Kill Shot (36 page)

It was a large corner office, fitting both the title and the ego of the man who occupied the space. There were four floor-to-ceiling windows, two on each of the outer walls, and twelve-foot bookcases filled with dusty tomes, antiques, and dozens of photographs of Prefect Mutz and the rich, famous, and notorious. Simon picked up on two clues the moment he walked into the office. The first was the absence of coffee and pastries. Mutz loved both and he’d never been in the office without both items being offered. The second clue was more obvious.

Not only was Prefect Mutz waiting for them, but his boss, Director General Jacques Gisquet, and his boss’s boss, Minister of the Interior Pierre Blot, were waiting for them. Neville saw this as a sign that they were taking her accusations seriously. Simon saw the potential for something very different, but before he could stop his boss, she started in.

“Minister Blot, good to see you. Director Gisquet, thank you for coming. Prefect Mutz, thank you for taking the time to hear me out.”

Simon didn’t say a word. He watched as Neville charged in, unaware that the mood in the room was anything but welcoming. She began to present her case, explaining to her three superiors the strange behavior of Paul Fournier and his uncooperative nature. She was building toward the tampered evidence when Director General Gisquet waved her off.

“Commandant Neville, I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you. Minister Blot received a rather serious call last night from the prime minister.”

“The prime minister,” Neville said, not understanding what this could have to do with Paul Fournier interfering with her investigation.

“Yes, the prime minister. He received a very serious complaint from the minister of defense that you have been harassing one of his top people.”

“Harassing,” Neville said in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Blot said, “Paul Fournier.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Unfortunately, I am. Fournier claims that the two of you dated briefly a number of years ago and that when he broke it off you became despondent and threatened suicide.”

“Suicide,” Neville repeated, her mouth agape. “I caught him cheating on me. I was the one who broke up with him, and I was happy to do it. The man is a selfish prick, but that’s beside the point.”

“He alleges that you have been stalking him for several years.”

“I haven’t seen him in five years.”

Blot cleared his throat. “He has sworn testimonies from three women who claim you intimidated and harassed them because they were dating Fournier.”

Neville was on the verge of losing it, but fortunately Simon asked, “May we see the file?”

All three men looked at Simon with disappointment. There was a long period of silence, and then Blot said, “I saw the file last night, but I was not allowed to take it with me. It looked genuine. Very damning.”

“And why do you think you weren’t given a copy?” Neville asked. “Because it’s all made up. It’s fake. Fournier is the very man who has been interfering in our investigation. You don’t find it a little strange that the night before I’m going to bring you a formal complaint, a file magically appears that says I’m the problem?” Neville looked at each man and asked, “You don’t smell anything rotten here?”

Director General Gisquet answered her question. “I don’t like any of this. I don’t trust Fournier, I don’t believe that this file magically appeared, but there isn’t a lot we can do right now.”

“You can demand that he bring the file and his accusers down here right now. File a formal complaint.”

Blot cleared his throat. “The DGSE would prefer to keep this under wraps. They have no desire to adversely affect your career. All they are asking is that you be reassigned from your current case and you stay away from Deputy Director Fournier.”

“And why do you think they want me assigned away from the hotel massacre? I’ll tell you why. Because I caught Fournier and his people tampering with evidence. I’m telling all three of you, the DGSE was involved in what happened the other night. I don’t know how deeply or in what way, but they were involved.”

Blot twisted his wedding ring and asked, “Were you at the Hotel Balzac yesterday afternoon?”

Neville had a bad feeling that the little confrontation had been twisted and blown out of proportion to serve Fournier’s purpose. “Yes, I was there.”

“Deputy Director Fournier has sworn statements from five individuals that you accosted him.”

“Accosted him! I asked him why he was interfering in my investigation.”

“The file says you yelled at him and made a scene. To make matters worse, he was conducting a meeting with a foreign intelligence asset.”

Neville was thunderstruck. “Am I the only person who sees what’s going on here? The Libyan oil minister is assassinated in our beautiful city the other night, the prostitute lying next to him is killed, two hotel guests are killed, a hotel employee is killed, and so are the minister’s four bodyguards. There’s only one problem. The minister was traveling without security. We can’t find a single person who saw him arrive or leave the hotel with a security detail, yet these four men magically appear in the middle of the night, and with silenced weapons.” Neville zeroed in on the minister of the interior. “You travel with security. When was the last time your men carried silenced weapons?”

Blot let out a heavy sigh. “These are all interesting points and I’m sure they’ll be sorted out by someone, but it won’t be you, Commandant Neville. We are removing you from the investigation. Prefect Mutz will be reassigning you this morning. If you handle this with grace, I can promise you that none of this will go on your record and there will be no formal investigation. Your career will continue to progress based on the merits of your work.”

Neville was speechless for a long moment, and then Prefect Mutz spoke up. “Francine, this is for the best. I’ll give you an extra week. Take the kids and go visit your parents. When you come back all of this will be over.”

Two things were ringing in her mind. The first was that it wouldn’t be over in a week and the second was that Fournier must be really nervous to pull a move like this. That knowledge gave her the strength to speak to her bosses in a way she would never have dreamed of before today. “So this is how we do things now. A sneaky little agency like the DGSE, which has no business doing anything inside the borders of this country, can pull in some favors with well-connected politicians, make some wild, completely unfounded accusations, and the mighty National Police of France surrender.”

Prefect Mutz gave her a stern look. “Francine, you’re out of line.”

“No, she isn’t,” Director General Gisquet growled. “This entire thing stinks. Paul Fournier is a snake and he’s playing us. I don’t like it one bit . . . but . . .”

“But what?” Neville asked, hoping that there was still a chance.

Gisquet looked her in eye and said, “For the moment, we have to play this game, but I promise you, Francine, this is not going to hurt you. We need to follow through with this request because it came from some very serious people and then in a few weeks when things cool down, we will take a good look at the facts.”

“In a few weeks,” Neville said, her impatience showing through. “You mean after Fournier and his goons have destroyed all the evidence and eliminated any witnesses who could help us solve the case.”

“I’m sorry, Francine, but it’s the best we can do right now.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Neville looked at each of her bosses, stopping with Minister of the Interior Blot. “I’m sorry that you men don’t have the balls to stand up against an agency that has no jurisdiction in Paris. Why bother with laws? I’m sure the people of Paris will appreciate the fact that their police department is afraid of an asshole like Paul Fournier.” Neville turned and started for the door. At the last second she turned and said, “Are the two of you aware that two DGSE agents were shot last night? One of them is dead. The other one is in the hospital, but Mr. Fournier will not allow the police to question him.” She could tell by the startled look on their faces that this was the first they’d heard of this. “Over sixty shots were fired. In addition to the DGSE agents we have an unidentified American with a Rangers tattoo. The media are going to be all over this and I sure hope for your sake they don’t find out that you were complicit in covering up whatever the hell it is that Paul Fournier is up to.”

Simon couldn’t follow her out the door fast enough. Halfway down the first flight of stairs he said, “Well, I’m glad I came along for that. I think it’s really going to help my career. Thank you for bringing me with you.”

“Sorry,” Neville tried to say with some sincerity despite the anger that was flowing through her veins.

Simon followed in silence for a while and then said, “You know, they might be doing you a favor . . . if what you said up there is true.”

“How so?”

“They just removed you from the front lines of a battle that looks like it’s going to end badly. The press will devour anyone involved in this.”

“The press?”

“Yes, the people who write for newspapers and magazines. They do news shows on this thing called television. As a group they’re often referred to as the press.”

Neville was so used to his smartass personality that she ignored him. “The press conference.” She checked her watch. “It’s supposed to start in twenty minutes.”

“I think it’s probably going to be canceled.”

“Maybe.” Neville stopped at their floor and looked down the stairwell. “I bet they’re all gathered right now. Waiting for it to start.”

“I’m sure Mutz is going to have it canceled, or your replacement will get up and read a brief statement.”

“What about me?”

“They’ll probably say you had to take a leave of absence. Your cramps are really bad this month. You know, something nice and misogynistic.”

“Stop being such a smartass for a second. I think I should make a statement.”

“I don’t think you could come up with a worse idea.”

“It’s the perfect idea.” Neville turned for her office. “I need to gather my stuff.”

“I think you should, because they’ll probably fire you and throw you out of the building.”

“They can’t fire me for telling the truth, Martin.”

“Sure they can. People do it all the time. Especially the police.”

Neville had her mind made up. She grabbed her jacket and purse and on the way out closed and locked her office door. “You can come along if you want,” she told Simon, “but I won’t blame you if you stay up here and hide under your desk.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. The opportunity to see one of the brightest minds in law enforcement destroy her career in front of an entire nation. It’ll be pure Schadenfreude.”

R
APP’S
feet glided along the pavement, beating out a steady five-and-a-half-minute-a-mile-pace. His shoulder throbbed, but he did his best to ignore it, and when he couldn’t ignore it he told himself he deserved worse. A man was dead. Luke Auclair, an innocent man who had been minding his own business, living his own life, until Rapp had sought him out and included him in his great miscalculation.

It had been a rough night. They’d traveled to the outskirts of Paris, where they’d stopped for gas and Rapp scrubbed the dried blood of the DGSE agent from his hands. He still had no idea if the man had made it. Maybe one life could be saved from the debacle. After that, they drove north a bit and checked into one of the big chain hotels by Charles de Gaulle Airport. The place was run-down, one of those five-hundred-room behemoths for business travelers who were willing to sacrifice service and cleanliness to be near the airport. The place was in dire need of remodeling, but Rapp barely noticed. He wasn’t in shock, but rather a bit jumbled from an evening of unexpected events.

He and Greta sat in near silence as they ate a late dinner, and then they went up to the room. She was good enough to not ask too many questions. She could tell he was trying to sort through some very heavy questions. Around midnight, with them both tossing and turning, he started to talk. The part about Luke weighed the heaviest on him. He was an innocent, a noncombatant, and the first rule of his job was to never harm noncombatants.

“But you didn’t know they would act the way they did,” Greta said. “You were testing them.”

“It doesn’t matter. I should have never involved him.”

Greta was quiet for a moment and then said, “But if you hadn’t it would have been you down on the street.”

“No,” Rapp said with self-loathing, “I knew better than to go into that apartment, and even if I had, I would have gone out the back door and my gun would have been ready and I would have been on guard. No one could have snuck up on me like that.”

They talked for a while longer and then Rapp kissed her on the forehead, told her he loved her, and said, “Let’s try to get some sleep.”

He held her with his good arm, and was grateful when he heard her breathing settle into a sleep pattern a short while later. Rapp continued to stare at the ceiling, replaying the events that he had watched from Bob and Tibby McMahon’s apartment as if it were a box seat at the theater. He dozed off a few times, but not for long. Sleep was rarely a struggle for him, and the more elusive it became, the more restless he grew. He ran through every conceivable scenario to determine who could have betrayed him. He pictured each face and then considered the possibility that they’d all conspired to have him killed. Had they decided to kill him based on bad information, or some information he wasn’t aware of? He slid his arm out from under Greta and decided he had to trust Kennedy. She had warned him to stay away from the safe house. She knew Victor was there, but did she know he’d been ordered to kill Rapp?

He finally fell asleep for a few hours and then woke just before 7:00 a.m. More restless than ever, he got out of bed and dug out his running shoes and some sweats.

Greta woke sleepily and asked, “Where are you going?”