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

had paid off. He saw the telltale cities in the history. Tokyo in June. St. Petersburg in September. The Behemoth had been docked near the sites of two major bombings within days of each event.

No coincidences.

“She sure gets around.”

“True. The Behemoth is fast. She makes thirty-six knots on calm seas, twice as fast as the biggest ships coming off the lines only three years ago.”

“Mm-hmm.” Ben barely processed the man’s droning. The Behemoth had been nowhere near Rotterdam in October. Doing his best not to be obvious, he shifted the cursor back to the Princess.

Rotterdam. Pier 12. October 4–7.

They’d left a day before the failed bombing. Bingo.

This ship. This crew.

Ben turned to look at Mallory.

“What’s wrong, Agent Porter?” Mallory sounded cold—no longer the dutiful self-appointed deputy. “Ya look like that shower door jus’ knocked the stuffin’ outta ya again.”

“No. I’m—” He stopped. The room’s energy had changed.

The map screen and all its revelations had sucked Ben in, degraded his awareness. The watch officer stood at attention. Ben found himself under the hard glare of a black man in a leather Princess of Sheba jacket. The title embroidered under the ship’s name and the Sea Titan logo read CAPTAIN. The newcomer lifted his chin. “Thanks for the text, Mr. Mallory.”

Ben raised an eyebrow at the bos’n.

Mallory grinned. “I sent him a note, after ya woke me while puttin’ on ma trousers. I kept Shen from makin’ a fuss so we could get ya on board for a proper chat.”

The captain crossed his arms. “I checked with port security. No law enforcement agency coordinated a visit today. Why don’t you tell me who you are and why you’re so interested in my ship?”

30

When caught in the act, spies have a mantra. Deny, drone, counter-accuse. Deny all allegations. Drone on to confuse the enemy. Sow distrust among your captors by tossing out counteraccusations. Spies talk first. Fighting is a last resort.

Ben could feel the Glock’s weight at his back. He could hear the weapon calling to him. Most European ports didn’t allow crews to carry guns in port, even on board their own vessels. A quick threat of force with the Glock might get him out of this. But with the circumstantial evidence linking the Behemoth and the Princess to the Leviathan bombings, he doubted this crew followed such laws. These men had him cornered with three-to-one odds, less than optimal for a close-quarters gunfight.

Deny.

“Look, Captain. I’m Agent Tom Porter from Interpol. Just as I said. My HQ coordinated this visit with the port authority. How do you think I got past the gate guard? I’ll go talk to the security folks and straighten this out.” Ben started for the door.

The watch officer stepped into his path. “Interpol has no agents.”

Drone.

“A common misconception.” He slid a finger under the badge clipped to his lapel and lifted it an inch. “See? ‘Agent.’ Says it right here. The field division is new, created after 9/11. You know. September 11, 2001? The terrorist attacks? Took more than a decade to get the whole thing approved.” As he chattered, Ben placed his body between the watch officer and the captain, obstructing their view of each other.

The captain had heard enough. He drew a SIG P2022, the same type Massir had carried in Rome. “I think this man needs to spend a day or two in a shipping container—at least until we put out into deep water. What do you think, Mr. Ruiz?”

The watch officer moved a corner of his jacket aside to show Ben a matching SIG.

Counter-accuse.

“Oh, wow. Guns. Did you know that’s illegal here? Mallory told me you were packing, but I didn’t believe him.”

For an instant, both men shifted their glares to the bos’n.

No more talking. Time to fight.

Ben jerked the watch officer into a headlock, using him as a shield and confiscating the SIG from its holster. During the flurry of motion, the captain fired. The watch officer let out a cry, hit in the shoulder. Ben fired back, and the captain clutched his chest. That left only Mallory, who didn’t appear to have a weapon. Ben smacked the bleeding watch officer’s head against the steel doorframe, shoved him at the bos’n, and ran.

“You’re a dead man,” Mallory called after him.

Maybe. The bos’n had lured him into a nightmare game of Chutes and Ladders, and Ben had no idea how to escape the board.

The gunshots brought security guards hustling in from both ends of the pier, all wielding MP5s and one holding the leash of a German shepherd.

Ben half slid and half jumped down each ladder. A bullet sparked off the deck in front of him as he reached the superstructure’s lowest balcony. Mallory leaned over the railing, two balconies above, lining up another shot. Ben fired off a round to force him back.

The dock security guards yelled at both men in English. “Drop your weapons! Hands up!”

Fat chance.

Alard the innkeeper shouted from the barracks in Dutch. Ben couldn’t understand him, but he got the gist. He’s on your side. He’s with Interpol.

The guards moved their aim up and down in confusion.

Two more crewmen appeared on the cargo deck, running beside the stacks—both armed. In seconds, they’d have a clear shot at the lower balcony, and they wouldn’t share the dock guards’ confusion.

Ben needed to move. If he crawled down the ladder to search the maze of lower decks and passages for a way out, they’d own him. He’d have to stay outside, in the fresh air. The gap between the balcony and the cargo stacks looked to be several meters. Ben pressed his body back against the superstructure for a running start and launched himself from the rail. His chest slammed into the closest container.

Bullets plinked off the steel as Ben scrambled over the edge and regained his feet. Mallory hadn’t heeded the dock guards’ warnings. One fired a burst to make him listen. “Put the gun down!” Ben kept on sprinting across the containers, leaping from one to the