The Paris Betrayal

by James R. Hannibal

  Ben felt the sting of a clotting agent pressed against the wound, followed by a bandage and a slap to make sure it stuck. “Ouch, Tess. Not so rough. I swear, you’re worse now than you were four years ago in Grozny.”

  She slapped the patch again. “Don’t be a baby.” When he reached for his shirt, she slapped his hand too. “Leave it off, I’m not done. And for your information, I must be improving. The Director’s bringing me home to DC.”

  He spun around again, watching her return to the counter with a test tube of pinkish fluid. “Back to the ranch. Really? To treat the big brass?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Tess seemed to be only half listening. Using an eyedropper, she placed a few drops of the fluid into the four clear sections of a centrifuge card. “It’s all champagne and caviar from here out.” She closed the centrifuge door and started the rotation, bobbling her head. “And maybe the occasional Shake Shack burger.”

  Ben couldn’t picture Tess with the brass. She didn’t fit the corporate image. “Think it’ll change you? Make you jaded?”

  “Why would I get jaded?”

  “You know. Seeing how the DC crowd does business. The politics. The compromises.”

  This captured her full attention. She glanced over her shoulder, a touch of anger in her eyes above the surgical mask. “I’ll be working with the Director. He’s not like that. And if he is, all this—everything we do—is a waste of time.”

  “Right. Of course. But what about the hoarding of intel, keeping teams in the dark. You walked in here with total confidence, even after I sent you a hazard warning. Did the top brass know about this bioweapon? For that matter, did they suspect a trap and send us in there unprepared?”

  The centrifuge whirred to a stop, and Tess lifted the card. She slid it into an electron microscope with a little more force than seemed necessary and studied the screen. “Do you know how the Company began, Calix?”

  He’d heard the story—never written down, always passed from the senior class to the incoming class at the schoolhouse. “Thirty years ago. Conceived by an aide to the president. Formed by an ad hoc intelligence subcommittee under a charter with an ‘any means necessary’ clause.”

  “And to run it, they chose that same presidential aide, incredibly young for such an important position—the Director.” Tess turned a couple of dials next to the keyboard, then inclined her head as if looking at the result sideways. “Faith like that speaks of a man of unimpeachable character.”

  “And you think the Director is still unimpeachable? After all this time?”

  “If not, the Company would be notorious or gone, or both. He’d be living on an island somewhere, counting his money.” Tess turned and rested her hips against the counter, pulling down her mask. “Good news, honey. You’re going to live.”

  Relief washed over Ben. “No plague in my system?”

  “Oh, it’s there.”

  “What?”

  She held up a don’t worry hand. “The fluid sample I took shows inviable spores. Dead. Your body never activated its defenses.” She walked to a refrigerated cabinet at the counter’s end and drew out a vial of liquid and a new syringe. “The plague’s saving grace is its combination of quick symptoms and slow progression, but this version moves fast. Super-fast. And dies fast too. Whoever engineered it—”

  “Created a weapon for assassination, not mass murder.”

  “Looks that way.” She dribbled alcohol onto a patch of gauze and dabbed at his right arm above the bicep. “Even so, I’m going to give you a shot of antibiotics, just in case.”

  Ben looked away. He’d always hated needles, even needles hidden in a rapid-injection CO2 syringe. “Tess, how do you know the Director isn’t . . .” He hesitated.

  “Rich? Corrupt? Hoarding the ill-gotten spoils of a thousand covert campaigns or sending us into the field without necessary purpose?” She jabbed him with the injector, causing a pinch and an ice-cold hiss. “Faith.”

  8

  HOME

  PARIS

  Ben climbed the stairs from the metro station at Saint Germain and turned north on Rue Bonaparte under the late morning sun. Its rays did nothing to ease the winter cold, and he altered his route to his flat in the 16th arrondissement to take him past a favorite café.

  In the ten months of Ben’s posting there, Paris had stolen his heart. He loved his country, certainly, but his American roots had thinned. His parents had him late in life and passed while he was still muddling around in his six years at Rice University, deciding what he wanted to be when he grew up. He knew he didn’t want to be a cabinetmaker, so he’d sold the family business, the last tie binding him to his hometown, and moved on. No siblings. No connections. The Company sought out people like him. They’d recruited him—rescued him—during his first year as a commodities trader.

  Life at the schoolhouse ended nine months later with his death. Drug overdose. Tragic. His professors at Rice would have never guessed. The Company resurrected him in London as Ben Calix, and he’d never looked back.

  With a fresh cup of tea to warm his hands, Ben crossed the river at Pont Neuf—New Bridge, the city’s oldest—and made a casual glance at the street vendor stalls at the north end. A bad sketch of Elvis Presley hung prominently in the third stall from the east. The drop signal.

  Already?

  Ben wanted his bed, nothing more. No new missions or assignments. He hadn’t slept well on the cot at the back of Tess’s medical station, and he’d used the sleepless hours and her encryption equipment to file his after-action report. Maybe the signal meant the Company had more questions. The mission hadn’t exactly gone as planned. He’d fill out some digital forms, leave the file at the drop point an hour later, and pass out for a couple of days.

  A couple of loops around the Louvre served as a hasty check for tails and a chance to finish his tea. After tossing the cup in a bin, he pressed west into the Tuileries Garden parks and reached into his inside pocket for his phone.

  The old-school HUMINT signal methods never went away—a potted plant in a window or an Elvis picture hanging in a street market. But the drops themselves have all gone digital. Near-field communication, the same technology that enables consumers to tap-and-pay with a smartphone, enables spies to download large encrypted files simply by walking past a lamppost.

  The Tuileries Garden had such a lamppost, planted with several others in a miniature forest like fixtures in a fairy tale. The fifth lamppost from the east had a digital dropbox hidden in its rusty iron base.

  Children in mittens and stocking caps played hide-and-seek among the trees, their laughter visible as mists in the cold. As Ben palmed his phone and drew it from his pocket, a boy charged his way. “Faites attention,” he said to the child, spinning and lifting his arm to keep clear.

  “Désolé!” the boy replied without looking back.

  Their mini ballet had brought him too close to the lamppost. He hadn’t made the phone ready to receive. Ben slowed his steps to an awkward gait, punched the phone’s power button to activate the receiver and ping the digital drop box, and felt a haptic kick.

  File received. But not with the subtlest choreography.

  Ben would have to modify his route home to make sure no one had been watching.

  Spies live every day as if their contacts have been compromised, because one day they will be, even when that contact is a lamppost half a klick from the Louvre. The best defense is a surveillance detection route or SDR—walking in pointless, meandering circles for blocks on end or randomly swapping from a northbound train to its southbound counterpart. Any stranger matching such antics is up to no good.

  Ben had run a hasty SDR before picking up his file by circling the Louvre. For the post-pickup SDR he took his time. He hopped on the metro at Pyramides, rode the same line in two directions, then walked a meandering route into the labyrinth of old buildings west of Les Invalides. He picked a dead-end alley with no vehicle access, rested his back against the limestone blocks of an old apartment buil
ding, and flipped his hand over to check the phone.

  The motion brought the screen to life. A little blue box shifted into view.

  1 new file: 256 mb

  Big file. A new mission? If the Company sent him out again, he’d miss his chance to see Giselle outside of a professional context—or at all, if they didn’t put her on the team. Ben glanced up at the narrow strip of gray sky visible between the buildings. “Thanks, Boss.”

  A numbing flash of electricity coursed up his arm. Ben dropped his phone and watched it fall, sparking and popping, to the cobblestones. The screen had gone black. He bent to recover it. “What on—”

  A bullet ricocheted off the wall where his head had been an instant before.

  Sniper.

  Instincts kicked in. Ben stayed low and ran. A second round hit the wall. A third. Flecks of centuries-old limestone grazed his cheeks and neck.

  Thought fragments flashed through his mind.

  Kids playing tag.

  The boy.

  The lamppost.

  Elvis.

  Corrupted file.

  Burning phone.

  Another round clipped the corner as Ben reached Rue des Archives and turned, breaking the sniper’s sightline. He kept running.

  His pickup had been substandard, sure, but not bad enough to send him into a sniper’s crosshairs. He’d done his penance with a long SDR, checking for tails. How could this happen?

  He vaulted a stone barrier, landed in a half-controlled tumble on the river walk ten feet below, and sprinted west. None of this made sense, but one crystal-clear thought overshadowed the rest. Ben was blown.

  9

  Bleach erases. Fire destroys.

  Another of Colonel Hale’s pearls of Company wisdom hung before Ben’s vision. Erase biological signatures. Destroy equipment. Slash and burn. Leave nothing for the enemy.

  Ben removed his coat to change his profile as he passed under the bridge and came out the other side at a walk. The sniper had shot him from above. A high perch inside a building made post-ambush pursuit a near impossibility. Ben had breathing space, but not much, and he’d have to work fast.

  Like Hale said, slash and burn.

  Every Company field operative installed a cleaning kit at home base—incendiary cords in the drywall, electromagnets in the computer desk, bags of bleach with explosive squibs in key DNA collectors like the bathroom and bed area. Standard procedure, but Ben had brought the skill and attention to detail of a childhood spent in a cabinetmaker’s workshop to the task. He’d crafted a seamless and invisible system with a trigger linked to a panic function on his phone.

  Except the enemy had killed his phone.

  He’d need to activate the kit manually. Stopping by the flat on his way out of town might prove deadly, but recovering his go-bag and erasing his life here were both worth the risk.

  The sniper had given Ben no chance to go for his weapon. He refused to be caught unprepared twice in the same day. Entering his building’s stairwell, he drew the third-generation Glock 42 from his waistband holster and hid it under the coat folded over his arm.

  A blue-haired girl came down the steps, holding a dachshund close to her chest. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Jacob.” Her Slovakian heritage colored her English, which—as she had told Ben when they first met—she spoke better than French. The girl, Clara Razny, knew him by his local cover name Jacob Roy, a wool salesman from Montreal.

  Ben didn’t have time for this. “Winter sales route. Lots of stops. Big time of year for wool.” He tried to squeeze past.

  She didn’t let him, tilting her head and shoulders to block. Ice-blue eyes looked up into his. “We could get something later, if you like. No need to cook if you’re worn out.” The dachshund lifted its head from her forearm, eyes pleading for the extra evening company.

  “Not tonight, Clara. Maybe another time.”

  She always asked. He always declined. After this it wouldn’t matter.

  “Yes.” Clara set the dog down at the base of the steps. “Another time.”

  He almost laughed. She’d never see him again.

  At the landing four flights up, the entrance to his floor stood ajar. He nudged it open with a foot, standing to the side. The door let out an awful creak. Ben winced, then leaned to the side to take a peek. Movement. A woman and child walked toward the exit at the hall’s opposite end. He waited until they were clear.

  His flat remained locked. Maybe the sniper had acted alone. Maybe whatever agency had taken a shot at him only knew about the lamppost.

  Unlikely.

  How had they defeated his SDR? How had the sniper gotten into place so fast?

  Ben put an ear to the door. He heard a rustle, almost imperceptible, but enough to confirm his fears of a lurking intruder. He laid his coat to the side, let out a long breath, and silently turned his key.

  Here we go.

  With a stiff bump from his shoulder, the door flew open. He let the Glock lead the charge over the threshold. A flash of black drew his eyes left. Gun? No. A baton. Sparks crackled, burning into the back of his hand. His arm went numb to the shoulder, but still he managed to cling to his weapon.

  A gloved hand seized Ben’s shirt and spun him ninety degrees, bringing him nose to nose with the Dutchman he’d faced in Rome—Hagen, according to the whispered conversation he’d overheard at the Pantheon.

  “You,” Ben grunted. He tried to raise the Glock. His arm wouldn’t budge. “I thought I killed you.”

  Hagen only smiled. He held Ben at arm’s length and raised the baton, ready to shove the electric prongs into his chest. “Someone wants to talk to you. Alive. I’m not sure you’ll make it.”

  Feeling was coming back—a million stabbing needles—but not enough to give him control. Ben took a swing with his left and connected with the baton. It flew across the room. He grabbed his opponent’s leather jacket and jerked him close, head-butting the bridge of his nose, then shoved him away. Hagen fell against the doorframe, bleeding.

  Ben tried to transfer his gun to his good hand, but fumbled the exchange. The Glock bounced on the carpet. Hagen bull-rushed him.

  They hit the floor next to the bed with Hagen’s head caught under Ben’s left arm. He tried to cinch the choke, but Hagen wriggled free and straddled him, raining punches. With only one and a half arms, Ben mounted a feeble defense. He caught a left across the chin and let out a pained grunt.

  Every spy stashes weapons and other key items around the house in hidden compartments known as slicks, because you never know when a crazy Dutchman might sneak in and try to kill you. And because, when you’re bored on a weekend or locked down for months during a pandemic, what else are you going to do?

  Ben bucked and rolled, inching backward on his shoulder blades toward the midpoint of his bed frame, and sacrificed his defense to reach under the mattress for salvation. He found a KA-BAR knife secured in the stuffing, yanked it free, and stabbed at Hagen’s side.

  The knife sank into yielding but impenetrable material. Body armor, probably the same vest that saved Hagen in Rome. Hagen grinned, blood staining his teeth from a split lip. “Sorry, friend.”

  They fought for control. In the flurry of movement, Ben slashed his opponent’s shoulder. Hagen let out a cry and pulled back—enough for Ben to push him off. He slashed back and forth, making space to gather his legs and press up to his feet. Hagen might want to take him alive, but Ben had no obligation to reciprocate the effort.

  Apparently Hagen hadn’t committed to the idea either. He drew a SIG and aimed.

  Ben sliced his forearm with the blade and the gun fell. He kicked it under the bed. “Who sent you? Who do you work for? Jupiter?”

  “What do you know of Jupiter?”

  “Not enough, it seems.” Ben had backed Hagen past a standing mirror. He punched the glass, shattering it, and ripped a strip of duct tape with three scalpels off the backing. “Who is he?” He threw the first, burying it deep into Hagen’s thigh. The second one landed
next to it.

  Hagen let out an angry growl. “He’s someone who’ll be disappointed when I hand him your head instead of walking you through the door. But he’ll have to get over it.”

  “And the shooter? It couldn’t have been you.” Ben threatened him with the third scalpel. “How did he know where I’d go?”

  Hagen charged.

  Ben chucked the last scalpel, and Hagen raised a hand to defend himself. The blade went straight through. He howled.

  The Glock lay across the room. Ben took advantage of the pain distracting Hagen and clutched the round hilt of his KA-BAR like a bare-knuckle boxer gripping a roll of quarters. He dodged a wild punch and landed a left hook, following with a slash at Hagen’s bicep.

  The blade cut through the leather and found flesh. Ben gave Hagen a right to the gut, then locked a hand behind his head and tried to pull his neck to the knife. Hagen wedged in an arm, holding back. They turned as they grappled for control. Ben cast a glance at the gun, almost in reach.

  Hagen had other plans.

  The Dutchman kicked the inside of Ben’s knee, and both stumbled across the small flat into the bathroom, far away from the Glock. The impact of Ben’s lower spine against the porcelain sink robbed him of any control. He dropped the knife. Hagen pushed a bloodied palm heel up under his chin, with the scalpel still sticking through his hand. With a burst of power, he smashed the back of Ben’s head against the cabinet mirror. A pill bottle and a toothbrush fell into the sink amid shards of glass.

  A gray fog invaded Ben’s vision, threatening to end the fight. He felt a growing wetness at the crown of his head, and his breath came short and labored.

  This guy was strong. How had Giselle bested him so easily in Rome?

  “It does not have to be this way, my friend.” Hagen shook his head, as if sorry for him. “I’m supposed to take you quietly. Relax, let me inject you with a sleep agent, and you’ll wake up in our medical facility. Jupiter’s physicians will treat your wounds.”

  “Why?” Ben said, wheezing against the pressure on his neck and fighting to keep both of Hagen’s hands busy so he couldn’t go for the promised syringe. “What does he want with me? Information? Torture?”