Black operator complete.., p.51
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 51
“I’ll get Ushakov, I promise.”
She shot him a doubtful look, but before she could say more, the cops bundled them down into the cellblock. They locked them in individual cells, and left him for many hours, with no opportunity to make contact with to Maria or Jacques. The cell was spartan, a cold bare, concrete floor and white-tiled walls, with a light fitting in a metal cage on the ceiling. A narrow, barred window let a little daylight in from outside.
The last of the daylight faded, and still no one came. Very late in the evening, a hatch in the door rattled, and a man passed him a plastic tray. The contents of the tray were a beaker of water and a plastic plate, with plastic cutlery. Apparently, the barely edible mess on the plate was the gold standard for French police catering.
He drank the water, which was brackish, but after sniffing suspiciously at the food, decided to give it a miss. Not the legendary cuisine for which the French had an enviable reputation. He slept fitfully, and awoke hungry and thirsty, the plastic tray with its congealing mess his only companions in the cell.
After two hours, the hatch opened again, and the same man gestured at him to pass him the empty tray. He raised his eyebrows at the previous night’s supper still on the plate, like an abandoned dog turd. Wordlessly, he handed him another plastic tray, identical to the one the night before. The hatch slammed shut, and once again Cris stared at the unappetizing mess on the plastic plate. This time, he tried to eat at least some of it.
Despite the taste of reheated cardboard, he needed the energy. Soon, Jobert would interview him again, and he’d need all his strength if he were to give him the right answers. Not that he felt he'd done anything wrong, but this was France. The legal system was different from the U.S. Here, they had something called the Napoleonic code. Suspects were presumed guilty until they’d proved their innocence. He intended to prove his innocence, although it was going to be an uphill struggle with the taciturn cop.
After two more hours of sitting on the hard bench, the door clanged open, and a uniform beckoned him to come out. He led him to the same interview room, and Detective Inspector Jobert was sitting behind the same table. He gestured for Cris to sit down. He shook his head.
"First I want a lawyer."
The Frenchman spluttered in outrage. “In here, you get what we give you. If I decide you need a lawyer, I will summon a lawyer. In the meantime, your sole task is to answer my questions truthfully. Sit on the chair, Monsieur Rhodes.”
He was completely in their power. With no alternative, he sat.
"Why did you push a man from the tower of Notre Dame Cathedral?"
He tried not to blink. "I didn't push anyone. He was trying to kill me, and all I did was defend myself. He attacked me at the top of the tower. I tripped him, he backed away, and fell."
"What about the gun?"
"You know about the gun. It fell on the floor when we were struggling."
"I meant your gun. Tell me about it.”
He raised his eyebrows in pretended surprise. "I don't have a gun."
With a loud sigh, Jobert produced a clear polythene bag. Inside was a Glock. "That's not true, Monsieur Rhodes. This is your gun. We retrieved it from under the seat of the vehicle you were traveling in."
"It's not mine. I've never seen it before."
“And the fingerprints we found on the butt? The ones that match your own?"
Shit, the fingerprints.
He kept his voice sounding surprised and innocent. "I remember now. I dropped my cellphone, and it fell under the seat. I was reaching for it, and I put my hand on something hard. It wasn't the phone, so I left it where it was."
Jobert's look of incredulity was so French, so expressive he struggled to stop himself laughing. "You expect me to believe that?"
“It happens to be true. Inspector, if I had a gun, I’d have used it when the man in the cathedral was trying to kill me. Ask anyone, I didn't fire a single shot."
Not entirely true, but almost.
He kept his expression deadpan, unimpressed. "Tell me about the Russians."
"The Russians? The only Russian I know is Maria Tereshkova, my girlfriend."
He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling. "And yet, everywhere you go, you leave a trail of Russian bodies in your wake. They have several traits in common. As well as being Russian, they are all clearly recent inmates of the gulag. Or had you not noticed their cropped haircuts and their pale skin? Common characteristics of those who have spent long periods in captivity in Eastern Russia.”
So Ushakov managed to recruit killers from the vicious and violent prisons built in the snows and dark forests of Siberia. Men and women forced to fight tooth and nail just to survive. And not just the sadism of the guards, but also the brutality of the other prisoners. They would be experienced and hardened criminals, and no doubt he recruited the worst of the worst, mass murderers and serial killers. The fire on the subway, yes, the arsonists, too.
"I told you. I know nothing of these people."
Jobert frowned. "I know you are lying, Monsieur Rhodes. Perhaps I will keep you here until you decide to tell me the truth."
"You can't keep me here, not unless you charge me."
He raised his voice in anger. “You think you are in America? Where clever lawyers can free murderers? Here in France, I will be your judge and jury, your advocate and even your executioner, if that's what I decide. Here, I am the law. Is that clear?"
He didn't answer, just stared back at him. After several minutes, the cop gave up and called a guard who led Cris back to the cell. He spent another long day sitting on the hard bench. In the evening they called him back to the interrogation room for Jobert to try again. His answers were the same, and in the end the cop gave up.
"I have decided to let you go. You may leave."
His head jerked up in surprise. "I can leave? Do you mean right now?"
He inclined his head. "Leave this place now. Go back to your hotel and pack. You have been declared persona non-grata in France, which means you have forty-eight hours to get out. Go anywhere. I don't care where. As long as you are out of my hair."
"You’re not pressing any charges?"
After a long pause, while he fought to control his anger, he snarled, "Get out. You have forty-eight hours."
The uniformed cop took him to the desk, and once again they handed him back his personal effects. The desk sergeant informed him that Maria Tereshkova and Jacques Moreau would also be released inside the next hour. He could wait for them if he wished. Outside.
He waited in the street for three hours. The rain came down again, and he could find no to shelter. When they emerged, he looked like an extra from the movie Singing in the Rain.
Moreau greeted him. “You should have waited inside.”
“Thanks for the tip, but Jobert wasn’t having it. I need dry clothes.”
He nodded. “There’s a department store not far away, Galeries Lafayette. Maria, they have a vast ladies fashion section, so you could treat yourself to something nice.”
She stared back at him for a few seconds, and finally she nodded. “As long as we’re not followed.”
“We won’t be followed. After that fracas at Notre Dame, they’ll keep a low profile. At least for the short time we have remaining in France.”
They walked through the downpour, and he was so wet he didn’t care. Moreau hung back, watching for any signs of surveillance. When they met in a covered arcade, he informed them they were in the clear. He grinned. “It’s much too wet. They’ll be inside somewhere dry. Drinking vodka and eating borsht.”
She still didn’t look convinced, but they continued walking, until they reached the store. Galeries Lafayette was not just a department store, but a Parisian institution. Selling everything from sports equipment to catwalk fashions and upmarket men’s clothes. After the first fifteen minutes, Cris had new shoes, pants, shirt, and jacket. Wearing pressed chinos, loafers, a navy blazer, and a pristine white shirt he felt overdressed. Until Moreau reminded him his new duds were almost de rigueur for the City of Light.
They persuaded Maria to choose a new outfit from the vast range of designer labels on the second floor. Without enthusiasm, she followed them to the elevator. At first, she displayed little interest in the racks of clothes, until Cris persuaded her to try on a dress that would cost more than most people earned in a month. A simple, elegant little black dress, and she looked a million dollars. For the first time in a long time, her lips parted in a smile, and her sparkling eyes looked at Cris.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ll turn a few heads anywhere you turn up wearing that frock.”
She stared back at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes glistened with pleasure as she turned first one way and then the other, admiring the way she looked. Her mouth was slightly open, displaying her white, even teeth, and the lines on her face had softened. For a fraction of a second, when she froze.
She was looking in the mirror, and she’d seen a reflection.
He stood next to her. “What is it?”
The voice was a hoarse whisper. “It’s her. The Russian.”
Across the vast store, through hundreds of clothes racks of every type, shape, color, size, and style, she’d spotted a face. The woman wasn't staring at her; she was more than distinctive because of her corpse-like face, almost colorless skin, and close-cropped hair.
Jacques was standing at a discreet distance, his face creased with concern. "Don't look now, but the Russian woman is on the other side of the store."
"Has she seen us?"
"I don't think so, no. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. We weren’t followed.”
“What do we do? We could leave."
He'd been thinking the same thing, except he’d had enough. They’d all had enough.
"I want you to look after Maria. I'll handle her. Like I said, it’s time to put a stop to this. Before she tries again."
“You’re not armed, and she'll be carrying a gun.”
"I'll manage. Just stay with Maria. Don't let anything happen to her."
"That's what I'm here for, Monsieur. She’ll be safe with me."
He nodded and started threading his way through the store. Using the racks of clothes, long dresses, coats, and when she started to turn, he ducked behind a multicolored plumage of flimsy underwear. A sales clerk gave him a questioning look.
"May I help you?"
He couldn't help it, and he blushed red. "I'm just looking for something for a friend."
She sniffed and turned away. He stayed where he was for several minutes, peering over rails of tiny bikini swimming costumes, and more women gave him hard looks. He ignored them and waited for the Russian to turn away. After a few minutes, she left, and he went after her. Threading his way through more racks of clothing, he couldn't help but notice some of the price tags. A dress that was remarkable for being unremarkable, except for a matter of ten thousand euros. He wondered if it was a mistake and decided probably it wasn’t. Like their cuisine, the French were legendary for their expertise with fashions. They were also legendary for the prices they charged.
The woman finally left the fashion department without buying anything and walked to the elevators. But she didn't wait for a car. Instead, she turned away and started climbing the stairs. He followed, careful to stay well back, knowing she would shoot to kill in an instant if she saw him coming after her. He rounded a bend in the staircase, and she wasn't there. There was no sign of her on the next staircase, and he looked across the sales floor, men's clothing. She was halfway across the vast space, as if she was meeting someone. He crouched behind a long rack of men's suits. When he looked again, she’d stopped and was speaking to a man. Rhodes was looking at Vladimir Ushakov.
I’ve found them, and thank God, Maria’s nowhere near. I have a chance to finish this, but I don't have a gun. Still, I was trained in unarmed combat during my time with the DEA assault teams, and I reckon I can take them. Provided they don't see me coming.
He worked his way nearer, ducking behind another rail of men's overcoats with overblown price tags, and the two Russians walked past him. They returned to the staircase, but instead of going down, they started up. When they were out of sight, he followed. The signs were for the rooftop terrace. Up several more flights of stairs, and he estimated they were on the eighth floor. When he came out into the open, the view was spectacular. He was looking across Paris to the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and the vast, green expanse of the Champ de Mars. But there was no sign of them.
He left the doorway and walked out in the open, when he saw them being seated at a table. They must have sensed something wrong, because they looked straight across at him, and both went rigid. Ushakov quickly said something to the waiter, and they climbed to their feet and backed away. Threading their way through the diners, and when they reached the last table, they started across an open space. People were sitting on benches, eating and drinking, picnicking, and enjoying the view. They walked quickly, and he followed just as quickly. The need to stay out of sight had gone, now they knew he was there. What mattered was speed. Without a weapon, he had to get in close, yet a few seconds later, they’d gone. Disappeared.
The terrace was crowded, and they could have been anywhere. They could even have been heading back down the staircase, which would take them closer to Maria. He started to run, and people stared at him. Stared at his wide-eyed, panicked expression, at odds with the chic designer clothes he'd recently bought. And then he saw them. They'd disappeared around a corner to another section of the terrace, and he went after them. The terrace came to an end, and in front of him, a narrow walkway stretched across the roof. They were already halfway across.
The walkway looked down on the most spectacular roof he'd ever seen. A vast dome that stretched almost across the entire store, and constructed of thousands of panes of colored glass. The effect was truly magnificent, but he ignored its beauty and went after them. The walkway vibrated as he put his weight on it, probably a temporary structure for use by maintenance personnel. He increased speed as he saw the two Russians had almost reached the opposite end. They stopped.
Ushakov spoke to the woman, and she nodded, turned, and faced him. Her hand was going inside her purse, and when it emerged, she was holding an ugly looking automatic. Ushakov stepped off the other end of the ramp, making his escape. He’d worry about Ushakov later. He was facing an armed and undoubtedly psychotic Russian female on a narrow gantry. Hundreds of feet above a glass roof that covered the most fashionable department store in Paris. He didn't stop to consider the incongruity of his situation, because he was looking around for a weapon. There had to be something, anything he could use. And then it was too late, and the first shot hissed past him.
She shouted at him in anger. "You’re dead, American. There’s something I want you to know. The man you killed in the subway tunnel, his name was Andrey Rublev. We were going to be married when this was over."
"I didn't kill him," he shouted, hearing the tension and fear in his voice. In the intensity of the confrontation, he could feel the lump of lead in his chest, and it throbbed, as if to remind him of his mortality. "He fell under a train."
Her face was a mask of fury. "You’re a liar. All Americans are liars. It's time you stopped interfering in Russian affairs. Dasvidania.” Goodbye.
He waited for the bullet, hoping to dodge away at the last split second. She squeezed the trigger at the same moment as a security guard stepped onto the makeshift ramp. He shouted an incomprehensible warning in French, and the man’s added weight on the rickety platform made it sway. The bullet zipped past him, but not past the security guard. With a cry, he fell face forward to the platform, making it sway even more, so much that the woman lost her balance and fell.
Cris arrowed forward and tried to keep his balance on the crazy, swaying surface as he ran. She started to rise, slipped and fell again, and he jumped on her. His fist lashed out and landed a vicious blow to her belly that made her exhale with a ‘whoosh.’ She got up again. It was then he saw the gun swinging up, ready to take the next shot. She fired, and he swerved to the left. The bullet whistled away past him and disappeared into the Paris skyline. He lashed out with his foot and landed a kick on her gun hand, but not enough to make her drop the gun. She took a step back, the gun swung up again, and he made a last, despairing effort to reach her.
And stopped. She’d taken yet another step backward to give herself room to use the pistol. A compact, Russian-made P96M, a 9mm semi-auto that almost matched the Glock, with its magazine capacity of fourteen rounds. He couldn’t reach her before she pulled the trigger, and she paused again to gloat.
“You’ve come to the end, American. Do you know the name of the person about to kill you?”
“Tell me.”
The lips tightened in a cruel smile. “The woman who will send you to hell is Lydia Litvak.”
He played for time. “I’m Cris Rhodes.”
“I know who you are. Did you think we didn’t know your identity, or where you were staying? We’ve known everything about you, ever since my boss saw you on that CCTV video. From that moment you were a dead man walking.”
He was measuring distances, trying to work out if he could jump her. Jumping the muzzle of a gun when the finger is tightened on the trigger would generally be considered a foolhardy move, but when it’s the sole option, there’s no decision to make. He tensed.
“Excusez-moi?”
She twitched at the voice behind her, but didn’t turn her head. “Go away. Allez!”
The man a few paces behind her wore the bib and brace overalls of a workman. In his hand, he carried a leather tool satchel. He also sounded pissed, no doubt hadn’t realized she was armed; otherwise he’d have run a mile. He had a job to do, and this crazy bitch was standing in his way. “Mais, Madame, je suis…”
