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ALARMED, BLANCHE LA Pointe set her phone on the desk. She’d answered the assassin’s call, assuming he’d forgotten to tell her something pertinent about the job he’d just finished with the idiot terrorist, Rashad. Instead, no one was there. Or so it seemed. Had it been him, he would have said something.
The caller’s silence was deafening.
She removed the SIM card and battery from the phone and tossed them in the trash. Then she opened her desk drawer and retrieved another mobile already set up for just such an event. She turned on the phone and texted her lieutenants to take the same precautions.
She would have to leave Camp Azziz and the director’s position at We Care International immediately. Although she hadn’t acquired a full stable of participants, the refugee organization had served its purpose and she would make do with the thirteen she had. The components she did have in place would send a clear message to the world. Let them believe they were witnessing a holy war—a strike by the terrorists at the non-Muslim world, the scope of which they’d never before imagined. Once she’d set her plan in motion the world’s only response would be to crush the perpetrators, leading to the promised Armageddon both factions were so committed to waging. World financial markets would swing wildly, adding to the instability of a world pursuing war with such high religious stakes.
Of course, La Pointe had positioned herself to take financial advantage of the volatile markets. But more importantly than that, when executed this plan would mark her as a premier strategist—the woman who destabilized the world and created a new paradigm. She couldn’t wait for the opportunities that would arise from the new world order.
And she would be positioned at the top.
La Pointe busied herself gathering her things into a cardboard box. She’d used precious little of her own personal effects in her office and didn’t have much more than her laptop and a ceramic mug she used for tea. She’d have to pack her clothes, but again, she didn’t have many outfits.
As soon as the Libyan Army had delivered news of their discovery of the bodies in the desert, the investigation had been opened and quickly closed, with the official cause of death gunshot wounds by hostile combatants. She thought she’d been in the clear.
Until the phone call.
An alert sounded on her phone and she glanced at the screen. It was Damil. She stopped packing and read the secured text.
Someone has contacted me regarding our mutual friend in Paris. Suggest you take his call.
Damil texted the time when the person planned to make contact again. He would then forward the call to her new number, adding an extra layer of anonymity. She checked the time. She had ten minutes to decide.
She trusted Damil, but the timing felt off. After receiving the strange call from the assassin’s phone, she was wary of anyone attempting to reach her. She texted him back.
What does he want?
Moments later, Damil replied.
He says he has important information, but was not specific other than to say he knows our mutual friend. I am familiar with this person and trust his intentions. What would you like me to tell him?
La Pointe thought for a moment, and then replied.
If you vouch for him, then I will take his call.
Her interest was piqued. If the caller set off alarm bells, then she would simply have him eliminated.
Five minutes later, her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“The man you sent to kill the terrorist is dead.” His voice was deep, with a French accent.
“How did he die?” she asked. Although confirming what she already supposed, she wanted to be sure this person knew what he was talking about.
“He was followed by another assassin who killed him in an alley.”
“Did you witness the event? How was it done?”
“Knives, certainly. Perhaps a gunshot wound. I didn’t examine the body for cause of death.” Sarcasm dripped from his last line. “And no, I didn’t see it happen. But I know who killed him.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want the contract.”
“You mean you want me to pay you to kill this mystery assassin?” There it was. She should have expected the play. Assassins offering to eliminate a potential problem weren’t a rarity, although she wasn’t sure why she should take him up on his offer. “Why would I bother? I have not received any threats.”
“This ‘mystery assassin’ is good. Not as skilled as I am, but good.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “This person doesn’t do anything without cause. I suspect there is an underlying reason for neutralizing your man, which may or may not have something to do with you and your plans.”
“And how do I know you aren’t the killer?”
“You don’t. But ask yourself this: what if this assassin turns out to be a threat to your operation? I believe she is. My offer to eliminate her will take care of any potential problems that may arise. The price will be worth it, I assure you.”
She? La Pointe searched her memory for a female assassin. As far as she knew, there were only a handful of well-known contract killers who were women. Her alter-ego, Salome, had been one. Another was a Russian woman who went by the nickname Red Gretchen. The third had been retired from American intelligence for several years, and was last reported living somewhere on the West Coast of the United States.
“I sincerely doubt it was Gretchen Yukov. She works for the FSB, and the Russians don’t care about a contract assassin who took out a badly behaving terrorist.”
“It wasn’t Gretchen.”
“The Leopard?” She scoffed. “She left the business years ago.”
“She’s come out of retirement.”
“I doubt that.” But the idea nagged at her. “Do you have a photo?”
“Not at the moment. But I can get one. She’s staying at a small hotel in the seventh arrondissement.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. If you can get me a clear photograph of this woman, and I am convinced it is her, I will consider offering you the contract.”
“Will tomorrow work? I believe she’s retired for the evening.”
“Of course.”
“Until tomorrow.”
“Yes. Until tomorrow.” She ended the call, considering the implications of the return of the infamous Leopard.
That was one adversary she would like to see very, very dead.