The Paris Betrayal Page 2

  “Who are you,” Massir asked. “Where’s Hagen?”

  “Jupiter sends his regards.”

  “What is that? What are you doing?”

  Ben saw them through a sister arch across the rotunda. The stray light from the oculus caught the Algerian’s face, but the woman remained in shadow. She pointed at Ben and vanished.

  Massir stared back at him with a question in his eyes. After a moment, light dawned on his features and he patted his coat. He ripped off the echo and showed it to Ben with a defiant grin. Then he tossed it into the crowd and backed into the darkness.

  Ben clambered over the scaffolding, making a racket, until he reached a stretch of new concrete and raced toward Massir’s position. Two-thirds of the way around, he found an exterior window with a ladder. He took a gamble.

  The three-tiered roof behind the Pantheon offered short hops to the street below, where Ben spotted his quarry pushing his way through tourists crowding an alley. He ran along the lowest rooftop until it curved away, and leaped into the crowd. Two men softened his landing. He patted them both on the back, planting his hands to push himself to his feet. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  They shouted at his back in a language he didn’t know. Hungarian, maybe.

  All Massir’s shoving had cleared a serviceable path. Ben timed his move to match a side passage marked Privato. He caught up, hooked an arm around the man’s waist, and spun him through the opening like a dance partner.

  Massir drew his gun. Ben smacked it against the wall, crushing his knuckles, and wrenched the weapon from his grasp. He jabbed it into his ribs. “Walk.”

  The private passage ran deep into the buildings beside the Pantheon to a small quad bounded by tall apartments. Rugs and clothing hung from the windows. Ben stopped Massir short of the light and shoved him against the bricks. He lifted the Algerian’s chin with the SIG’s barrel. “Who are you working for?”

  “Your mother.”

  “That’s original.” He tensed his finger on the trigger. “What is this? A SIG P2022? Bold choice. Don’t prefer it, myself. I could never get used to a weapon with a heavy first trigger pull. The question of when that very first bullet will leave the chamber is always a giant guessing game.” He added pressure and made sure Massir could feel it. “How did you know my name? Who is Jupiter?”

  “I—” Massir clutched the arm braced against his chest.

  “Don’t even think about it. I will end you.”

  But Massir’s eyes lost their focus. A gray blister developed on his face.

  Ben released him and backed away, keeping the weapon trained. More blisters appeared. Dark tendrils radiated from each one. He watched the lines weave like snakes through Massir’s veins. They reached his eyes. Blood trickled from his tear ducts.

  “What is this? What’s happening to you?”

  The fear in Massir’s eyes told Ben he wanted to answer. Unintelligible gurgles erupted from his throat. He clawed the air, sliding down the bricks until he hit the cobblestones, convulsed, and went still.

  4

  “How? Why?” Ben raised his hands toward his temples and noticed he still held the SIG. He tossed the gun into Massir’s lap and examined his own fingers, as if he might see lice wriggling under his nails. Ben knew this disease. Every Company operative had been trained on the big ones in their bioterrorism course. Massir’s symptoms were atypical, but close enough.

  The Black Death.

  The plague, yersinia pestis, is the most frequently weaponized disease in history. Spies and kings have used it for centuries. Thanks to the bacteria’s persistent, never-say-die nature and the misguided efforts of bush-league terror organizations around the globe, the plague has long outlived the history books. Fortunately, these days, the early appearance of symptoms and the slow spread through the body make it a feeble foe.

  “But you,” Ben said under his breath, no longer addressing Massir but the thing eating his dead body. “You moved so fast.”

  He tried to remember the transmission methods, aside from the traditional rats and fleas. Bubonic or pneumonic—injection or respiratory mist. “Please have a needle mark. Please don’t be airborne.” He bent as close as he dared and checked the arms and neck, but the boils and blackened skin left no chance of finding a needle prick.

  Ben checked himself. No scratches. No blood. Did he feel feverish? Maybe. His pulse was up. His eyes returned to the body and he gritted his teeth. If a dog so much as licked Massir’s face, this thing would spin out of control.

  A race through his recent memory brought Ben to a homeless man, begging in the street ten meters or so past the passage entrance. He found the guy still at his post, the best hope in the immediate area.

  The precious bottle lay poorly hidden beneath a blanket, an obvious bulge. A handful of coins, scattered on the pavers, distracted the beggar and compensated him for his loss.

  “Ladro! Ridameelo!” came the rasping cry as Ben took off with his whisky. Thief! Give it back!

  No one gave either of them more than a passing glance. Ben needed one more item, always in plentiful supply on the streets of Rome. An obliging young local three paces in front of him lit a cigarette. Ben altered course, bounced a shoulder off the alley wall, and ripped it right from the kid’s mouth.

  The smoker and a friend, young enough to be dumb and brave, gave chase, shouting a hybrid stream of Italian and English. Apparently acting like a jerk automatically made Ben an American.

  In this case, they weren’t wrong.

  Ben reached the body and turned, firing his Glock into the bricks above his head. “Back off!”

  The young men skidded to a halt, hands raised. Others peered into the passage from the street.

  Ben fired again. “Beat it! All of you! Vai via!”

  They left him in peace—for now. Wasting no time with pouring, he smashed the bottle on the bricks above the slumped Massir. He gave the whisky only a moment to soak into his clothes, then kneeled beside him. “I’m sorry, friend. I suspect this is not the burial you wanted, but I can’t take any chances.” He let the cigarette fall. The whisky willingly ignited. “What did you get us both into?”

  Ben stood to watch the flames spread around the SIG in Massir’s lap. The cartridges inside would soon kick off, nonlethal but loud enough to keep any responders at bay until the bacteria burned away.

  Would the fire get it all? Maybe not. Ben knew of one potential carrier about to walk away from the scene.

  A chill swept through him. Unconsciously, he pressed the barrel of his Glock up under his own chin. Held it there for a long moment and inched close enough to the flames to smell the burning flesh.

  The thing moved fast. Ben saw it. And right now, he felt nothing. Maybe he’d gotten lucky. He holstered the gun and forced his way through the gathering crowd.

  5

  Get far fast. Then get farther faster. Time and distance. An exponential relationship. Less than fourteen minutes after burning the body in the old city, Ben emerged from the EUR Palasport Metro station, nine kilometers south.

  Known as the Euro Quarter and planned by Mussolini in the 1930s, Rome’s Esposizione Universale Roma looked like the Epcot of fascism. Broad streets, dystopian megastructures, and the lightest foot traffic in the entire city made it Ben’s first choice for a contingency rendezvous.

  Ben grabbed an outdoor table at Geco Ristorante, which gave him a nice view of the quarter’s central obelisk and the approaching roads, and ordered some focaccia and a sparkling water.

  Giselle appeared on the sidewalk beyond the obelisk just as Ben dipped his second bite of focaccia in the olive oil at the edge of his plate. He held up an open palm when she took the chair across from him. “Stay back, but don’t make a scene.”

  “What is it?” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned close in blatant defiance of his request. The fur and the platinum hair were gone, replaced with a red wool overcoat and a darker honey blonde. “Are we social distancing again?”

 
“Just . . . don’t touch me. Something happened in the old city.”

  “I assume you are referring to the burning body near the Pantheon.”

  He let his eyes give him away, not bothering to hide the guilt.

  “So, it was you.” She gave him a playful gasp. “Ben, I have seen you get violent in the heat of battle, but lighting a man on fire?” Her gaze drifted up to the stocking cap he’d stolen on the train. “Nice hat, by the way. Green is your color.” She reached for a slice of focaccia.

  “Don’t!” He reached to push her hand away, then thought better of it and pulled back. The outburst brought a look of concern from the waiter. Ben gave him a fleeting smile and lowered his voice. “I had to burn him—the body, I mean. There’s a bug. I may have been exposed.”

  Unconcerned, Giselle lifted the bread from the plate and touched it to her bottom lip. “What kind of bug, mon chéri?”

  “I thought we agreed not to use that term in public.”

  “Like anyone can hear. The comm net is off, yes? Dylan is long gone.” She took a bite, talking as she chewed. “What bug, Ben?”

  “The symptoms looked like the plague. Black boils near the lymph nodes, a sign of the bubonic form. But he also lost the ability to speak, which hints at pneumonic, and that could be airborne.”

  She put the back of her hand to his cheek.

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Quiet, please.” She checked his forehead next. “Nothing. No temperature. Your color is good.”

  “My heart rate is up.”

  “Isn’t it always when I am with you?” Her lips curled into a smile and she stole some more focaccia, dipping it into the olive oil.

  “Giselle . . .”

  “You’re fine. Relax.” She took a bite, pointing the remainder his way. “What about this morning? What happened at the briefcase switch?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Ambushed by a Dutchman in the square. And you?”

  “Accosted by an Algerian on the rooftop. Massir. The guy whose info led us to the case.”

  “And this Algerian, he was your burning man?”

  “I planted a tracker during the fight. I’d have held on to him, but I let him go when I heard you scream. Giselle—”

  Another couple claimed a table not far away, loudly calling the waiter over. Ben watched them.

  Giselle touched his arm. “They are no threat, Ben. Go on.”

  “Massir . . . uh . . .” Ben finally tore his gaze from the couple and met Giselle’s eyes. “He knew my name. Not the alias I used the first time I found him. My real name. He called me Calix.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You misunderstood.”

  “No. I didn’t. He said someone called Jupiter has been watching me, and he’s pleased.”

  She made a face, flicking her hand. “I guess that’s better than displeased.”

  “Don’t joke. I heard the same name later.” He told her about the chase to the Pantheon and the woman who met with Massir. “I think the Hagen he mentioned was your Dutchman.”

  “Probably. What about the woman? Could you describe her voice to the Company analysts?”

  Ben shook his head. “Her whisper masked any tone or accent. But she has to be the one who hit him with the weaponized bug. The symptoms came on so fast.”

  The idea gave him hope. If the woman infected Massir, then she’d probably used a needle. A virus requiring injection left Ben in the clear.

  Ben had been drinking the water straight from the bottle. The waiter pointed at his glass. “Posso prenderlo, signore?” May I take that, sir?

  “Sì. Grazie. And another bottle for the lady.”

  Giselle waited for him to walk out of earshot. “All this tells us is another team was guarding the courier, yes? We were blown.”

  “We were blown from the start.” Ben clenched a fist. “Massir gave me the intel. That means the case is suspect at best. Our bomb maker may not exist. This whole thing could be a setup.”

  “For what purpose? For the Algerian to give you Jupiter’s praise and then die?” She laughed.

  He didn’t.

  They ate in silence for a while, until Ben pushed his plate away. “I’m not going straight back. I need to see Tess.”

  Giselle coughed on her sparkling water. “You don’t need to see Tess. You’re fine.”

  “I need to get checked out.”

  “By the pretty doctor?”

  “I trust her, more than I trust the other medics. And if I can catch her in Belgium, it’ll only add a few hours to my trip—a day at most.”

  “She’d better not keep you a full day.” Giselle set her bottle down with enough firmness to make Ben worry it might crack. She pursed her lips and sat back, crossing her arms. “Fine. I am taking a detour as well.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s personal. You know the rule.”

  She meant their rule—Giselle and Ben’s—not some section of the Company regs. When their less-than-professional entanglement began a few weeks earlier, they’d agreed to keep their past lives separate from their present. Hidden. Unspoken. It was better that way.

  “I’ll meet you day after tomorrow,” she said, scooting back her chair and dabbing her lips with her napkin.

  “Where?” Prudence demanded they avoid each other’s residences.

  “Remember that cottage I showed you in Chaville?”

  “You bought it?”

  “Cash. The Company is no wiser.”

  A lot of cash. Ben had seen the asking price when they walked through together. He lowered his chin. “Not your go fund, right?”

  “I wouldn’t dare. Our go funds are Company money. I told you I had some personal savings.” She gave him that mischievous smile. “And now I have a personal safe house. Meet me there. You’ll know I’m home when you see the Peugeot.”

  “Giselle, I—”

  “Till then.” She stood and leaned in to kiss him.

  Ben drew back, but Giselle caught the back of his head with her usual speed and strength. How often he forgot her capabilities.

  She kissed him on the lips—a longer goodbye kiss than usual. “That is for you to remember when you see Tess.”

  “You really shouldn’t have done that. What if I’m infected?”

  “Then Tess will know, and you will find me at my little safe house, and we will go through this together.”

  She straightened and buttoned her coat, and Ben caught her fingers before she turned to go. He’d never spoken the words, but with that touch, he said I love you.

  Neither had to say it out loud, especially not Giselle. Her disregard for the danger of infection—that kiss—said it all.

  6

  JUPITER GLOBAL EXECUTIVE RETREAT

  VALENCIANA PROVINCE

  SPAIN

  Emil Jupiter sipped his evening espresso and studied the holographic screen hovering above his porch table. A distant huff and snarl stole his attention for only a moment. By the sound of it, somewhere out in the dark mountainous acreage of his personal retreat, one of his projects had found its supper.

  More than a dozen windows divided the holographic screen into stock tickers, news reports, video feeds, and the like. Jupiter frowned at a decrypted message rolling across the top and flicked it away into oblivion with a swipe of his hand. He turned his attention to a video in the lower corner and moved it to the center. A courier crossed a square, carrying a briefcase, viewed from a distance. A woman in fur and sunglasses spilled her coffee. A determined fighter changed the vector of his opponent’s knife, letting the blade’s sweep come within a centimeter of trimming the deep brown hair spitting out from under his wool cap.

  Jupiter paused the playback when the camera zoomed in on the fighter. “Ah. Mr. Calix.” He spread his fingers, and flashing holographic dots spread like foam, adding dimension to the flat image. He turned the fighter’s face left and right, like an uncle holding his
nephew’s chin, and studied the hazel eyes. “Confident. Assured in purpose. I’m told you’re a patriot, a true believer. We’ll see.”

  The face of the unseen opponent, the one wielding the knife, must have looked quite different. Jupiter imagined Massir wearing an expression of surprise and dismay. Pitiful. His job had been to control Calix while Hagen dealt with the woman, and he’d failed.

  Massir was loyal, if not adequately skilled, and Jupiter regretted his death. But someone needed to die in Rome to pull the first card from the Director’s precarious house. What had his old friend Hale used to say? Pick up the trash. A hockey term. When an operative misses the goal, trap the rebounding puck and shoot again.

  Jupiter had salvaged the operation by sacrificing a player. Now Hagen needed to follow up.

  A knock on a porch pillar interrupted his analysis. His executive assistant waited for an acknowledgment and then spoke. “Our Dutch friend is here to see you, sir. He brought the guest you requested.”

  Speak of the devil.

  Jupiter pressed the hologram down into the tabletop and stood. “Thank you, Terrance. Bring them through.”

  Hagen stepped out of the palatial house with professional bearing. He had walked the paths of Jupiter’s private reserve before.

  The courier had not. He had likely never heard of Jupiter Global before Hagen had dragged him out of Rome earlier that day. Shells and subsidiaries kept the main corporation well-insulated. The young man bore the look of a mouse entering a lion’s den. Not far from the truth.

  Jupiter spread his hands. “Hagen. Thank you for coming. Did you enjoy your swim in the Tiber?” He saw a flash of fear in Hagen’s eyes. Good. So, he still had a brain.