Authors: James Twining
HÔTEL ST. MERRI, 4TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
30 July—8:42
P.M.
T
he hotel windows were open and the same intoxicating blend of laughter, Vespa engines, and tinkling crockery soared up to his room as it had two nights before. He was alone now, though, Jennifer having joined Corbett at the George V or wherever it was that the FBI saw fit to house its agents.
He didn’t blame her for going back there with them. No doubt she had to be debriefed and Corbett would want to know the ins and outs of everything that had happened for the past few days. At least he trusted her to tell his side of the story and argue his case for him. He’d followed through on his part of the deal, Amsterdam aside; but he knew she wouldn’t mention that.
There was a knock on the door. He crossed the room, the wooden floor sloping toward the middle of the building where the beams had settled over the centuries, and opened it. It was Jennifer. He stood staring at her blankly for a few moments before she spoke.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, sorry.” He opened the door and she stepped inside. The bed was the only piece of furniture solid enough to sit on and she perched on the end of it. “I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. How’s it going?” He remained standing near the door. “I’m surprised they let you out.”
“Well, they didn’t really, but they were driving me nuts asking the same questions over and over again. So I thought I’d come and find a familiar face.”
“I’m glad you did. How’s Corbett?”
“Oh, he’s fine. Mad as hell that he was the one that arranged for me to have dinner at Renwick’s, but fine. He’s got Renwick firmly in his sights now, though. He’s even talking of a federal task force to track him down. Oh…and he wants to see you in the morning to discuss your deal and how it’s going to happen. He said that he guessed you’d rather not do it at the U.S. embassy, so he suggested a place called Les Invalides. Said you’d know it.”
Tom nodded but didn’t move from the door.
“Will you be there?”
“Sure.”
“It’s an interesting place. Well worth a visit. You should get a guidebook.”
She nodded and there was an awkward pause.
“You know, you didn’t need to come all the way over to tell me that,” Tom said. “You could have called.”
“I know, but I wanted to come.”
Tom flashed her an amused grin.
“Agent Browne, did you actually miss me?”
Her eyes dipped to the floor.
“A little, maybe.”
Tom reached down and locked the door. At the sound of the key turning, she raised her eyes to his and smiled. Tom felt his pulse quickening.
LES INVALIDES, PARIS
31 July—1:22
P.M.
A
thick heat had settled on the city by lunchtime of the following day. Jennifer was glad to walk out of the haze of exhaust fumes, through the vaulted entrance arch, into the coolness of the Hôtel des Invalides’s vast stone courtyard. She was a little early for her meeting with Bob and Tom, but then she hated being late.
The thought of Tom brought warm memories from the long, lazy night they’d spent together. She’d surprised herself by how much she’d wanted him. How much she’d needed that release. But she was also realistic. She knew that it was unlikely to last. That he was not the sort of man to be pinned down by anyone, even though she sensed that was perhaps what he thought he wanted.
She looked up at the weather-stained building around her and flicked to the relevant page in the guidebook she’d bought in the hotel’s gift shop that morning.
The Hôtel des Invalides,
she read,
comprises the largest single complex of monuments in Paris. It was founded in 1670 as a military hospital and barracks by Louis XIV, the Sun King. Today it houses the Musée de l’Armée and the remains of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, transferred from St Helena in 1840 and housed under the magnificent gilded dome of the Eglise St. Louis, one of Paris’s most well-known landmarks. No expense was spared for the tomb and Napoleon’s body lies within six separate coffins—iron, mahogany, two of lead, ebony, and red porphyry—the whole resting on a green-granite pedestal.
She looked up and smiled. Half of the cobblestone courtyard was bathed in light, the other cloaked in shadow as the sun made its way over the sloping roof. Windows had been set into the gray slate, each one carved to look like a medieval knight’s helmet, while the rounded windows of the floor below echoed the swooping arches of the raised cloister that ran all the way around the courtyard. She stepped up into the cloister, walked past the rusting and scarred hulks of captured cannons that had been strapped to the wall or laid on wooden blocks, her nose buried in the guidebook again.
When the Eglise St. Louis was built, in 1676, state protocol forbade soldiers from using the same entrance as the king and his court when attending Mass. The unusual solution was a double church with a shared altar in the middle of the building, the soldiers entering from the courtyard on the north side and the king entering from the south side under the dome.
Without warning, Tom stepped out from behind a column. He grabbed her by the arm and marched her into the shadows in the far left corner of the courtyard.
“What the fuck is going on?” Tom hissed into her ear as they walked.
“Get off. You’re hurting me.” Jennifer struggled under his rough grasp. He pushed her away from him, Jennifer only just managing to remain on her feet as she tottered across the slippery stone slabs.
“I should have known.” Tom took a step toward her. “Archie was right, you’re all the same.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her back was against a World War I tank, one of the permanent exhibits on show there.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know—”
“Know what?”
“What
he’s
doing here?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Who?”
“Clarke. The British police officer I told you about. There are four of them out there waiting to pick me up. You’ve sold me out.”
“What?” Jennifer’s eyes widened. “Tom, listen to me.” She stepped toward him, her voice low and serious. “I don’t know anything about this; you’ve got to believe me. It must be a mistake or something.”
Tom glared at her as she took another step forward.
“Look,” she continued. “You stay here. I’ll go and find Bob. I’ll try and find out what’s going on. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. After what you’ve done for us, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Believe me.”
She took a final step and placed her hand on his arm. Tom nodded reluctantly.
“I’ll give you ten minutes. If you’re not back by then, you’ll never see or hear from me again. That’s a promise.”
“Ten minutes. Fine.”
Signs pointed the way to the tomb in five different languages. She followed them down a dark corridor, emerging onto a graveled area at the side of the church. Large metal barriers had been drawn across the path and again translated signs told her that the tomb was temporarily closed and apologized for any inconvenience. Seeing no one around, she vaulted over the barrier and walked round to the front of the church. Low, honey-colored steps led up to the entrance.
She paused at the top of the steps and looked out at the gardens around her. They were empty and in a few places the sprinklers were on, rainbows of water glittering in the midday sun as they arced twenty feet over the grass and bushes.
She could see the men that Tom had meant now, on the other side of the railings that encircled the gardens. Four of them in all, two in a car, one on a bench pretending to read a paper, the other pacing up and down. They were obviously watching the church entrance. One of them looked especially agitated, his suit jacket hanging listlessly off his thin, hunched shoulders. She turned to the entrance and stepped inside, the noise of the city vanishing as the glass vestibule door shut behind her.
She found herself instead swallowed by a deadened hush, the air still, the light muted and restrained, the marbled floor and stone walls frozen in respectful awe. Above her soared the dome, its interior an ecstatic communion of reds and oranges and blues. The painted figures represented the Apostles, her guidebook had told her.
There were four side chapels and here the light that filtered in was dyed by their stained glass windows, one green, the other blue, another yellow, the last one orange—small islands of color that glowed in each corner of the room like small fires. A solitary tomb dominated the middle of each chapel, with smaller monuments and memorials mounted on and against the walls. She whispered their names as she walked past.
“Foch, Vauban, Bertrand, Lyautey, Duroc.” Names she didn’t know but that sounded appropriately impressive and heroic. More than Browne certainly. Or Corbett for that matter. She frowned. Where was he? It wasn’t like him to be late.
A huge black marble and gold leaf altar stood at the far end of the room and behind it a glass wall glittered, separating what was now a tomb from what had been the soldier’s side of the double church. A low circular marble balustrade lay directly beneath the dome. As she approached it she could see that here the floor had been removed. In its place, rising from what had once been the crypt floor, was an enormous coffin, a spectacular scrolled mass of red stone resting on a green pedestal.
She leaned on the balustrade and looked down. The floor around the coffin had been inlaid with the names of Napoleon’s greatest victories with the whole encircled by a white marble colonnade. In the shadows cast by these columns she suddenly thought she saw a shape. Unrecognizable at first but, as her eyes adjusted to the light, unmistakeable.
The sole of a shoe. A man’s leg.
She jumped up and ran toward the altar at the rear of the church, flying down the steps behind it that led to the lower level. Max, her CIA contact from London, lay slumped on the floor in the narrow corridor that led from the stairs to the colonnade, his shirt stained red. She opened his eyelid, saw that he was dead, stepped over him, her heart racing.
And then she saw Corbett on the other side of the colonnade, stretched out on the floor, his head covered in blood, still and silent.
1:36
P.M.
W
ith a small cry, Jennifer sprang toward Corbett and turned him over, pressing her fingers against his carotid artery, feeling for a pulse.
He was still alive. Thank God. He had a deep cut down the right side of his head, but he was still alive.
“Sir. Sir, can you hear me? It’s Browne.”
At the sound of Jennifer’s voice Corbett’s eyes fluttered open. He groaned and she bent her head down to listen, her ear hovering over his mouth.
“The coins. He took the coins.”
He was lying half in and half out of a small chamber that gave off the colonnade. The chamber was dominated by a towering marble statue of Napoleon dressed in all his imperial finery. On the floor in front of this, on a white marbled tombstone engraved with the name
NAPOLEON II
, was a small vase of flowers. Jennifer tipped some of the water from it onto her handkerchief and handed it to Corbett. He had dragged himself upright and was sitting against the door frame. He accepted the wet cloth gratefully, placing it against the wound to staunch the blood.
“What happened?” Jennifer asked gently, crouching down on the floor opposite him. He shook his head in confusion, his voice weak, his face ashen. Jennifer was suddenly struck by how old he looked.
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I thought I’d have a look around while I was waiting for you guys. He hit me from behind. I just got a glimpse of his face as I fell. It was Renwick.”
“Renwick? Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“I recognized him. No question.” He began to cough, his body convulsing as he fought to clear his lungs. Jennifer waited until he had settled.
“And the coins?”
“They were in my pocket.” He patted his jacket. “They’re gone.” His voice cracked with disappointment. “I figured if I had Max I’d be okay. I never thought someone would—”
“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll get a doctor down here, get you checked out.” Jennifer stood up. “Okay?”
Corbett nodded feebly.
Jennifer took her mobile out of her purse, flipped it open, but paused before dialing.
“By the way, why are the Brits here?”
“Who?” She couldn’t see Corbett’s face, the handkerchief was masking it, but she sensed him frowning.
“The British police. I saw them outside. Did you call them?” Corbett lowered the cloth from his head and narrowed his eyes, his voice suddenly firmer.
“Stay out of that, Jennifer. It’s way over your head. It’s straight from the top.”
“Stay out of what? What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s for the best.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re turning him in? He helps us and you just hand him over? He’s done nothing wrong. He’s innocent.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. Corbett gave her a watery smile.
“Innocent? Of what? Maybe he didn’t kill Renwick. Maybe he didn’t steal the coins. But he’s done plenty of other jobs. He’s a crook, Browne, a two-bit thief who deserves to be inside.”
“That’s bullshit!” she shouted angrily.
“You think we can have a guy like that running around knowing what he knows? It would just be a matter of time before he spills his guts and then what? A diplomatic shit storm that would set our foreign policy back twenty years.”
“We had a deal. He helped us and promised to keep quiet and in return we wiped his slate clean. He trusted me. I gave him my word.”
“And you believed him? Hah!” Corbett snorted. “I told you not to get too close, that he was dangerous. There’s more riding on this than your word. As far as the Brits are concerned, Renwick’s been murdered and Kirk’s their man. This way we get to go after Renwick and Kirk gets taken off the street and his silence is guaranteed.”
“Screw that.” Jennifer’s voice shook with anger. “You’re betraying him for what? So the president doesn’t get asked a few awkward questions? So the CIA doesn’t have to face up to its own mistakes? So you can stick another collar on your resumé?”
“Wake up, Jennifer.” Corbett snapped back, using her name for the first time. “This is the real world and sometimes it gets ugly.” His voice was rough and unfeeling. “This is about getting the right result. For all of us. It’s cut-bait time and you know it.”
“This is exactly the sort of bullshit you told me you hate. If you think I’m going to stand by and just let this happen, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
“Hold it right there,” Corbett snapped. There was a pause. “You need to think about your next step very carefully.” Corbett’s voice was edged with menace. “And I’m telling you this because I care about you.” He paused. “You see, back home we’ve been a little worried that you were getting too close to Kirk. That you might be in danger. So Piper got one of our guys in Amsterdam to keep an eye on you both; you know, sort of watch your back.”
Jennifer swallowed, not daring to break eye contact.
“I’ve got a sworn statement saying he followed two people back from a museum to your hotel three nights ago. Turns out the museum was robbed the same night.”
He paused again.
“It would be a goddamned shame if he was to identify you as one of the people he saw. You know, I’m not even sure what would happen.” His voice had a carefree tone now. “You’d do time for sure. The Bureau hates its own agents crossing over to the other side. It’s not good for morale.”
“You bastard,” she spat the words out but knew he had her. He would place her at the scene and she would go down for it. Five, seven years inside. There would be no going back.
“You bastard,” she said again, hearing the uncertainty in her voice.
“It hurts now,” said Corbett soothingly. “But in time you’ll see it’s for the best. It ain’t pretty but this is how the system works. Sometimes, you gotta take some shortcuts. There’s no reason anyone should know what happened in Amsterdam. That’s between me and you. I know you only did it for the right reasons. You play your cards right now and you’re going all the way in the Bureau. I guarantee it.”
Jennifer didn’t answer, staring instead at the floor. She wanted to hit him.
“Why don’t you clean up,” he said, pointing at her blood-covered fingers, “and then we can talk some more.”
Jennifer went into the small chamber and picked up the vase from the floor, emptying its contents into her cupped left hand. Then she put the vase down and rubbed her hands together, the water splashing and dripping onto the floor, the white marble blushing red. She looked up, tears of rage and frustration in her eyes, at the statue.
Was this it, she found herself wondering as she gazed into the statue’s unseeing and proud eyes? Was this what it was all about? Using and discarding people. Was that the secret of Bob Corbett’s success? Is that what she would have to do if she was going to make it herself?
And all for what? They had nothing. The coins gone. Cassius vanished. Tom betrayed. But what could she do? Whatever she said, they’d still put Tom away for the Amsterdam job. It was pointless.
She rubbed her hands down the sides of her skirt, the black material soft and absorbent, preparing herself to turn around and face Corbett’s smug smile. She checked to make sure all the blood had gone from under her nails and the sight of her fingers made the memory of Renwick’s severed hand flash into her head—a bloody stump dropped callously into a clear plastic evidence bag and then carried off to some lab or evidence room. His right hand.
Her brain snapped into focus. His right hand.
What was it that Finch had told her back in Louisville after Short’s autopsy? Something about an old forensic trick. About how right-handed people would tend to strike down on the right side of their victim’s head because otherwise they couldn’t get any real force into the blow. Bob had a gash down the right-hand side of his head. How could Renwick have done that if he was missing his right hand?
“Bob, I’m going to go and get you a doctor.” She tried to keep her voice casual, her eyes steady. “Let’s talk about all this later.”
There was no reply.
She turned around and saw Corbett almost standing on top of her. He had his gun out and brought it crashing into the side of her jaw. She collapsed to the floor, blood pouring from her mouth.
“Move,” Corbett barked. “Back in there.” He kicked her in the ribs as she half crawled, half dragged herself into the depths of the small chamber, shielding her face from Corbett’s immaculately polished black shoes.
“I’m sorry, Jennifer. Really I am. I never thought it would come to this.” He reached into his pocket and took out a thick silencer that he screwed carefully onto the end of his standard-issue Beretta as he spoke.
“It’s Kirk’s fault I’m going to have to kill you.” There was an almost hysterical edge to his voice as he spoke. He pulled back on the Beretta, the gun giving a distinctive metallic click as a bullet was loaded into the chamber.
“What are you doing, Bob?” Jennifer croaked. She coughed, swallowed the blood in her mouth, felt her back against the cool marble of the statue’s pedestal.
“I would have thought that was obvious.”