The Case Officer (35 page)

First he made a brief stop at his
safehouse apartment on Rue Laugier. There he changed his shirt, discarding his
gray tee-shirt in favor of a rather loud, touristy Hawaiian shirt. He decided
the jeans could stay but substituted black silver-tipped cowboy boots for the
tennis shoes.

He then took a paper clip from
his nightstand, shaped one end of it into a hook, and used it to trip the
hidden catch on the back of one of his stereo speakers. The top of the speaker
popped open and revealed a two–inch-deep cavity, from which he extracted a
mustache, a pair of heavy, dark-rimmed glasses, and a small bottle of dark
brown non-permanent hair dye. He then went to work applying the items over the
bathroom sink.

It was only a light disguise and
wouldn’t have fooled any of his friends or co-workers, but then, he wasn’t
trying to disguise his identity from them. It would blur his appearance enough
for what he had to do in Pigalle that night.

He removed one other item from
the concealment device before setting off – a unique, well-used, home-made set
of non-CIA-issue brass knuckles. He had had them since he removed them from the
limp hand of brawling football player after Mac had taken him down and broken
his arm with an arm bar during a vicious bar fight in college. The weapon had
four heavy rings to cover the punching surface of his right hand, attached to a
flat, blade-like, three and one-half inch-long hinged projection that covered
the outer chopping edge of the fist. The brass knuckles were an equalizer he
had never been without since that day in Oklahoma.

They were his weapon of choice in
a street fight—easily concealed until the last minute and better than a knife—a
knife could be knocked loose or dropped. A punch or karate chop with a set of
these on the hand would crack bone – as Mac knew, having been on both the
giving and receiving end of this particular weapon. And it was like riding a
bike—once you learned to use them, you never forgot. They fit his hand
perfectly, and he was eager to sink them into Lim’s face and skull.

Lim had murdered Wei-wei and two
of Mac’s assets – and friends. Now it was time for revenge. This wasn’t an
Agency op. This was MacMurphy’s personal vendetta.

He was also aware that Lim was no
doubt out looking for him as well. Lim had struck three times already, and most
assuredly he wasn’t finished. But it was not self-defense that was motivating
Mac. It was revenge, pure and simple. They were two deadly cobras, out to
strike at each other. MacMurphy was determined to be the cobra that struck
first, catching the other one off-guard. If he missed, he might not get a
second chance.

Chapter One Hundred-One

M
acMurphy exited the metro at
Place Blanche at ten minutes to eleven. The Boulevard de Clichy was awash in
neon lights advertising cheap peep shows, strip joints, bars, fast food
restaurants, pool halls, and pinball parlors. The lowlife of Paris—the people
who lived in perfect symbiosis with these flashy accoutrements—gaudy hookers,
slick pimps, shifty-eyed petty thieves, hard-eyed strippers—milled around
aimlessly like cattle.

It was a carnival atmosphere – a carnival
of debauchery. Mac took in the sights not as the tourist he was dressed as, but
as the covert specialist he was. He was on guard for anything from pickpockets
targeting him to a street brawl erupting around him, to the sight of Lim
himself, appearing suddenly out of nowhere. Mac was ready.

He crossed to the south side of
the street and headed east, planning to check every side street up to Place
Pigalle and then repeat the search on the north side heading back to Place
Blanche. He had faith in Willy Chan’s information and was confident of finding
the “Secret” bar on one of the side streets that evening.

Treading the streets with a
single-minded purpose, he was deaf to the music that blared from doors that
opened, blind to the garish lights, focused on just one thing – finding Lim and
exacting revenge.

It took him less than twenty
minutes to find the place. It was on the Rue Froment, about halfway between
Place Blanche and Place Pigalle and about thirty meters down from the corner.
The cracked and flickering neon sign over the entrance announced the “Club
Secret” in red letters surrounded by lots of little kissing red lips crossed by
index fingers making the “shush” sign.

He pushed through the draped
entrance into the dimly lit room beyond.

The first thing Mac noticed was
the smell. A heavy ammonia-like stink was pervasive, and the familiar aromas of
stale beer, cigarettes, and body odor combined to make it worse. He stood at
the entrance for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light and waves of
smoke from strong French cigarettes, and his nose to the stench.
Christ,
how can people live like this?

The Club Secret wasn’t exactly
doing a land office business. A bored-looking topless barmaid relaxed on a
cooler behind the bar, tattooed butterflies hovering over dark nipples. She
could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty years old, but one thing was
perfectly clear: She had plenty of hard miles on her. Her wide mouth worked
obnoxiously around a glob of gum—tongue pushing it through her teeth every few
moments to make loud snapping sounds—while creating clouds of pungent smoke
from the yellow Bastos cigarette she puffed on furiously. Freud would have had
no trouble classifying her in the “oral” category.

She scratched her armpit
inelegantly, silently watching two dusty construction workers, probably
residents of the neighborhood, attempting to solve the world’s political
problems while hunched over beers at either end of the bar. They drank down the
brew with fierce determination, not like men out to relax and enjoy the evening
but like men working hard at getting agreeably drunk before going home to badly
cooked meals and shrew-like wives. Mac reflected that they probably put more
energy into accomplishing their objective here than they did at their labors.
They punctuated their emphatic argument with fists and fingers that jabbed at the
air and occasionally at each other.

But neither of them was Lim, nor
did he seem to be anywhere else around. In fact, there wasn’t a single oriental
person in sight. Hopefully one of the girls here was “Angel.”

Two of the banquettes along the
opposite wall contained couples—bar girl and customer—and another far at the
back was occupied by three working girls laughing and playing cards and puffing
heavily on brown French cigarettes.

The entire room looked up as the
American tourist with the slicked-back dark hair and wild flowered shirt walked
in. The girls’ synchronous thoughts were telegraphed in their attitudes:
Here
comes money!
The men at the bar looked up briefly but immediately returned
to their beers and conversation in total lack of interest.

MacMurphy spun into a stool near
the middle of the bar and flung a cheerful west Texas “How y’all doin’, honey?”
to the barmaid. She slid off her perch, droopy breasts jiggling, wide smile: “
Bonsoir,
monsieur
. Someseeng to dreenk?”

“You bet, sugar. Fix me a tall CC soda, would’ja, and then tell Angel
to get her cute little ass over here. I wanna see if she remembers me.”

“Angel,” the barmaid called
toward the card-playing girls in the back of the room, “someone ees eare to see
you.”

One of the girls answered and
slid out of the booth. She wore a tight, white, sequined evening dress, which
surely had fit her perfectly in the days before she gained thirty pounds. She
approached the bar with choppy steps caused by the restriction of the tight
skirt. Her ample bosom jiggled invitingly above the uplifting bodice – each short,
bouncy step sent tiny shock waves through bursting breast tissue. Her heavy
makeup concealed age lines and a complexion damaged by too many drinks,
cigarettes, and late nights. But she had a terrific wide smile, which displayed
a mouthful of perfect white teeth and soft blue eyes.

MacMurphy answered her broad
smile with one of his own. He oozed charm and held out his hand to her. “Come
on over here, you gorgeous creature, and let me take a look at you. God! You
look great. And I’ll bet you don’t even remember me…”

“Sure I remember you,” she lied.
“’ow could I ever forget such a handsome
visage
?
Comment ça va, cheri
?
Where ’ave you beean?”

The bargirl continued to flatter
the boorish American tourist. “I thought I see you couple of weeks ago in
metro. Trocadero, I think. Was eet you?”

“Just blew into town this mornin’, babe. Musta been a lookalike
handsome dude.” He admired the way these bar girls could flatter their
customers.
They’re alike all over the world.
“I forget what you like to
drink, Angel baby. What’ll it be?”

“Tut tut,” she teased, cutting
her eyes at him. “
Un coup de champagne
,” she called to the barmaid.

The barmaid pulled a half empty
bottle of flat champagne from under the bar and filled a flute glass with the
amber liquid for Angel. A few tired bubbles drifted to the top of the glass.
MacMurphy and Angel continued their banter while Mac worked the conversation
around to the subject of other girls who worked in the club.

“Now does that tall black
gal—what’s her name—does she still work here?”

“Ah-h, you mean Kitty? She ees
right over zere.” She indicated the banquette at the rear where she had been
sitting. She caught his sheepish smile and then grinned at him knowingly: “What
’as Kitty got zat ze rest of us do not ’ave?”

He answered her grin and replied
in a sing-song voice: “She’s tall, that’s all…”

She cocked her head at him – he continued
to smile stupidly. “Yeah, I bet… And so you weesh to buy her out, eh?”

“Why not? Life’s short, and
Kitty’s got legs that run clear up to here!” He drew a line across his stomach.
How much? I firgit…”

“Where you are staying?” she
asked with resignation. She wouldn’t have minded turning a trick with this
fellow herself. He had a real nice smile.
Tant pis
, she thought.
Some
girls get all the luck...

“Crillon, why?”

She let out a low whistle.
“Rules. We must know where zee girls are staying. Zat will be 150 Euros.” She
was now all business.

“Why? Because I’m staying at the Crillon?”

“Okay, okay, you are
ancien
customer, 100, but zat’s eet.”

MacMurphy pulled a folded wad of
bills from his pocket, removed a money clip, and peeled off two 100 Euro notes.
“Never mind,” he smiled. “Here’s 200. Buy the rest of the girls a drink and go fetch
Kitty for me.
Ça va
?”

“
Ça va, cheri
. I weel get
her. Got to go pee-pee anyway.” She pushed the 200 Euros into her cleavage and
slid off the stool. “Ah well,
sois bien cheri
. Come back, okay?
And...choose me next time, please...?”

“You bet, Angel.” He grinned at
the way her buttocks bounced as she jiggled her way back to the rear of the
bar.

Angel stopped at the booth and
touched the black girl on the shoulder and spoke to her. The black girl slid
out of the banquette, turned back toward the bar and smiled broadly at Mac, prominently
displaying a chipped front tooth.

Chapter One Hundred-Two

S
he tugged at her mini-skirt, and
approached the bar, boobs jiggling as she walked with a gait that was
engineered to produce the maximum wiggle. She continued smiling her wide, chipped-tooth
smile.
Willy Chan was right,
she ought to get that tooth fixed.

Other than that she wasn’t bad
looking for a Pigalle hooker—short Afro hair-do, wide brown eyes set within
inch-long false lashes, and a sexy, lithe, six-foot-long body. She was dressed
in a slinky wine red mini-dress that left no doubt that only her lashes were
false. Her thong panties accentuated the curves of a tight, teardrop ass, and
her erect nipples punctuated the thin satin of her bodice.

She held out a hand to Mac when
she reached the bar, causing one of the thin spaghetti straps to slip down her
shoulder and threaten to reveal an entire chocolate breast.

He slipped off the barstool,
flashed a wide grin, and opened his arms to her as she approached. “Howdy
there, li’l Kitten, how y’all doin’
ce soir
?”

She pushed back the wayward strap
with a thumb and smiled coquettishly. But when she opened her mouth to speak,
whatever illusions he might have had about this sleek-looking French hooker
were swiftly dispelled. She was pure southeast Washington, D.C. ghetto black.

“How y’all doin’, sugar?” She
caressed his arm and moved her face to within inches of his. He could feel her
breast pressed against his shoulder. “Understan’ we goin’ ta have a little
honeymoon
çe soir
.” Her breath was stale with Bastos cigarettes.

“You bet, li’l Kitty.” He stood and tossed another 50 Euros on the bar.
Now that he had found Lim’s squeeze, he was anxious to get out of there.

“Aw come on, Sugar. Ain’t ya even
goin’ ta buy me a drink?” He knew it was part of the racket, but he played the
game and complied.