Kill Shot (14 page)

Rapp had bigger and more immediate problems to deal with at the moment. He would have to put off debating his salvation for another day. Right now he was more focused on finding out how Kennedy would react to what he had to say. After that, he would run his colleagues through some tests to see whom he could trust, and if he got the feeling that he was being played he might have to disappear for a few months. Even as he thought it he knew it wasn’t an option. Lying low was not how he worked. He would find out who had betrayed him and then he would kill them.

The knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts of retribution. He moved quickly for the silenced pistol on the nightstand and then remembered Greta was supposed to meet him. He kept the pistol as a precaution and started for the door. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his reflection in the mirror across the room. He looked like he felt, which was like crap. His dense black hair was shooting out in various directions and he had a thick sheet of stubble, as he had not shaved in two days. That was hardly the worst of it, though. His shoulder was the real problem. He thought about putting on a T-shirt, but it would hurt too much and take too long and Greta was not good at waiting. He knew she’d be mad that he’d put her off for a whole day. He shook his head, sighed, and figured he might as well get it over with. She was going to find out sooner or later.

Rapp stepped softly to the door, stopping a few feet away, and peered through the peephole. There was Greta, all five-foot-six of Nordic perfection. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw that tapered to a little apple chin. Her blond hair was pulled back in a high ponytail as it almost always was. Rapp preferred it that way. The minimalist look framed her perfect face. In the year he’d known her, Rapp had seen grown men, complete strangers, become so fixated on Greta that they walked into things. She was literally a head-turner. It had irritated Rapp at first, having to deal with all the gawking men when they were in public. After a while he decided to take it as a compliment. If men wanted to stare, then they could go ahead. He soon learned, also, that Greta was more than capable of defending her honor. She did her best to ignore the stares, but occasionally if some man was too forward or too obvious she could go nuclear.

Rapp watched her purse her lips, and then she reached out to knock again. Her patience was wearing thin. Rapp reached down, grabbed the rubber wedge he’d placed under the door, and undid the chain just as Greta started knocking again. He opened the door and turned his left shoulder away so it would not be the first thing she saw. Rapp also kept the gun concealed behind the door. He smiled and said, “Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”

Greta’s bright blue eyes narrowed with concern. “You don’t look very good.”

“Why thank you, darling. You look fabulous as always.” Rapp motioned for her to come in.

She grabbed the handle of her wheeled suitcase and strode forward. Rapp closed and chained the door while she looked around the small space. She finished her survey at approximately the same time that Rapp finished sticking the wedge under the door. He expected her to act a certain way and she didn’t disappoint. Greta was not the type to panic and begin screaming about the obvious. Her eyes zeroed in on the white bandage and her jaw tightened with concern. She stepped closer and slowly reached out. Her soft fingers touched the skin around the bandage, and Rapp felt a small shock of electricity run through his upper body. She’d done it to him the first time they’d met and she could still do it to him. She had the softest, most feminine hands he’d ever encountered. Her touch could make him weak in the knees.

Greta worked her way around his side so she could get a view of his back. Rapp heard her gasp slightly. He winced, not because he was in pain, but because he feared what might come next, more than likely a lot of questions. She surprised him instead by making a statement.

“You’ve been shot.”

Rapp’s throat felt suddenly dry. “Yeah,” he croaked.

She ran her hand around his shoulder, both front and back. “And it would appear you have not seen a doctor.”

Rapp frowned and said, “Not really an option.”

Her expression remained neutral. “I don’t suppose you are going to tell me how this happened?”

Rapp shrugged and said, “Maybe later.”

Greta frowned and shook her head.

If she folded her arms across her chest he was really in trouble, so he said, “I have a few things I still need to figure out.” Then he reached out with his good hand, the one with the silenced pistol in it, and drew her in.

She placed her hands on his chest and rested her right cheek just above them.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, and then kissed the top of her head. The gun was in the way so he tossed it onto the bed.

“I was afraid this would happen,” Greta said, her voice filled with gloom.

Rapp waited a long moment and then said, “Yeah . . . I can’t say I wasn’t aware of the risk but I thought . . .” His voice trailed off.

“You thought that you were indestructible. That you would always be the one doing the killing, and now you have found out that you are human like the rest of us. How does that make you feel?”

Rapp half rolled his eyes and said, “You know me and feelings . . . they don’t really go together.”

“That may be true with other people, but not with me. I am not judging you. You should know that by now. I don’t know everything that you do, but I have a pretty good idea. Have I ever complained?”

“No.”

“That’s right. I am not here to change you. I respect what you do, but I most definitely would like to see you live.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Well . . . then you need to be more careful. Learn from your mistakes.”

Rapp thought of the hotel room, the five jackasses with the suppressed MP5s, and made his first big mistake of the morning. “You think this shit is easy?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, pushing back.

Rapp realized his mistake. “I’m sorry, it’s been a rough few days. I can’t tell you what happened other than to say some other people didn’t do their jobs and I ended up with my ass getting shot at.”

“Stan?”

Greta’s grandfather had close ties with Stan Hurley and Thomas Stansfield. He was a very discreet and successful Swiss banker, which came in handy in Rapp’s line of work. He didn’t want to get her directly involved in this, though, so he suppressed his theories and said, “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.” In an effort to redirect the conversation he said, “You’re handling this pretty well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you’d be mad.”

“I’m not exactly thrilled but I don’t see how getting angry would help . . . at least right now. There will be plenty of time for that later, but for now I need to have a look at your wound.”

Rapp hesitated. “Have you ever worked on something like this?”

“Not specifically, but I have plenty of first-aid training and I grew up hunting, in case you forgot.”

“Of course I didn’t forget. I watched you kill an elk at eight hundred meters.”

“That’s right. And I don’t see how I could do a worse job than you.” She gestured at his haphazard tape job. “Do you have more supplies?”

“Yeah . . . they’re in the bathroom.”

“Good . . . get on the bed.”

He smiled. “Slow down, princess. I’m not just a piece of meat. Maybe you could buy me breakfast first.”

She ignored him and went to grab the supplies.

“Fine, I’ll order my own breakfast. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” She came back out of the bathroom with a plastic shopping bag and motioned for Rapp to sit on the bed. She set the supplies down and took her jacket off. After pushing the sleeves of her sweater up, she headed back into the bathroom and started scrubbing her hands.

Rapp grabbed the phone and ordered breakfast for two. If Greta didn’t eat her food he would. When he was finished ordering she sat down next to him on the bed and began peeling back the tape as carefully as she could manage. Rapp tolerated it fairly well until she pulled the bandage off the back of his shoulder. A semidried scab was stuck to the gauze and came off with it. Greta took a warm washcloth and gently wiped down the entry and exit wounds. After that she started dousing cotton balls with rubbing alcohol and did a more thorough job. Rapp did his best to ignore the burning.

“How does it look?”

“I’m not sure,” Greta answered. “There’s a lot of swelling. How do you feel?”

“Not bad.”

She grabbed him by the chin and turned his face toward her. “Don’t lie to me. This has to hurt.”

“It doesn’t feel good, but it sure as hell beats being dead.”

She looked at the front of his shoulder and then the back. “You were shot from behind.”

“That’s right. How could you tell?”

“The wound on your back is small and the one in front is bigger. You’re lucky the bullet didn’t hit anything major. What kind of round—nine-millimeter?”

Rapp was surprised. “I think so. How did you know?”

“I told you, I grew up hunting. Almost everyone in my country is taught how to fire rifles and pistols, even the girls. I’ve seen what a rifle round does to flesh. If you had been shot with a rifle round the exit wound would be much bigger.”

“You’re right. It was probably a nine-millimeter.”

Greta finished cleaning the wound, placed fresh gauze bandages on both holes, and wrapped gauze around the shoulder and under his armpit to make sure everything stayed in place. When she was done she went back into the bathroom and washed her hands. Rapp hadn’t missed the fact that she had gotten very quiet over the last five minutes. When she came back out he found out why.

Greta stood directly across from him, leaned against the wall, folded her hands across her chest, and said, “You were involved in that bloodbath at the Hotel La Fleur the night before last.”

Rapp was speechless. He should have seen it coming, but the pain pills had made him a little sluggish. “Greta, you know I can’t talk about my job.”

She looked away from him and starting chewing on her bottom lip. “Innocent people were killed. Several guests and a busboy, not to mention the prostitute, the oil minister, and his entire security detail.” She turned her blue eyes on him. “Please tell me you weren’t involved.”

Rapp was trying to plot the fine line he was going to walk when there was a knock on the door. A male voice announced that it was room service. Greta looked as if she might cry. Rapp grabbed the gun and looked through the peephole. The man was in his early twenties. Rapp pulled the wedge out from under the door to let the waiter in and then walked over to Greta. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “I will explain everything after he’s gone.” His words didn’t appear to calm her, so he tried again. “Greta, I didn’t kill any innocent people. The papers don’t have the story right.” Rapp kissed her on the forehead and then went into the bathroom and closed the door. He looked into the mirror, took a deep breath, and tried to figure out how much he could tell her.

T
HE
unusual pair moved down the narrow sidewalk at a casual pace. One was tall, just under six-four, and fair-skinned, with wispy sandy blond hair. The second man was of medium height and powerfully built. He had thick black hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week. His full beard ran down his neck, where it blended in with tufts of coarse chest hair poking out of the open collar of his royal blue shirt. The tall man was wearing jeans, a brown turtleneck, a rust-colored sweater, and a tweed sport coat with the collar turned up. A tan cashmere scarf knotted around his neck helped fight off the cold. Jones was almost always cold, while his bear of a friend shunned gloves, hats, and scarves even on the rawest of days.

Today, as on most days, though, Bernstein was wearing a field jacket open and flapping as he walked. Bernstein didn’t wear the jacket for warmth, he wore it because he tended to carry a lot of stuff. Pockets were a necessity of his job as a freelance photographer. He was never without at least one camera, usually his trusted black Leica M6, which was hanging around his neck. His pockets were always stuffed with extra batteries, film, lenses, and all sorts of tools, including maps and various forms of identification and cash concealed in secret pockets.

The two men stopped at the corner of Rue de Tournon and Rue de Vaugirard. The Palais du Luxembourg loomed across the street. It was an attractive building dating all the way back to the early seventeenth century but Paris was filled with such buildings and after sixteen years of calling Paris home, the two men scarcely noticed such things anymore. Heavy clouds had settled over the city. Jones regarded the cold gray sky and shivered. He thought the day was supposed to clear up, not get worse. He tucked his chin down, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and mumbled to himself.

“Did you wear your long underwear?” Bernstein asked with a sly grin on his face.

“Damn right. It’s freezing.”

Bernstein slowly turned his broad head toward his friend and said, “It’s fifty-six degrees.”

“And there’s no sun and the wind is picking up. It’s freezing.”

It never failed to amaze Bernstein that someone who had grown up in Minnesota could be so affected by a drop in temperature. He smiled and shook his head.

“I know what you are thinking. If I put on some weight, maybe I wouldn’t be so cold all the time.”

“No . . . that’s not what I was thinking.”

“Then what?”

Rather than argue about something so pointless, Bernstein said, “I was thinking about how excited I am to hear what he wants us to do.”

“I’m sick to my stomach over it, actually, but what are our choices?”

“We really don’t have any, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful.”

“And remember . . . no matter how much he bullies us we don’t have to do everything he tells us to do.”