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RASHAD GOT HIS call back forty-five minutes later. Once he’d convinced his contact to meet him, the three of them got in Valerie’s car and headed for the Champ de Mars, where they parked a few blocks away from the drop. Leaving the submachine guns in the trunk, the two women opted to carry concealed semiautos. They shadowed Rashad to the drop, and Leine chose a position for Valerie with some cover and a clear view of the area.
The man on the phone had reluctantly agreed to meet with Rashad to hear his argument for receiving the money he felt he was owed. Rashad insisted he’d done what he’d been contracted to do, which was act as backup in case Chessa lost her nerve or otherwise decided not to go through with the bombing. The contact demurred when Rashad demanded they meet that evening. Eventually, Rashad wore him down.
For the second night in a row, the Eiffel Tower was illuminated in the tricolors of the French flag as the city mourned her dead. Passersby were subdued, speculating among themselves which landmark the terrorists would attempt to destroy next. Heavily armed police surrounded the base of the tower.
In contrast to the dismal feel of the city’s residents and visitors, the evening temperature was balmy for so early in the season. Leine chose an innocuous bench with an unobstructed view of the drop and pulled out her phone. She had on a set of wireless headphones, which acted as both cover and communications with Valerie, who remained out of sight near a group of trees. Rashad paced nervously several yards away, waiting for his contact to show.
Twenty minutes later, a man with hair the color of wet sand and wearing a ball cap appeared to Leine’s left and headed toward Rashad.
“We have contact,” Leine said into her mic. Valerie keyed her radio twice in acknowledgment. Leine had suggested they wire Rashad, but he was adamantly opposed to the idea, citing the high probability of being caught, not to mention the added stress he would experience knowing he was recording his contact. Against her better judgment, she let him have the concession.
Of average height and well-muscled, the contact walked with an easy grace. In addition to the ball cap, he wore a full beard and dark glasses, despite the evening hour. Rashad spotted him and lifted his chin in greeting. The two men walked to a nearby bench and sat down. Rashad did most of the talking while the other man listened.
Apparently having made his case, Rashad grew quiet while the other man spoke. Rashad shook his head, appearing to argue with him. Becoming more and more agitated, he sprang to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at his contact.
“Easy, boy,” Leine breathed, willing him to relax.
The other man’s expression didn’t change as he gestured for Rashad to calm down and have a seat, which he eventually did. They continued the conversation for a while longer before Rashad and the contact both stood. The contact offered his hand, and the two men shook. Rashad watched him leave. Leine waited to make sure she wouldn’t be noticed before following at a relaxed pace.
“Merde!” Valerie’s voice exploded in Leine’s headset and she slowed, keeping her eye on which direction the contact was moving.
“What’s happening?” she asked in a clipped voice.
“Rashad has just collapsed,” Valerie said, her breath coming fast. “I think he’s been poisoned.”
Leine glanced over her shoulder at Rashad. He was writhing on the ground near the bench, clutching his stomach, his face twisted in a grimace. Valerie had just emerged from her hiding place and was headed directly toward him.
“Do not engage. I say again, do not engage, Val,” Leine ordered. “The guy could have a spotter and you’ll blow your cover.”
“But—”
“He’s already dead,” Leine answered, her tone matter-of-fact. “Walk away. Now. He was poisoned. You don’t want to be collateral damage.” The poison the assassin had used could still be active. Getting close could kill her.
Valerie stopped and pulled her phone from her pocket, acting as though she was taking a call. She smiled and started walking in another direction, pretending to have a conversation. Leine resumed tracking the contact. There was nothing she could do for Rashad now.
She followed the assassin to a busy street running next to the greenbelt. A moment later, a dark colored Citroen pulled up alongside him and he climbed inside. Leine flagged down a taxi and told the driver to follow the car.
“You are a spy?” The driver grinned at her in the rearview mirror, obviously joking.
“Yes. And the man we’re following is a terrorist,” Leine said, pretending to play along. She glanced at his call tag. His name was David Larue. “David—may I call you David?”
“Of course.”
“David, there’s an extra hundred in it for you if you keep that Citroen in sight but don’t let on we’re following them.”
“I will do my best,” he said, putting both hands on the wheel and adopting a serious expression.
They followed the Citroen through the streets of Paris to a nondescript residential neighborhood where the car turned into an underground parking garage. Leine instructed the driver to pull over and wait.
Several minutes later, the Citroen reappeared and turned left onto the street with only the driver visible.
“What now?” David asked, looking at her in the mirror.
“We wait a bit longer.” Her gut told her that the killer had exited the car. If she was wrong, she’d just blown her chance to get closer to the terrorists responsible for Chessa’s death.
Five minutes later, the assassin emerged from the ramp leading into the garage below. He paused at the top and scanned the neighborhood before he set off down the block, away from Leine. Although he’d ditched the ball cap and beard, he still wore the same clothes and the same dark glasses.
“Do you want me to follow him?” David asked.
“No, I’ve got it from here. Thanks.” She handed him the fare plus an extra hundred and opened the door.
“Wait a moment.” David reached into his back pocket to pull out his billfold and handed her a business card. “In case you are ever in need of a cab,” he said. “You know, for your spying activities.”
Leine accepted the card and exited the cab. The assassin was half a block away, walking at a brisk pace. The taxi turned around and headed back the way they’d come.
She followed the killer from the opposite side of the street for a time, switching to his side when they entered a crowded section of the eleventh arrondissement. He favored his right leg, although the slight hitch in his stride wouldn’t have been noticeable to the casual observer. An old injury, she assumed. She passed several people out walking and enjoying the weather and used them for cover. He kept going, eventually turning down a street lined with bars and restaurants.
Leine was familiar with the neighborhood. Back in the day, the street had been run down and gritty, filled with dangerous players, and was a good place to find cash-strapped informants. Now popular with both locals and tourists, the buildings had been gentrified and urbanized, boasting a Michelin-starred restaurant and trendy clubs, as well as the occasional dive. Just to keep things real.
The contact walked past several venues with lines of people waiting to get inside before turning into one of the last establishments still clinging to its bottom-feeder position in the hierarchy of clubs. Leine paused at the door. The neon signs in the window were different, but it was the same old dive, familiar to her from time spent years ago in the district. She pushed through the door and walked inside.
The smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer hit her first, followed by the suffocating press of the crowded bar. Obviously a neighborhood favorite, every table in the establishment was filled, and the customers at the scuffed and cigarette-burned wooden bar were three-deep. The metro-thin bartender bobbed his yellow-blond, close-cropped hair to the beat of the music blaring from two large speakers behind him. He had piercings everywhere she could see, and probably a few she couldn’t, as well as heavy ink along his skinny arms and neck. He clenched an unlit cigarette between his teeth as he mixed the line of drinks stacked up before him.
Leine scanned the crowd for the assassin but didn’t see him near the front. She made her way through the throng to the back, stopping to stare down one of the patrons when he cupped her ass. He promptly removed his hand and averted his gaze.
In the back were more tables, all filled, and a small, raised platform that apparently acted as a stage. A stripped-down drum kit had been set up in the center, with two microphones near the front. Three amplifiers had been stacked behind the drums. The assassin was sitting at a table near the stage, talking with two other men.
Near the bar, a woman and her date were preparing to leave. Leine grabbed her seat as soon as it became available, earning her a scathing look from another waiting patron. Ignoring him, she ordered a Sazerac and swiveled around so she could keep an eye on the contact. A television secured to the wall at the back of the bar showed police in tactical gear conducting a raid on the florist shop in La Courneuve. The caption at the bottom of the screen informed viewers that three suspects had been found inside, dead of apparent gunshot wounds.
The man sitting next to her tapped her on the arm and asked, “How much do you want to bet that the police were in on it?”
At the same time that Leine turned her head to give him a sarcastic response, he removed his glasses and she realized who it was. Years dropped away as the memories flooded back.
“Spencer?”