LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  “I am worried about Tony,” added Aislinn. “He doesn’t seem his normal self. This has affected him badly. I think we need to keep an eye on him.”

  I was worried about Ascardi as well, but for a different reason. We would certainly be keeping an eye on him.

  Our coffee meeting broke up. Aislinn and Patrick Jay returned to their respective suites while Greatrex went off to find Ascardi’s people to talk tour details.

  I was halfway across the expansive hotel foyer when I noticed a small, very official group of people striding through the front entrance. They moved too purposefully to be just well-heeled tourists on holiday. The leader of the group was a stout man with thinning brown hair. He seemed to look around the room as if searching for something or someone. He looked in my direction, then beckoned the others to follow him.

  “Monsieur Sharp? Monsieur Nicholas Sharp?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Bonjour, I am Capitaine Pascal Barre from the Direction Régionale de Police Judiciaire de Paris, the Sous-direction anti-terroriste, to be specific.” He then held out his hand.

  I shook it. “Pleasure to meet you, Capitaine. That is quite a title you have there.” I find it’s best to stay on the good side of law enforcement officers.

  “Oui—yes, pardon—but I think it is best people know who they are speaking with.”

  I nodded.

  The Capitaine continued. “I would like to introduce Monsieur Jasper De Vries from the European Counter Terrorism Centre of Europol.”

  A tall, thin man with blond hair, arctic-blue eyes and a smile of ice stepped forward. No hand—he just nodded.

  I assumed this would be more questions about the previous night. Sometimes it seemed like every law enforcement officer wanted to hear your version of events for themselves. I wondered if they ever spoke to each other.

  Capitaine Barre continued. “We have phoned ahead and arranged for the hotel manager’s office to be made available for us all to sit and talk. I hope that is agreeable for you.”

  The manager’s office: this was new. “Of course,” I said. “Lead the way.”

  The Capitaine did lead the way, but I sensed Jasper De Vries from the Counter Terrorism Centre of Europol breathing down my neck as we walked. When we arrived at the manager’s office, the flunkies who followed the group were told to wait in the anteroom. Barre, De Vries, and I went in. I was shown to a chair between the two of them. The whole thing felt awfully prearranged.

  Forty-five minutes later I was tired, irritable, and bored. That’s a bad combination for me. I had told them the story of the night before, twice. The first time through they stopped me when I explained how I’d worked out which box had the bomb in it. A non-committal “unbelievable” was the only response I got from Capitaine Barre—nothing from De Vries.

  I thought we were done and about to wind up when Jasper De Vries asked his first question, his accent more Northern European than French. “Tell us about your background in the US Marines, Monsieur Sharp.”

  The question floored me. “I can’t see how that has anything to do with the tragic events of last night,” I said, feeling irritated. “But if it helps you, I was a decorated Marine Sniper Scout for several years, and I served my country on three tours of duty in the Middle East.”

  I looked them both in the eyes, in a way that I hoped looked defiant. Nicholas Sharp, making a stand.

  “Please tell us about your reasons for leaving the military,” requested De Vries, his voice as cold as a winter wind.

  “That is personal,” I said. “I don’t see why you need to know that.” I was becoming agitated. Not a smart thing to do when being questioned by a couple of law enforcement officers. I should have known better.

  Barre and De Vries glanced at each other. Barre nodded. I felt like I was being played.

  “Well then, Monsieur Sharp,” continued De Vries, “perhaps you could explain these.” He reached into his case and removed a tablet. He unlocked it, looked at it briefly, and passed it over to me. “Well?”

  There was a picture on the screen. It was of me. It took me a few seconds to figure out the context. I appeared to be looking out across a view of London. Then I realized it: the photo must have been taken while I was on the roof of the fly tower of the Royal Opera House in London.

  “Swipe through, there are more,” said De Vries. He sounded dryly self-satisfied.

  There were more shots, different angles. I couldn’t recall either Norbert Fontana nor old Cedrick having a camera or getting out any sort of device when we were up there.

  “I don’t see the point of these holiday snaps,” I said, sounding as angry and frustrated as I felt. “I would like to help you gentlemen. You see, a very bad person did a very bad thing last night, and you should be investigating it, not wasting time here showing me irrelevant pictures and asking me irrelevant questions. So, if you don’t mind …” I got up to leave.

  “Please sit down, Monsieur Sharp. Let us explain the relevance,” said Barre. His tone of voice had gone from “good cop” to interrogator.

  Jasper De Vries sat up in his chair. “Monsieur Sharp, let’s be clear. What we have asked you and shown you is most relevant. I assume you are aware that the British Chancellor of the Exchequer was assassinated the day before yesterday.

  “Yes, of course.” I didn’t like where this seemed to be going.

  “Well,” continued De Vries, you may be aware that the chancellor was shot in an apartment in London—Covent Garden, to be exact. The British police have calculated the trajectory of the bullet that killed him. As it turns out, the bullet was fired from an M40 rifle on the rooftop of the fly tower of the Royal Opera House, coincidentally, from exactly the same spot where you, a former military sniper of some note, were photographed casing the lie of the land a few days before.” De Vries paused, just looking at me, staring me down. “It would appear that your activities at the time of the murder are unaccounted for. No one in Paris saw you for at least fifteen hours. Plenty of time to get to London and back,” added Barre.

  I thought of the long sleep in my suite in Paris. Of course there were no witnesses. Suddenly, the room felt cold.

  “So again, you may forgive us if we have found a connection—a relevance, if you like—between the questions we ask, the assassination of the Chancellor of the Exchequer in London, and the murder of fifteen innocent people last night in Paris. And that connection Monsieur Sharp … is you.”

  Both men searched my face for a reaction.

  I didn’t know what to think. The only smart thing I could possibly do was not to speak at all. So, I asked, “Where did you get those pictures? Who took them?”

  “That is not your concern, Monsieur Sharp. What you do need to do is explain to us the circumstances of your presence on that rooftop,” said De Vries.

  I explained. I told him about the delayed sound check and the impromptu tour.

  Capitaine Pascal Barre exploded at me. “Do you take us for fools, Sharp? That bad person to whom you refer killed fifteen innocent people last night, including my boss, Jacques Milland, the Ministre de l’Intérieur. Jacques was my friend, my good friend. In fact, I have just spent the morning comforting his devastated wife and children. So forgive me if I don’t believe a word of your pathetic story. I believe that you are that very same ‘bad person,’ and it is taking every bit of my professionalism and experience not to inflict my own interpretation of justice on you right now.”

  I turned away from Barre’s furious red face. I could understand his pain, and his reasoning. I knew there was no way I could persuade him otherwise. Not right now anyway.

  I looked across at Jasper De Vries of Europol. “The fact that we are having this conversation here and not at the office of the Direction de Police Judiciaire de Paris at the famous thirty-six Quai des Orfèvres tells me that you do not have enough evidence yet to arrest me, Monsieur De Vries.” Nicholas Sharp, cool under pressure.

  De Vries’ knuckles turned white as he g
ripped the arms of his chair, but he said nothing.

  “I am going to go now. You are both wrong. You are wrong about me, and you are wrong to stop looking for whoever’s behind all of this.” I paused for a second as it occurred to me that there was now a likelihood that it really was one person behind all of these events. “I will show you that you are wrong. I’m just not sure how yet.”

  “Do not leave Europe, Monsieur Sharp. Be certain that we’ll be watching you closely.” Jasper De Vries seemed very sure of himself. “Because of this musical tour, you have a profile and you have influential friends; accordingly, we cannot arrest you until our case is bulletproof. Believe one thing, Monsieur Sharp, our case will become bulletproof. Your best future lies in a lifetime in jail. You should know there are many on our two forces who believe that to be too good for you.” I could feel De Vries’ veiled threat through his frozen stare.

  Capitaine Pascal Barre was silent. He appeared to be battling to rein his fury in.

  I got up to leave. Trying to convey a calmness I didn’t feel, I traversed the room. It was a relief when I could steady myself on the doorframe. I turned and looked at the two lawmen. They were looking for answers, and they were searching for justice. In their position, I would have done the same. They had made it clear that, in their minds at least, I was now on the wrong side of the law and the sole focus of their investigation.

  I turned my back on them and walked out of the room.

  Nicholas Sharp, moving target.

  Chapter 14

  I made it across the foyer, up the elevator and into my room. Anger and confusion raged within me. As if I hadn’t been disturbed enough by the explosion at the Palais Garnier. To now be accused of being responsible for that carnage—and the political assassination in London was like being struck by a lightning bolt with a vengeful streak. Of course, it was all made so much worse by the fact that Barre and De Vries seemed to have some very concrete and damaging evidence against me.

  I needed to think, and I needed to think alone. I knew that soon enough I would call on Jack Greatrex to come up and help me work through this, but right now I needed the counsel of my own thoughts.

  I sat on one of the large lounge chairs and stared out the windows toward the Paris skyline. Twenty-four hours ago, the city had been a beckoning dream; now it was a waking nightmare. I didn’t even pour myself a drink. I needed every bit of mental clarity I could muster.

  Emotion be gone. It was time to focus on the big picture.

  First question. What the hell was happening here?

  I had left the military because I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stay in a job that required me to kill on order. In that world, a successful mission had always ended in somebody’s death. I was over that, and had moved on. It was a hard decision, and I was fully aware that there were ghosts that still needed to be laid to rest. When I turned to music as my tonic, the future was unclear. As it turned out, I had grown accustomed to civilian life, and thanks to a few breaks that had come my way I had found some success. Now I was confronted by my past clawing at me, again.

  Neither Capitaine Barre nor Jasper De Vries saw me as a musician. How had they described me? “A former military sniper of some note.” It seemed the person I had tried to leave behind was still here. No matter what I decided for myself, others would always see the part of me they wanted to see. Obviously, I had no say in it.

  I was angry, I was tired of people pulling my chain, and I was furious with myself for being caught in the middle of this mess. On the other hand, it was my own curiosity that had inflamed events. Stupid over-inquisitive man.

  Back to being angry at myself.

  I moved away from the window and lay down on the bed, staring at the now very familiar ceiling. I had no idea how much time was drifting by.

  Finally, I decided something I should have decided long ago. If I was the product of two contradictory worlds, then so be it. I am what I am.

  I hope the world knew what it had asked for.

  Nicholas Sharp, victim no more.

  I needed a plan. Two people could help me, both of whom I trusted implicitly. One was several thousand miles away. The other was staying a few floors below.

  I called Greatrex. “Can you get up here now? Things have gone from bad to WTF.”

  Phone down, he was on his way.

  I waited. It’s difficult for men like me to admit fear. But I realized there was some of that, as well as the anger. Everything was pointing to my guilt. If I wasn’t me, I’d probably think that I was guilty as well.

  Five minutes later, while I was still waiting for Greatrex to arrive, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I recognized the voice.

  “Nicholas.”

  “Elena,” I responded blankly.

  “Nicholas, I must speak to you, I must see you. I’m in serious trouble.”

  “Elena, I’m afraid your timing is way past bad. I’m in a fair bit of trouble myself.” I couldn’t see how catching up with a girl who seemed to specialize in causing me grief could help anything. Then she explained.

  “Nicholas, I know you are still angry with me, and you have every right to be.” She paused. I could hear her take a deep breath. “But my predicament is part of your problem.”

  I couldn’t understand how Elena could even be aware of the issues I was facing, so I said nothing. She seemed to take my silence as a cue to continue.

  “I have knowledge of the circumstances of Sir Phillip Morton’s death. I also have some ideas regarding what happened at the Palais Garnier. You and I need to talk, for both of our sakes.”

  Then silence.

  “Okay, start talking, Elena,” I said.

  “No, not on the phone; it is too exposed. We must meet.”

  I felt all my antennae sounding off in alarm. Foolishly, I also felt the stirrings of anticipation. “Are you in Paris?” I asked.

  “No, I have had to drop off the grid, so to speak. There are people who I think—no, I am certain—wish to harm me,” came the reply.

  I may be many things, but I don’t regard myself as an idiot.

  “Wherever you are, Elena, I can’t come. I have too much to sort through here,” I said.

  “Nicholas”—her voice rose in pitch, quavering— “if the other night meant anything to you, you must come. I don’t think you understand; helping me is helping you.” Her last statement was almost shouted: “You need what I know.”

  I sat frozen with the phone to my ear. Probably the most stupid thing I could do now is go and help this girl.

  It was my turn to take a deep breath. “I make no promises, Elena, but tell me where you are.”

  There was a palpable sigh of relief from the other end of the phone. “I am in Füssen,” she said.

  “Where the hell is that?” I demanded, already cursing myself for showing weakness.

  “In Bavaria, Germany. You will find me,” she said. “It is the land of Sleeping Beauty.”

  I didn’t understand, and I certainly didn’t need any vague fairy-tale references.

  “Just tell me where you are, Elena,” I repeated. She gave me an address to meet her.

  “Don’t count on me, Elena,” I continued. “Please don’t count on me.”

  “You will come, Nicholas. I know it.” And with that, she hung up.

  Sitting there, I began to wonder about the “Sleeping Beauty” reference. A beautiful girl who just couldn’t wake up. Was Elena trying to tell me something? Was I meant to read anything into what she said? I didn’t know, but I did know I didn’t need this extra layer to a very complicated situation.

  At least I thought I knew.

  So much for La Ville-Lumière—the City of Light.

  A couple of minutes later came the knock on the door that I had been waiting for. I opened it, and Greatrex walked straight in and sat down on the chair opposite me.

  “How long has it been since our get-together in the bar downstairs?” I asked him.

  He looked at hi
s watch. “Around ninety minutes,” he replied.

  “Well, the world has changed a lot in the last ninety minutes,” I said, “and not for the better.”

  I explained to him the meeting with Capitaine Pascal Barre and the glacial Jasper De Vries. Greatrex shook his head, sighed, and began to speak. “You are in deep …”

  “I know, but there’s more,” I interrupted, telling him about the call from Elena.

  Jack Greatrex just looked at me without saying a word. It was only a minute or so, but it felt like an hour.

  “Of course you’re not going to meet her.” His inflection indicated statement rather than question.

  I decided to treat it as a question. “At this point, no, I won’t be going.”

  “At this point,” mimicked my friend skeptically.

  We spent the next hour posing questions and searching for answers. It was like riding on a merry-go-round. Everything led back to where we had started.

  Were the break-in at the nuclear power station, the assassination of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the bombing at the Palais Garnier all related? Outwardly, it seemed not. The groups online that had taken credit for the bombing and the break-in appeared to have no connection to each other.

  Whoever was behind the British assassination had not yet come forward. The only common link appeared to be me, as Barre and De Vries had so maliciously pointed out. They hadn’t even mentioned, or I presumed had knowledge of, my involvement in the power station incident.

  If Antonio Ascardi was a common link, the question was what would he have to gain from any of these events? Yes, it was convenient that he had been called out of box five at the Palais Garnier just before it was blown up, but were we reading too much into that? Ascardi had seemed very upset on the night, and Aislinn indicated he was extremely perturbed the next day. He had cancelled the Munich show, which was only going to cost him money. Though he knew Elena, there was no proof he was involved in any of this.

  Of course, this led to the huge question of Elena. If I put aside my first meeting with her in California, what had she really done? She said she had met Ascardi only once. Was that the truth? She led me to a situation where I stopped a dangerous incident at the power station. Just two good Samaritans? Yes, she had disappeared, but so had I. Elena didn’t appear to have anything to do with the Palais Garnier attack or the death of the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, yet she had mentioned both those events in her phone call to me. The obvious question was whether we could believe anything she said anyway. Her track record on trust was not strong.