Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  Kopitar picked up his phone and dialed Kyrie.

  “I found her. She’s in Marseille, at the train station.”

  “I’m hours away,” said Kyrie. “She’ll be gone by the time I get there.”

  “I think I can track her.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, Hans. Do you hear me? You tell someone, and I promise you I will stick a fucking metal spike into one ear and push it out the other one. I’ve done it. It’s surprisingly easy.”

  “I won’t tell anyone, Kyrie.”

  * * *

  Flaherty, who was seated at the other end of the conference table, glanced at Kopitar.

  “Who do we have near Marseille, Hans?”

  Kopitar paused, his loyalties torn, but only for a moment. He tapped on his keyboard.

  “Felix Jackson,” he said. “He’s in Nice.”

  Flaherty picked up his cell and dialed.

  “This is Jackson,” came the voice.

  “It’s Andrew. We need your help and we need it immediately.”

  “Where?”

  “Marseille. The train station.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Kyrie’s wife.”

  There was a pause. “Fine. Send me a photo. Rendition?”

  “Termination.”

  * * *

  In the central terminal, Romy found a newsstand and picked up a paper. She knew what it would say, but she needed to see it anyway.

  The headlines screamed across the top of the page:

  LINDSAY, U.S. SECRETARY OF STATE, ASSASSINATED IN PARIS

  TWO OTHERS ALSO KILLED AT HOTEL GEORGE V

  AMERICAN SPY WANTED AND AT LARGE AFTER ESCAPING FRENCH JAIL

  HIGH-SPEED CAR CHASE ACROSS PARIS

  Below were two photos. On the left was a profile photo of Lindsay, his gray hair combed neatly back, a large smile on his face. The photo on the right made her gasp and bring a hand to her mouth. A warm tingling sensation burst somewhere inside her, shooting down her back like electricity. She felt fear. The photo showed a much younger man, in his thirties, with longish brown hair parted roughly down the middle. He was handsome, but more than that he was rugged, like an athlete, with several days of stubble across his face, and eyes that looked as if he had no feelings, blank and distant. The eyes, she thought, of a killer.

  The name beneath the photo read DEWEY ANDREAS.

  Her hands shaking, Romy reached into her pocket and retrieved some money. She paid for the newspaper and walked to an empty section of the station and sat down.

  PARIS—U.S. Secretary of State Tim Lindsay, 68, was assassinated last night in his suite at the Hotel George V, where he was staying during meetings with French and Iranian officials. Two other State Department employees were also killed in the attack at Paris’s most elegant hotel. Sources inside DGSI described the scene at the hotel as a “killing field.” All three men were gunned down at close range.

  Lindsay was a well-respected diplomat who was in his third year as secretary of state. Leaders from across the globe expressed their shock at his death. Chinese premier Li Keqiang called Lindsay “a man of strong convictions who was not afraid to compromise in the pursuit of greater good.” French president François Hollande said, “I was with Tim this morning. I now know what it must feel like to watch a friend die on the battlefield.”

  American president J. P. Dellenbaugh praised Lindsay during an emotional speech at the White House, calling him “a valued advisor and a trusted friend.” Dellenbaugh vowed to bring his killer to justice, saying “whoever was behind it will pay dearly.”

  In a startling development, DGSI revealed that the main suspect in the murders is an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. According to sources, Dewey Andreas was in Paris with Lindsay and may have “gotten into an argument” with him. Andreas, according to sources, gunned down the two State Department security officials who were in the hall outside Lindsay’s suite before entering and shooting Lindsay. Andreas was apprehended at the hotel and brought to a DGSI intake unit in southwestern Paris, where he escaped.

  Multiple witnesses reported seeing a high-speed car chase around midnight near the DGSI facility that ended when a vehicle drove through an embankment near Pont Royal and plunged into the Seine. An unnamed source inside Paris Métro police confirmed that the driver of the vehicle was Andreas and that he has not been found.

  DGSI officials refused to comment on how Andreas was able to escape the high-security facility known as Branch 4. DGSI issued an all-points bulletin warrant for Andreas’s arrest. INTERPOL is expected to issue a declaratory warrant within the next hour.

  Other photos were below the fold, including several of Lindsay with foreign leaders. One photo showed the automobile involved in the car chase as it was being lifted by crane out of the Seine, green, smashed, and dented, dangling in the air as water poured from various holes and cracks in the car’s frame.

  Suddenly, Romy’s eyes were drawn to a man who was walking through the crowded terminal. He was bald and wore a black sweater. He didn’t act the way most people at a train station do, either rushing to get to their train, leaving the station, or wandering around as they waited. Somehow this man appeared as if he was hunting. His eyes swept the terminal slowly and methodically, but it was not the look of someone trying to find a loved one, a restroom, a gate. This man looked as if he wanted to kill someone. He walked with his legs spread, eyeing each person in the station for a half second as if registering them in his head, then moving on. He was coming toward her. She realized now that she’d made a mistake; she should have found a seat in a more crowded area of the terminal. Here she stood out.

  She felt her heart racing.

  Romy wanted to stand up and move. She wanted to run. But she knew it would only make it worse. It would focus the man’s attention on her. She remembered her haircut. There was a reason she did it. Unless … unless cutting off one’s hair was the move of an amateur. What if they’re looking for a woman with a shaved head?

  You’re being paranoid. It’s just a creepy-looking guy.

  As the man drew closer, Romy kept her eyes focused on the newspaper but didn’t hide. She tried to act natural—bored at having to wait for her train, passing the time like everybody else. Then she remembered Zurich. The Park Hyatt with Kyrie. He’d gone to the bar to get drinks while she waited near the window. A man was standing alone at the bar. As Kyrie waited for the drinks, they exchanged words. This was the same man.

  As he came closer, Romy felt his eyes on her. He was still several feet away, standing at the end of a row of seats. Romy didn’t look up. Instead she continued to read. It was all she could do not to scream in terror.

  After a few moments, the man moved away, stalking toward the next section of seating. Romy shut her eyes and exhaled. She was either being paranoid, or her change in appearance had worked. Either way, she felt a momentary sense of relief.

  When she looked up, she saw the man standing at the far side of the terminal, a cell phone to his ear, staring at her.

  “No!” she cried softly.

  She stood up and moved. He was across the large space, standing beneath the entrance to a set of tracks. She looked to the right where the newsstand, restaurant, and a few other shops were located. Beyond them was the main entrance to the station. Romy started walking toward the shops and exit—away from the man. But as she did, he moved also, aiming in a line for the shops, cutting diagonally across the terminal.

  Romy weaved in between people, children with parents, senior citizens in wheelchairs, moving as quickly as she could without running. She heard a scream to her left. She glanced over. There was a small commotion. A woman lay on the ground, toppled by someone rushing across the station—the man in the black sweater.

  Romy glanced between the man and the exit. She realized that even if she started running, he would be able to cut her off before she got there. She broke into a sprint. She cut down through the terminal, sidestepping people, even jumping onto an empty seat in
order to get around a large group, running desperately toward a small, crowded restaurant. She took a last look as she was about to enter the restaurant. He was ten feet behind her and to her left. He had a weapon in his hand, a handgun with a long black silencer jutting from the muzzle.

  Romy charged into the restaurant, past a hostess who started yelling, cutting between tables toward the back. The hostess screamed as the man entered behind Romy, followed by the sound of a table being knocked over, breaking glass, yelling.

  Romy charged through the swinging door at the back of the room and down a short corridor. A waiter was talking on his cell phone. He looked up in shock, then held up his hand and yelled for her to stop, but she lurched past him. She saw another swinging door and surged toward it, hands out, pushing through and diving just as the air was cut by the dull thwack thwack of suppressed gunfire and the thump thump of the door being struck just behind her. A moment later, a painful groan came from the hallway—the waiter being killed.

  Romy was in the restaurant’s kitchen. She had only seconds to act. A sweat-covered cook was standing over a large stove with a spatula in his hand as several hamburgers fried. Romy looked desperately around, searching for a door, a window, anything that would allow her to escape. But there was nothing, nowhere to run, nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide. She caught a glimpse of something behind the cook. She ran toward him. He reached both arms out, trying to grab her, but Romy ducked, dropped to her knees, scurried along the floor, and then stood, grabbing for the object, a large knife on the counter, then turned.

  She didn’t have any more time. A second or two at most. As the cook lurched at her, hate in his eyes, Romy leapt to the stovetop, running full speed across the hot surface toward the door, raising the blade and diving into the air just as the door flew open and the killer started firing. Bullets spat from the gun, but they were beneath her, and by the time he could react she was on him with the blade, hacking a ferocious cut into the center of his chest. He fell backward, his eyes wide, a haunted, surprised look, as Romy landed on top of him along with the blade, which sank all the way through his chest and spine, and into the floor.

  Romy climbed up from the killer. The cook was on the ground, a quarter-size hole in his forehead.

  Romy quickly searched the killer’s pockets. She found a money clip stuffed with bills and took it, along with a set of car keys. She heard voices from inside the restaurant. She ran down the corridor, jumping over the dead waiter just as a woman entered and, seeing the body, screamed. She pushed by her and charged back into the restaurant, running out into the main terminal. She ran toward the most crowded section, where a line of passengers was standing. As she came to the conductor, he asked for her ticket.

  “I don’t have a ticket. May I buy one from you?”

  “Yes. Where are you going?”

  “To the last stop.”

  “Frankfurt? That is two hundred and twenty euros for a coach ticket.”

  Romy looked behind her at the row of passengers. She glanced past them, searching for anyone who might’ve been following. She didn’t see anyone—but she did see a growing commotion across the station at the restaurant.

  “Is there anything quieter, more private?”

  “Well, yes, first class. You will have a semiprivate compartment, but it’s not too crowded today. However, I must warn you, it’s much more expensive, madame.”

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “Four hundred twenty euros,” he said, writing out a ticket. “You are in Compartment four. I believe there is only one other person in the compartment, so you will have privacy.”

  Romy handed him bills from the killer’s wad, took the ticket, and climbed aboard. Two armed policemen were standing at the entrance to the car. They checked her ticket and let her through.

  Romy walked through the car, passing an elegant dining area where several people were already seated and enjoying drinks. Compartments lined both sides of the car after the dining area, glass and wood, doors shut. Many of the passengers had already pulled down curtains so that passersby couldn’t peer in. She found Compartment 4 and opened the door. There were two leather bench seats that spanned the width of the compartment, enough room for four people. An elderly woman was seated on one of them, already asleep. Romy quietly pulled down the curtains on the door and sat down across from the woman. As the train began to move, she stared at her reflection in the glass. She was still breathing rapidly.

  They were coming after her. They would do anything to stop her. She knew their terrible plans. Their secrets. But whom could she tell? Who would believe her?

  A small, triumphant grin—too small to notice even if someone was looking—crossed her lips. She had known nothing but fear since the moment she heard the man’s voice talking to her husband while she was out in the greenhouse, tying together bunches of lavender. Bruner. But right now, Romy Banker felt nothing but elation. Three times they had tried to stop her, but she continued to elude them, and today, she killed one of them. She noticed dried blood on her right hand. She put her hand in her pocket just as the train emerged from the tunnel and a splash of warm sunlight washed across her face.

  52

  DGSI HEADQUARTERS

  LEVALLOIS-PERRET, FRANCE

  Beauxchamps entered his office. When Saint-Phalle saw him, he stood up from his desk and grabbed a folder.

  “Ballistics?” Beauxchamps asked.

  “Yes,” said Saint-Phalle. “A different gun was used to kill one of the guards.”

  He handed a paper to Beauxchamps. He scanned the document quickly. The ballistics on the Colt .45 matched the bullets found in Lindsay and one of the guards. A Glock 17 had been used to shoot the second agent outside the suite.

  “What about the Prince de Galles?” asked Beauxchamps.

  “The guest registry listed a ‘Madame Courtemanche.’ A suite on the top floor, next to the Cinq. The last name matched the credit card she used. She checked in on the ninth, an hour and a half before Lindsay was killed.”

  “Has there been any other activity on the card?”

  “No. But I placed a lien on the credit card company. We now have access to real-time location information.”

  “Where is she?” asked Beauxchamps.

  “Marseille.”

  53

  ALGIERS

  Nebuchar Fortuna had his laptop open to Al Jazeera TV. He was smoking a cigarette, watching as an Al Jazeera reporter on assignment in Paris described a high-speed car chase by an American who French authorities believe assassinated the U.S. secretary of state.

  Andreas.

  It was 6:08 A.M. Fortuna had yet to go to bed. Instead he was fueled by small handfuls of cocaine and cigarettes.

  The particular section of the video he kept watching was of a car dangling from a crane. It was the car Andreas had led Paris law enforcement on in a wild chase across the Left Bank.

  He picked up a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill. He snorted three lines of cocaine and then reached out and hit a button on his laptop, pausing the news video. Frozen on the screen was a close-up photo of the destroyed car as it was hoisted from the Seine.

  “Aventador,” barked Fortuna, pumping a fist, a triumphant smile on his face. “I knew I’d figure it out.”

  Hosni came closer. He looked at the image.

  “What about it?”

  “Who drives a Lamborghini?” asked Fortuna.

  “You do,” said Jerome. “At least you used to.”

  Fortuna shook his head in disgust. “Stupid fuck. Who escapes from jail and has a Lamborghini waiting for him? No one! No one, that’s who!”

  The others came over.

  “Obviously the CIA put it there,” said Mustafah. “It’s some sort of prearranged escape strategy if you’re a CIA agent and get caught.”

  Fortuna shook his head.

  “No!” he screamed, staring at his men. “The CIA would put a fucking piece of shit there. They would never put a decent car there and certainly not a L
amborghini. Maybe a Ford Taurus.”

  The group stared at Fortuna. Slowly, Fortuna’s anger transformed into a large smile.

  “Someone left it there,” said Fortuna. “Someone who can stick a Lamborghini somewhere and not care if he ever sees it again. Most important, someone who is close to Andreas.”

  “Borchardt,” said Mustafah.

  “Who knows a man on Borchardt’s security team?”

  “I do,” said Hosni. “His name is Yaron. A rough guy. But Nebuchar, Borchardt pays them handsomely for their loyalty. I don’t think he would betray Borchardt.”

  “Everybody has a price,” said Fortuna. “Besides, we’re not asking him to be disloyal to Borchardt. We’re asking for information about someone else, with the promise that this information will not hurt Borchardt.”

  “If I can get word,” said Hosni, “what should I ask?”

  “Does he have a guest with him?” said Fortuna, his nostrils flaring with excitement. “Is this guest a big fucking American? If the answer is yes, where is he? That’s it.”

  “What if he says no?”

  Fortuna turned angrily and stepped closer to Hosni.

  “You fucking idiot,” he seethed. “You don’t take no for an answer. You tell him either he tells us and becomes a very rich man, or he dies!”

  Fortuna pulled on a T-shirt.

  “Dewey Andreas is out in the open. Today—this moment—right now is our chance to kill him and avenge the deaths of my father and my brother.”

  “How much are we willing to pay, Nebuchar?”

  “Anything,” said Fortuna. “Tell him to name his price. Just get it done.”

  54

  INDIAN PURCHASE FARM

  POOLESVILLE, MARYLAND

  It was midnight, more than two hours after Flaherty said he would be there. But everything had started to go decidedly not as planned.