by Ben Coes
Slowly, the man stood. He had a quizzical look on his face, but she recognized him. It was the man from the news, Tim Lindsay, the secretary of state. He stared at the glass for a few moments, not moving. His eyes were suspicious. He picked up his cell phone and started to dial.
“Help!” she cried.
Lindsay stepped around the sofa and approached the French doors. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out, searching in the darkness and driving rain. Suddenly, his eyes found her and he jerked back. He reached and opened the door.
For several moments, he stood in the door, staring at her. Finally he spoke. “Are you okay?”
“I—” Romy began. “I … I’m not sure.”
“How did you—” said Lindsay. “Never mind. Come inside. I’ll call hotel security.”
“No,” she said. “I must talk to you and only you.”
Lindsay’s face became hard and suspicious. “Who the hell are you?”
He pressed a button on his cell as he started to back up.
Romy held her hands up, as if surrendering. Rain poured down her face. She was drenched.
“Please don’t. I have information that is of the utmost importance to the United States of America.”
“Are you insane? What sort of information?”
“A plot to kill the president.”
Lindsay put the cell to his ear.
“This is Secretary Lindsay,” he started, looking at her. “Give me a sec.”
He covered the mouthpiece.
“Please,” she begged. “I risked my life to tell you. There is a plot to assassinate the president of the United States, and the people are inside the U.S. government. Please, you have to believe me!”
Lindsay held the phone to his ear a few more moments, studying Romy as she stood in the rain.
“I’ll call back,” he said, hanging up the phone.
Lindsay stepped toward her. “How do you know this?”
“My husband is one of the conspirators.”
Lindsay raised his hand and placed it on her arm.
“Come in,” he said.
25
PRINCE DE GALLES
PARIS
Kyrie stepped back inside the suite, thoroughly drenched. He had a distant look, as if he were staring at a mirage, or a memory.
Why? he asked himself. What is it that you saw, that warm afternoon that changed everything? What is it you see tonight?
By the time Kyrie met Romy, he’d lost his ability to feel. It was the reason Bruner had taken him from that jail one dark night so long ago. It was what enabled Kyrie to kill without remorse.
Yet she touched something beyond all hatred and anger. Romy was his one—his only—weakness. Kyrie couldn’t kill her.
He looked down at the gun, still dripping water.
Kyrie shut his eyes and put a hand against the wall, steadying himself. His cell awakened him from his thoughts. He looked up, breathing heavily. The wandering look on his face disappeared. His eyes grew sharp, cold, and angry.
It was Kopitar.
“What is it?” said Kyrie.
“Was she there?”
“Yes, but she fled.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No, not yet. Call Casales. Tell him I will be coming from the stairs.”
“Is she with Secretary of State Lindsay?” asked Kopitar, a shocked tone in his voice. “Should we just have him handle it?”
“Make sure he’s on that side of Lindsay’s door,” said Kyrie, ignoring him. “Tell him design flank two, one up. And Hans?”
“Yes.”
“If Casales attempts to handle this himself, before I get there, not only will I kill him, but I will come for you next. I will find you, and you will suffer, and then you’ll die. Got it?”
“Yes,” said Kopitar quietly.
“Now what’s the design Casales needs to know?” asked Kyrie, testing him.
“Stair side, flank two, one up.”
“Good.”
26
HOTEL GEORGE V
PARIS
Romy stepped cautiously inside as Lindsay shut the door behind her.
“What’s your name?”
“Romy Banker.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I watched the news. They said you were staying here. I took a chance. I called someone I know, a woman who used to spend summers near us. She was a professor and I thought she could tell someone. I told her what I heard, and they killed her. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Lindsay looked stunned.
“What was her name?”
“Dr. Bartholomew.”
Lindsay’s face took on a pained look. “Hillary Bartholomew? From Harvard?”
“Yes.”
Lindsay went into the bathroom and returned with a towel, which he handed to Romy. She took it and wiped her face and hair. Lindsay motioned to her to sit down.
“Tell me what was said in the conversation you overheard,” he said.
“They have someone who is a congressman, a man named Largent.”
“Bobby Largent? It’s preposterous—”
“They’re going to kill the Speaker of the House and the vice president. That’s what they said. All that will be left is the president, and then they will kill him too.”
Lindsay stared at her. His face flushed red, a perplexed look on it, as if contemplating his next steps. He slowly sat down.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives died. He drowned.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Romy let out a soft gasp.
“I need to tell someone,” said Lindsay. “Whether it’s true or not, we need to bring you in.”
“What if you tell the wrong person?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“They have people everywhere. They’re with the president. They have people with the president. With every one of the cabinet members. Maybe even with you.”
Lindsay glanced at the door.
“The man’s name is Charles,” she said. “He didn’t say his last name. He mentioned something called Consular Operations.”
Lindsay was overcome for a brief moment.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“His name is Charles—”
“No, the other part. Did you say ‘Consular Operations’?”
“Yes.”
“You’re absolutely sure that’s what you heard the man say?”
“Yes.”
Lindsay put his hand against the wall to steady himself. He looked dumbfounded, upset, even angry.
“His name is Charles Bruner,” said Lindsay.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Lindsay glanced around. Who could he call? If she was telling the truth, the men outside the door could work for Bruner. No, it wasn’t possible. He knew each man. It just wasn’t … possible.
Or was it?
“Get out of sight,” he said as he walked to the door.
27
HOTEL GEORGE V
PARIS
It was just after 9 P.M., and Dewey stood in the large marble-floored bathroom in his suite. He was clean shaven. His hair was medium length, thick, and brown. He wore a white turtleneck that showed off his large chest, shoulders, and arms, which were visibly dense with muscles. Wrapped taut across the upper part of his chest was a thin black nylon-and-Kevlar weapons belt. A small ceramic pouch lay tucked beneath his left armpit. Dark silver steel bulged from the holster.
Colt M1911A1 .45-caliber semiautomatic.
The day had been mundane, consisting mainly of waiting around during Lindsay’s meetings and accompanying him back to the hotel. Now that the meetings were over, Dewey found himself alone, lost in thoughts about the past. He tried not to think about Paris, about a honeymoon so long ago, a world away, a different time and place.
Dewey stared at his reflection for more than a minut
e, thinking in silence. A cold, distant look occupied his face.
He had big blue eyes and a large, sharp nose. He looked athletic, even rugged. He was handsome, though that quality was belied somewhat by eyes that showed hardness, coldness, and an underlying sense of anger.
On the marble sink, a half dozen bottles of various luxury items provided by the hotel were neatly arranged—fancy shampoos, conditioners, and body lotions, none of which had been touched. On the counter next to the bottles was an unusual-looking object. Sleek, black, and rectangular.
Osprey H88 silencer.
He unstrapped the holster and pulled out the gun. It was a plain piece of hardware. Its steel was covered in scratches and patchwork hue from years of use: gun oil, cleaning fluid, salt water, grime, and just plain old wear and tear. It had been used to kill more people than he could remember; to break glass and to smash skulls; it was a gun used for its intended purpose and a few its manufacturer couldn’t have envisioned. Dewey knew it the way a boy knows his own baseball mitt.
Its one fanciful aspect, if it could be called that, was the sidearm’s grip. Wrapped in black hockey tape, also worn-out and marked by age and, above all, use.
Originally issued to him more than a decade before upon his commissioning as a lieutenant junior class in 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, known at the time by its nickname, Delta.
Dewey felt perhaps he should’ve enjoyed himself more in Paris, but Paris was just about the last place he wanted to be.
He stepped into the bedroom and walked to the window. It was raining outside. He could see the Champs-Élysées in the distance. The lights of cars twinkled in yellows, reds, and blues as they moved down the boulevard.
He went to the minibar and took out a bottle of whiskey and a beer. He uncapped the whiskey and drank it in one gulp, then pulled off the cap of the beer and drank it in a few hearty chugs. If he drank too much now, he would only turn inward and lose himself in his thoughts. Yet he couldn’t help it. He took two more bottles of whiskey and drank them, then opened another beer. He chugged it even faster than the first. He felt the warmth of the alcohol descend on him, its familiar comfort taking over.
Dewey pulled on his raincoat. In the pocket was a small, thick laminated ID card. It allowed Dewey access to wherever the secretary of state was, a so-called body nick. He put the identification around his neck and stepped into the bathroom. He started to reach for his sidearm, but hesitated. He wouldn’t need it.
Out in the hallway, a few doors down, two young agents from the State Department flanked the door to Lindsay’s suite. They were dressed in suits, with no ties. Each man clutched a submachine gun, trained at the floor. The guards eyed Dewey as he approached. He stepped past them, not saying hello, paused for a moment, then knocked. A few moments later, the door opened. Lindsay’s face appeared.
“Hi, Dewey,” said Lindsay. “What can I do for you?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. I need a word.”
Lindsay paused. “Come in.”
The suite had a long entrance hallway. Lindsay stood between Dewey and the rest of the suite, subtly blocking him.
“I apologize for intruding.”
Behind Lindsay, Dewey saw movement. A mirror on the wall at the end of the hallway reflected into the large living room. It was just a flash of movement—a woman’s face—then she disappeared.
“You’re not intruding,” said Lindsay. “What’s up?”
“I was thinking of going out for a bite to eat,” said Dewey. “I wanted to make sure that was all right with you.”
“You don’t report to me,” said Lindsay.
“Whether I report to you or not is irrelevant. I just want to clear it with you. If you were considering going out yourself, even to the bar in the lobby, I don’t want to go out.”
Behind Lindsay, he saw it again. This time, the person remained in the frame of the mirror. She had long brown hair. She was seated on one of the couches in the suite. Dewey tried to look without making Lindsay aware that he saw the woman. She looked plain. Her hair was tousled and wet. Then she turned.
Dewey felt a bolt of adrenaline spike as her face became visible.
Lindsay had a nervous smile on his face.
“I’m in for the evening,” he said. “Thanks for checking.”
As Lindsay was about to close the door, Dewey put his hand out and stopped it.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Secretary?” he asked.
Lindsay patted Dewey on the shoulder.
“It’s fine. Go enjoy yourself.”
* * *
As soon as the door shut, Romy went to the French doors that led to the terrace.
“Where are you going?” asked Lindsay.
“Who was he?” she asked.
“A man who works for the CIA.”
“You know this for a fact?”
Lindsay paused. “Yes. I trust him.”
“Does he usually travel with you?”
“No. No, he doesn’t.”
Romy opened the door and stepped outside.
Lindsay came out onto the terrace. “Where can I reach you?” he asked.
Romy was already at the parapet, climbing up and grabbing the steel fence as cold rain poured down. She said nothing as she lifted herself up on top of the fence and then scuttled over to the other side.
* * *
Dewey took the elevator to the hotel lobby.
In addition to a few bellmen and other assorted hotel staff, a few people remained there, milling about. Soft laughter echoed down the corridor from Le Cinq, the hotel’s restaurant. Dewey scanned the lobby, looking for anything unusual. Two gendarmes decked out in tactical military gear flanked the large glass front doors, both men clutching carbines. At the side wall, another CONS OP agent stood watch. Dewey glanced at his watch. It was 9:30.
A doorman pulled one of the doors open.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.”
“Bonsoir,” said Dewey.
“Une parapluie, monsieur?” asked the doorman. The tuxedoed man held out an umbrella.
“Non, merci,” said Dewey.
Outside, beneath a glass-and-iron canopy, Dewey buttoned up his trench coat and looked around. It was still raining hard. The October night had a chill to it. The semicircular drive in front of the George V was filled with idling limousines.
“Do you need a taxi, monsieur?” asked one of the valets.
“Sure.”
Dewey climbed into the back of the taxi, a sleek Citroën with a female driver.
“Bonsoir,” she said. “Where to, monsieur?”
“I’d like to get something to eat,” said Dewey.
“Nearby?”
“Whatever. Just something good.”
“Do you like fancy good or good good, monsieur?”
“Good good.”
“I’m happy you say this. I know just the place.”
* * *
Romy was drenched by the time she made it back to her suite. Climbing to Lindsay’s hotel had been difficult, perhaps the hardest thing she’d ever done, but getting back was harder. Somehow she thought that after she told him, it would be all over. But when she heard Dewey’s voice, something about it told her to trust no one.
Think, Romy!
“My God,” she said.
Her hands went to her pocket. She removed the cell phone and credit card, staring at the name along the bottom of the card:
VILLIERS B. COURTEMANCHE
Slowly, as if in a dream, she sat down on the sofa and picked up the phone. She called the front desk.
“Good evening, Mrs. Courtemanche.”
“Hello.”
“I trust you and Mr. Courtemanche are enjoying the hotel?”
“Mr. Courtemanche?”
“I checked him in myself. Such a kind man.”
Romy couldn’t speak for several moments. She willed herself to go on.
“Yes, yes, he arrived. I forget myself. He is a doctor, so when I heard ‘mister’ it confus
ed me. I apologize.”
“How may I help you, madame?”
“Is it possible for the hotel to place a call for me? I don’t know the number.”
“Of course. Who would you like us to ring for you?”
“It’s a hospital in Switzerland,” said Romy. “It’s called Au Plein-du-Monts. I don’t know the town.”
“One moment, Mrs. Courtemanche.”
As Romy waited for the call to go through, she looked desperately around the suite, trying to think. Her eyes went to the ceiling. She studied the recessed lights. Then she focused on the sprinkler heads tucked into the ceiling.
“Ah, yes, here it is,” said the hotel clerk. “One moment, please.”
A few seconds later, she heard the phone ringing. A female voice came on the line.
“Facilité Au Plein-du-Monts, how may I direct your call?”
“I would like to speak to Dr. Courtemanche,” said Romy.
“I’m afraid Dr. Courtemanche isn’t here right now.”
“I must speak with him, please.”
“What is your name?”
Romy paused.
“Romy Banker. I was a patient of his.”
“Hold on,” said the woman. “Banker. I’m afraid I don’t have any record of a patient with that name. Is there another name it might have been under?”
“He was my doctor,” said Romy. “I must speak with him. It’s imperative. Is there a number he can be reached at?”
“Dr. Courtemanche will not be available for some time,” said the woman. “He has decided to take an extended leave of absence. He left specific instructions that he not be disturbed. Would you like me to suggest one of our other professionals, madame?”
Romy hung up the phone. She knew what it meant. They’d somehow hidden what she did at the sanitarium—the murder of Courtemanche, the murders of the orderlies, everything. It was the only explanation for why she hadn’t been arrested the moment she checked in to the hotel. They were following her … and she’d led them right to her. Courtemanche’s credit card had led them directly to her.
And she’d led them to Lindsay.
She stood up from the sofa. She put the cell phone on the floor and smashed it with her foot, stomping on it. She ripped out the small pieces of circuit, wire, and plastic, stomping on them until they were small bits and particles in a messy pile. She started to bend the credit card—but then she stopped. She knew she might need it. As perilous as it was, it was not as perilous as being on the run without money.
