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I look at the wreckage at my feet, see a discarded MP5 on the ground with spare magazines taped to it. I squat down, start stripping the magazines of their 9mm rounds.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy asks. His face is blackened and there’s a deep gash on his left cheek above his neatly trimmed beard, but otherwise he looks okay. I think of what he said earlier about the bravery of French soldiers, and I shudder, knowing deep inside that the only reason Jeremy and I are walking and breathing is because the line of paramilitary agents in front of us took the blow of the exploding van.
“Reloading,” I say, dropping the 9mm rounds into my blazer pockets. “We’re still on the hunt, right? And I don’t think there’s an ammo store around here, do you?”
I stand up, wince at the pain in my side. Probably some good bruising on my right ribs, if and when I get a chance to look at them.
We both turn at the sound of a high-low siren, and three black Peugeots roar down the runway. “It looks like some heavy brass is rolling in,” says Jeremy. “Amy, we need to get out of here, and now. We can’t afford to stick around and be interrogated.”
“Agreed,” I say, “but I need to clear something up.”
“Make it quick.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say. “Back in Lebanon, Ollie was beheaded, and you were up next for the guy with the sword. That wasn’t somebody killing an MI6 team that they captured. No, they would have celebrated your capture, gotten a huge propaganda victory over the infidels, held you for ransom, have the two of you be the lead stories on Al Jazeera day after day, yadda-yadda-yadda. In other words, it was something personal.”
Jeremy is watching the three Peugeots brake to a halt. I say, “The swordsman there at the farm, the one who slipped away. Rashad, or one of his men?”
Jeremy says, “Rashad.”
“And this whole mess”—I spread my left arm—“had two goals. One was to divert resources from whatever Rashad has planned for May 29. The other was to kill Victor, and kill you. Agreed?”
The Peugeot doors are open. The senior Frenchwoman who had chewed out our asses is now in a huddle with other officious-looking men and women.
“Agreed,” Jeremy says. “Look, Amy, we don’t have much time—”
I interrupt. “You tell me why he’s after you, Jeremy, and why Rashad is making it personal, or I’m going to stay here and reveal all. Hell, I’m not even a government employee anymore. I hear the food for high-value prisoners here in France is pretty damn good.”
Jeremy turns to me, his face now haunted. “My father…and Rashad’s father. They were once best friends.”
A pause that seems as heavy as a barrel filled with lead.
He says, “And Rashad killed them both.”
Chapter50
NADIA KHADRAis having an early outdoor breakfast this morning of strong coffee and fresh crossiants at Café Falguière, not far from l’Institut Pasteur. A small part of her is filled with regret that within a very few days she will no longer be working there.
She has made some acquaintances—no true friends, she’s never had a true friend in her life—but she will miss the order and discipline of coming here every day and doing good work, then later doing even more vital work at home.
The morning commuters stroll by on Rue Falguière. One well-dressed man with a familiar bearded smile departs from the walking crowds, steps over to the stone patio, and takes a seat with her under the wide red-and-white umbrella.
“Bonjour,Nadia,” he says, sitting down directly across from her. He’s carrying a large shopping bag from Le Bon Marché that he carefully places between his gray-trousered legs.
She just nods in return, trying once again to puzzle out what’s behind those cheery brown eyes, that confident smile, the way he carries himself, and how he had seduced her—with his charm and intelligence only—nearly a year ago. He is dressed like other times she has met him: a fine suit of light blue or gray and a white shirt with no necktie, though something bulky is around his left wrist, like he is wearing a bandage under his shirt.
He says, “How is your mood? Are you ready for your travels?”
“I am.”
He says, “Very well. I have some items for you. Here.”
Her benefactor moves the chair back, brings the bag over so she can look down as he opens the top. Inside is a silver ribbed briefcase with a black handle.
“That will be the container for your items,” he says. “Inside is a protected compartment, immune to any scanning device at the airport. To get access, you pull the handle up and twist clockwise at the same time. Understand?”
“Yes, I do,” she says.
“Very good,” he says. “Your ticket from Charles de Gaulle to JFK is enclosed, along with your American passport—with your own name, which will make it easier for you—and what the Americans call Global Entry.”
