He followed the river north, the Eiffel Tower his guide, breathtaking for the hundredth time, lit stem to stern, bathing the night in a warm, celebratory glow. He crossed at the Pont de l’Alma, and continued along the Rive Droite, leaving the Seine at the Palais de Chaillot, moving back into the city. The sixteenth arrondissement was largely a business district, the few restaurants he passed long closed, dark storefronts staring back at him. In their reflections, he saw the faces of his departed colleagues as he remembered them best. Keck configuring a surveillance system; Gomez slamming a fist on his desk and hooting after a judge had granted his motion for a search warrant; Santini cracking wise from behind the Sporting News; and Babtiste, a gentle giant who sought benediction not from God, but from his two children. Boys, Chapel had learned, seven and four, their mother taken from them by cancer the year before, now orphans. Who had told them their father was dead? Who had blotted the hope from their lives?
A wave of hate swept through him. He promised to exact a swift and terrible retribution for the deaths of his friends. He would be merciless. He would kill without compunction. He would avenge. Chapel laughed at himself. He was the only enforcement agent he knew who didn’t carry a gun. He could never be an angel of death. Having grown up in a household where violence was an everyday occurrence, he had a built-in aversion to it. He was physically incapable of it. Yet, part of him knew that someday he might be put to that test. He tried to imagine pulling a trigger, actually shooting to kill. It was no good. He couldn’t put himself in that picture. Then he saw himself stepping in front of a child, and this time, it worked. He could feel the trigger buckle under his finger, his arm reverberate with the weapon’s kick. He told himself that if he had to kill, it would be for a different reason. To make sure that there were fewer boys left without a father, fewer children who spent their lives fruitlessly trying to fill the void left by sudden death.
Scattered lights burned on the upper floors. Sarah had said that Neuilly was a tony area; one of the city’s ritziest neighborhoods. There was little clue to the fact. Few pedestrians were out, though that was to be expected at this hour. Traffic was so light as to be nonexistent. Otherwise, it was just another immaculate street in an immaculate city.
Finally, he stopped, his breath steady, his pulse eager, craving the order to move out. A blue and white lightboard high on the wall read “ATM.” Next to it, a city placard showed the street. “Rue Saint-Paul. XVIeme.” On his city map, he’d inked three red dots and two blue ones at this location. It was the epicenter of Taleel’s activity. Slowly, he turned, looking at the buildings around him.
“You’re here,” he whispered to the mute façades.
“I’m going to find you,” he promised the drawn curtains.
“And then, by God…” and here words failed him. He wasn’t sure what he would do.
Somewhere behind his accusing eyes, a chorus demanded answers to questions he would never dare ask aloud. Would the discovery of Taleel’s trail really lead to his accomplices? Was there time to track them down? Would it be enough to thwart the attack on American soil the man on the videotape had spoken of? And deeper questions still. Was he up to this challenge? Did he have the experience to lead the investigation?
Time and again, the answer came back yes. He was certain Taleel’s account at the Bank Montparnasse would yield information that pointed to Taleel’s accomplices. From them, he would exact information about where and when the attack was to take place. And, yes, he would have adequate time to stop them.
I believe, therefore I can.
To Adam Chapel, belief was an all-conquering force. Hesitation, doubt, ambiguity: these were words that brought a man nothing, worlds that led to failure, defeat, and shame. And tonight, as he stood alone beneath a flickering light in a section of the city he’d never visited before, he knew he must rely on his will alone to find Taleel’s accomplices, to put a stop to their deadly plans, and to rescue his only chance at living a life free of torment.
Chapter 23
Chapel emerged from the metro a little before one in the morning, bleary-eyed, exhaustion outrunning him. His mind had shut down. It was his body that was giving the demands. He needed a Vicodin and he needed it now. The Boulevard St.-Germain was quiet and he crossed at his leisure. There is a calm that comes over a large city late at night, a hush that amplifies the slightest sound. Lifting an ear, he caught a familiar noise, a sweep whisking the pavement. Or the scuff of a leather heel. He’d heard it earlier, more than once. Turning a corner, he ducked into a doorway, pressing his body hard against the wall. He counted to ten. A shadow lengthened on the pavement. A figure approached, the step casual but steady. A mane of black hair filled the doorway. He recognized the white tank top, the sleek trousers.
“You shouldn’t wear J.P. Tods,” he said, stepping into the street. “At least, not the driving shoes. Those little round plugs tend to catch on the pavement and squeak. That’s the third time I caught it.”
Sarah Churchill spun to face him, surprise, and maybe fear, widening her eyes. But only for a second, and Chapel made sure to remember the look. “My mistake,” she said, too matter-of-factly. “I’m tired and they’re comfortable.”
“ ‘Done in,’ I think you said earlier. Care to explain?”
Sighing, Sarah pushed the hair over her shoulders and shot him a world-weary glance. “Got a drink?”
He poured Sarah a Jack Daniel’s in a bathroom glass, popped a Vicodin, and downed it with a gulp of tap water.
“I’m not the enemy,” he said, stepping out of the bathroom. He handed Sarah her drink. He was too tired to be angry, too suspicious to be surprised. “Why were you following me? Did Glendenning put you up to it? He’s a sneaky shit.”
“No, no. Entirely my idea. Just something I do.” She might have been talking about her predilection for tiddlywinks. She lifted the glass. “Cheers.” The Jack Daniel’s disappeared in an instant. No shake of the head. No watering of the eyes.
“A little odd, isn’t it?” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “One in the morning, playing hide-and-seek all over Paris.”
“Habit,” she answered. “If it means anything to you, I only do it to people I like.”
“I’m flattered. What comes next? Mug ’em in a back alley, or do you just pounce on them and go for the jugular.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t presume to. Actually, seeing as I have no idea who you are, I don’t think I could. Sarah Churchill. Is that even your real name? Mine’s Adam Alonzo Chapel. Born November twelfth, 1970, in St. Vincent’s Hospital, Manhattan. Want my social security number? I can give that to you, too.”
“It’s Sarah,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Sarah Anouska Churchill. August second, 1975. I’m a Leo, so we won’t get along. Scorpios and Leos never do. My father was a paratrooper. A general officer. Mom’s passed away, too. It was an accident. She fell asleep on the M1 motorway. Luckily, no one else was hurt. I’ve got three older brothers. Two of them are in the service. I told you about Freddy. I joined MI6 out of university. Six years now.”