Cris cursed the fact he hadn’t been able to bring a gun. It was something he planned to remedy mighty soon. He looked through the spy hole, and two men were standing outside. Tough men, smart suits, regimental ties and white shirts, and his expert eyes noticed the tiny bulge beneath the left side of their sport coats.

  He called out. "Who is it?"

  "Jacques Moreau and Henri Lescaut. We’re here for Miss Maria Tereshkova."

  She was at the bedroom door, listening. "It's okay. They’re the men I hired. You can let them in."

  He opened the door, and they entered the suite. Both men looked around, their experienced eyes searching for threats, and missing nothing.

  “I’m Jacques Moreau," the first man said, “Who's in charge?”

  Cris stared at him, sizing him up and liking what he saw. "I'm in charge."

  "Very well. Do you require guns?"

  "We do. You’re both carrying?”

  The two former legionnaires showed their Walther P38s, and the man named Henri Lescaut handed Cris a 9mm Glock 17. "I understand you worked for DEA, Monsieur. I believe this is a weapon they commonly use."

  "I did, and it is. It's appreciated."

  The Frenchman shifted his gaze to Maria. "Mam’selle, I have a small pistol if you feel you need protection?” He smiled, “Although most women prefer to go unarmed, and let us men do the shooting."

  Her gaze was frosty. "I'm not most women. Give me the gun."

  She grimaced when he took out a diminutive Le Français 6.35mm automatic. Lightweight, a woman's gun, and designed to fit into a purse. Wordlessly, she took it, snapped out the magazine, and checked the action. She turned away from them, lifted her skirt, and tucked it in her underwear. The two Frenchmen raised their eyebrows, but wisely said nothing. Like she’d said, she wasn’t most women. After an awkward pause, Jacques asked where she wanted to go that morning.

  "I wish to go to Sacre Coeur. The cathedral at Montmartre."

  "A church?" Lescaut raised his eyebrows, "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure. I wish to pray, and Sacre Coeur has a reputation as one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world."

  "That's true," he said solemnly, "But praying? Merde."

  Shit.

  “Monsieur Lescaut, we’ve been running from these people for two years, and they keep trying to kill me. So far, nothing else has worked. I think it's worth a try."

  He shrugged. "Of course, Mam’selle. Whatever you wish."

  Jacques Moreau led them from the hotel, with Cris and Maria in the center and Lescaut bringing up the rear. Rather than use the car, Maria expressed a preference to travel on the famous Paris Metro, and so they descended into the dark, dusty bowels of the earth. They traveled deep below the Paris streets, until they reached the bustling district known as Montmartre.

  The cathedral was on the hill above them, a glistening, almost white building, and testament to man's ability to create structures of great beauty. The streets around the Metro station were anything but beautiful. Perhaps they'd been once, but now were grimy, and teeming with the poverty stricken, dispossessed, and illegal immigrants. They strolled up a narrow lane toward the cathedral, and men of Middle Eastern appearance were operating the ball and thimbles scam. A fraud played worldwide, and yet still, the suckers crowded around to lose their money. At the foot of the hill the modern funicular railway carried them up to the cathedral, and they walked up the final grand stone staircase, past the hawkers and beggars, to reach the door. She turned as they tried to follow.

  "I wish to be on my own, Gentlemen. Please, wait for me out here."

  "You mean me as well?" Cris was aghast. A cathedral should be a place of safety from the violence of the outside world. But if men were trailing them, they’d have little respect for a place of worship.

  She was adamant. "I'll be safe, and don’t forget, they don't know we’re here. Even if they still wanted to kill me, which seems unlikely. Don’t argue. I'm going alone."

  She entered the dark interior, and the three men waited outside. The two bodyguards prowled around the outside, studying the surroundings. Cris waited in the doorway, casting a piercing gaze over every man and woman who entered.

  It seemed she was right. The Russians had given up, and she could relax. He smiled, thinking of her kneeling inside the gloomy cathedral, perhaps before a statue of the Virgin. Saying her prayers with an automatic pistol in her purse.

  The warble of his cellphone interrupted his thoughts, and he answered.

  “Rhodes.”

  "This is Yuri Romanov."

  "Is anything wrong?"

  A slight chuckle; "Nothing at all. Things are going very well. I did a good trade on Bitcoin yesterday and made a packet. It couldn’t be better."

  "I meant our friends in the Kremlin."

  "Ah, yes, that’s why I called. There's no sign of any adverse moves from Ushakov, at least, nothing I can detect. Cris, you’re in the clear. Although there is just one thing."

  “One thing?"

  He chuckled again. "You were caught up in a terrorist incident at Paris Charles de Gaulle."

  "How did you know?"

  “The whole world knows. They caught it on the security camera footage and released the video to the network news media. You only had to turn on the TV, and you and Maria were there, ducking behind an immigration counter."

  "So Ushakov’s people could have seen us."

  He sighed. "Cris, what if they did? They've given up."

  He still didn’t trust them. “Keep monitoring, Yuri. Call me the moment you see anything."

  “I will. Enjoy your vacation.”

  He beckoned the bodyguards over and explained what had happened. "There could be a risk, so we need to be more alert."

  “Are you going to tell her?" Moreau asked.

  He'd already thought of that and decided to say nothing.

  Let her enjoy her vacation. It could prove to be her last.

  * * *

  Ushakov picked up the next document and used the remote to mute the television in his office. He’d tuned it to CNN, and they were talking about a fracas involving the American football league. He signed the document and picked up the next. Something made him look up. The world news had resumed, and they were showing a piece about a terrorist attack in Paris. Which didn’t interest him, the Islamists attacked at random anywhere in the world that took their fancy. But something made him take a second look. Two familiar faces, two people he'd once chased from one end of Russia to the other, and across the oceans to America. Yet he hadn't managed to kill them, his one failure, and the failure that could cost him his precious job.

  In the process, his failures had infuriated his boss, the President of the Russian Republic. Which could prove to be fatal. He looked at the next paper on his desk, an execution order awaiting his signature; prisoners in the gulag, and all serving life sentences. There’d been trouble, and they’d killed three guards. The crimes warranted execution; of that there was no doubt. He checked through their impressive criminal records.

  Murder, cannibalism…He had to look twice at that. Cannibalism. Not unknown in Russia, but fortunately rare. Rape, and a multitude of lesser crimes. The note from the governor stated these prisoners were the worst society could produce. Their deaths were necessary before they killed more people. He was about to affix his signature to the execution order when he paused. An idea was forming in his brain. The spark had been that news footage of the traitor Maria Tereshkova caught up in the terrorist attack in Paris.

  A pity they didn't kill her. It would have saved everyone a great deal of trouble.

  His new idea centered on the prisoners awaiting execution in the gulag. He'd tried before, using two men about to face execution, and they'd failed. They’d been certified lunatics, but he realized they hadn’t had the skills necessary to assassinate the Tereshkova woman, protected by the interfering American Cris Rhodes.

  The creatures named in the document before him were something different. They'd proved themselves skilled in a variety of crimes, everything from rape and murder to cannibalism, and one was a woman. As far as he was concerned, they were more than welcome to eat the body of Tereshkova, if that was their pleasure.

  He thought for several minutes, went to his drinks cabinet, and poured himself a long shot of vodka. Unlike most Russians, he wasn't a heavy drinker. Except on certain occasions, when the situation required him to take a big gamble.

  Could they do it, these psychotic criminals? Could they pull it off, where the others failed? Yes, they’d employ their murderous skills, and I have little doubt they’d succeed.

  Perhaps it was the alcohol that influenced him, but he came to another decision. Each time in the past, he'd sent in men with orders to kill her, but left them without direction in the field.

  I will accompany them, and lead them on the chase that must result in the death of that damnable woman. I can do this. And success is certain to mean I keep my job.

  He worked through the idea, how he would direct his blunt instruments, the criminal scum, when another thing occurred to him. Even with his leadership, they would need something more. When he drove his car, the Porsche 911 he'd imported from Germany several months ago, he always used the satellite navigation built into the dashboard. That's what he’d need for this operation, guidance and technology to guide his tame brutes to the target.

  With the decision made, he picked up his desk phone, and put through a call to the governor of the gulag. The man answered within seconds. A call from the Kremlin was serious business.

  "The prisoners you have slated for execution, Governor. I believe I can rehabilitate them.”

  The pause at the other end of the line lasted for several seconds. He was certain he heard a sharp intake of breath. "Mr. Ushakov, I don't think you realize what kind of people they are. These prisoners are some of the worst we've ever seen in this place, and here, we get the dregs and filth of society. The bottom feeders who don't deserve to live in Russian society. Even death is too good for these people, do you want me to remind you what they've done?"

  “I said I can rehabilitate them." His voice was icy with menace, and the Governor abruptly changed tack.

  "Of course, of course, Sir. I will cooperate in any way you see fit."

  "You will send them to Moscow under heavy guard, and tell me when their flight is due to land. I will also require one more prisoner, someone skilled at using modern technology, the internet, hacking, that kind of thing. Governor, let me be clear, the person I want, he must be the best. The task I have in mind requires nothing less.

  "One moment, Mr. Ushakov."

  He heard the man opening and closing filing cabinets, and thumbing through paper files. After a few minutes, his voice came back on the phone.

  "I have what you need, Sir."

  "He is the best?"

  "He is the best, no question."

  "In that case, send him with the others. Keep me advised."

  He ended the call and smiled to himself. Many years before, he'd worked for KGB, before the demise and separation of that feared organization into foreign and domestic intelligence branches, the SVR and the FSB. They’d lost much of their power, and had become a shadow of the organization that spawned them. The KGB had been the best. Utterly ruthless, its operatives would have finished off the Tereshkova woman almost without drawing breath. Those days were gone. This was the new Russia. Yet even in the new Russia, the old methods were sometimes the best, simple and direct.

  Send in a vicious and brutal assassination team, led by myself, and kill her. My President will be forever grateful, and my position in the Kremlin secure. I feel energized at the thought of going back into the field. The hunt is about to begin.

  Chapter One

  The two weeks they’d spent in Paris were a revelation. She was the old Maria Tereshkova, sparkling eyes, and a mind filled with eager curiosity. They went everywhere, restaurants, obscure museums, and tiny art galleries tucked in alleyways built during the time of Napoleon III. The architect was the renowned Baron Haussmann, and he’d specified local stone to build his architectural masterpieces. The Paris authorities, goaded by the ambitious Napoleon, searched for a local supply of the essential stone.

  The architects solved the problem in a unique way. Men tunneled under the streets of Paris, and as they dug and hacked at the bedrock to bring it to the surface, they created tunnels; tunnels that stretched for hundreds of miles, and were still in existence. Some served as a mammoth ossuary when the authorities ran short of burial space. The stone they excavated was used to build the wondrous edifices that made Paris a city admired across the world, the City of Light.

  In the palatial George V, the famous and luxurious hotel, everything was designed to give guests the luxurious experience of their lifetime. The furnishings, decorations, food, service, everything was of the very finest, and even more so, if that were possible. Sometimes, the word ‘decadent’ seemed appropriate.

  She awoke that morning, and he was already dressed when she walked into the living room of their suite. "Cris, there's something we’ve missed. Two weeks in Paris, and we haven't visited the Louvre Art Museum."

  He shrugged. "In that case, we don't have anything planned for this morning, we could do it, and afterward find a restaurant we haven't yet visited for lunch."

  She gave him a long, lascivious smile. "And this afternoon?”

  “What about this afternoon?”

  “After walking through several miles of the Louvre's galleries, and doing lunch in a Paris restaurant, we'll need to take a break."

  She did everything short of winking at him, but he didn’t let her off the hook. "We could take that boat trip on the River Seine you been talking about."

  Her face fell. "I had something else in mind."

  He managed to conjure up a long, heavy sigh. "Yeah, I guess we’ll need a rest."

  She approached him and punched him hard in the belly.

  He grabbed her shoulders. "Hey, what was that for?"

  "You know what it was for. Behave yourself this afternoon, or you'll get another one."

  “I'm at your service, Ma’am."

  "You'd better be."

  Cris used the internal phone, and Jacques Moreau answered. "We’re going to the Louvre this morning, and we'll need the car outside in an hour."

  "Certainly, Cris. We'll be waiting."

  He drank coffee while he waited for Maria to dress. Forty-five minutes later, they were sitting on the luxurious leather upholstery of the Mercedes limo they'd rented. Henri steered them through the traffic, while Jacques occupied the shotgun seat. They were relaxed. After two weeks, there was no sign of any untoward interest in their activities, and no reason to believe anything would change. They entered a tunnel, and Jacques swung his head around.

  "This is the Pont de l'Alma tunnel, the place where Princess Diana died in a car crash."

  "You'd better tell Henri to drive carefully," Maria said, "We don't want a repeat."

  “People said it was deliberate, that she was killed by the British Secret Service.”

  She gave him a skeptical glance. “I heard it was a conspiracy theory.”

  Before he could answer, the vehicle slowed. Ahead of them, the traffic had stacked up, and in the distance, a truck had skidded broadside across the road. Hazard lights were flashing, and already inpatient drivers were banging their horns, making their annoyance heard. Three men were walking toward them, and Cris assumed they were a maintenance gang. Gray overalls, and orange hi viz vests. Although one thing about them jarred, their haircuts, cropped close to the skull. Like convicts.

  * * *

  Andrey Rublev glanced at his two accomplices.

  "I can see the car. Act natural. Remember, we’re a road repair crew. There’s no reason for them to suspect anything.”

  Grigory Zhukov, the man who'd been under sentence of death for home invasion, rape, and murder didn't turn his head. He spoke out the corner of his mouth, like he’d watched too many gangster movies.

  "I'm not an amateur, Andrey. I know how this works."

  Kolchak, the cannibal, was walking ahead of them, and they knew what was on his mind. Ever since the strange but welcome reprieve from the death sentence, he'd been gloating about the human meat he’d soon be eating.

  “I can’t help it. I have to have human meat, otherwise I’d go crazy.” His eyes were glazed, filled with madness.

  No one had remarked he was more than crazy enough, and they’d made doubly sure to lock their bedroom doors in their cheap hotel. Inside the gulag, other prisoners had given him a wide berth. Things were different now, and his release from confinement meant he was once again free to hunt for human prey. They’d given him a weapon and sent him to a foreign country, where he could slake his peculiar appetites. All he needed was the prey.

  "I can smell them," he said, and the man in the driver’s seat of a car he was walking past turned at the unfamiliar Russian language. Kolchak’s stare was long and hungry. He licked his lips. The driver closed his window and pressed the button to activate the door locks.

  * * *

  He watched the road crew drawing nearer, and something about them was odd. He was still trying to work out what it was when Jacques said, "Henri, those men walking toward us. Does it look like they’re armed?"

  He stared into the gloom. "You could be right. I didn't know they provided road repair crews with guns."

  "Neither did I.” He turned to Cris, but Rhodes had already worked it out.

  "They’re here. Those men are Russians. Maria, get out. Jacques, Henri, we’re going back along the tunnel. I need you to hold them back."

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53