Chapel climbed the stairs eagerly, another sex-starved exhibitionist on the way to an illicit assignation. The holster chafed his ribs, the square butt of a French-issue Beretta nine millimeter pressed against his arm. He was finished with the legwork, done being Chapel the accountant, Chapel the dogged bookworm. This was the other part of his training. To enforce and apprehend. This was the part he had no practice at, except to lunge at the flailing feet of a fleeing terrorist and miss.
Leclerc had called Gadbois to alert him of Kahn’s presence. The hard boys from the Action Service had secured the perimeter. Agents waited at every door, discreetly hidden submachine guns at the ready. It was to be a silent arrest. No sirens. No shouts. A raid that never happened. A bomb that didn’t exist.
“You can’t set it off at the drop of a hat,” Sarah had whispered. “But be careful. He won’t be taken alive.”
It wasn’t Kahn she was talking about. It was Gabriel. He was here, too. Leclerc had asked, and the woman had had enough experience with les flics in her lifetime to know a cop when she heard one, and to know when it was time to tell the truth.
The tinkling of a piano drifted to him from the second-floor landing. Chapel headed toward the music, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. He entered the lounge shyly, as if unsure he was in the right place. An older man sat on the piano bench, his right hand noodling the melody of “It’s Impossible.” Chapel was relieved to note that he was wearing clothes. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Several men and women circled the baby grand, making small talk and nursing colorful cocktails with umbrellas. Were they getting up the nerve? Chapel wondered. Or dissecting their performances? He searched their starchy, bored faces, but knew immediately that neither Kahn nor Gabriel was among them. Neither had come for the advertised specials.
Across the landing was a boutique selling the usual embarrassing accessories and undergarments. Leather bustiers, rubber corsets, an entire wall devoted to whips, chains, handcuffs, and hoods. Chapel was surprised to see the boutique had a second room. He went inside, eyes strictly on the merchandise. Another few steps brought him to the hard stuff, the toys that he had always found more ridiculous than repulsive. The boutique’s customers had gathered at the far side of the room, their eyes glued to a dusky mirror. As Chapel approached, the mirror grew transparent. A thin, gangly woman ten years past her prime stood on the other side of the mirror, trying on a bra and a pair of panties. It took Chapel a moment to notice that she was moving in time to music. Her exaggerated motions were the tip-off: the coquettish swirl of the hair, the methodical removal of the brassiere. She knew she was being watched.
More amused than disgusted, Chapel turned to leave. A shadow flitted at the corner of his eye. A man dressed in business attire moving quickly, athletically. Turning back, Chapel stared past the woman at the slim, dark man moving across the room on the other side of the glass. Chapel put his hand to the glass and looked closer. He saw Marc Gabriel nudging his shoulder against an emergency exit. Mid-forties, short black hair, fit, handsome. Who else would be carrying a leather briefcase in a sicko’s pleasure palace? Gabriel pushed again, but the door didn’t budge.
Chapel dashed from the boutique. In the corridor, a naked man hairier than a Canadian grizzly stared at him, gasped, and backed away. It was the gun. Didn’t expect to see one of those in here, did you, pal? Chapel was running now. He was in a plush maroon tunnel. Framed prints of Egyptian motifs traded places with black-and-white photos of engorged human appendages. A hall appeared to his left. He ducked into it, slowing, pistol raised in his hand, safety off, round chambered. His training was coming back to him. But training had never been the problem. Shooting was. He couldn’t hit a barn door outside of ten feet.
Leclerc was upstairs checking the fuck rooms. Sarah was making a sweep of the restaurant and kitchen. He’s here, Chapel felt like yelling. Get your asses to the second floor.
Chapel spotted the emergency exit, obstructed by a potted Kentia palm. Gabriel was gone. Chapel tried the door. Locked. In the changing room, the woman was finishing up her striptease, strapping on a pair of three-inch pumps with her sad, bony bottom pressed against the window. No other hallways issued from the corridor. It was a dead end. Chapel looked left and right.
Gabriel had disappeared.
Chapter 49
Mordecai Kahn sat on the bench in the changing room, staring at the scuffed leather satchel between his legs as a profound relief poured over him. There. It was done. For the first time in his life, he’d acted. He’d formed his opinions and given them weight. Most men begged to have a chance to affect the course of history. Offered that chance, he had taken it. He had made his mark. Kahn slipped on his shoes, then dropped a hand to the satchel. Carefully, he sprang the lock and looked inside. Packets of one hundred dollar bills winked at him.
Strangely, he felt no elation at seeing the money. True, it would make things easier. If it cheapened his motives, he could live with that, too. The Sayeret would never give up until they had found and punished him. In the spy’s game, he was a marked man. Three million dollars would keep him ahead of the pack for a while. Months? Years? He didn’t care to guess.
Selecting a packet of bills, he slapped it against his knee, then fanned the currency against his thumb, just like in the movies. He would buy himself an extravagant meal. He would check into a five-star hotel, have a long bath, purchase some new clothes, and set out for a night on the town. It was only eleven-thirty. In Paris, the night was still young.
“Bonsoir, Dr. Kahn.”
Turning his head, Kahn looked at the slight, sallow face of the man man who had called his name, and he knew he would never have any of it.
“Bienvenue à Paris.”
Leclerc drew his pistol and stepped inside the changing room. “Did you have a nice trip?” he asked.
Kahn said nothing. Dropping his hand to his lap, he simply sighed.
Leclerc was looking at the satchel. To his mind, it was the same satchel that Taleel had carried halfway across town on his martyr’s last mission. It was the satchel that had killed Santos Babtiste and the Americans. It was the satchel that should have killed him.
“Stand up,” he said.
Kahn stood.
Leclerc took a step back. He wanted to get out of there. It was a bomb. He knew it. Just like he’d known the other satchel was a bomb. He wasn’t a coward. It was not fear that had prevented him from rushing like a hero into Taleel’s apartment. It was instinct. Survival. Something had told him that Taleel possessed a bomb. It was nature’s private warning that he had no business entering a confined space with a suicidal maniac. And this satchel held a bomb, too.
“Move away from the bag.”
“You don’t want some?” Kahn asked, as if astonished. He raised the packet of one hundred dollar bills, fluttering the notes.
“I said move away.”
“You’re too late, actually. It’s the other thing you want. I’m afraid he’s gone.”
The door opened behind Leclerc. It was Sarah Churchill. “Get back,” he warned her. “Clear the building.”
“What is it?”
“Clear the building!” He swallowed and fought to keep from blinking. He sounded scared. He had to watch that. He nodded, and her head disappeared.
Leclerc envisioned himself inside the gloomy hallway at the Cité Universitaire. He had always disliked small spaces. A premonition, he knew. He had wanted to follow Babtiste. He had ordered himself to chase after Chapel and the others, but his legs had refused the command. He’d stood there nailed to the ground, wondering which idiot had called the police. It was probably Gadbois, despite his protests to the contrary. Gadbois and his distrust of the Americans. “Wheels within wheels,” he liked to say. There was always something Leclerc didn’t know.