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Fournier allowed himself to show some anger. The old man was too blind to see it, and if he did, Fournier didn’t see the harm. De Fleury was not long for this world, and his contacts back at the Directorate were all dead. He sighed to release some of the tension that was building in anticipation of the meeting. Dealing with these idiots was testing his resolve. “I’m sorry for their behavior. I will have a word with them.”
The old priest stopped at the top of a flight of stairs. He looked down into the dim light of the crypt below. “You will have to excuse me, but my legs will no longer carry me down these stairs, and I will be taking up permanent residence there soon enough.”
Fournier laughed lightly at the old man’s humor. “I understand, Monsignor.” Fournier pressed an envelope into the man’s hand. “Your service to the Republic is admired by many.”
“We all do our part.” De Fleury took the money and slid it into a fold in his vestments. He would count it later when he was alone in his room in the rectory.
Fournier started down the steps. The air grew thick and stale with a mixture of incense and decomposed bodies. When he reached the lower level he looked down the length of the crypt with its vaulted ceiling and alcoves that sprouted to the sides every twenty feet. Fournier moved briskly across the floor, ignoring the various famous people interred in the basement of this celebrated basilica. At the end of the hall, he stepped into a small private chapel and felt the presence of the men off to his left. Fournier put on his mask of calm and approached them. From five paces away, he saw the bandage on Samir Fadi’s face.
“Why are you making us meet in such a place?”
“What is the problem now, Samir?” Fournier had known this degenerate for less than a month and he was already tired of this man’s caustic attitude.
“This is a fucking Catholic church,” Samir snapped. “A shrine built to honor the crusaders who killed my ancestors.”
“Actually,” the voice came from the far side of the chapel, “this beautiful church is a tribute to France’s victory in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. You should read your history, Samir. The Koran makes you a very narrow-minded person.”
Fournier breathed a sigh of relief. It was Max Vega, or at least that was one of his names. Fournier knew of two others. Unlike the two men he was facing, Max was a man of intellect and civility.
“I don’t care when it was built,” Samir snarled. “It is an offense to my faith.”
“The important thing,” Max said in an easy voice, “is that this is a safe place for us to meet.”
“It is a convenient place for him to meet,” Samir said, pointing a finger at the Frenchman. “It reeks of death.”
Max wandered over at a casual pace. “Samir, you need to show some respect to our friend, and lest you forget, Christianity predates our faith by some six hundred years.” Samir started to complain, but Max shushed him with a wag of his finger. “I have never heard Paul complain when you have asked him to meet you in one of our houses of worship.”
“That is different. We don’t fill our mosques with dead bodies.” Samir spat on the ground.
Fournier was a casual Catholic, but even he couldn’t stomach this kind of disrespect. Turning to Max, he said, “I give him protection, and this is how he shows his gratitude.”
“He is right,” Max announced in a disappointed voice. “Is it possible, Samir, that you are mad at yourself for your own failures?”
The comment stung. “What is that supposed to mean?” Samir asked, his eyes wild with anger.
“I would say it’s pretty obvious,” Fournier said, folding his arms across his chest and letting his weight settle on one leg.
“You were not there last night, so I would be careful what conclusions you draw.”
“Conclusions? What conclusion should I draw from nine murders in the heart of Paris? You came here to kill one man, you failed, and now I have nine bodies to deal with.”
Samir stepped forward to within striking distance. “I will only say it one more time. You weren’t there, so I think you should be careful what tone you use with me.”
Fournier laughed. “I’ll use whatever tone I like, you little turd. You are here because of my generosity. I handed you this assassin on a silver platter and you fucked it up so badly I’ve spent the entire day trying to clean up your mess.”
“My mess!” Samir yelled. “I think you set me up! I think you are playing both sides in this. Profiting from them and us with the same information.”
“Lower your voice, you idiot,” Fournier hissed.
“Why . . . are you afraid the dead people will hear me?”
“No . . . I’m afraid one of the priests will come down here to investigate why they have a screaming terrorist in the basement of their blessed church.”
Before Samir could respond, Max stepped forward and motioned for his man to back off. In a sensible voice he ordered, “Samir, tell our friend what went wrong last night.”
“I will tell you what went wrong last night.” Samir nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We were set up. The assassin was waiting for us. When we came into the room, he was concealed, and he shot my men before they had a chance to fire their weapons.”
Fournier shook his head, not buying a word of it. “You are a liar, Samir.”
