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“You’re right. It was probably a nine-millimeter.”
Greta finished cleaning the wound, placed fresh gauze bandages on both holes, and wrapped gauze around the shoulder and under his armpit to make sure everything stayed in place. When she was done she went back into the bathroom and washed her hands. Rapp hadn’t missed the fact that she had gotten very quiet over the last five minutes. When she came back out he found out why.
Greta stood directly across from him, leaned against the wall, folded her hands across her chest, and said, “You were involved in that bloodbath at the Hotel La Fleur the night before last.”
Rapp was speechless. He should have seen it coming, but the pain pills had made him a little sluggish. “Greta, you know I can’t talk about
my job.”
She looked away from him and starting chewing on her bottom lip. “Innocent people were killed. Several guests and a busboy, not to mention the prostitute, the oil minister, and his entire security detail.” She turned her blue eyes on him. “Please tell me you weren’t involved.”
Rapp was trying to plot the fine line he was going to walk when there was a knock on the door. A male voice announced that it was room service. Greta looked as if she might cry. Rapp grabbed the gun and looked through the peephole. The man was in his early twenties. Rapp pulled the wedge out from under the door to let the waiter in and then walked over to Greta. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “I will explain everything after he’s gone.” His words didn’t appear to calm her, so he tried again. “Greta, I didn’t kill any innocent people. The papers don’t have the story right.” Rapp kissed her on the forehead and then went into the bathroom and closed the door. He looked into the mirror, took a deep breath, and tried to figure out how much he could tell her.
CHAPTER 15
PARIS, FRANCE
THE unusual pair moved down the narrow sidewalk at a casual pace. One was tall, just under six-four, and fair-skinned, with wispy sandy blond hair. The second man was of medium height and powerfully built. He had thick black hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week. His full beard ran down his neck, where it blended in with tufts of coarse chest hair poking out of the open collar of his royal blue shirt. The tall man was wearing jeans, a brown turtleneck, a rust-colored sweater, and a tweed sport coat with the collar turned up. A tan cashmere scarf knotted around his neck helped fight off the cold. Jones was almost always cold, while his bear of a friend shunned gloves, hats, and scarves even on the rawest of days.
Today, as on most days, though, Bernstein was wearing a field jacket open and flapping as he walked. Bernstein didn’t wear the jacket for warmth, he wore it because he tended to carry a lot of stuff. Pockets were a necessity of his job as a freelance photographer. He was never without at least one camera, usually his trusted black Leica M6, which was hanging around his neck. His pockets were always stuffed with extra batteries, film, lenses, and all sorts of tools, including maps and various forms of identification and cash concealed in secret pockets.
The two men stopped at the corner of Rue de Tournon and Rue de Vaugirard. The Palais du Luxembourg loomed across the street. It was an attractive building dating all the way back to the early seventeenth century but Paris was filled with such buildings and after sixteen years of calling Paris home, the two men scarcely noticed such things anymore. Heavy clouds had settled over the city. Jones regarded the cold gray sky and shivered. He thought the day was supposed to clear up, not get worse. He tucked his chin down, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and mumbled to himself.
“Did you wear your long underwear?” Bernstein asked with a sly grin on his face.
“Damn right. It’s freezing.”
Bernstein slowly turned his broad head toward his friend and said, “It’s fifty-six degrees.”
“And there’s no sun and the wind is picking up. It’s freezing.”
It never failed to amaze Bernstein that someone who had grown up in Minnesota could be so affected by a drop in temperature. He smiled and shook his head.
“I know what you are thinking. If I put on some weight, maybe I wouldn’t be so cold all the time.”
“No . . . that’s not what I was thinking.”
“Then what?”
Rather than argue about something so pointless, Bernstein said, “I was thinking about how excited I am to hear what he wants us to do.”
“I’m sick to my stomach over it, actually, but what are our choices?”
“We really don’t have any, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful.”
“And remember . . . no matter how much he bullies us we don’t have to do everything he tells us to do.”
Bernstein gave a sarcastic laugh, watched the light turn green, and then began to walk across the street. As Jones fell into step, he said, “He holds all the cards. He recruited us, he helped us get started, and he could easily end our careers . . . or at least yours.”
“Don’t think he wouldn’t ruin yours as well.”
“I’m not saying he wouldn’t try, I’m just saying nobody gives a shit who I am. If my photos are good or my footage kicks ass, they’ll still line up to buy it just like they always have. You, on the other hand, are a whole other story.”
They crossed into the park and walked down the east side of the palace. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” Jones said. “I’m not so sure he would. I don’t think Langley would like the exposure any more than we would.”
“You’re talking Langley. He’s not Langley, and he hasn’t been Langley in a long time. He hates Langley.” Bernstein separated from his friend and allowed an old man with a cane to pass between them. “Your mistake is that you believe he thinks like all of the other government types we deal with.” Bernstein shook his big head. “He’s nothing like them.”
Jones’s face soured. “You’re right. He’d love to expose us and ruin our careers.”
