Black operator complete.., p.50
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 50
"We’re under arrest?" She sounded outraged.
"Arrest?” He raised an eyebrow, “Not yet. When I have your statements, I will decide how to proceed. You could face several charges, from carrying and discharging unlicensed weapons, to multiple murders. We shall see."
They pushed them into the police van, and they sat in the claustrophobic interior, breathing in the stink of powerful disinfectant. It wove through the Paris traffic, the siren wailing, and the blue light on the roof flashing.
The van carried them to the rear of the Paris Prefecture, and uniformed cops hustled them inside. They pushed them into separate cells, where they waited for so long he thought they’d forgotten about them. The cops had relieved them of their possessions when they searched them, and amongst the items they'd taken were their watches. The passage of time was impossible to gauge, but it dragged on. There was no sign of Jacques Moreau. Somehow, he’d given the cops the slip when they emerged from the Metro shaft.
Eventually, the door clanged open, and they led him to a tiny interrogation room. The furnishings consisted of a battered metal desk and two uncomfortable chairs. The walls were decorated with graffiti and badly in need of a coat of paint. Detective Inspector Claude Jobert indicated the chair opposite him.
"Tell me about these people you claim are trying to kill you."
“They’re trying to kill Maria Tereshkova. If they’re trying to kill me, it's because I'm protecting her."
He spent an hour going over the events since they’d arrived in Paris, and Jobert was mostly silent, asking the odd question for clarification. Throughout, his face was stony, and when Cris had finished, he murmured to the uniformed cop to return him to his cell.
Once again, the wait was long, and eventually darkness fell. He tried and failed to get some sleep. The shouts of prisoners, drunks singing, doors slamming, and locks rattling made it all but impossible.
He may have dozed for an hour, he couldn't tell, but daylight was showing through the tiny barred window. The lock rattled, and the door opened. A uniform gestured to him.
"You may go, for now. But Inspector Jobert has ordered you to remain in your hotel, and you are forbidden to leave until his investigation is complete."
He collected his personal effects from the counter, and Maria was waiting for him in the lobby of the Prefecture. She was smiling.
“They didn’t search my underwear. Which means I still have my gun. What about you?"
He reminded her he’d ditched it down the shaft. “You were lucky. Unlicensed possession of a firearm in France carries a compulsory prison sentence. How’s the ankle?”
She pointed to a compression bandage on her lower leg. "Thank God they were very polite. They called in a doctor, and he gave me painkilling drugs and strapped up the ankle, so at least I can walk. We’re free to go."
“But we can’t leave the hotel. As for the Louvre, forget it.”
She smiled then, and some of the pressure of the last couple of days fell from her face. "No, I doubt they’d let us back into the Louvre. Not for a very long time."
They emerged onto the street. The rain was beating down on the sidewalk, which was blocked with a forest of umbrellas. He was about to call a cab when the Mercedes pulled up next to them, and Jacques Moreau climbed out.
"I thought you might want a ride back to the hotel."
“How did you get away?"
He shrugged. "It was nothing special. I mingled with a group of tourists. When the cops asked me if I was involved, I said I didn't understand."
"Where did you say you were from?"
"Italy. The Vatican."
They both stared at him. "You said you were a priest?"
He shrugged. “An off-duty priest. I've always liked the idea of having God on my side.”
They climbed into the car, and he drove back to the hotel. A half-hour later, they were inside the suite. They took turns in the hot shower and changed their clothes. Jacques had ordered food, and they sat down to an early lunch, discussing the next moves.
"I assume you’ll be flying back to the States?" the Frenchman asked.
Cris shook his head. "We can't leave the city, not for the time being. We don't have any choice but to stay.”
"So what's next?"
Rhodes smiled. “You recall I said something about taking the fight to the enemy? That's exactly what we’re going to do. It's either that, or we just wait for when they come at us again."
Moreau nodded. "It's an idea. Except we don't know where they are. How can we attack them?”
He grinned. "I know a man who can find out."
Fifteen minutes later, he was talking to Yuri Romanov in Washington. At first, he was strangely reluctant to help.
“Cris, I’m in the middle of a huge deal with Bitcoin. This is make or break time. There could be millions of dollars riding on it.”
“Maria’s life is riding on it, Yuri. I want an answer, and I want it fast. Where is Ushakov and his team of killers?”
An hour later, they had the answer.
“I believe Ushakov is staying at the Russian Embassy, but I can’t be sure.”
“I have to know, Yuri. Is he there are not?”
“He’s there.”
“What else did you find out?”
“There's a link to a hotel somewhere, but I didn’t get the name or the address."
"That'll be where his killers are staying," Cris murmured, "Find the address and call me.”
He ended the call and wondered about the hacker’s reticence.
He gave them what information they had. “All we have is the Embassy, so that’ll have to be our starting point.”
Moreau nodded. “We could stake out the place. If he’s there, sooner or later he has to show."
Cris shook his head. "Not today, not in this heavy rain. Anyone lurking outside an embassy in this weather would attract attention within minutes. Besides, the cops ordered us to stay inside the hotel. If they find us out on the street, we’ll be back in a cell.”
He grinned. "They won’t see us if we conduct our surveillance from somewhere unobtrusive and infinitely more comfortable. Like the limo."
Before he could reply, Maria frowned. "There’s a problem. That detective, Jobert, he said he'd have men watching the hotel to make sure we don’t leave. Not until he concludes his investigation."
Cris went to the window, and sure enough, a Renault car in the livery of the Paris police was parked opposite. Despite the rain, he could see a cop in the driver's seat, watching the front doors. Moreau joined him and grimaced.
"They'll have someone watching the back as well, but I have an idea to solve this problem."
An hour later, a limo pulled up to the front door of the hotel. Two uniformed porters holding huge umbrellas rushed forward to several items of luggage inside. The uniformed chauffeur shouted he needed them to show him the way to the parking garage.
The porters climbed into the rear seat, and the limo drove away. The vehicle didn't turn into the parking garage, but disappeared around the corner. In the back, their uniforms soaked with rain, the two porters removed their caps.
Rhodes lean forward; “Jacques, how long to the Embassy?"
“Ten minutes at most. You may need this.”
He passed him a Glock to replace the one he’d ditched in the Metro. After a short drive to the Russian Embassy, he parked one hundred yards from the building, and they were able to watch the front entrance. After two hours, there was still no sign of Ushakov, and Cris was starting to think they’d got it wrong. He used his cellphone to contact Yuri, but the hacker offered no further information. Once again, Cris was concerned he wasn’t taking it seriously.
He appears too interested in his damned Bitcoin trading empire to spend time helping Maria stay alive.
He ended the call, and a moment later, she exclaimed, "That’s him, Vladimir Ushakov. He’s leaving."
The Russian climbed into an Audi sports car and drove away. Moreau started the engine and followed. The trail led them past the Arc de Triomphe, and six cars in front of them, Ushakov stopped in a long line of traffic. They halted and waited.
"This happens every day," Moreau explained, "A commemoration for the fallen of the First and Second World Wars. The veterans march across the intersection while the police hold up the traffic. They go to the eternal flame that burns above the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, beneath the Arc de Triomphe. It is rekindled every day at 6.30. They hold a short service of remembrance and march back. It's a daily traffic snarl up, but no one complains. The dead deserve to be remembered."
They watched in silence, touched by the somber procession. After a short wait, the cops blew their whistles and waved the traffic on. They drove past the Arc de Triomphe and followed the Audi across a bridge over the River Seine. The route took them onto the island known as the Ile de la Cite. In front of them lay the iconic building that dominated the island, the Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame.
He found a parking space, and Jacques slotted in several cars behind. He strolled to a restaurant, sat at a table, and minutes later, a waiter brought him coffee.
“It’s a meeting of some sort, perhaps with his killers,” Cris murmured, “This could be our chance to find how many we’re up against.”
They watched for a short time, but no one joined him. Eventually, Maria grew impatient. "It’s time to settle this. Why don't we join him?”
"To do what?" Cris asked.
"I'll know when I talk to him."
He watched her fingering the little Le Français pistol, but he said nothing. Shooting a high-ranking diplomat dead in broad daylight, in the middle of a Paris street, could be a high-risk strategy. It could also be the only strategy to end the hunt.
She was right about one thing. It was time to confront him. He looked at Jacques. "Stay with the car, in case the cops come, and we need to make a fast getaway. I'll handle this with Maria."
They opened the doors and walked toward the café. They made it halfway when movement in the corner of his eye made him look around. A man and a woman were walking toward them. It was the haircuts that had made him take notice, close-cropped, like inmates from a prison, and their skin had the pallor of long-term incarceration. They’d seen him staring at them, and the woman said something urgently to the man. He snatched out a pistol, aimed, and fired. Bullets whined past them. He dragged Maria behind the cover of a parked car, snatched out his own gun, and returned fire.
The man ducked out of sight, but a second later he popped back up and fired several shots. When he looked at the café, Ushakov was running, and already some distance away. There was nothing he could do to stop him. The shooter was the immediate risk, and he searched for him. The Russians had moved behind a delivery truck loaded with beer for a café, and the man popped up and fired two more shots. One round creased his side, and he sent two bullets in reply, but the man and woman were already moving.
He looked at Maria. "Go back to the limo, and stay with Jacques. I'll go after them."
"But…"
"Just do it!"
He saw them disappear around the corner, going further into the maze of streets that make up the island. At the last second, the woman turned back and saw him. Cris quickened his pace, but when he reached the end of the street, they'd gone. He pushed past groups of tourists, each time checking his quarry weren’t hiding in the crowd.
He ran on and glimpsed a pale face turned toward him. The man with the gun, and he'd paused for a second to look behind. His eyes widened, and he started running again. Cris went after him, but in an attempt to slow him, the man gave a violent shove to a tourist guide. The woman had been speaking to a group of clients through a small loudhailer. She went rolling on the ground, knocking over her tourist customers like skittles.
Cris leapt over her and kept on running. He’d circled the island and arrived back alongside the twin towers of the ancient edifice of Notre Dame Cathedral. The man went inside, and Cris chased after him. In the dark gloom he saw a shadow disappear through a doorway, and heard feet clattering on a flight of stone steps. The staircase was ancient and winding, and after the first few steps, he realized the guy hadn’t taken the staircase to escape.
He’d staked out an ambush. Two shots cracked out, and the bullets ricocheted off the stonework. Behind him, someone screamed, a visitor who'd started to ascend and stopped a tumbling bullet.
He fired a shot upward. Before he fired again, his finger froze on the trigger. Recalling the ricochet that struck someone below him, he couldn't take the chance of more collateral damage. It wasn’t his style. He continued to ascend the dizzying spiral, climbing higher and higher, and above, he saw daylight piercing the gloom of the tower. He was almost at the top, and the door was open. He slowed, held his gun ready, and reached the portal. After checking every possible hiding place on the stairway, he emerged into the open at the top of the tower. He dodged to one side, with the gun seeking the target. Too late, the shooter stepped out from cover only feet away and fired. The bullet struck the barrel of the Glock, and it skidded across the concrete.
The Russian gave him an evil sneer. Cris knew he was a dead man. He watched for the tiniest opening, a way to avoid certain death. But the man was careful and his eyes watchful. He beckoned Cris to come toward him, the killer about to gloat over his prey.
All he could do was let him play his game. He approached, slowly. The man beckoned again and pointed to the side of the tower. His intention was clear. The kinetic force of the bullets striking him would be enough to push him over the top. If the bullets didn’t kill him, the long fall to the concrete below would finish the job.
He stayed where he was, and the gunmen glanced at his weapon, to make sure the safety was off. But before he could aim and fire, a group of tourists appeared from the other side of the tower and swirled around him.
The gunmen cursed and shouted at them. Cris took his chance, ran forward, pushed a teenage boy aside, and grabbed his pistol arm. He twisted hard, dislocating a shoulder. The man screamed, and the gun fell out of his hand. Cris used his leg to sweep behind the man's ankles, tumbling him to the ground.
He rebounded like an athlete. With a scream of rage, he ran not toward him, but toward the gun that lay several feet away. Cris’ leg swept up again as he went past. The man started to fall, and he grabbed his coat and jerked. His head hit the stone guardrail, and he almost went over, but Cris held him on the edge.
"I need information. Otherwise I'll throw you over."
The man snarled curses in Russian. Tourists stared, some reaching for their phones to call the cops. He didn't have much time.
"Where are you staying? How many of you are there?"
"Yob tvoy mat." Go fuck your mother.
The guy wasn't going to talk, and he couldn't kill him in cold blood. In the end, the Russian solved the problem for him. He jerked out of Cris' grip, forgetting that behind him there was just a wall of about three feet high and a long drop. The momentum tipped him over, and he plunged to the cobbled sidewalk below. He looked down, and the body lay still. Blood was pooling beneath him. He turned, and the tourists were staring at him in horror.
He shrugged. "He was suicidal. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen."
One man, a Brit, said, "He tried to suit shoot you. We saw it. That didn't look like suicide to me."
“You’re right. It was pure remorse."
The man looked puzzled, but Cris was already sprinting for the staircase. He ran down and left the gloomy cathedral behind him. A short walk across the open space took him to the limo where Moreau and Maria waited for him. The Frenchman pedaled the gas, just in time to avoid a half-dozen Paris police cruisers racing toward the scene.
"Where to?"
“Anywhere, but get off this island. Drive!"
He raced across the bridge toward the Left Bank, and he almost made it. The police had reacted fast. A line of three cruisers was broadside across the street. Several cops were standing behind them, and each had a gun in their hand.
Moreau stopped, and a cop approached him. Cris tucked the Glock under the seat, just in time. Jacques argued with him in fluent and colorful French, but the officer was adamant, and they had no choice but to wait. Eventually, he walked away, but the roadblock was still in place.
“What did he say?”
"He says we cannot leave the island, not until they’ve investigated a violent death that occurred in the cathedral."
Fifteen minutes later, a familiar figure approached them. He yawned and sighed. "Maria Tereshkova and Cris Rhodes. Why am I not surprised to see you?"
They looked up at Detective Inspector Claude Jobert. The cop who’d ordered them to remain in the hotel, pending multiple murder enquiries.
Chapter Four
If the previous encounter with the French detective had been less than cordial, this one was a few degrees below glacial. Jobert gave a sharp nod to a bunch of uniformed cops waiting nearby. They pounced on them, pinioned their arms, and hustled them into a police minivan. The prisoner transport had tiny, individual cells on each side. They pushed them into separate, cramped compartments, each barely larger than a medium sized refrigerator. The vehicle accelerated away, swaying through the Paris traffic, accompanied by the wail of the characteristic French siren.
He had to grip sides of the tiny compartment to stop the jerking, bumping, and swaying ride from tossing his head and body against the steel sides of the cell. When the transport jerked to a stop inside the yard of the Prefecture, his body was covered in minor bruises from the violent journey.
Did Inspector Jobert order the driver to give us a hard time on the journey? He’s that pissed, the answer’s yes.
They unlocked the tiny cells and let them out. Maria was pale, still in shock. He gave her a hug.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “I doubt that driver has a license.”
He grinned. “If he does, they should take it off him.”
She didn’t return the smile. “These cops are supposed to protect people from scum like Ushakov and his hired thugs. Not arrest the innocent. Cris, this isn’t going to end well, is it? Ushakov and his killers are still on the loose, and now the Paris cops have arrested us instead of the real perpetrators.”
