Kill Shot (20 page)

The easiest way for him to do this was to practice on his runs and stay very alert while eating most of his meals at nearby cafés. There was no better way to watch and observe people than sitting at a café with a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, or depending on the time of day, maybe a glass of wine and a cigarette. He was always on the lookout for a face that he had seen one too many times—someone new to the neighborhood who might have more than a passing interest in his comings and goings. He spent a great deal of his time working out. He ran nearly every day, his routes always varied, but as things worked in Paris he usually ended up at the river where he didn’t have to contend with traffic and stoplights.

Rapp often cut through the Latin Quarter, home to some of France’s greatest institutions of higher learning, such as the Sorbonne and the Collège de France. The narrow streets of the quarter were lined with cafés and bookstores that catered to the literary elite of France—poets, writers, theorists, and philosophers who were treated with a respect that no other city could match. These demigods of Parisian culture had certain needs that the public in general accepted. In order to tap into their genius and break their earthly bonds, many of them needed the assistance of certain hallucinogenic drugs. Rapp wasn’t interested in these people. They were too old and too wise for what he had in mind. The quarter was also populated by thousands of students, and a subset who wanted drugs for no other reason than to delay their passage into adulthood. Drugs had a powerful effect on certain people. They created dependence and were expensive. Over the years, this harsh paradox had driven countless souls to sell their bodies for sex and commit crimes as small as theft and as heinous as murder to feed their addiction. The longer the time between fixes, the more quickly logic and rational thought fell to the wayside.

Rapp was looking for just such a desperate soul as he emerged from the St. Michel Metro stop wearing a pair of black Persol sunglasses and a three-quarter-length black trench coat with the collar flipped up and his chin down.

“Why won’t you tell me your plan?” Greta asked.

It was a bright afternoon and the sidewalk was heavy with a blend of Parisians and tourists. The North Americans were easily identified by their girth, their bulky clothes, their various packs, fanny, back, or otherwise, and cameras dangling from their wrists. The Asians traveled in tight packs, were smaller, and had nicer cameras that were slung around their necks. The Russians and other Eastern Europeans added another interesting mix. The women usually wore too much makeup, their hair was bleached and dried at the ends, with dark roots, and their men wore lots of jewelry and track suits, or at least track jackets and oversized sunglasses as if they were Elvis impersonators. The Brits, Germans, and other Europeans were a little more difficult to pick out, but Rapp could still tell the difference.

He placed a hand on Greta’s waist. With her good looks and blond hair, she stood out like a beacon. “I told you I have a thing for brunettes.”

“A weird sex fetish, no doubt.”

“Something like that.”

Greta stuck out her tongue and made a sour face.

“If you’re going to make faces like that we could skip the wig and put you in a pair of pigtails.”

She smacked him in the chest with the palm of her hand and tried to pull away.

Rapp held her tight. “I already explained, if you want to come with me tonight we need to put you in a wig.”

“No one knows who I am.”

They’d already been over all of this back at the hotel. “Probably not, although Stan most certainly knows you and he’s about as alert as they come.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just go to him. He is a good man. He will hear you out.”

“And then he will lock me up and put me through the wringer for a month.”

“The wringer?” Greta asked with a confused frown.

“He’ll take away my watch and all my clothes and put me in a very dark cold room and fuck with my mind for as long as it takes for him to make sure I’m telling the truth.”

“I don’t believe it. I’ve known him since I was a little girl.”

“There’s another side to Stan. A very dark side.” He could tell she wasn’t buying it. “Greta, you know what we do for a living.”

“You’re spies.”

More or less
, Rapp thought. “And spies kill people. We deceive and we lie and we conspire to get what we need and we put on all kinds of fake fronts to make sure that nice people like you don’t see the nasty ugly man behind the mask.”

She succeeded in pushing away this time. “You’re telling me that’s who you are?”

“No,” Rapp moaned. “I’m telling you that’s who Stan is . . . and maybe that’s who I’ll be someday, but I sure as hell don’t plan on it.”

“But you are a good liar?”

“Not like Stan Hurley, but when I’m on assignment I do what it takes to get the job done.”

“And when it comes to me?”

Rapp placed both hands on her shoulders. “If I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t have bothered to call. I would have let you go to Brussels and you would have been a nervous wreck when I didn’t show. Instead, I called you. You came to Paris and this morning I told you things that could get me killed and you still doubt me. Greta, you can’t discuss any of this with your grandfather or anyone else. I like your grandfather. I know what he did during World War II and then after when the Russians started throwing their weight around. If he found out that I had involved you in this in any way, I have no doubt he would pick up the phone, call in a favor, and I would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Sooner or later someone would catch me snoozing and put a bullet in my head.”

“My grandfather would never do that.”

“Your grandfather is a very serious man, and he would consider it a betrayal that his granddaughter had fallen in love with someone like me. He would want to protect you and the best way to do that would be to have me eliminated.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you.” Rapp was starting to get frustrated. “You can go home any time you’d like, Greta. I’m not going to sit here and debate every move with you.”

“You don’t want me here?”

“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth. I wanted to see you and I want your help, but this isn’t a debate club. I’m actually good at what I do, despite what happened the other night.” Rapp had explained all of it to her, the bodyguards who weren’t bodyguards, what Tarek had done for a living before he became oil minister, and his opinion that it had all been an elaborate trap.

“I think the fact that you are still alive is proof that you are good at your job.”

“Thank you, now will you stop questioning me and go buy the wig?”

She nodded and then wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. She squeezed tight but didn’t speak.

Rapp kissed the top of her head and then said, “I’ll meet you back at the hotel in a few hours.”

Greta nodded. “Can’t we just meet back here instead of the hotel?”

“There you go questioning me again. I told you I don’t know how long this will take. It’s better if we meet at the hotel.” Her expression told him she was nervous. “Don’t worry, honey, nothing is going to happen to me.”

Greta got up on her toes and kissed him on the lips. “I love you.”

Rapp took a deep breath and said, “I love you, too. Now go get your wig.” He spun her around and sent her on her way with a playful pat on her backside. Every ten feet or so she looked over her shoulder to see if Rapp was still there. He held his ground, knowing there was a good chance she would try to follow him. When she was two blocks away, Rapp made his move. He started toward the river and then doubled back. The Quai de Montebello was crowded with tourists and Parisians alike. The looming Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame sat on its island in the middle of the river.

Tourists on this side of the waterway were blocking traffic as they snapped photos of the famous church. Rapp kept his chin down, and like the other Parisians on the sidewalk, he darted in and around the tourists without breaking stride. He had a destination in mind. A place he had passed many times. A place where he’d seen the hopped-up, jumpy amble of users who were desperate for a little something to take the edge off their comedown or a more powerful fix that could launch them back into nirvana. Rapp took a right on the Rue du Petit Pont. Two blocks later, he was standing in front of St. Severin’s Catholic church. That was another thing about Paris. Unlike Berlin or London, the odds were overwhelming that almost every church you encountered would be Catholic. They were like the Italians and the Spaniards that way. The Protestant Reformation had never really taken root along the southern edge of Europe.

Very few people were taking photos of the church. St. Severin’s was rich in history, and was a perfect example of Gothic architecture, but it simply couldn’t compete with the grand scale of Notre Dame a short distance to the north. Rapp spotted three beggars. They were perfectly spaced, one directly in front of the church, and one on each corner. There was a chance they were working together but probably not. The more important thing was that all three had drug habits, as was evidenced by their dark, shallow eye sockets and fidgety behavior. Rapp chose one of the cafés across the street and picked a small sidewalk table with a good vantage point. When the waitress arrived, he ordered a coffee and sandwich in perfect French. When she returned with the coffee, he asked if there were any extra papers lying around, and a moment later she returned with three.

Rapp pretended to read the newspapers while he studied the various faces at the nearby cafés and tried to ignore the nagging pain in his left shoulder. By the time his sandwich arrived, he had two good candidates. One of the beggars in front of the church had scrounged up enough cash to make a purchase, and he made a beeline for Rapp’s café and a young man sitting just four tables away. He located a second pusher across the street at another café when the second beggar had reached his quota. For the next hour, Rapp took his time and studied the men and women who stopped by to visit the dealers. The practiced maneuvers of quiet hands exchanging things under the table while the free hands gestured wildly to distract anyone from noticing the illicit trade—it was all part of the drug culture. The pusher across the street was too short and fat to work for Rapp’s purposes, but the one nearby had the general look. Rapp watched a few more transactions take place, left some cash on the table, and picked up his coffee. He approached the man with a smile on his face and gestured toward the open chair.

The man was six feet tall with jet-black hair and a two-day-old growth of black stubble on his face. He was wearing sunglasses, a dark green canvas jacket, jeans, and a pair of brown boots. He motioned for Rapp to take a seat.

Rapp sat and placed his coffee on the table. “Do you speak English?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” the man said easily.

“Good.” Rapp exhaled nervously and looked around.

The man smiled. He could always charge foreigners a premium. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I hope so.” Rapp rubbed his palms on his jeans, continuing to fake nervousness.

The man began to mumble off a short list of drugs and prices.

Rapp shook his head emphatically. “I’m not a druggie.”

This brought a smile to the man’s face. Denial was all part of the trade. “Of course not. What can I do for you?”

“I have a proposal. A job that could earn you a lot of money.”

“And what would this job involve?”

“It involves me giving you the key to an apartment and the combination to a safe.”

The man took a drag from his cigarette and smiled. “What’s in the safe?”

“Some cash.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

The Frenchman tilted his head from side to side. “A lot is a relative thing. What might be a lot to you, might not be so much to me.”

“At least twenty thousand . . . and some jewelry that’s worth more than that.”

He stabbed out his cigarette. “Why me?”

Rapp blinked his eyes nervously and said, “Because I’m an American and I don’t fucking know anyone in Paris. At least not anyone who’d be willing to walk into this bitch’s apartment and take what’s mine.”

“This money is yours?” he asked skeptically.

“Yeah . . . I earned it. We had an arrangement. She was supposed to pay me, but now she’s fucking screwing me.”

“What kind of deal?”

“That’s not important.” Rapp looked over each shoulder as if she’d walk up on them at any moment. “The bitch treats me like a slave. She’s got my passport in the safe, and my money, and she won’t give it to me.”

“So why don’t you just open it yourself and take what’s yours?”

“She doesn’t know that I know the combination and . . .” Rapp let his voice trail off as if he was too embarrassed to continue.

“And what?”

“She’s friends with my parents. Good friends. If they found out I’ve been sleeping with her they would shit.”

The Frenchman lit another cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Let’s back up for a second. Why me? How did you find me?”

“I’m not a druggie,” Rapp said defensively. “I mean, I’m not hooked. I use them from time to time, but I’m not strung out. I have some friends at the university. Everybody knows this is a place where you can get hooked up. You and the fat guy across the street.” Rapp jerked his head in the man’s direction.

The Frenchman smiled broadly, revealing a pair of sharp canine teeth. “So why do you think I would want to help you steal from this woman?”

“You sell drugs. You already break the law and what you do day in and day out is a lot riskier than this. Here’s the deal,” Rapp said, pressing his case. “This bitch is rich. She isn’t going to miss any of this. We’re supposed to go to an art gallery exhibit tonight. We’ll be gone for at least two hours. I can give you the key, the security code, and the code for the safe. I don’t give a fuck what you take. I just want my cash and my passport.”

“You say there’s a lot of jewelry.”