Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  Samantha stared at the screen.

  FORM NUMBER: SD6502

  TITLE: EQUIPMENT—VARIOUS

  VENDOR: LOCKHEED, GmbH

  EDITION DATE: 199461001

  CANCELLATION DATE: 199484001

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  “What does all that stuff mean?”

  “It’s administrative language,” said Follett. “Who pays what, what budget it comes out of, that sort of crap. The satellite was purchased by the State Department through Lockheed’s German subsidiary. More important, it came out of an appropriation for the same entity: Order Six.”

  “Is that it?” she said. “We knew that. There’s nothing there. Was that really worth whistling for?”

  Follett looked slightly peeved. “It confirms it.”

  “We don’t need confirmation, Zach. We need a lead.”

  “It was the only transaction between the State Department and Lockheed in 1994 and, for that matter, the only one for five years in either direction,” said Follett. “I did a macro on every sales executive at Lockheed Martin in 1994 and ran the entire manifest against Langley knowledge base, PRISM, DS-300, Stellar Wind, and ECHELON. There was a CIA operation in 1994 that went badly south. Two agents were killed. It happened in Bonn. These guys were all gunned down in a nightclub. The reason it was flagged is because a senior vice president from Lockheed Martin was also killed at the nightclub.”

  Samantha nodded, deep in thought.

  “You think it’s related?” she said.

  Follett crossed his arms and looked up at her.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “But when I tried to access the Langley files, there was nothing there. They were cleaned out.”

  “We already knew that.”

  “I did find something, however,” said Follett. “The CIA chief of station at the time in Bonn. He’s retired, lives in Virginia. I was going to call him, but I didn’t know if maybe someone more senior should do it.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Andrew Flaherty.”

  44

  BOULEVARD DU MONTPARNASSE

  PARIS

  Dewey was picked up by two Paris Métro police cruisers on Boulevard du Montparnasse moments after he sped out of the alley, ripping onto the boulevard at seventy miles per hour. A few blocks later he cut right onto Boulevard Raspail, heading south, away from the center of the city. He floored it even as the squeal of the tires pierced the calm evening, causing every pedestrian within a quarter mile to turn their heads. The police cruisers gave chase, tearing onto Raspail behind Dewey one after the other. The high-pitched whine of the sirens mixed with the throaty, breathtaking roar of the Lamborghini’s engine as cars and pedestrians fought to get out of the way of the chaotic scene.

  The police cars were quickly on his tail, coming from behind him at high speed, closing the gap. Dewey floored it—narrowly missing a taxi that was crossing Raspail—and got separation from the police cars. He floored it for a few more moments, then jacked the wheel hard and worked the brakes—swinging into a one-eighty—and hit the gas again, charging directly at the cruisers. By the time he reached them, he was moving at a hundred miles per hour. With precious little distance to go before they collided, Dewey swerved left, as if he would try and pass them on that side, but it was a feint. With just feet to spare, he slammed the brakes for a half second as he spun the steering wheel clockwise. The back of the Lamborghini fishtailed out from behind him to the left side—in front of the oncoming cruisers—then Dewey whipped the steering wheel counterclockwise and slammed his foot on the gas. The car swerved right, passing just inches to the left of the closer police car. He tore past the pair of sedans, as the screech of their brakes mixed with the sound of sirens.

  He picked up Beauxchamps’s cell and dialed in the code, then called Borchardt.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” said Dewey.

  In the rearview mirror he counted four police cars, sirens roaring, lights flashing.

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know,” Dewey said calmly. He looked for a street sign. “Raspail.”

  “Good. Stay on Raspail, it will lead you to the Seine.”

  “They’re swarming,” said Dewey. “I’m not going to last long.”

  “Get to the Louvre,” said Borchardt. “The Pyramid. We’re in the air. DGSI is going to shut down airspace any minute. We can hover at most five minutes—after that, you’re on your own.”

  “Fine.”

  Dewey tossed the phone to the seat and grabbed the steering wheel.

  After passing the two police cruisers, Dewey was alone on Boulevard Raspail, heading north. The road was already shut off by police. He used that emptiness to push the Lamborghini as hard as he could. He saw an intersection ahead but kept the Lamborghini floored, crossing Rue de Sèvres at a hundred and thirty miles per hour. The police cars behind him grew smaller in the rearview mirror. Then, suddenly, bright lights hit him from ahead, like a flash. A pair of dark police sedans had been parked ahead, lying in wait, lights off. Dewey swerved right onto Rue du Bac, which led to the Seine. He again hit the gas, looking in the rearview mirror. Suddenly, another wall of bright lights appeared. He jerked backward, adjusting his eyes. There were two large tactical vehicles—Humvees—moving toward him from the top of Rue du Bac. As he came closer, they stopped and made a V-formation in the road ahead, cutting Dewey off.

  Dewey scanned for a side street, but he was midblock and there were no escape routes. Several gunmen climbed out of the Humvees, setting up, preparing to fire.

  Dewey slammed the brakes, holding his foot hard against the floor, and spun the steering wheel. The Lamborghini swerved into a cacophonous one-eighty, tires screeching as gunfire erupted from the dark sedans. He heard several dull thumps as slugs hit the back glass of the sports car. It was bulletproof.

  As the tail of the Lamborghini swept across the tar in front of the Humvees, Dewey again floored it, tearing away in the opposite direction—down Rue du Bac—where the first police cruisers were now fast approaching. The first pair of cruisers had been joined by two more, and all four—sirens wailing, lights strobing—came at him abreast, taking up the entire width of the street. The gunfire behind him stopped—the gunmen no doubt realizing that they could easily miss and hit one of the police cruisers.

  Dewey scanned both sides of the street, looking in between the Lamborghini and the oncoming police cars, desperate for an escape route, but there was none, only sidewalks, not wide enough for the car, and stores behind, shut for the night.

  With no choice left, Dewey cut right and ripped the car toward the sidewalk. Ahead, he eyed the front window of a bank, now closed. He slammed the gas and surged into the window, smashing through the glass. He kept moving, flooring it, cutting across the bank’s large unlit atrium, past tellers’ stations, pulverizing chairs, desks, and everything else in his way. At the far end of the atrium was another window, and Dewey kept accelerating, glancing in the rearview mirror as a police cruiser, then two, entered the bank in hot pursuit.

  Through the window ahead, Dewey saw the lights of another street. He pushed the pedal again to the max. The Lamborghini smashed into the wall of glas
s then went airborne for several seconds, hitting the sidewalk, then tearing for the busy Quai Voltaire, which ran along the Seine.

  In the distance, across the Seine, he scanned for the Louvre, seeing it to his right, behind him. In the rearview mirror, he saw bright klieg lights from a roadblock in back of him. Ahead, Dewey picked up the Pont de la Concorde, the nearest bridge over the Seine. He needed to cross it to get to the Louvre. But a massive roadblock stood at the bridge’s entrance. Klieg lights, Humvees, police vans, cruisers, and armed SWAT agents too numerous to count prepared for the oncoming Lamborghini.

  He looked again in the rearview mirror, counting five police cruisers trying to keep up the savage pace.

  Dewey was boxed in. He looked to his left for a side street, but all he saw was the large stone edifice of the Musée d’Orsay, looming like a phantom.

  He looked right, scanning the wall above the river. A few hundred feet away, he caught a flash of light coming from the wall as, in front of him, the muzzle flash of weapons lit the air like firecrackers, followed by the thuds of bullets ripping into the bulletproof windshield.

  It was a small light, illuminating the entrance to an old staircase that led down to water’s edge. Dewey spun the wheel and gunned the now badly damaged Lamborghini toward the sidewalk, jumping a few feet as he hit the side of the curb. He buckled his seat belt as, at the same moment, he slammed the gas, sending the car to a hundred twenty as gunfire continued from the roadblock ahead.

  The entrance was too small for the Lamborghini. Both sides were made of granite several feet high. But Dewey didn’t have a choice. He kept his foot hard to the floor.

  Yards became feet, then inches, minutes became seconds, and then the Lamborghini slammed into the opening at the top of the stairs. It hit with such force that both sides of the wall cratered. At the same time, the front of the car crushed in and folded backward. The sound was horrible, metal meeting rock, but the car’s momentum won out. It toppled the stones and slowed, but it was still moving, and it suddenly hit open air, flying out toward the Seine. A moment later, the car crashed into the dark water, then plunged beneath.

  Calmly, Dewey unbuckled the seat belt as cold water rushed into the car. He kicked at the door, but it was bent inward. That, and the pressure from the water, made it impossible to open. As the last bubble of air inside the car became filled with water, he took a final breath, then put his feet up against the windshield, intact but cracked in several places. A sudden bump shook the car as it landed on the bottom of the river. Pressing himself against the seat, he pushed his feet against the glass, kicking as hard as he could. Slowly, the seam at the top of the glass inched out. The water overhead went from pitch-black to green and brown as, somewhere above, searchlights scanned the river, looking for him. He kept kicking until part of the glass was separated from the frame of the car. He climbed out through the opening, pushed off from what was left of the hood, and swam. He kicked his legs furiously, grasping for distance from the place where the car had entered, where soon police divers would swarm.

  Dewey held his breath as long as he could, stroking his arms and kicking his legs in a desperate frenzy. He forced himself to hold his breath even longer, counting the seconds as his arms and legs cycled through the frigid Seine. When he reached one hundred and twenty seconds, he felt as if he might breathe in the water, and yet he kept swimming beneath the surface, protected by the blackness. At three minutes, he finally breached—quietly, without a splash—and looked up. A wall of lights shone down several hundred yards away from where the Lamborghini had entered the river.

  Dewey let the current take him farther downriver, until he passed beneath the Pont de la Concorde. He side-paddled to the right bank and climbed up a wall of rock, getting out within the dark shadow of the bridge. He studied the banks of the river in both directions, seeing nobody.

  Dewey didn’t want to risk going to street level by one of the stairways, which he assumed were guarded. He skulked along the bank, away from the bright klieg lights now visible upstream, shining down eerily from the left bank. At some point, he climbed up the granite wall to street level. He peeked his head over the embankment. Beyond was the Jardin des Tuileries, its gardens now dark and abandoned, the outlines of trees silhouetted by ambient light.

  At the far end of the Tuileries, Dewey could see the golden triangle of light that was the Pyramid, marking the entrance to the Louvre. He started running along a row of trees, his pants chafing as he moved, his boots sloshing with water. Suddenly, he heard the telltale high-pitched whirr of a helicopter.

  He scanned the sky as he continued his run. In the air above the Louvre, he caught the small red lights of a chopper as it cut through the night air toward the Pyramid. He came to the edge of the Tuileries, where the Place du Carrousel cut between the gardens and the Louvre. He waited behind a tree for a break in traffic, looking for signs of law enforcement. All he could see were the klieg lights in the distance. When there were no cars on the road, he charged out from behind the tree and sprinted across the last stretch between him and the Louvre. To his right, he heard sirens.

  Dewey leapt onto the sidewalk, running toward the descending chopper, a sleek black Panther AS-403. The chopper settled onto the grass next to the Pyramid just as searchlights crisscrossed the air as sirens grew louder.

  Dewey jumped inside just as the pilot slammed the choke and took off, soaring into the sky. Catching his breath, Dewey looked out the window. Paris had descended into chaos, a city scorched by a night’s violence. But from the air it became simply another collection of small lights.

  “Hello, Dewey,” came a voice from the shadows.

  Dewey turned. The lights in the cabin were extinguished. For the first time he saw Borchardt.

  “Hi, Rolf.”

  “How’s my car?”

  “It’s been better.”

  “You know that cost me nearly a million dollars? I hadn’t even driven it yet.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, it was a little stiff,” said Dewey. “Where are we going?”

  “Away from Paris,” said Borchardt. “DGSI will have an INTERPOL out on you any time now. You’re a wanted man. You need to get away.”

  Dewey nodded, pushing his hand back through his wet hair.

  “We need to find her,” said Dewey.

  “Who?”

  “The woman who killed Lindsay.”

  “Don’t be so sure she did it,” said Borchardt. “Don’t trust your eyes. They can deceive you.”

  45

  HOTEL GEORGE V

  PARIS

  Beauxchamps stepped off the elevator. He was alone. He rubbed his mouth, which was sore from the gag that had been wrapped around his head. His shoulders ached. He’d been tied up, he guessed, only ten minutes. Still, it left him feeling like he’d been beat up. Mostly, he was embarrassed. But he wasn’t angry. Everyone else at DGSI was, especially his boss, Cazanove. For some reason, that was precisely why he wasn’t mad.

  When Andreas offered to spare the life of the guard, a thought was born inside him, a feeling that now had grown into certitude.

  Andreas didn’t kill Lindsay.

  Instead of going to his apartment and getting some sleep, or a glass—or two—of wine, he went to the George V. The penthouse floor was empty, dimly lit, and eerily quiet. The hallway carpet was gone and the rough plywood underboard sat bare and ugly. Yellow police tape crossed both sides of the hall in front of the elevator, prohibiting access. He went right and lifted the tape and went beneath it. He walked toward Lindsay’s suite. The door was propped open. Beauxchamps stood outside, looking in, trying to think.

  He formed his right hand into an imaginary pistol. He aimed it to the left side of the door, where one of Lindsay’s guards had been shot.

  “Boom,” he said, pretending to shoot. He swept his hand to the right and fired at the second guard. “Boom.”

  Beauxchamps walked into the suite. “Boom boom,” he said quietly, aiming at the far wall, imagini
ng what the killer did when he shot Lindsay. He paused for nearly a minute, staring at the wall. It was clean now, the blood scrubbed off, though a small crater was carved out of it where one of his men had found the casing from the bullet that traveled through Lindsay’s body.

  Beauxchamps picked up his cell and hit speed dial.

  “Saint-Phalle.”

  “It’s me,” said Beauxchamps. “How many bullets did we take from the scene?”

  “Three.”

  “Three? Or four?”

  “Three. One was in Lindsay’s chest, one was in the wall, one was in one of the guards’ heads.”

  “What about the fourth bullet?” Beauxchamps asked impatiently.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s three bullets. There were four shots fired, Marc. Two into Lindsay, one into one guard’s head, one into the other guard’s chest. Was it in the other guard’s chest?”

  “No,” said Saint-Phalle.

  “Did you look for it?”

  Saint-Phalle coughed.

  “Ah, no, Jean. I guess I figured they all came from the same weapon and didn’t bother.”

  “They probably did come from the same weapon,” said Beauxchamps. “You still should’ve run it down.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I apologize. I’ll go over to the hotel right now.”

  “No, I’m already here. Did you run the ballistics on the three bullets you did find?”

  “Yes. All came from the same gun, the Colt M1911A1.”

  Beauxchamps hung up. He went back to the hallway, taking a left. He moved to within inches of the wall and inspected it, running his hand along it. He turned on a small, powerful flashlight. He shone it at the wall and moved slowly away from the suite, sweeping the light up and down the wall, searching. He kept moving, searching for the slug. From the way the corpse had been positioned on the ground, it was impossible to surmise anything about where it had landed other than that it was in this direction. When he got to the far wall, at the end of the hallway, he saw it immediately: a head-high hole in the wall next to a painting. He took a knife from his coat pocket and stabbed it hard into the wall above the hole, cutting through wallpaper and Sheetrock, then dragging it down, eviscerating a line in the wall with the knife’s serrated edge. He worked around the hole until he had the small section that contained the slug. He popped it out, blew dust and silt from it. It was badly misshapen, with black tinges from dried blood compacted into the dull white gypsum powder from the Sheetrock. There was no question, however, that it was a .45-caliber slug. He put it in his pocket and went back to Lindsay’s suite.