Kill Shot (43 page)

It was partly why he had such respect for Stansfield and Hurley. They had been such a good team over the years. Stansfield’s brains and Hurley’s heartless, crush-the-enemy-at-any-cost attitude had been a very potent combination. But they were both getting old, and the fact that they’d let someone like Cooke slip under their radar was proof that it was time for them to go. Fournier worried about that. Would he know when to go himself? He had spent a lot of time thinking about it and planning for it. That’s why he had all of his money neatly stashed away. When the time came he would simply vanish if he had to.

“So what can you tell me about these people?” Cooke asked.

Fournier took a sip of wine and said, “They pay handsomely for information. That’s the most important thing.”

“Have they ever threatened you?”

Fournier smiled. “They have a few uncivilized types, but Max keeps them in line. You’ll like Max. He’s a good man. He’s not one of these radicals who’s always threatening to blow things up.”

Cooke laughed. “Well, as long as Max can keep them in line, this should go well.”

Fournier looked at his watch, drained his wine, and said, “We should go. I like to keep them waiting, but not too long.”

“What time were we supposed to meet with them?”

“One.”

Cooke checked his own watch and frowned. It was 1:38. Both men stood. Fournier pulled back the curtain of their private room and made for the front door. Several patrons tried to get Fournier’s attention and many more were staring and whispering. Fournier ignored them all. When they reached the front door, Fournier’s security officer and Mermet were waiting. Mermet looked to be on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Fournier pulled him aside and asked, “More bad news?”

“Yes. The president’s office called. They want to see the file.”

Fournier inhaled through his nose. “That bitch has really caused me some trouble.” He fished out a cigarette and said, “Tell them I am tied up debriefing a high-level intelligence asset and that we will get them the file tonight.”

Mermet nodded and they started across the street. Fournier offered Cooke a cigarette but he declined, telling his friend that he still rowed and it wasn’t good for his lungs. Fournier pretended not to hear a word he said.

The Hotel Balzac was directly across the street. They continued up the carpeted steps and stopped under the circular portico. Fournier turned to Mermet and said, “Wait down here. This should take thirty minutes or so.” The truth was that Fournier didn’t want too many eyes and ears around what was about to happen. A sizable amount of cash was going to change hands, and depending on how the meeting went, Fournier might be tempted to get into his car and drive straight for Switzerland when it was over.

He and Cooke proceeded across the lobby to the elevator bank. There were more stares and one person who tried to approach him, but Fournier kept his eyes front and center and pushed through. Fortunately, the middle elevator was available. He pressed the top button and in less than a minute they were on the top floor of the six-floor hotel. At the far end of the hall Max’s bodyguard was standing post outside the hotel’s nicest suite.

“Hello, Omar,” Fournier called out. “Sorry we’re late.”

Omar didn’t smile. He stepped forward and in very choppy French said, “Open your jackets.”

“Must we always do this, Omar? This is my country, after all.”

“Rules,” was all he said.

After he was done making sure they weren’t carrying guns, Omar pulled out a key and opened the door. Fournier entered first, with Cooke just a step back. They moved into the large main room, where Max was casually reclined on one of the three sofas.

“Max,” Fournier said enthusiastically. “Good to see you.”

“Yes,” Max said with a wink and a nod toward the TV. “I see you have had a very rough day.”

Fournier dismissed the comment with a scoff. “In this business, Max, I have weathered far worse.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have.” Max turned to Cooke and extended his hand. “I have been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”

“And me as well,” Cooke replied.

“Please sit. Is there anything I can get either of you?”

“No, thank you,” Fournier answered for both of them. “We just finished lunch and we’re on kind of a tight schedule.” He sat on one of the big sofas and Cooke sat down next to him.

“I see.” Max took the insult in stride and sat across from them. “So you would like to get down to business.”

“That would be great. As you know, thanks to your friend Samir over there, I have some other problems I’m trying to deal with.”

Cooke hadn’t noticed the man with the bandage on his face until now. He smiled at him but received no warmth in return.

Fournier asked, “Where is Rafique?”

“You’ll be pleased to know he is getting the plane ready. As soon as we are done with our business we will be departing the country.”

“I am very happy to hear that. Thank you.”

“So,” Max said, looking at Cooke, “you have something for me.”

“Yes, I do, but I would like to see the money first.”

“Of course.” Max looked over his shoulder. “Samir, bring the money.”

“I assume mine will be wired as per my usual instructions,” Fournier said.

“Of course. My personal secretary will handle everything as soon as I make the call.”

“Good.”

Samir came back with a large briefcase and set it on the table between the two sofas. He popped the clasps and showed Cooke the money.

“One million dollars, and another million in a Swiss bank account,” Max said. “Now I need the information you promised.”

Cooke smiled and retrieved a folded envelope from his jacket pocket. “His name is Mitch Rapp. I have a photo in there. Known addresses. He has a mother who is terminally ill, but he has a brother who could be used as leverage.”

R
APP
and Hurley were parked four blocks away from the Hotel Balzac. Hurley was behind the wheel and Rapp in the front passenger seat. Rapp had seen Kennedy and Hurley argue more times than he could count, but he’d never seen anyone raise his voice with Stansfield, let alone argue with him as openly as Kennedy and Hurley had done. And to make the entire matter stranger, Hurley and Kennedy were for once in agreement. Stansfield was intent on coming with them to the Hotel Balzac, but Hurley had threatened to resign if his boss set foot outside the Embassy compound. There was a chance this could be nothing more than a simple surveillance mission, but it could also be something far more dangerous and complicated. Stansfield couldn’t be anywhere near it. It was bad enough that the damn deputy director of Central Intelligence was off screwing his country, they didn’t need to add to the list the deputy director of Operations getting arrested. Stanfield finally relented and gave Rapp and Hurley permission to go out without him.

They were both dressed in suits and ties and Rapp was carrying a new passport and credit card as well as the ID and gun he’d taken from the wounded DGSE agent.

Rapp had also put in blue contact lenses and added a goatee to try to match the general appearance of the DGSE agent. If anyone looked closely, he’d discover that Rapp was not the man in the photo, but if he needed to use it he wasn’t planning on anyone looking closely.

Ridley and his people were three blocks away on the other side of the hotel in a surveillance van. Rapp and Hurley were getting a live feed from the devices they’d planted on Cooke. The plan was to record everything that was said, allow Cooke to incriminate himself, and then quietly grab him when he was dropped off at his own hotel.

Cooke and Fournier took a long lunch, so Rapp and Hurley were in position by the time they arrived at the Hotel Balzac. They’d heard the conversation outside the restaurant and now they were listening to the introductions inside the room. Rapp was taking everything in stride until he heard his name. He and Hurley looked at each other at the exact same time while they heard Cooke saying, “He attended the University of Syracuse and was recruited by Irene Kennedy. She happens to be a very close confidante of Thomas Stansfield and is someone else you could consider for leverage.”

“Motherfucker!” Hurley yelled.

Rapp was already beyond that. He was imagining each person in the room. Cooke was a traitor, Fournier was a backstabbing snake, and based on the information and names provided by Monsignor de Fleury, Kennedy had identified the other two. Samir Fadi was a midlevel lieutenant from Islamic Jihad, and he was more than likely the prick who had shot Rapp in the shoulder. The second man was far more high-profile. Max Vega was a wealthy Spanish businessman with a radical Saudi father. Over the past several years he had become a key player in funding the various radical Muslim groups. Rapp had known about him because he was the next name on the list of authorized targets.

The decision was easy for Rapp. He grabbed the door handle and said, “Stan, you can shoot me if you want, but I’m going in there. I’m as good as dead if I don’t kill every last one of those fuckers right now.”

Hurley didn’t move or say anything for what seemed like an eternity, and then he put the car into drive and said, “There’s a side entrance for the employees and deliveries on Rue Lord Byron.”

“I know where it is.”

“There’s a staircase almost immediately on your left. They’re on the top floor. I suggest you leave the money. It’ll make it look dirtier.”

“Good idea.”

Twenty seconds later they passed the front entrance. Five seconds after that Hurley stopped in front of the service entrance.

Rapp opened the door and said, “Thanks, Stan. I really appreciate this.”

“No worries. Just don’t get killed and don’t leave any fingerprints.”

“I never do.”

“And just so you know, I never liked Thomas’s plan. Our job is to kill these assholes, not try to turn them.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“I’ll be waiting right down the street for you.” Hurley pointed through the windshield. “You’ve got five minutes. You’d better get your ass moving.”

Rapp slammed the door and ran around the trunk and onto the sidewalk. The employee entrance was a small garage door. It was unlocked. Rapp grabbed his DGSE badge and entered. A busboy barely gave him a passing glance. Rapp smiled, flipped open the badge, and said, “Police.”

The staircase was right where Hurley said it would be. Rapp took the stairs two at a time as fast as he could. By the time he reached the top floor his heart was pumping, but he knew he would recover within seconds. He stopped just inside the fire door and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he used his hip on the crash bar so he wouldn’t leave any fingerprints and pushed through. There at the opposite end of the hall was Omar. All six and a half feet of him. He had to be close to three hundred pounds.

Rapp walked straight for him at a brisk pace. He called out a few soft apologies in French, and just as he had hoped, Omar started coming toward him. Rapp thought it was unlikely that he was armed, but he had to assume he was. When they were thirty feet away Rapp said, “I work for Director Fournier.” He pulled the ID case out of his breast pocket and said, “I need to speak with him.”

Omar stopped in the middle of the hall, waiting to inspect the ID.

Rapp had to time it just right. Too close and Omar might get his hands on him. Too far away and Omar might hit the floor so hard furniture would topple over. He had the ID in his left hand and extended his arm all the way so it looked as if he was trying to help Omar. His right hand slid between the folds of his suit coat and gripped the FNP. Rapp drew the gun, kept his arm in tight, and pivoted his wrist so the tip of the silencer was pointed directly at Omar’s heart. Normally Rapp would only use one bullet, but with a guy Omar’s size you never knew, so he squeezed three times and then lunged forward.

Omar’s reaction was normal. Both hands clutched at his chest, and then he started to stumble. Rapp closed the ID case and did his best to help Omar gently to the floor. He went down on his knees first, and then it was just a matter of tipping him backward. Rapp laid his head on the ground and searched for the keys. He’d stayed at the Balzac and knew they still used the old-fashioned kind. Big bulky things. Rapp found it in the outside left pocket of his suit coat. Rapp pulled on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed the key, and quickly moved down the hallway. Moving Omar wasn’t an option, so he had to work fast.

Rapp kept the gun out and silently slid the key into the lock. He turned it, left it in the lock, and pushed the door open. Cooke and Fournier were sitting almost directly in front of him and a little to the right. Rapp held a finger up to his mouth, giving them the universal sign to be quiet. It was just enough to freeze them as Rapp moved into the room, finding the other two men on the couch to the left. The tall one was about to open his mouth when Rapp shot him in the forehead. While he swung the pistol to the other man on the couch he moved his left hand inside his jacket and found the grip of his silenced Glock. Rapp fired the FNP a second time and hit the second man in the forehead.

As much as Rapp wanted to say something to Cooke and Fournier, he knew Ridley and others were listening, so he kept his mouth shut, swung the Glock around, and shot both men in the chest. He gave four to Fournier and three to Cooke. The first rounds were in the heart, and he spread the others around to make it look as if it was the work of someone with less skill. Moving to Samir, Rapp placed the Glock in his hand and fired two shots into the sofa across the way. He let the gun fall to the floor at Samir’s feet and then grabbed the papers and envelope that were in Max’s lap.

Rapp looked at the photos of himself and the biographical information. He folded them up and stuffed them in his right breast pocket. He grabbed a handkerchief from his back pocket and quickly wiped down the FN pistol, then placed it in Fournier’s hand, aimed the weapon at Max, and sent two rounds into his torso. He pumped three more into Samir and left the gun in Fournier’s grip. The police would be intrigued when they discovered that both weapons had been used during the shooting of the two Directorate agents. Judging from Fournier’s reputation, not a lot of people in Paris were going to be sad to hear this news. Rapp moved on to Cooke and ran his hands over the inside of his jacket to see if he had a duplicate copy of the information he’d given Max. He found another envelope and stuffed it in his pocket.