by Ben Coes
Outside, the rain was pouring down harder than before. She started walking, not knowing where she would go, concentrating only on the cold raindrops as they hit her scalp and ran down her face, mixing with tears that wouldn’t stop falling from empty, shell-shocked eyes.
36
NSA
Aloud chime sounded from Samantha’s workstation. She turned to one of three large computer screens that spanned her desk. An icon on the middle screen was flashing.
She hit her speakerphone, raising June.
“We have a hit,” Samantha told him.
She clicked the icon and the screen opened into a black map with bright green lines. The screen sharpened and focused as it zeroed down on the map, as if aiming for something. Within seconds, the screen stopped above a street grid of Paris, with a single flashing light.
June came into the large bullpen of workstations and went to Samantha’s desk.
“I just triangulated a call through the satellite,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Where was it made from?” said June.
“Paris,” she said. “Hotel George Cinq.”
37
DGSI BRANCH FOUR
PARIS
Dewey stared at the two agents but said nothing.
The younger agent, Rousse, clutched Dewey’s ID badge. He tossed it onto the table in front of Dewey. He walked behind Dewey and unhooked the mouth gag around his head.
“Who are you?” Rousse asked. Unlike the older Beauxchamps, Rousse’s accent was thick and gruff.
“I want to speak with Hector Calibrisi,” Dewey said calmly.
Rousse stared blankly back at him.
“You killed three people,” he said matter-of-factly. “Put aside for a moment the fact that one of those three individuals was the United States secretary of state. You killed three people.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You did it on French soil. This is not some sort of operation where you suddenly get magically whisked away by the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Go fuck yourself,” said Dewey.
“This is a multiple homicide on French soil. It is a matter for the French government now. Hector Calibrisi can’t help you.”
“I didn’t do it. Whoever did do it is walking around free while you two nitwits stand here wasting time. I need to speak to Hector Calibrisi.”
Rousse looked at Beauxchamps, who stood quietly against the wall, allowing Rousse to lead the interrogation. Rousse came closer to Dewey, across the table from him. He leaned down so that his face was only a few inches from Dewey’s.
“Did you not hear me?” he said.
“I heard you. Now either let me go or get me Calibrisi. I didn’t do it. You and I both know that.”
“I don’t know that at all,” said Rousse. “How would I know that?”
“Because by now you’ve run my profile. Does that look like the record of a traitor?”
“Times change. People change.”
“Even if I did change, would I leave my gun next to the body?”
“I’ve seen stupider things.”
Dewey glared at the blond. He turned to the brown-haired detective, Beauxchamps.
“Please,” Dewey asked politely. “Let me speak to Calibrisi. Or at least get Chiesa in here.”
Chiesa was Langley’s Paris chief of station.
“Your sidearm was next to the body,” said Rousse. “Your fingerprints are all over the gun. The ballistics aren’t back yet, but who’s kidding who? You and I both know they will match.”
Dewey stared daggers at Rousse. “Listen, you stupid son of a bitch, I didn’t do it. Why would I kill Tim Lindsay?”
“Who knows? Perhaps for money? It’s almost always about money, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t do it. Somebody, however, did do it. That person, those people, whoever it is, they’re walking free right now. Meanwhile, you idiots are losing whatever trail they left behind.”
“We’re running four teams against this,” said Beauxchamps. “Two of those teams are working on the assumption that, in fact, you didn’t do it. Not because we think that, but because that is the way we run forensics on a murder like this. The problem is, we have a weapon.”
“I was at a restaurant when Tim Lindsay was killed.”
“Did you pay?”
“No. I received the alert and ran. I got on the Métro.”
Dewey glanced at the two-way mirror to his right.
“You film inside the Métro stations, right?” he asked.
“We have examined the video,” said Beauxchamps. “You were filmed at the station approximately twenty minutes after Lindsay was murdered. You ran to the train and tried to pry the doors open as it was leaving. Why? Were you trying to get away?”
“Fuck you,” Dewey said.
“Why did you run to the train?” persisted Beauxchamps. “Why did you attempt to pry the doors open?”
“That, by the way, is also a felony,” added Rousse.
“Answer the question,” said Beauxchamps.
Dewey stared at him with a cold, blank expression.
“I’m not answering any questions until I speak with Calibrisi.”
Rousse stepped forward and swung his open hand through the air, striking Dewey viciously across the cheek. Dewey absorbed it; he felt the harsh sting but barely moved.
“Why were you trying to get away?” asked Beauxchamps.
“I wasn’t trying to get away. Do you think if I killed the secretary of state, or anyone, for that matter, I’d escape on the fucking Métro? And even if I did, do you think I’d make such a spectacle of myself?”
“Someone who dropped his weapon would,” said Rousse.
Dewey stared straight ahead, at the wall, past Rousse, who was in his face. Again, Dewey pictured the woman from the hotel suite.
“Did you see someone?” asked Beauxchamps.
Dewey remained silent.
“Answer him,” said Rousse.
He swung again, harder this time, with a closed fist across Dewey’s mouth. The punch jerked Dewey’s head sideways. He tasted blood.
“Stop hitting me,” said Dewey, more annoyed than anything. “I didn’t kill Lindsay.”
“Why were you running?” asked Beauxchamps. “Who did you see?”
Dewey shook his head, saying nothing.
“Who?” yelled Rousse.
This time, he unleashed a violent kick to Dewey’s knee. Involuntarily, Dewey lurched forward, straining against the chair. Before he could straighten again, Rousse hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
It took awhile for Dewey to catch his breath. When he did, he looked up, an angry expression on his face. He spat a mouthful of blood-crossed saliva onto the table.
“So much for French hospitality,” he said, a shit-eating grin taking over his face just as blood began dribbling down his chin.
“Why wouldn’t you want us to know the reason why you were trying to get on the train?” asked Beauxchamps.
“Because I don’t trust you.”
Rousse leaned in again. With a smile on his face, he slapped Dewey with the back of his hand. He turned to Beauxchamps.
“It’s an internal hit,” said Rousse to Beauxchamps. “As much as it appears that it would have to be an idiot who did it the way it was done, the truth is, I think it was him.”
“Think what you want,” said Dewey. “Get Calibrisi on the phone. I get one call.”
Rousse laughed. “A phone call?”
“Yes, a phone call.”
“You must have learned that on some American TV show. You don’t get any calls.”
“Call him,” Dewey said to Beauxchamps.
Another slap sent blood splattering across the floor to Dewey’s left. He could tell that his lip was swelling up badly. He looked at both men, his eyes moving methodically between them.
“I didn’t do it, you French fuckheads. You can break every bone in my body, you
can kill me, but my story won’t change. I didn’t kill Tim Lindsay.”
Rousse rubbed his fist, which was sore from hitting him.
“Fuckhead?” he said, then swung again.
Dewey anticipated it.
As Rousse’s hand cut through the air, Dewey turned toward it. He opened his mouth, teeth bared, and lurched at Rousse’s fist. The strike from Rousse came in the same instant Dewey clamped down, biting whatever he could find. Rousse’s punch sent Dewey’s head sideways, but he had Rousse’s thumb between his teeth. Dewey bit down hard, breaking skin, reaching the bone.
The detective screamed. “Let go! Stop! Let go!”
Rousse tried to extricate himself, yanking his arm, but Dewey just bit down harder, then twisted, nearly breaking his thumb. Rousse let out a pained yelp. After a few seconds, he stopped struggling, realizing it was making it worse and that he could easily lose a finger.
Beauxchamps watched the entire sequence, barely moving.
“Let him go,” he said calmly. “You’re only going to make matters worse.”
Dewey looked up at the older agent. There was a calm expression on his face. He nodded toward his handcuffs.
Rousse suddenly yanked his hand again, trying to pull his thumb out of Dewey’s mouth. Dewey bit down harder, eliciting another pained groan.
Beauxchamps stepped forward, pulling keys from his pocket.
“You’re still shackled to the chair,” he said as he unlocked the left flex-cuff. “Don’t forget that. I’ll unlock your hands, but that’s all. Trust me when I say this: that’s it.”
Dewey eyed Beauxchamps as he moved to Dewey’s right. As Dewey felt the right flex-cuff releasing, he slashed his elbow into Beauxchamps’s kidney—sending him backward—then grabbed Rousse at the elbow, twisting viciously, pulling Rousse closer. Dewey swung his left arm around Rousse’s neck and clenched tight. He had the agent in a death hold.
The door burst open. Two gunmen charged into the room. Each agent carried a handgun, which they had trained out in front of their bodies, aimed at Dewey.
“If you shoot, he dies too,” said Dewey. “I know what I’m doing.”
Dewey stared at Beauxchamps, who was bent over, holding his side in pain.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” continued Dewey, “unless you do something stupid.”
“You’re not leaving, if that’s what you think. He’ll die before I authorize your release. What do you want?”
Dewey registered the two muzzles now aimed at his head.
“I want what I asked for. A phone call.”
Beauxchamps stepped to the wall, staring at Dewey.
“Fine,” he said, exhaling. He took a cell from his pocket and placed it down in front of Dewey. Beauxchamps waved his hand at the gunmen, dismissing them. He glanced to the two-way mirror, making a gesture to his ear.
Record it.
Slowly, Dewey leaned forward and picked up the cell phone. He dialed a six-digit number and waited for it to ring, all the while clutching Rousse’s neck in a vise.
A computer-generated female voice came on the line.
Identify.
“E.N.C. one-six-nine-four-pharaoh,” said Dewey.
Dewey’s command caused the CIA computer on the other end of the line to do two things: enable it to identify Dewey by voice recognition alone and not by the usual method, which would’ve required Dewey to voice his nonofficial cover identification number and encrypt and digitally scramble the call he was about to make, channeled via a CIA satellite.
Several low beeps could be heard as Dewey continued to hold Rousse. Finally, the female voice came on the line.
Affirmative pharaoh, dock eight-one-eight-alpha-eight.
Dewey punched in Calibrisi’s number, but as he was about to hit Send, he paused, staring at Beauxchamps. In his head, Dewey replayed the sight of the woman on the train, as if in a movie, over and over again. Who was she? Who did she remind him of?
Dewey had stared into the eyes of a man who tried to detonate a nuclear bomb in the heart of New York City. He’d felt the edge of a knife at his neck, held there by an ISIS terrorist as he was about to cut his head off. There was no limit to the evil in the world, or the darkness that drove men to do unspeakable things. For some reason, he felt the same sense of dread about the woman he’d seen. He felt an unshakable coldness, and the worst part about it was he didn’t know why.
Who are you? Who sent you? Why did you kill Tim Lindsay?
And then he heard his own thoughts coalesce into a single question: Why me?
“Hurry up,” groaned Rousse.
The words stirred him from his thoughts. Dewey yanked up, wrenching the smaller man hard, lifting him from the ground and causing him to cough painfully. Then Dewey let him go. Rousse stumbled slightly as he practically jumped away from Dewey. His face was bright red. His hand was bleeding. Rousse removed a gun from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Dewey.
“Drop the phone!”
“Leave him alone,” Beauxchamps said calmly. “Go get two cups of coffee. Now.”
Dewey said nothing as Rousse went for the door, cursing under his breath. He looked down at the phone and cleared Calibrisi’s number, then dialed another number he knew by heart. He hit Send and waited. Several clicks sounded. Then someone answered.
“What is it?” came a perturbed voice. The accent was German. “Who is it? Do you know what time it is? How did you get this number?”
“Hi, Rolf.”
There was a long pause.
“Ah, yes,” said Borchardt, suddenly alert. “Let’s see … a call at four in the morning from a sanitized Lotus-caliber switch. A dead secretary of state. It must be Dewey Andreas. Let me guess: You need my help?”
“I don’t have time for this. You can gloat later.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Okay, fine. Hold on.”
“I can’t,” said Dewey, glancing at the brown-haired agent.
“Trust me. Hold on.”
Several clicks echoed from the phone. Then came a low buzzing noise. Finally, Borchardt returned. “Speak,” he said.
“What was that?”
“A jamming device, just in case whatever one you routed through doesn’t hold. We’ll have about three minutes. Where are you?”
“DGSI. Someone set me up.”
“Or you did it.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“No, I know you didn’t,” said Borchardt. “The question is, who is framing you, and why did they kill Tim Lindsay? Now, personally I never liked the man. Too much of a pacifist. But his plantation in South Carolina was always fun to visit. I shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds me. In fact, remind me to inquire as to whether or not it’s for sale, will you?”
“You’re a demented little bastard.”
“Careful, prisoner soixante-neuf.”
“It’s not funny.”
Borchardt cleared his throat. “No, it’s not. I apologize.”
“Who did it?” said Dewey.
Borchardt was silent for a few seconds, then spoke in an oddly soft, curious voice.
“There are certainly a few groups that would like to kill the U.S. secretary of state, no matter who it is. The part that doesn’t make sense is that no one is taking credit. Instead they’re pinning it on you.”
Dewey felt a chill. “What are you talking about?”
“How did they get your gun and, more important, why? Why not just kill the man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lindsay knew something,” said Borchardt. “There’s no other explanation.”
The cold chill emanated from Dewey’s spine and spread. The woman. Did she kill Lindsay, or …
He tried to imagine a scenario in which she, in fact, hadn’t killed Lindsay. Why? Did she tell Lindsay something, something so explosive that whoever was behind it had no choice but to put a bullet in him?
“I need to get out of here.”
“You shoul
d consider the fact that you might be safer inside a DGSI cell than out on the streets.”
“Can you help me or not?”
Pause.
“Yes, but it won’t be easy. We’re about to lose the encryption layer. Let me speak quickly. The cells when you first entered. Were there bars?”
“No, Plexiglas.”
“Okay, you’re at a DGSI terror unit called Branch Four. Now this is important. Do they have you in one of those units or in something more old school?”
“All I’ve seen is the inside of an interrogation room.”
“If they bring you to one of the Plexiglas units, there’s nothing I can do. But I’m guessing they’ll bring you to an isolation cell in the basement.”
“How will I know?”
“It’ll be a concrete box, no glass. The Plexiglas cells are for after they’ve broken someone. Before that, they hold prisoners in the basement. So obviously, don’t break.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Fine, fine,” said Borchardt. “First of all, don’t eat anything. Dinner, breakfast. Nothing. It will be drugged and you won’t wake up for a long time. The French have been experimenting with certain combinations of drugs to elicit confessions, and apparently it’s very powerful stuff. You might not have done it, but knowing DGSI, they will coerce other valuable information out of you. That’s the last thing you want.”
“Keep going.”
“There’s a small digital lock on the back of every door. It uses a ten-digit combination. It’s designed for certain exigencies such as prison riots or takeovers. The guards and agents can lock themselves in and get out when they choose.”
“What’s the combination?” said Dewey.
“It changes every twenty-four hours, and every cell has a different number. I will arrange to have someone place the combination on your breakfast tray tomorrow morning. It will be a slip of paper. It could be hidden in the eggs, taped to the bottom of the plate, or somewhere else.”
