The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

A young voice answered in English. “Go ahead.”

“This is Alpha Eight One, secure. I need to speak with your boss.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

An appointment? Imbécile. Duval leaned forward to place his elbow on the desk, but the pain in his side made him rethink the move. He sat back again, speaking through clenched teeth. “Just put me through. It’s urgent.”

“One moment.”

The line clicked.

“Hello?”

He recognized the American’s voice, the touch of Manhattan Greek. He’d never gotten a name, only threats and money. “This is Duval. We need to—”

“I know who you are. There is a reason we talk so rarely, Captain. The risk is too great.”

“Your man Hagen. He’s dead.” Duval lifted a paper from his desk. “According to a preliminary report, Calix stabbed and shot him before dismembering him with an explosive.”

The American laughed. “Not unexpected. Is that all?”

“No. I need clarification.”

“You have thirty-five seconds. Go.”

Duval checked the clock hanging above his desk. He’d learned from past experience that when the American set a time limit, he meant it. The second hand passed the one. “Why the do-not-kill order? I can justify shooting Calix on sight. I’ve done it for you before with targets who’ve done less.”

“I don’t want him dead. Not yet. Call it a recruitment exercise.” The second hand raced on, passing the three. “Calix is a favorite of my primary competitor. Think of him as the biggest prize on the carnival shelf. You are the ring I’m tossing at the peg to win him in this particular round. Got it?”

Not really. Duval let out a huff he instantly regretted. He needed to get his ribs looked at. “Your competitor is a fool. Calix isn’t that good. A civilian spotted him in the park, flashing his gun. The anonymous tip brought half the force flooding in before I could reach the location. I almost lost him to a pack of patrolmen.”

“An anonymous tip?”

“Yes.” The second had passed the six. Ten more seconds. “Anonymous.”

“So, to rephrase, you had a squadron of patrolmen at your disposal, and he escaped you again?”

Duval had walked right into that one. He flattened his tone. “Correct.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t criticize. Find Calix. Hold him alone in a soundproof interrogation room and notify me. I’ll send someone to fetch him.”

“What about the woman?”

“She’s spent too much time with him. I don’t want her talking to your people, lending credence to anything Calix tells them. I want him isolated—completely. When you take him down, make sure she doesn’t survive.” The second hand hit the seven. The line went dead.

17

Suspicions nagged Ben. He needed confirmation. “I’m going on an excursion.”

Clara lay between the shelves of tagged stone fragments, snuggled under her coat with Otto. She pushed herself up on an elbow. “It’s ten to eleven. You said we should wait until after midnight.”

“I know what I said. Stay here.” He checked the magazine of his Glock 42 and slid it into the holster inside his waistband.

She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you didn’t like guns.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Duval’s gun. You threw it away. You said you didn’t want it.”

“My gun is a .380. So are all my spare rounds. Duval’s was a Beretta nine-mil, which I emptied ticking off the French police. A gun with no bullets is just a burden.” He covered the Glock with his sweatshirt. “You get some rest. There are egg white protein bars in my pack if you’re hungry. I’ll be gone two hours.”

“And what if you do not come back in two hours?”

“I will.”

During the hours of quiet, staring up at the cathedral’s torched stones, Ben had tried to link all the day’s events to the mysterious Jupiter. But every solution required leaps of logic he couldn’t afford. The answers, like lost sheep, wouldn’t come home on their own. So, like any good shepherd, he set out to find them.

Notre Dame sat on an island in the Seine, known locally as Île de la Cité and to the rest of the world as the Island of Paris. He crossed to the city’s south side using the Double Bridge, named in antiquity for its toll rather than its size. Restricted to foot traffic, with foliage at three of its four corners, the Double Bridge offered more cover than the island’s other four. The late hour and the long manhunt had thinned the police presence. Cops patrolled the streets as pairs instead of troops.

More than once, waiting for a patrol to pass or turn their backs, the temptation to ditch Clara struck Ben. Justifications came at him in his own voice.

Traveling with a civilian and her dumb dog is insane—bad craft, and you know it.

You’ll both be caught. What good will that do?

Leave now. It’ll be a gift, not a betrayal.

He shook the arguments off. Until he learned more, he couldn’t leave her. To walk away might mean handing her over to Leviathan, an organization that had murdered thousands in the last six months.

At a quarter to midnight, Ben’s day came full circle. He cut across Rue Cler and ducked into the dead-end alley where the sniper’s bullets had almost removed his head. He went straight to the spot where he’d dropped his phone, but it had vanished. Either the sniper or some passerby had taken it, as expected. But Ben hadn’t risked this journey for the phone.

Voices. Two men.

He pressed his back against the alley wall, behind the dubious cover of a nineteenth-century rainspout, and turned his head as much to hide the moisture from his breath as to shrink his profile. Duval might be dirty, but not these men. Ben had no desire to hurt them. He willed them with all his might to move on.

The cops paused at the alley entrance. “How much longer must we continue this madness?” one asked, speaking French. “The night is cold. I’m starving. And this American imbecile and his woman could be in Calais by now, for all we know. They’re gone.”

“We’re done when the lieutenant says we’re done.”

“Yeah,