That Time in Paris

by Logan Ryles

  Wolfgang wondered the same thing.

  Edric wrote another word on the whiteboard, completing a triangle with lines connecting the new word. “Russia,” he said, stepping back from the board. “The Russian Foreign Intelligence Service has been tracking Spider, also, and they’ve obtained his plans to meet a foreign operator in Paris. As far as we know, the Russians are clueless as to the CIA operation, and we need to keep it that way. However, if we know anything about our friends from Moscow, they aren’t likely to ask questions. We suspect they’ve already deployed a hit team to eliminate Spider and prevent his planned attack.”

  “But if they succeed, we’ll never know where the attack was planned to take place, or who else was behind it,” Wolfgang said. He leaned forward, his mind racing as he connected the dots. “We need more than Spider. We need the people behind him. The financing, the foot soldiers, the weapons suppliers.”

  “Cha-ching. Exactly,” Edric said. “The CIA needs intel from Spider, and they’ll never get it if Moscow guns him down. So, we have to protect Spider—at least until the CIA is finished with him.”

  “Why can’t the CIA protect him themselves?” Kevin asked.

  “Plausible deniability,” Wolfgang said. “Spider is a global terrorist, and the US isn’t on great terms with Russia. If they discovered the CIA protecting a known anarchist, Russia could easily spin their hit squad as a policing team sent to detain Spider, and then frame the CIA as collaborating with him. It would be an international scandal. The CIA needs a third party to shield Spider. Somebody they can disavow.”

  The room fell quiet, and Wolfgang noticed that everybody seemed to be waiting on Megan to speak. She sat still, staring at him with piercing, unblinking eyes. Then she nodded once, and the gesture sent a strange jolt of elation shooting through Wolfgang.

  Edric replaced the cap on his marker. “Right again. The CIA needs distance. Also, France is a sovereign nation. The CIA can’t deploy an armed commando force into downtown Paris, uninvited. That’s a serious breach of international ethics.”

  “The Russians are doing it,” Lyle said.

  Kevin snorted. “The Russians don’t give a shit about international ethics.”

  “They really don’t,” Edric said. “Which is why we can expect a fight if things go sideways.” He set the marker down and scratched his injured arm beneath the edge of the cast.

  Wolfgang drained the rest of the Sprite. Paris. Russian hit teams. Intriguing teammates. Charlie Team was looking like a heck of a good idea, notwithstanding Kevin and his RBF.

  “Okay, then.” Edric smacked his cast with his good hand. “Our mission is to fly to Paris and find Spider before the Russians do, then protect him until he completes his rendezvous with Raven. We’ll be armed, but ideally, we pull this off without any fireworks. I’m setting operational protocols at Code Orange.”

  Wolfgang raised a finger, and Kevin rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He doesn’t even know the protocol codes.”

  “Calm down, Kevin,” Edric said. He turned to Wolfgang. “We have three levels of engagement: yellow, orange, and red. Yellow means we’re unarmed. Orange means we carry guns, but we don’t shoot unless we’re shot at.”

  “And red?” Wolfgang asked.

  Edric laughed a little. “Red means Kevin takes over.”

  Lyle and Kevin joined in on the laugh.

  Edric rested his hands on the back of the nearest chair. “When we reach Paris, Kevin, Megan, and Wolfgang will be on the ground. Lyle and I will remain in the rear, running communications and surveillance. Questions?”

  Nobody said a word.

  Edric grinned. “All right, then. Let’s go save a terrorist.”

  3

  “Holy cow,” Wolfgang whispered. “Am I getting a pay raise with this job?”

  Hot summer wind whipped across his face as he shut the door of the taxi and stared out across the tarmac. A Gulfstream G550 jet sat on the private runway outside of Saint Louis, the engine already running at idle, with the door open and the steps resting on the concrete.

  “Private espionage is high-paying work,” Edric said. “When you’re the best, you get the best toys.”

  He tossed Wolfgang a duffle bag loaded with what felt like bricks and started toward the plane. Wolfgang followed as Kevin and Megan ran up the steps carrying similar backpacks. Lyle struggled behind them, wheeling two heavy cases full of what Wolfgang assumed to be computer equipment.

  Wolfgang shouldered the duffle and turned back, holding out his hand. “Here. Let me help.”

  Lyle blinked up at him from behind smudged glasses. He reluctantly surrendered one of his precious cases, and the two started toward the plane.

  “Thanks,” Lyle said. “Nobody ever helps with my gear.”

  “I don’t mind,” Wolfgang said. “What have you got here, anyway?”

  Lyle’s eyes flashed, and Wolfgang wondered if he’d regret asking.

  “Everything we need,” Lyle said. “Communications, surveillance, infiltration equipment. It’s just like the movies. I’ve got all the gadgets.”

  Wolfgang laughed. “Got any X-ray glasses?”

  Lyle stopped mid-stride and squinted up at Wolfgang. “X-ray glasses?”

  Wolfgang grinned. “You know. Glasses that let you see through stuff. Walls . . . doors . . . clothes . . .” He winked and tilted his head toward the plane.

  Lyle wrinkled his nose before his gaze turned cold, and he snatched the second case from Wolfgang’s grasp. Without a word, he set off in a quick march, wheeling both cases behind him.

  “Hey!” Wolfgang said. “What did I say? It was just a joke, man.”

  Wolfgang hurried up the steps as Lyle clattered ahead, dragging his cases and disappearing into the plane. The cabin of the aircraft smelled faintly of an ocean breeze air freshener. Wolfgang had to duck to step inside, and he stared down an interior featuring plush leather chairs, a minibar, and a door at the back that he guessed led to bunks.

  The others were already gathered around the middle of the cabin, pivoting their chairs to face each other.

  “Wolf, hurry it up,” Edric said, waving his cast-frozen arm.

  Wolfgang slid into the nearest chair, casting a casual glance around the cabin. He’d never flown first class, let alone private. The aircraft was small, but with only five of them on board, it felt like Air Force One.

  Lyle took a seat in the back, pushing his glasses up his nose. Kevin sat in the middle, dressed in cargo pants and a black shirt that was two sizes too small, accentuating a six-pack that would make Chuck Norris envious. He glared at Wolfgang, then looked away as if the newcomer wasn’t worth his attention.

  Megan, next to a window, had a closed sketchpad and a stick of charcoal in her lap. She stared out the window absently, her scarlet hair swept behind one ear.

  Wolfgang watched her a moment and wondered what was in the sketchpad. He knew next to nothing about art but was intrigued by the idea that Megan might be an artist.

  “Hey! New guy!” Kevin’s chunky fingers snapped in front of Wolfgang’s face. “Are you retarded or what? Stop gawking.”

  Wolfgang felt a vague irritation and brushed Kevin’s hand away but said nothing. He was still thinking about Megan. Still wondering what lay behind those grey eyes.

  “Don’t say retard, Kevin,” Megan said in a soft voice with just a hint of rasp. “It’s not acceptable anymore.”

  Wolfgang realized it was the first time she’d said anything in his presence.

  Kevin flushed and leaned back, his glare darkening to a scowl.

  “That’s enough, all of you.” Edric settled into his seat as the plane’s door hissed shut and the aircraft began to move. He held a glass with a pool of liquor swimming in the bottom, his broken arm held close to his side.

  Wolfgang noticed him wincing as he settled into the plush seat and took a sip.

  “All right. Eyes front, everybody.”

  Wolfgang tore his focus away from Me
gan and sat up. He felt the blistering wrath of Kevin directed his way and shot the bigger man a wink and a grin. Kevin looked ready to explode.

  Edric produced a file from the seat next to him, opened it, and passed photos around the circle. They were black-and-white distance shots of a tall man in a business suit with black hair and a bold jaw. He appeared to be Caucasian but sported a tan so dark he may have been of Italian or Greek descent.

  “This is Raven,” Edric said. “He’s currently in the air on the way to rendezvous with Spider. Our communication with Raven will be highly limited on the ground. The CIA doesn’t want him to wear any direct communications equipment in case Spider searches him.”

  Wolfgang stared at the face as the plane gained speed and the wheels left the ground. The deep eyes of the man in the photograph were penetrating, but not uncomfortably so. If Wolfgang had to guess, he wouldn’t have said that this man was a CIA operative, but maybe that was part of the job description—you had to blend in.

  “We also don’t know where the meeting is going to take place,” Edric continued. “Spider will communicate that information to Raven at the last moment, for security purposes.”

  Kevin said, “We can’t talk to Raven, we don’t know where Spider is, and we don’t know what he looks like. How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?”

  Edric nodded at Megan, who was fixated on the photograph.

  “We know when Raven lands, right?” Megan asked.

  “Yes,” Edric said.

  “So, we pick him up at the airport,” she said. “Trail him from there to the meeting spot. Stay in the shadows and look out for both Spider and the Russians. It’s not ideal. It leaves us at the vulnerability of whatever terrain Spider chooses. But if we can’t communicate with Raven, it’ll have to do.”

  Megan leaned toward the file, her relaxed and disengaged posture of only moments before melting away. Her voice was clear and strong, carrying a hint of command that Wolfgang hadn’t noticed before.

  Edric smiled. “Very good. That’s the plan.”

  “What about an SDR?” Wolfgang asked, eager to contribute. “Won’t Raven run one?”

  “SDR?” Kevin said.

  “Surveillance detection route,” Wolfgang said. “It’s a tactic used by covert operatives to shake away anybody trailing them—”

  “I know what an SDR is, moron,” Kevin said. “Did you miss the part where this guy is working with us? He’s not trying to shake us.”

  Megan ran a hand over her eyes. “Don’t say moron, Kevin.”

  “Of course Raven doesn’t want to shake us,” Wolfgang said. “But if he’s in communication with Spider, and Spider is worried about security, don’t you think he might order Raven to conduct an SDR? Raven wouldn’t have a choice.”

  “Wolfgang’s right,” Edric said. “It’s a possibility we have to consider. Raven will do everything he can to keep us with him, but he doesn’t know what we look like, and he can’t appear to be working with anyone. Unfortunately, we can’t put a tracker on him for the same reason we can’t put communications on him. So, it’s up to us to stick on him like a flea on a dog. We cannot lose him. Understood?”

  A chorus of grunts passed around the room.

  Edric drained the glass. “Good. Everybody familiarize yourselves with some Parisian maps. Lyle and I will be positioned in a van as close to the action as possible. I’ll drive and maintain operational control of the mission while Lyle hacks into the Parisian traffic camera network. That should give us an edge on keeping track of Raven. Megan will take point on following him while Wolfgang and Kevin provide direct support. Megan, did you work out some transportation?”

  “Yeah. Got us set up with some bikes.”

  “That should do it. Questions?”

  Wolfgang looked back at the photo of Raven, absorbing the facial features staring back at him—the face he couldn’t afford to forget.

  Eric stood. “Okay, then. Make sure you guys get some sleep.” He reached into his coat and produced a glossy travel brochure, then flipped it to Wolfgang with a smirk. “Welcome to Paris, Wolf.”

  He disappeared into the back of the plane, and Wolfgang studied the brochure. It was an English travel guide to Paris, prominently featuring the Eiffel Tower. He flipped through it, surveying a few paragraphs of tourist lore. He’d never been to Paris before. “The City of Lights,” the brochure said, and a city of romance. He glanced over the top of the brochure at Megan. With her notebook now open, her hand moved in gentle arcs across the page, scraping charcoal against the paper.

  Kevin snapped his fingers again. “Hey, dum-dum.”

  Wolfgang looked up and sighed. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Snap your fingers at me. It’s really irritating.”

  “Oh yeah? What you gonna do about it?”

  Wolfgang held his gaze, then grinned, lifting his lip just enough to expose some teeth. It was a tactic he’d used before. He called it his “crazy stare,” and it never failed him.

  Kevin broke after less than twenty seconds, standing up and stomping to the minibar while muttering curses.

  Wolfgang stood up also, tapping the brochure against his fingers, and stepped across the cabin toward Megan. His stomach felt suddenly unstable, as if an ocean were swimming inside. “What are you drawing?” he asked.

  Megan continued to sketch, her body language tensed and focused.

  Wolfgang fiddled with the brochure. “I mean, I don’t want to pry. I just like art. Maybe when we get to Paris we’ll have some time to see some paintings. Have you ever been to the Louvre?”

  Without looking up, Megan drew a slow breath and swept a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you have questions?” Her voice was calm, but all business.

  He frowned. “Questions? I just thought we could get to know—”

  “About the operation. Do you have questions about the operation?”

  “Oh.” The ocean in his stomach froze over instantly. “No. I think I’m good.”

  “That’s great. You should probably get some sleep. This is gonna be a high-energy job.”

  Wolfgang could feel Lyle and Kevin’s eyes on him. “Right. Of course.” He turned toward the tail of the plane.

  The engines roared outside, reduced to a loud hum by the thick insulation of the premium fuselage.

  Kevin sat at the rear of the cabin, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his lips gleaming with residue from the drink. He grinned as Wolfgang stepped toward the door to the bunks. “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink, Wolf? We can get to know each other.” The sarcasm in his tone cut like a blade.

  Wolfgang stopped at the door and dug his fingernails into the travel brochure before reaching for the handle. “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

  4

  The plane touched down a little over ten hours later, the tires squealing against a private airport someplace outside of Paris. Wolfgang slept six or seven hours and spent the rest of the flight studying maps of the big city. It was impossible for him to really absorb so many streets in such a brief period. Paris was huge, sprawling over an area of almost forty-one square miles, packed with over two million people. Finding one man in that mix and keeping track of him through the busy streets for an indefinite period was daunting, to say the least.

  Wolfgang changed into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a loose leather jacket that allowed for plenty of room to conceal the Beretta in a shoulder holster. Handguns in Paris were highly restricted items, and being caught with one was sure to be a nightmare. But being caught without one while hunting an elusive terrorist amid a team of Russian assassins seemed the greater risk.

  Wolfgang stepped out of the plane and shielded his eyes against the bright sunlight that was just breaking over the eastern horizon. There wasn’t much around them other than rolling green farmland. The plane sat at the edge of the tarmac near a row of low hangars, and Wolfgang realized he had yet to see or interact with the pilots. He glanced up at the cockpit, t
hen shrugged and hurried to follow the others toward the nearest hangar.

  Dusty and dimly lit inside, the cavernous space was empty except for four vehicles—a white Mercedes panel van and three identical motorcycles parked in a neat row, their front wheels all canted to the left.

  Lyle headed straight for the van, trailing his cases, and Wolfgang hurried to follow him. He still wasn’t sure what he had done to offend the tech wizard, but he didn’t want to leave the issue unresolved. If Lyle had all the gadgets and ran all the communications, he wanted to be friends.

  Lyle opened the rear door of the van and started to lift the case. Wolfgang grabbed it first and slid it inside, and Lyle squinted up at him from behind his dirty glasses.

  “Hey,” Wolfgang said. “About last night . . . I just want to say, I meant nothing by it. Bad joke. I appreciate the work you’re doing.” He offered his hand.

  Lyle’s gaze switched from Wolfgang’s face to his hand, then back again. He chewed his lip a moment, then accepted the offered hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Come here. I’ve got something for you,” Lyle said. He ducked into the van, and Wolfgang followed. Lyle flipped a hard plastic case open and produced a tiny earpiece, flicking a switch on before passing it to Wolfgang. “This is your com. Signal is great, and the mic is sensitive. No need to speak in louder than a conversational tone. Only thing is, the battery life isn’t great. Remember to charge it between use.”

  Wolfgang fit the little device into his right ear canal. It slid in without resistance and was almost comfortable.

  Lyle dug into the case and produced another box, sliding the lid off with obvious care and exposing a smartwatch nested inside.

  “And this . . .” Lyle indulged in a brief smile, the first Wolfgang had seen. “This is truly special. I’ve only got one of them. You can try it out.”

  “Apple Watch?” Wolfgang asked.

  Lyle’s head snapped up.

  Wolfgang held up a hand and laughed. “Easy. Another joke.”

  “Oh.” Lyle lifted the watch from the case and passed it to Wolfgang. “It’s not an Apple Watch. It’s a fully purposed spy gadget. Took me months to perfect it. There’s a camera built into the outside of the case, and anything you direct that camera at, I can see. So if you need intel on something, you just show it to me, and I can look it up for you.”