He was mulling over this idea as he opened the door to his room, tossing the newspaper picked up at a small stand on the corner onto the bed as he passed. He removed his shoes, placing them neatly alongside of the bed, and placed a call to a room two floors below. There was no sign of either the kids or Brooks or Mead. The apartment was still empty. He wondered about that. If Francis was aware of his operation his operation there should have been some movement against him, some action. Brooks or Mead weren’t smart enough to avoid slipping up in an interrogation or brave enough to withstand what Francis would do if he wanted information. Kohl would have been targeted already, probably followed or taken into custody. Instead, there was nothing. That lack of information was disturbing. Kohl was a man who operated with knowledge. The smallest pieces could be interpreted, dissected, and the next action predicted with some certainty. He was amused at the irony of it. It seemed that Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore could be just another set of college students to disappear, and they had. The problem was his men had disappeared along with them. He was smiling to himself when the telephone on the bedside table began to ring.
*****
Cassie called Luke Francis early that evening. She was terse and to the point. “Your man Bronislov has a problem,” she told Francis. “A big problem. We need to talk.” Francis waved his assistant out of the room. The door closed. He sat down in his chair, recognizing the voice. It was the last voice he had expected to hear after the exchange in the hotel.
“What kind of problem?”
“Not on the phone,” Cassie said. “You’ll have to come back to New Orleans. Book a flight for tomorrow night. Get a room at the Sheraton on Canal Street under your own name and we’ll contact you. But listen, no more meetings in the middle of the day. We’ll let you know when and where. In the meantime, don’t try to find us. We’re pretty sick of you already. Oh, and come alone. This isn’t going to be a group hug.” The phone went dead.
“You think he’ll come alone?” Ronnie asked.
“Oh, hell no,” Cassie said, with a wave of her hand. “He’ll bring every available man. But he won’t let anyone else know what’s going on. He hasn’t told anyone why he wants us or what we can do. He’s a guy who likes to hold all the cards. But he’ll have people around in case he needs them.”
“So now we call Kohl,” Ronnie said. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” He looked at Cassie, reached across the table and took her hand. “You know we’ve got that safe deposit box. Archer knew it might come to this. We can always run, just take off. Go live somewhere else, become different people and not have this thing hanging over our heads all the time. We can still do that.”
“I know, I know,” Cassie said, grasping back at his hand. “We could do that. But we’d still be looking over our shoulders every day, wouldn’t we? I don’t live like that. It was alright with Archer, but I don’t trust anyone else. I’m not going to be trapped. I just can’t do it. And listen, one thing Archer never thought of, or one thing he couldn’t do anything about, is our families. If these people know who we are, then they know about our families. And we can’t ask everybody to run.” She pushed her hair back with her hand, leaned back in her chair. “I think we’re going to have to deal with this ourselves.” Outside, a line of storm clouds rolled across the lake, heading toward the camp.
*****
When the phone rang, Kohl was expecting it to be Brooks or Mead. There was probably some simple explanation for their absence. What he wasn’t expecting was the voice of a woman, a young girl, really.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kohl, if that’s your real name. You need to listen to me. I’m going to hang up soon, and if you don’t get it right the first time you won’t get a second chance.”
“I’m sorry,” Kohl said. “Who is this?”
“Cassie Reynolds. We met your friends last night. They say to tell you ‘Hello,’ by the way, and to let you know you won’t be hearing from them for a while. Now shut up and listen.”
“I’m sorry, young lady, you must have the wrong number,” Kohl said. He picked up a pen off the table, pulled a sheet of hotel stationary over. “I don’t know anyone by the name of Reynold.”
“Cut the crap. You want what we have, the same way Luke Francis wants what we have. We’re willing to deal but only on our own terms. We want money. We don’t like the way we’re being treated by Mr. Francis or his people. We also don’t like what you tried to do last night, but we’re willing to let bygones be bygones if the price is right. Do you want to listen or should I hang up?”
Kohl hesitated for only a moment. “I’m listening.”
“Do you know where West End is?” Cassie said.
*****
At ten minutes to six in the evening it was still light outside Chalmette Arms, a small store set back off Paris Road, a main thoroughfare in this suburb of New Orleans. Business was slow, and Kenny Watt, the assistant manager on the staff of two, was ready to close up shop on the day when things got interesting. The door opened, the bell nailed on top rang, and in walked the best thing Kenny had seen all day. She had a big head of curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a pair of cutoff jeans that hugged her hips tightly and rode high on long lean legs. A t-shirt hugged a pair of smallish but very nice breasts. She stopped, looked around uncertainly, and finally found Kenny with those eyes.
“Hi,” he said, getting up from a chair behind the counter. This customer looked a lot more interesting than the two-year old copy of Guns and Ammo he was reading. “What can I do for you?”
The girl smiled, still looking uncertain. “I don’t know. I guess I need some help. I don’t know much about guns.”
“Okay, that’s what they pay me for. What kind of gun are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled again, pulled her hair back with both hands, and twisted it into a rope over her shoulder. Kenny was having a little trouble concentrating. He sensed a sale, but somehow the sale was playing a deep second fiddle to the chance to talk to this girl. He was accustomed to fat old men, or eager young men who thought they already knew everything about weapons. They usually didn’t know shit. But this. This girl was the best thing to walk into the shop in months.
“Here’s the thing,” she was saying. “My dad likes to hunt deer. I don’t know why, he just gives them away after he kills the poor things ‘cause my mom won’t even let him near the house with one that’s dead and she won’t let him mount one of those heads up on the wall either. That’s gross.” She was talking fast and a little out of breath. Kenny knew because he was watching her chest. “Anyway, she wants to get him a gun to kill deer with. What’s a good gun for that?” She caught up with herself. “Oh yeah, and some kind of pistol, and a holster with one of those leg tie things, you know what I mean? Like, to hold it down? My mom says guys like that because it makes them feel like cowboys or something.”
Kenny Watt figured he had died and gone to heaven and he was going to do it with a little cash in his pocket. He took his time, nodding along with her, pretending to think over everything she was saying. He gave her a minute to fiddle with her hair, rubbed his chin.
“Well, I think we can come up with something. What kind of rifle does he use now?”
The question seemed to stump her. “That’s the thing, he just started last year and his friend lends him a gun. That’s why my mom wants to get him his own. He goes on the weekends with his buddy.”
“Oh yeah, a man has to have his own rifle,” Kenny said, nodding his head. “But let me ask you one more. Was your dad ever in the Army?”
“Yeah, but only for a couple of years. He got out because he hurt his back.”
“Let me show you a rifle he’ll be familiar with then. It might bring back some old memories for him and he won’t have to get used to it. We just got these in. They’re Army surplus but they’re brand new, still in the wrapping.”
Fifteen minutes later, Cassie walked out with an M1 Garand rifle chambered for 30-06, a .38 pistol, and a box of bullets for each. Kenny Watt had $600.00, a grin, a fake phone number, and a decidedly better outlook on the weapons business as a whole. She placed the package on the back seat, waved through the plate glass window at Kenny, who was still very interested in her as a customer, and drove off. Ronnie was waiting at a convenience store three blocks down, sitting on the curb drinking an Icee. He got in and slammed the door.
“How’d it go?” Ronnie asked.
“No problem. He would have sold me the whole store if my shorts were just a little higher,” Cassie said. “You men are so easy to manipulate.”
“I don’t blame the guy. I see you every day, but when you wear those shorts I always get a little...”
“What?” Cassie said.
“Umm ... compliant,” Ronnie said.
*****
Luke Francis spent a few hours on the phone after Cassie hung up on him. The time difference between the U.S. and Russia was a problem, as was the fact that he had nothing in place that would allow him to make enquiries into his agent’s welfare. You just didn’t send someone to the KGB information desk to ask if they were interested in your guy. He did what he could, which was next to nothing. His secretary booked a flight to New Orleans and rooms at the Sheraton for himself and the security force he was bringing. To hell with what the girl wanted, she would take what he gave her. She had to learn that she and the boy were in no position to give orders or dictate to him. That decided, he drove home in the Washington traffic, had dinner with his wife and kids, and hit the bed early.
*****
Lakeshore Drive ran along the southern end of Lake Ponchartrain, a long expanse of grass and scattered trees on one side and water on the other. Early morning was usually a peaceful time, the wind coming off the lake stirred by a rising sun, an occasional runner along the levee that bordered the grass and the neighborhoods. The sun was just rising as Kohl came down the street, found the Mardi Gras fountain, and pulled in across from the lake. The spouting water of the fountain, lit by purple and gold lights at night, ran clear for the day. Kohl killed the engine, sat for a few seconds, and opened his door. Warm, but very tolerable, he thought. The breeze, combined with the remnants of night air, made things almost pleasant, though the humidity weighed heavy and the coming summer day lingered somewhere around the edges.
Kohl crossed the street toward the lake. There was a small bench a few feet away from the edge of the breakwater. A series of stone steps led down to the water itself, a miles-long structure that ran the entire northern length of Lakeshore Drive. The entire area was land reclaimed from Lake Ponchartrain, a massive project that gave New Orleans work, jobs, and a series of upper class neighborhoods that could almost, but not quite, claim to be waterfront property. Kohl had the area to himself right now, the only other presence a car passing slowly with an early morning commuter taking the long way to work, or maybe a night worker taking the scenic way home.
His instructions had been to come alone. The girl had been quite specific about that point. He had considered the possibility, analyzed the odds, and discarded the option. With two men missing, he couldn’t afford to take any chances. Five minutes after his arrival, a small silver car appeared and parked a block down from his own. A man in a business suit got out cradling a cup of convenience store coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He walked to a bench by the fountain and opened a newspaper. He paid no attention to Kohl. Kohl paid no attention to him. Kohl checked his watch. Out on the water a boat passed, the wake finding its way to the stone steps a minute later, lapping at the edges. Kohl watched the traffic, an easy task since there was little to none. The boat made a long winding turn and settled in seventy-five yards offshore. The boat’s driver killed the engine and threw an anchor off the rear. A minute later a fishing rod appeared. The water was calm. Kohl could see the splash as the lure broke the surface of the lake.
To Andre Kohl, who had gambled in dangerous situations in a career made of dangerous situations, calculating the odds was second nature. Instinct told him this gamble was worth it. He had been convinced of it when he sent his men in to grab Cassie and Ronnie. The fact that his men came up missing only reinforced his instinct. Yet the exact nature of what these young people were doing eluded him. Research? Testing? If he only knew what he was dealing with he could make better decisions. He lit a cigarette, an American Marlboro, and watched the boat on the water until the sound of tires on pavement caught his attention. A car passed, turning into a parking spot across the road. A woman got out carrying a small dog. She attached a leash and walked off into the grass on the levee side of the street. Further down, a young man in a baseball uniform made his way along the levee, carrying a bat bag across his shoulder.
Kohl watched as the fisherman pulled anchor, started the engine and began a slow troll toward land, idling in to a point a hundred yards west of the bench. He checked his watch again. The road was deserted. The man in the business suit folded his newspaper under his arm, tossing his empty coffee cup in a wastebasket as he headed back to his car. The boat idled in closer to the stone steps and turned east toward Kohl. He watched as the man tossed a line out behind the boat and adjusted the steering, running parallel with the breakwater. Fifty yards away the engine cut off. The boat continued along, carried by momentum. Thirty yards away the fisherman pulled at the engine cover and disappeared behind it.
At ten yards away, Cassie Reynold pulled off the fisherman’s cap, pointed the .38 directly at Kohl’s chest, and pulled the trigger twice.