Kill Shot (10 page)

“If we can avoid getting them involved, great. If we have to bring them in, the president will make that call.” Wilson wasn’t about to tell him he was making this up as he went. Part of his job was to insulate the president from scandal, and that’s what he was doing. “Focus on Stansfield and Hurley. Find out what they’ve been up to. Bring it to me, and we’ll have them dealt with. And then you will enjoy one of the quickest confirmations this town has ever seen.”

A broad smile spread across Cooke’s face. It wasn’t born simply of confidence, or of the thought of occupying the corner office on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building. Cooke had been building a nice thick file on Stansfield and his old friend Stan Hurley.

P
AUL
Fournier looked up at the massive Sacré-Coeur Basilica shining on the hill—a stunning blend of Roman and Byzantine architecture. The church was a thing of genuine beauty that was almost certainly unappreciated by the men he was about to meet. Fournier took a deep drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the curb. Even at this late hour tourists were climbing all over the basilica grounds like ants. Two of Fournier’s men were with him. One had already gone ahead to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows and the other was following twenty steps back.

It had been a long day and Fournier wanted some answers, although he thought he had a fairly good idea of what had gone wrong. He walked around the front of the church and continued down a sidewalk, the crowd of tourists thinning as he went. His man flashed him the clear signal and Fournier moved up a short flight of steps, under a stone arch, and tapped on a door three times. A moment passed before the heavy door opened, revealing an old priest with hunched shoulders and cloudy eyes. He gave the intelligence agent a knowing smile but did not speak. With a gnarled hand, he waved for the visitor to enter and then closed and locked the door behind them.

“Thank you, Monsignor,” Fournier said in a tender voice. “How have you been?”

The priest answered in a weathered voice. “Life has been good to me, young Paul, but I’m afraid my days here on earth are drawing to an end.”

Fournier had been hearing this same line for five years. He did not know the exact age of de Fleury, but he looked to be at least ninety. The monsignor was a legend in the intelligence community. When the Nazis occupied Paris in 1940, de Fleury was a priest at the famous Dome Church in the Invalides Quarter near the Eiffel Tower. The church was the focal point of a grand gesture by Louis XIV, founded in 1670 to honor his wounded and homeless veterans, and of course the Sun King himself. In the subsequent years, the area around the church and veterans’ home became an administrative hub for the French military, and most famously in 1840 the final resting place of Emperor Napoleon. Hitler himself came to visit the church and pay homage to the tomb of the man and military tactician he so greatly admired. German troops were billeted in the surrounding buildings during the occupation. Many of them were Catholic, and de Fleury was fortunate to be fluent in German. These German soldiers lined up at his confessional weekly, divulging bits of information, but that was only the start. De Fleury insinuated himself into the company of the high-ranking German officers who were in charge of the occupation. He passed himself off as a Jew-hating Catholic who owed his allegiance to God and the pope. God had not spoken to him, but the pope had made it clear that the Church was neutral in this war. De Fleury passed along crucial information to the French Resistance, and after the war was over, he was privately awarded the Legion of Honor by General Charles de Gaulle.

Fournier had been introduced to him by his old boss years before. The introduction came with the assurance that Father de Fleury could be trusted in all matters involving the security of the Republic.

Fournier placed a gentle hand on the priest’s shoulder and said, “But what a great life it has been.”

De Fleury gave him a sideways glance. The hint of a grin spread across his lips, and he thought to himself,
If only this young one knew. “
Your guests are here.”

“They are early,” Fournier responded, not able to hide the surprise in his voice. He himself was thirty minutes early.

“And very nervous.” De Fleury kept his eyes on the well-worn stone floor. Shuffling his feet as he moved through the shadows, he added, “And not the most well-mannered men, by the way.”

Fournier allowed himself to show some anger. The old man was too blind to see it, and if he did, Fournier didn’t see the harm. De Fleury was not long for this world, and his contacts back at the Directorate were all dead. He sighed to release some of the tension that was building in anticipation of the meeting. Dealing with these idiots was testing his resolve. “I’m sorry for their behavior. I will have a word with them.”

The old priest stopped at the top of a flight of stairs. He looked down into the dim light of the crypt below. “You will have to excuse me, but my legs will no longer carry me down these stairs, and I will be taking up permanent residence there soon enough.”

Fournier laughed lightly at the old man’s humor. “I understand, Monsignor.” Fournier pressed an envelope into the man’s hand. “Your service to the Republic is admired by many.”

“We all do our part.” De Fleury took the money and slid it into a fold in his vestments. He would count it later when he was alone in his room in the rectory.

Fournier started down the steps. The air grew thick and stale with a mixture of incense and decomposed bodies. When he reached the lower level he looked down the length of the crypt with its vaulted ceiling and alcoves that sprouted to the sides every twenty feet. Fournier moved briskly across the floor, ignoring the various famous people interred in the basement of this celebrated basilica. At the end of the hall, he stepped into a small private chapel and felt the presence of the men off to his left. Fournier put on his mask of calm and approached them. From five paces away, he saw the bandage on Samir Fadi’s face.

“Why are you making us meet in such a place?”

“What is the problem now, Samir?” Fournier had known this degenerate for less than a month and he was already tired of this man’s caustic attitude.

“This is a fucking Catholic church,” Samir snapped. “A shrine built to honor the crusaders who killed my ancestors.”

“Actually,” the voice came from the far side of the chapel, “this beautiful church is a tribute to France’s victory in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. You should read your history, Samir. The Koran makes you a very narrow-minded person.”

Fournier breathed a sigh of relief. It was Max Vega, or at least that was one of his names. Fournier knew of two others. Unlike the two men he was facing, Max was a man of intellect and civility.

“I don’t care when it was built,” Samir snarled. “It is an offense to my faith.”

“The important thing,” Max said in an easy voice, “is that this is a safe place for us to meet.”

“It is a convenient place for him to meet,” Samir said, pointing a finger at the Frenchman. “It reeks of death.”

Max wandered over at a casual pace. “Samir, you need to show some respect to our friend, and lest you forget, Christianity predates our faith by some six hundred years.” Samir started to complain, but Max shushed him with a wag of his finger. “I have never heard Paul complain when you have asked him to meet you in one of our houses of worship.”

“That is different. We don’t fill our mosques with dead bodies.” Samir spat on the ground.

Fournier was a casual Catholic, but even he couldn’t stomach this kind of disrespect. Turning to Max, he said, “I give him protection, and this is how he shows his gratitude.”

“He is right,” Max announced in a disappointed voice. “Is it possible, Samir, that you are mad at yourself for your own failures?”

The comment stung. “What is that supposed to mean?” Samir asked, his eyes wild with anger.

“I would say it’s pretty obvious,” Fournier said, folding his arms across his chest and letting his weight settle on one leg.

“You were not there last night, so I would be careful what conclusions you draw.”

“Conclusions? What conclusion should I draw from nine murders in the heart of Paris? You came here to kill one man, you failed, and now I have nine bodies to deal with.”

Samir stepped forward to within striking distance. “I will only say it one more time. You weren’t there, so I think you should be careful what tone you use with me.”

Fournier laughed. “I’ll use whatever tone I like, you little turd. You are here because of my generosity. I handed you this assassin on a silver platter and you fucked it up so badly I’ve spent the entire day trying to clean up your mess.”

“My mess!” Samir yelled. “I think you set me up! I think you are playing both sides in this. Profiting from them and us with the same information.”

“Lower your voice, you idiot,” Fournier hissed.

“Why . . . are you afraid the dead people will hear me?”

“No . . . I’m afraid one of the priests will come down here to investigate why they have a screaming terrorist in the basement of their blessed church.”

Before Samir could respond, Max stepped forward and motioned for his man to back off. In a sensible voice he ordered, “Samir, tell our friend what went wrong last night.”

“I will tell you what went wrong last night.” Samir nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We were set up. The assassin was waiting for us. When we came into the room, he was concealed, and he shot my men before they had a chance to fire their weapons.”

Fournier shook his head, not buying a word of it. “You are a liar, Samir.”

“How dare you!” Samir snarled.

“I was there, this morning. There were bullet holes everywhere. Shell casings littered the floor, and I saw at least three empty magazines lying next to your men. Your men were not ambushed . . . they were outmatched.”

“We were ambushed,” Samir said, his eyes wild with rage. “Look at my face. I barely escaped. I have wood splinters in my cheek. I was almost blinded.”

“Yes . . . well, you are doing much better than your men, so consider yourself lucky.”

The third man finally spoke up. Rafique Aziz looked at Fournier and asked, “How did he know we were coming?”

This one made Fournier nervous. Samir was a zealot, and he was blinded by his own rage, but Aziz was more complex. He had the anger as well, but was more calculating. Fournier had been around killers before, and Aziz had that same look in his eyes. “Who says he knew you were coming?”

“Samir.”

“Samir,” Fournier said, scoffing at the idea.

“Yes. I believe my brother.”

Fournier took a step back and looked to Max. “I know one thing. Samir here was given a golden opportunity last night and he blew it. And then after he blew it, he managed to kill three innocent civilians on his way out of the hotel, and now he wants to blame this on me.” Then, looking back at Samir, he said, “I’m not the one who should be explaining myself. In fact, you are lucky I don’t have you thrown into the Mediterranean and drowned.”

Samir drew his gun and pointed it directly at Fournier’s face. “How dare you!”

Aziz drew a knife from his waist. “Maybe we should slit your throat and rid ourselves of a traitor.”

“Put your toys away, gentlemen,” Max ordered.

Samir did as he was told but Aziz kept his knife out, proving he was less willing to comply. Locking a menacing stare onto Fournier, he said, “Maybe we should start hijacking your planes again and blowing up trains. Maybe our Muslim brothers in Libya will start to divert some of their oil to an ally who appreciates our friendship.”

“And maybe I should find this assassin on my own and hand over all of my information on your organization. Give him all the pretty pictures we have of you and your various identities. I’m sure he would be grateful, and based on what happened last night, he would probably move you to the top of his list.”

“And maybe we should alert your superiors to your double dealings,” Samir shot back.

“Samir, you are not very bright. My superiors know all about this relationship.”

“Do they know about the money we have paid you?” Aziz asked.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fournier said with a sly grin.

Max cleared his throat. “Enough of this nonsense. What is done is done. Last night was a failure. Now we must decide on our next move.”

“Next move?” Fournier asked.

“How do we find this man?”

“We don’t do a thing. You two are going to leave France,” Fournier said, pointing to Aziz and Samir, “and do so as quickly as possible. You will have to find some other way to trap him.”

“Why must they leave?” Max asked.

“Because we have nine dead bodies . . . one of whom happens to be an important diplomat. Every law enforcement and intelligence asset we have will be thrown at this thing, and the press is going to cover every detail.”

“But,” Max said, “the news reports are saying that it was all the act of a single assassin.”

“You can thank me for that, but unfortunately that story isn’t going to hold up.”

“Why?”

“Because the crime scene investigator is very good at what she does, and sometime in the next forty-eight hours she is going to get the ballistics back on the victims and things aren’t going to match. She already noticed some inconsistencies.”

“Such as?” Max asked.

“Your four men who were killed were hit with one or two well-placed shots. Tarek, the prostitute, the guests, and the employee were sprayed with a burst of bullets to the chest and then finished off with multiple shots to the head.” Fournier shrugged. “I removed certain things from the crime scene to slow them down, but trust me, it will only be a matter of time before the lead investigator figures out that two men walked away from that gunfight.”

“How?” Samir asked incredulously.