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He had a few bruised ribs as well, courtesy of that pussy Rapp lodging four slugs in the back of his bulletproof vest. If the dumbass had used a .45 caliber like Bramble he may have succeeded in killing him, but his little 9mm slugs couldn’t do the job. Bramble shifted the dusty car into second gear and popped the clutch a bit too early. The jolt made him wonder if one or more of his ribs weren’t broken. It was all good, he decided. The more beat up he was the more believable his story.
After fleeing for his life, Bramble had stopped five blocks later and closed the van’s side door. He flipped over the man he’d thought was Rapp and shook his head at his own stupidity. A canvas bag was peeking out of his waistband. Bramble grabbed it and looked inside. The cash and diamonds might come in handy. Rapp’s fake passports were worthless. Bramble wasn’t thrilled about losing Borneman, but it was all going to be laid at Rapp’s feet, so he guessed it didn’t matter. His immediate problem at that point was to get clear of the area. His wounds were not life-threatening, but Rapp was. Bramble needed to get his story straight and do it fast and then get hold of Hurley. As he put distance between himself and his handiwork, he began to refine his lie. By the time he was out of the city proper he felt that he had things about as good as he was going to get them. He dialed Hurley’s cell phone five times but got no answer. The last time he left a cryptic message with enough innuendo that Hurley would get the gist of what had gone down.
He didn’t know the exact location of the scrap yard, but Hurley had mentioned it in the premission briefing. He apparently knew the ugly mutt of a Serb from something he’d done in Yugoslavia back when Yugoslavia was a country. Hurley had helped the man emigrate to France, where he became very involved in organized crime. Hurley said for the right amount of money the Serb could be trusted. It was past ten in the evening when Hurley finally called back. Over an unsecure line it was impossible to give all the details of what had happened, but Hurley still got the gist. Bramble explained that the van was a piece of crap and that he needed to scrap it. Hurley took the hint and told him where to go and after that he told him to check the message service for instructions.
Bramble went straight to the scrap yard. It was just over an hour from Paris. The rear of the van was riddled with bullet holes and he had no idea if the police had a description of it, so he made the cautious decision to get off the road as soon as possible. There were only two problems: The scrap yard was closed and there were two bodies in the back. The second part didn’t bother Bramble so much. He’d been around bodies and they weren’t bad, at least until they started to smell. The problem was being caught with them if the police showed up.
Bramble had backed the van in near the gate so the bullet holes would be concealed and then covered the bodies with a tarp in case a cop decided to take a look. He wiped down his .45 caliber Colt and placed it in McGuirk’s lifeless hand so it would have his prints on it. Bramble stuffed the weapon under the dead man’s body and then took McGuirk’s sissy 9mm Beretta 92F. He hated the Italian piece of garbage but it was better than nothing. The same gun Rapp used.
Next he dug out the magnet from the LED box under the surveillance console and ran it in circles around the surveillance videotapes. It was standard practice in situations like this: Destroy all evidence that could tie you to the crime. It just so happened that it also suited his needs. It wouldn’t do to have footage of him sneaking up on the man he thought was Rapp and shooting him in the back of the head.
With that done, Bramble dug out the first-aid kit and tended to his wounds. The calf was easy to deal with, the triceps, less so. And as far as the ribs went, the only thing he could do was try to relax and not move. Bramble reclined the driver’s seat, ignored the pain, and thought about Rapp: how he would react, what kind of story he would try to tell, and who he would try to tell it to. Every way he looked at it, he figured Rapp was screwed. He was the one who had failed to check in after he’d fucked up the original job. He was the one who had sent a decoy into the apartment so he could ambush them. Hurley was going to be all over this. Kennedy could piss and moan all she wanted, but her little golden boy was going to be hunted down.
Bramble fell asleep with those happy thoughts, only to be awakened by a dirty man missing at least half of his teeth knocking on his window. Bramble sat up too quickly and immediately regretted it. His ribs screamed with pain and the rising sun was shining directly in his eyes. He rolled down the window halfway and tried to make sense of what the man was saying. His French was somehow worse than Bramble’s, which was no easy thing. Eventually, he got the gist that this was Hurley’s formidable Mafioso friend.
Bramble pulled the van into the yard and the gate was closed behind him. He looked around the yard and realized immediately that he was at the right place. Once they fired up the equipment the van would be cubed and stacked amongst all the other trashed vehicles. The negotiation, however, proved to be more difficult. The Serbian wanted to look in the van, and Bramble most definitely didn’t want him looking in the van. There was sensitive surveillance equipment in there, two bodies, and some guns and a rifle that Bramble wanted destroyed.
In the end Bramble knew he’d been played, but he didn’t really care. The money wasn’t his, and it wasn’t even his responsibility. He paid for the demolition and all of the evidence inside with Rapp’s money. He took a certain amount of pleasure in the irony of the whole thing, but he didn’t have time to enjoy it. He needed to get his head screwed on and he needed some medical attention. Getting his story straight was the first priority. The CIA could be very thorough, and even though he had destroyed prett
y much all the evidence, they would put his story through the wringer and that would involve both human and mechanical lie detectors trying to trip him up. By the time he got to that juncture, and it would begin almost immediately, he would have to believe his own BS.
A few miles down the road, Bramble found a pay phone, parked, and climbed out of the car as if he were an eighty-year-old man. He grunted and moaned and then stiffly walked over and plugged some money into the slot. When he got a dial tone he punched in a long string of numbers and his personal code. Hurley’s voice played back a specific coded message. Bramble listened intently and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized they wanted to bring him in. And “in” specifically meant the U.S. Embassy in Paris where a real doctor would treat him. Bramble dialed the second message service and again punched in a long string of numbers and a different code. There was no code or hidden meaning in this message, just a straightforward order. Bramble looked at his watch. Depending on what happened at the Embassy, he might be able to make it work, but that would be up to Hurley.
Bramble shuffled back to the car. He would have to get patched up and convince Hurley to put him back on the street so he could hunt down Rapp and finish the job. Rapp had surprised him last night, but that was stupid luck. Bramble wouldn’t let it happen again. The next time he saw Rapp, he’d finish the job, and if he got lucky, maybe he could take Kennedy out at the same time.
CHAPTER 38
NEVILLE was dressed for the cameras: black pumps, dark gray tights, black skirt, and a cerulean silk blouse. She’d called it a day after her confrontation with Fournier. The encounter had left her in such a foul mood that she had told Martin Simon she didn’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day. She’d gone home to an empty apartment and remembered that her husband had taken the kids to see his parents. The bare apartment only served to worsen her mood until she realized that with a two-and-half-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter, she needed to take advantage of a little solitude. She drew a bath, lit some candles, turned on some jazz music, got in the tub, and began to plot the destruction of Paul Fournier.
Neville had been a police officer for sixteen years, and she’d developed a very good ear for lies. Fournier was one of the best liars she’d ever met. He demonstrated none of the telltale signs. He could lie without blinking if it served the moment and he could do it while frowning or smiling, or with a completely passive face. The only thing that was safe to assume was that when his mouth was moving, he was lying. As accurate as she knew her assessment to be, she needed more than a hunch to get her bosses to move. She was going to have to present some evidence. By the end of the long bath she had done a 180. What she needed to show was that the DGSE had no place in a police investigation. And then with Simon’s help she needed to share their opinion that someone from the Directorate had manipulated evidence. If she could get her bosses to believe Fournier and his minions were interfering with her investigation, it could start a turf battle and people might push back.
It was the kind of juicy governmental tidbit that the press would fall all over. The Directorate had no business playing their games inside the borders of France. Their mission was abroad. Inside France it was the National Police. The National Assembly and the Senate were filled with politicians who would be furious at the mere perception that the Directorate was up to its old games. That was where Neville knew she had to take this. Fournier was like a vampire. He could only operate in darkness. Expose him and sic the politicians and press on him and he would crumble.
Neville arrived at her office early to help prepare for her meeting and the first press conference that was scheduled to discuss the massacre at the hotel early Saturday morning. She found her deputy, Martin Simon, sitting at his desk looking as if he hadn’t been home in two days, which turned out to be the case.
“What do you mean you stayed here last night? What could have possibly happened in the investigation?”
Simon smoothed his red hair and said, “There were two murders last night, and one of the deceased is an agent with the Directorate, or I should say was.”
Neville was incredulous. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you told me you didn’t want to be bothered. You said you needed to be left alone so you could figure out how you were going to handle your ex-boyfriend.”
Neville lifted her hand as if she might slap Simon. “I told you . . . do not call him my boyfriend. If you do it again, I’m going to hurt you.”
“Don’t be so sensitive. I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I can’t remember which of your ex-boyfriends I can still refer to as your exes and which ones I must call by their first names. It’s all very confusing.”
“What else do you have?”
“A second DGSE agent in the hospital. He’s in critical condition. And a deceased unidentified Caucasian.” Simon opened the file on his desk and showed her the crime scene photos.
Neville gave them a quick glance. “So this guy shoots these two DGSE agents and the wounded agent shoots back and kills him.”
“If only it were that simple. This guy,” Simon said as he pointed at the corpse in the street, “was shot in the back of the head at point-blank range . . . less than a foot away. Gun powder residue was all over his head, but his hands were clean and his gun was not fired.”
“So he didn’t shoot the two DGSE agents.”
“That’s the assumption so far.”
