, knees in tight…
The girls were very sexy. He found his thoughts flashing back to Maryam. No—get her out of your mind. Stay focused on the job.
The wings beckoned. He wasn’t the first Rocky Horror virgin to feel embarrassment and flee the stage.
Even behind the screen and the loudspeakers, the music was deafening.
He drew his silenced SigSauer and fired nine shots in quick succession, punching a perfect circle in the ceiling above. As the plaster showered down, he took out something that looked like a dart gun and fired.
The metal claw expanded as it hit the ceiling, grabbed a purchase on the floor above. He hit the retractor and the ceiling fell in.
Milverton came down at the speed of gravity, firing all the way. He was that good—better than Devlin even had thought. Faster too.
<
br /> His first few shots shredded the screen from behind. Tim Curry took a bullet through the groin. Richard O’Brien, one through the hump. And Susan Sarandon, right in the titties.
Milverton continued firing as he hit the floor, rolling. The fall must have hurt like hell, if it didn’t actually break anything, but he didn’t seem to care. Devlin respected that; unless he had been killed by the plunge, he wouldn’t have cared about the pain either. All that mattered at this point was the job.
Shots splintered everything around him as he rammed another clip into the SigSauer. But he was bound by the rules of engagement: he couldn’t fire toward the audience.
Milverton rose and charged toward the screen from behind.
It’s just like Point Blank, though Devlin, trying both to stay hidden and get a clear shot. Observe, orient, decide—
There he was, outlined and back-lit against what was left of the screen.
Act.
Devlin held up. He couldn’t risk missing Milverton and hitting some poor kid. Milverton burst through the screen, firing back at Devlin, then dropping off the proscenium and into the first row of seats.
Devlin realized it was useless. He had to get up, expose himself, if he had any hope. He couldn’t believe how badly this operation had gone. And all because of the girl.
No, check that—all because him. Because of his weakness. Because of his need.
Devlin broke through the remains of the screen. Barry Bostwick and Little Nell were still singing on the soundtrack, but the picture was long gone. People were screaming and shoving each other to get out as Milverton bulled his way toward the front exit. He was holding the two girls who had sandwiched Devlin. Hostages now.
From his angle, he didn’t have a clear shot. Milverton raised his gun—
Then a shot, from somewhere in the auditorium. Milverton stumbled, lost his grip on the girls, who tore away from him and dove for cover. Another shot, which splintered the wall behind Milverton, who was already returning fire. He emptied a clip into the darkened auditorium, and a woman’s voice cried out in pain.
This was his chance. At full speed, Devlin leapt from the stage.
He landed on Milverton square, raining punches as they went down. The body blows didn’t do much damage. It was like socking steel.
Milverton’s first punch caught Devlin behind the neck, stunning him. He knew what was coming next, even as the SAS fighter pulled his knife and slashed at the back of Devlin’s knee. Had it landed, the knife thrust would have been a crippling, then a killing blow. Devlin would have been a marionette whose strings had just been cut, and lying there helpless, he would have been ripe for the final plunge into the neck.
But Milverton missed. He missed because everything in Devlin’s training had prepared him for moments like these and while someday he might meet a better shot than himself, he was not going to meet a better street fighter.
He blocked the blow with a forearm, then threw the other forearm at Milverton’s head. It caught him flush on the ear. He brought the butt of his gun down across the bridge of Milverton’s nose.
Devlin spun, grabbing Milverton’s wrist. With a sharp yank, he disarmed him, the knife clattering to the ground. His eyes briefly followed the knife—
“Look out!” A woman’s voice. He glanced left, just in time to see the shiv that had been yanked from Milverton’s boot heel heading for his face. He could feel the air as it missed.
“Drop it!” shouted the woman’s voice and now Devlin understood who she was.
Maryam held her Lady Glock steady on Milverton. She was a pro, but she wasn’t as good as he was.
Instead of breaking his motion, Milverton transferred the arc of the shiv in her direction and let it fly, like a dart. She tried to control the shock and the pain, but Devlin heard the breath punch out of her as she fell.
In a flash Milverton was up on his feet and running for the door. Devlin rolled and brought his pistol up, but it was too late.
Milverton was gone.
He found her slumped on the floor between a row of seats. He could hear the sirens, rapidly approaching. Leave her, shoot her, or fall in love with her, once and for all. Observe, orient, decide.
Act.
He picked her up. There was a side exit that led into a noxious Parisian alley. The kind of street where lovely ladies with blackened teeth and hairy armpits used to empty the contents of their chamber pots on the heads of peasants even blacker of tooth and hairier of body back in the seventeenth century.
No chamber pots tonight. He kept his pistol ready, just in case Milverton was waiting for him.
She was losing blood, going into shock now. A hospital was out of the question; too much curiosity. The agency had doctors here in Paris. It also had nurses, spies, whores, safe houses, safe cars, bought cops, cooperative members of the Deuxième Bureau, the works. They’d be here within minutes.
“Hold on, Maryam,” he said, punching a couple tones on his cell phone.
“Who are you?” she whispered as he carried her down the alley, her voice fading.
“Your guardian angel,” he said.
Paris was for lovers.
Chapter Thirty-seven
LOS ANGELES
Danny Impellatieri’s first inkling that anything was amiss came as he gradually awoke to the soft, almost sexy, buzz of his secure cell phone, which he always slept with, under his pillow, right alongside his pistol. Swimming back to consciousness, he became aware of a symphony of sirens wailing somewhere to the south and west. At first he mistook them for the sounds of the radio, or perhaps a television commercial; the TV was still on, although he couldn’t see it from this angle. He was trying to synthesize this random information when he realized he had the phone in his hand. “Hello?”
Stupid. That hadn’t been a standard ring tone—it was his private message ring tone, the overture to Zampa, just energetic enough to be motivating, and clichéd enough to be comical. No answer was necessary. There was a crackle and a beep and he realized this was a message from “Tom Powers.” He punched his access code and waited for the clearance to go through. Then he saw it.
“Whaddya know, whaddya say?” That got him awake.
That was what he used to say when he was commanding his unit of the 160th, the Night Stalkers. Powers had asked him for a private phrase, one that only the two of them shared. Thus they learned that they both shared a love for Cagney movies, loved the way the banty little rooster from hell moved as he chomped through the scenery. Cagney just didn’t stand there, he vibrated. He didn’t just do nothing when he had nothing to do; he did something: flashed his devilish eyes, shot a leering grin, balanced expertly on the balls of his feet, ready for anything, ready to make love to a girl or punch a guy’s lights out. Cagney, they decided, was their role model.
So this message was not good. Danny had expected the small pleasures of homecoming and sleep, and then a significant rise in one of his off-shore bank accounts, the ones that, despite his overwhelming love for her—or perhaps because of it—he had never breathed a word of to Diane, but had put in her name in case anything happened to him. It was meant as a warning, to be ready; worse, it meant that something really nasty had come up.
Ready for what? What could have been worse than what they’d just gone through?
Normally, the first thing Danny would do was sit down at his computer in his secure room, boot it up, and do a quick scan of all available feeds, official, semiofficial, open source, and absolute bullshit. You could learn a lot from the first three, but sometimes you could learn even more from absolute bullshit, since it afforded you a window onto the thinking of the wingnuts, basket cases, moonbats, psychos, and all the other flotsam and jetsam of the human race, weightless amid the rapidly expanding junk of cyberspace.
That kind of war was not for him. Danny preferred a sidearm or a knife and an enemy, face to face, up close and personal. Like that Drusovic asshole. Danny was a good Catholic, but the thought that religion could compel a ma
n to murder—no, to slaughter—was beyond him. He would have made a lousy Crusader, Deus lo vult and all that; he needed to know who he was killing and why. For Danny Impellatieri, it was always personal.
The phone rang again—this time the tone was the William Tell Overture. Another Devlin ring tone. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer it. If Devlin really had wanted to communicate something to him, he could have done it with his first message. If he just wanted to shoot the shit, well, there was plenty of time for that later. Maybe he should check his bank account first; it was a cardinal rule that “Eddie” never took on a new job before he got paid for the last. Anyway, he had to take a pee that would make Austin Powers proud.
He ignored the phone and staggered to the bathroom. Let the son of a bitch leave a proper message.
There it was, on the bathroom counter: Jade’s iPhone. Just like her to get so excited that she’d walked out the door without it. He had to laugh: the stuff kids had today would have made intel pros twenty years ago weep with envy; hell, he thought, we could have brought down the Soviet Union with two iPods and a set of steak knives if we had had this stuff back in 1989.
Then the iPhone rang. The William Tell Overture.
What the hell?
For a moment, Danny just stared at it dully. The chance that Jade had Rossini as one of her ring tones was impossible; she’d never even heard of Rossini. But the chance that Tom Powers would try to communicate with him via his kid’s phone was equally impossible. Their working agreement was founded on the bedrock principle that no way would Danny’s family ever get involved with business. Families were off-limits, sacrosanct.
Danny could feel his anger rising, his explosive temper boiling over. He couldn’t imagine what possessed Powers to do such a thing. Didn’t he realize how dangerous it was? And dragging his daughter, Jade, into this, was totally unconscionable. He’d better have a pretty goddamn good excuse for calling his daughter—
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