Kill Shot (15 page)

Bernstein gave a sarcastic laugh, watched the light turn green, and then began to walk across the street. As Jones fell into step, he said, “He holds all the cards. He recruited us, he helped us get started, and he could easily end our careers . . . or at least yours.”

“Don’t think he wouldn’t ruin yours as well.”

“I’m not saying he wouldn’t try, I’m just saying nobody gives a shit who I am. If my photos are good or my footage kicks ass, they’ll still line up to buy it just like they always have. You, on the other hand, are a whole other story.”

They crossed into the park and walked down the east side of the palace. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” Jones said. “I’m not so sure he would. I don’t think Langley would like the exposure any more than we would.”

“You’re talking Langley. He’s not Langley, and he hasn’t been Langley in a long time. He hates Langley.” Bernstein separated from his friend and allowed an old man with a cane to pass between them. “Your mistake is that you believe he thinks like all of the other government types we deal with.” Bernstein shook his big head. “He’s nothing like them.”

Jones’s face soured. “You’re right. He’d love to expose us and ruin our careers.”

“That book deal you just signed . . . you can kiss that hundred-thousand-dollar advance good-bye.”

Jones’s face grew angry. It was all so unfair. He had worked hard, more than fulfilled his end of the bargain, but they wouldn’t let him go. He hated to admit it but he knew Bernstein was right. Sixteen years as a distinguished journalist, the first ten with the Associated Press, and then the last six as CBS’s Middle East correspondent. One whisper that he was a spy for the CIA and he would become the biggest pariah in his field. He’d be fired by his employer and with it his expense account and entire way of life would vanish, and then he would be ostracized by all of his colleagues and hated by almost every friend he’d made over his professional career.
Although, maybe it might help book sales,
he thought. Times had changed, despite what his handler had always said. The mean old bastard loved to describe to him in detail what would happen to him if he was ever exposed.

“You can’t let this shit get to you,” Bernstein said, trying to snap his friend out of his funk. “At least hear what he has to say.” As they continued down the crushed-gravel path Bernstein wondered about the roles they played. Jones was the on-air talent—the pretty face with the deep voice and sympathetic blue-gray eyes. A nice head of hair, but thinning just enough to give him the seasoning of a man who has seen the world and knows the difference between right and wrong. Insecurity came with the job, unfortunately. There was always someone younger and better looking out there hot on his heels. Bernstein was the hustler—never afraid to go anywhere if it meant getting the shot. They’d both won a mantel full of awards. Where Bernstein was reckless, Jones was cautious. The taller of the two had saved them more than a few times by refusing to enter a particular hot spot. He had an uncanny sense for situations that were about to fall apart, and Bernstein had learned to respect it.

They continued for a good hundred yards without speaking, passing the Octagonal Lake and making their way toward the eclectic corner of the park where the young, old, brilliant, and strange gathered to play chess. As they rounded the lake, Jones decided to make one of his pronouncements.

“I have a bad feeling.”

Bernstein was long past giving him shit about these premonitions. He cleared his throat, looked over both shoulders, and asked, “What is it?”

“I think this has something to do with the massacre at the hotel the other night.”

Bernstein digested the news, took a few thoughtful strides, and said, “No sense worrying about it until we hear what he has to say.”

“I’m not so sure. I’d just as soon tell him to fuck off. I could be in Cairo by nightfall, and they can all kiss my ass. I’ll still write my book, and maybe I’ll out all these fuckers.”

Bernstein knew his friend well enough to know he was prone to theatrics and grandiose statements when he was nervous. “You might want to keep that thought to yourself.”

“Oh, trust me . . . I know. I’m the one he yells at, not you.”

“That’s because I keep my mouth shut.” Bernstein shoved his hands into his pockets. “You ask too many questions.”

“I’m a reporter. That’s what I do for a living. I ask questions. Lots of them.”

“Well maybe today you could give it a break. Just sit there and listen for a change.”

They found an open table with a little space between them and the guys who were playing chess. Bernstein produced a folding chessboard from his jacket and two Ziploc bags—one filled with white pieces and the other filled with black. Holding the bags under the table, he extracted one piece from each and then held his fists out for Jones to choose.

The Minnesotan tapped the right hand and Bernstein cringed as he opened it to reveal a black bishop.

“Oh, great. You get white. I might was as well quit right now.”

Bernstein didn’t want to hear any more complaining, so he handed the white bag across the table.

“I don’t want your charity.”

“And I don’t want to hear you bitch anymore . . . besides, we both know I don’t need the first move to win.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No thanks,” Bernstein responded as he started to set up the black pieces.

The two were so focused on setting up the board that they failed to notice a bald man in a khaki trench coat sit down at the table next to them. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses and thin leather driving gloves. He took a newspaper from under his arm and set it on the table. In a gravelly voice, just above a whisper, he said, “So you’d just as soon tell me to fuck off. Be in Cairo by nightfall and out my ass.”

The color rushed from both of their faces, and Bernstein gave his friend a look that said he would like to shove every last chess piece down his throat. Slowly, they both turned their heads and looked at the man sitting four feet away.

Stan Hurley slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and looked straight at Jones. “How about I put a bullet in the back of your head, and we call it even?”

The tall reporter sat gaping for a moment, as he was too shocked to think of a reply. Slowly his mouth started to move, but no words came out, and then he started to stammer as if he were back in grade school.

“Stop fucking mumbling,” Hurley ordered. “How long have I been working with you two?”

Again, Jones began to stutter.

Hurley, as impatient as ever, answered his own question. “Seventeen fucking years and this is how you want to treat me, you selfish prick? I got your ass out of that jam in Turkey. I helped both of you find jobs, and there’s been no shortage in cash that has come your way over the years, and you act like you’re a fucking victim.”

“I was only . . .”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear you speak yet. I’m still trying to figure out if you’re worth the risk.” Hurley leaned back and crossed his legs. “Turkey, and I’m not talking about Thanksgiving . . . I’m talking Midnight Express. Two stupid college kids deciding they’re going to try to bring a bunch of drugs out of the country and then sell them stateside and make a nice profit. I’m talking big hairy Turkish guards gang-raping a couple of East Coast journalism majors. I thought that nice little visual was seared into your brainpans, because it sure did seem like it when you were both bawling like babies for me to save your asses all those years ago.”

Bernstein looked solemnly at Hurley and said, “I have not forgotten the fact that you saved us, and I never will.”

“You’re not the one who worries me, Dick. It’s pretty boy here.”

Jones had managed to get some saliva in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to croak out his words. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I haven’t been feeling all that well and it’s put me in a bad mood.”

“Mood?” Hurley threw the word back with disgust. “Mood has nothing to do with this. This is serious shit, and while I know you think you made a deal with the devil, you should open your mind to the possibility that all these years you’ve spent rubbing elbows with all of your fellow bleeding-heart reporters has turned you into a half Commie.” Hurley leaned in close. “The U.S. of Fucking A. is not the bad guy in this fight. The CIA is not the bad guy, and if you opened your eyes and fucking looked around at all the nasty shit you’ve seen, you’d know that. We’re not perfect, but we’re a hell of a lot better than the opposition. Now . . . I’d like to hear from you, Brian, what in hell has been so difficult about our little relationship?”

Jones looked down at the chessboard and cleared his throat. “It’s just that it’s unethical for a journalist to work for you and your organization. It puts a lot of stress on me. If word ever got out . . .” His voice trailed off and he began to shake his head.

“Unethical.” Hurley laughed. “You mean like trying to transport illegal drugs from one country to another. Would that be unethical or should we just cut through the bullshit and elevate it to a crime punishable by twenty years in a Turkish prison?”

“We were young and stupid.”

“And now you’re older and still stupid. How about the cash I’ve given you over the years? I assume you assuaged your ethical burden by giving all the money to the Little Sisters of the Poor?”

Jones lifted his chin and shook his head.

“You know what, Brian, you need to get off your high horse. You’re not the only journalist I have in my pocket, and I didn’t even invent this game. There’s been plenty before you and will be plenty after you. You need to start thinking of me as your godfather. You think you would have won that Murrow Award three years ago if it wasn’t for me making sure you didn’t get shot?”

“Nope,” Bernstein said as if there were doubt in the statement.

“You need to listen to him more,” Hurley said, pointing to Bernstein. “Your problem, Brian, is that while you are basically a good guy, you are way too insecure. Stop worrying about what your colleagues think of you. A few of them might be your friends, but most of them would just as soon see you fall flat on your face and take your job. You made a deal with me a long time ago and I saved your ass. That is something you should never forget. If you’re willing to step back and take an honest look at this relationship, you’d understand this has been a very beneficial one for all of us. If you’re not willing to do that, then let’s end this thing right now, and trust me on this, I’ll be the one outing your ass and ruining your career, and a month from now they’ll find you swinging from the rafters of that cabin you have up in Thunder Lake. You’ll be so pumped full of drugs no one will doubt for a second that you committed suicide.”

A wide-eyed Jones asked, “How did you know I had a cabin on Thunder Lake?”

Hurley shook his head and said, “Oh, for Christ sake.” He turned to Bernstein and said, “I’m putting you in charge of him. You guys have fifteen minutes to get your shit together. A big guy named Victor is going to show up. If you guys aren’t here, I’ll assume you want to end our relationship, which would be really stupid, because I will assume you are now my enemy and I will be forced to put certain plans in motion . . . the kind of plans that will be nearly impossible to stop once they are started.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Bernstein offered quickly.

“Good. I’ll dispense with Victor for the moment. I assume you’re both familiar with the bloodbath that took place the other night?”

Jones gave his friend a
See, I told you so
look and asked, “At the hotel on the Seine?”

“Yep . . . Are you guys already covering it?”

“The bureau has someone on it.”

Hurley thought about that a second. “Maybe you should show some initiative. Start digging a bit. I assume you still have some contacts with the police.” Hurley had plenty of contacts of his own all over Paris, but he didn’t want to go tipping his hand. At the moment, everything he had was based on gossip and rumor. He needed the hard facts that the police were dealing with.

Bernstein scratched his beard. “We have some pretty decent sources, but this is Paris, so you know what that means.”

Hurley did and reached into his pocket. He retrieved a thick envelope. “Ten thousand francs. You need more, let me know.”

“Receipts?” Jones asked, regaining a bit of his sense of humor.

“Along with expense reports in triplicate, please.” Hurley pulled two relatively small devices from his pocket. He handed one to Jones and the other to Bernstein. “Those, gentlemen, are the newest in cell phone technology . . . the StarTAC by Motorola. My number is already programmed. As soon as you know something I want to know something.” Hurley also handed them two chargers. “We don’t think the French are up and running on intercepting these things yet, but let’s be careful. You’ve both made enough international calls to know how the game works.”

Both men nodded. They had indeed. Countries could get very ugly about foreign reporters wanting to tell the world about certain atrocities that they were committing. Jones and Bernstein often had to work out special codes with their producers back in New York.

“Also . . .” Hurley started, “I might need you to pull some surveillance shifts.”

Jones let out a moan that said
You have got to be kidding me.

“Don’t worry,” Hurley said. “I’ll make sure you’re compensated. You get your head back in the game and get me what I need and I’ll make sure you both walk away from this with a fist full of cash.”

Now that Hurley was calm, Bernstein wasn’t going to wait for his friend to inflame him again. “Thank you. We’ll get right on it.”

“Victor is a big guy . . . impossible to miss. Just do what he says and everything will be fine.” Hurley stood and placed his hand on Jones’s shoulder. “Brian . . . you’re not a bad guy . . . you’re just self-righteous. You think you’re the only noble man in the game.” Hurley shook his head. “Trust me, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

L
ITTLE
yellow flags littered the grassy area across the street from the hotel. Commandant Neville had received the call shortly after 10:00 a.m. She’d already showered and was lounging with her husband and two kids. She’d given up on going to church with two kids in diapers, so Sunday mornings were spent on the floor of their tiny flat. She and her husband tried to simultaneously read the papers and keep the kids occupied with an endless stream of irritating shows that supposedly were going to make Marc, who was two and a half, and Agatha, who was nine months, the smartest kids of their generation. Neville didn’t actually believe it, but she was all for anything that kept them occupied for more than ten minutes. When the call came, she put on a white shirt, black slacks, black pumps, and a gray trench coat. Knowing the cameras would be following her every move, she even put on a dab of makeup and bushed out her short black hair.