‘Which tells me that our shooter is a rank amateur.’
Finn didn’t bother informing Aisquith that even a rank amateur could pull a trigger and kill a man. ‘I’m guessing he’s packing a forty-five outfitted with laser-aiming device and a sound suppressor.’
‘That or an invisible ray gun,’ Aisquith deadpanned, returning the Bushnells to him.
‘Since you know the lay of the land better than I do, what are our escape options?’ Finn already knew they could rule out the Citroën; it was in the museum’s underground car park, the Ruger locked in the glove box.
Using the tip of his finger, Aisquith drew an open-ended rectangle in the dirt. ‘The Cour Napoléon is enclosed on three sides by the Louvre which is shaped like a massive horseshoe. Our position is here.’ He tapped a spot centred near the open end of the horseshoe. ‘There are three escape routes. The first option: we can dash seventy metres to the open end of the horseshoe and flag a passing motorist on the Avenue du Général Lemonnier.’
Finn impatiently made a rolling motion with his left index finger. ‘Next option,’ he ordered, figuring that Door Number One would get them mowed down the fastest with the hedgerow the only cover in those seventy metres.
The Brit pointed to the two long sides of the horseshoe. ‘On the north and south wings of the Louvre, there are guichets –’
‘What?’
‘Wickets,’ the other man translated.
Finn shook his head, still in the dark. ‘Try again.’
‘Archways,’ Kate said. ‘Actually, they’re huge portals cut into each wing of the Louvre, enabling traffic to pass through the Cour Napoléon.’
Finn raised the Bushnells and took a gander, first at the gunman, still hunkered behind the statue, then at the arched portals. He’d earlier noticed the archways when they crossed the thoroughfare that passed between the Louvre’s inner courtyard and the Arc de Triomphe plaza. From their current position, the two sets of archways were equidistant, each about two hundred metres away. On the plus side, there were trees, shrubs and statues to give them cover. In the minus column, there were hundreds of tourists strolling about.
‘Okay, here’s the plan,’ he announced, stuffing the Bushnells in his Go Bag. ‘I’m going to make the first prison break through the archway on the southern wing. That will draw the shooter in my direction. Before I reach the archway, I’m going to create a loud commotion. That’ll be your signal to haul ass towards the opposite archway on the north wing.’
‘What sort of commotion?’ Aisquith enquired.
‘I haven’t thought that far in advance. Don’t worry. I’ll devise something.’
‘Finn, have you lost your mind?’ Kate hissed, frantically grabbing him by the forearm. ‘You can’t go out there! You don’t have a weapon.’ Because of tight security inside the Louvre, he’d had to leave his KA-BAR knife locked inside the Citroën.
Finn held up his two hands. ‘Kingdom Come or the fiery pits of hell. I can send the bastard to either locale with these two babies.’
‘This is no time for do-or-die theatrics. What if –’
‘Kate! Leave be!’ the Brit interjected in a lowered voice. ‘The man is a trained commando. He knows what he’s doing.’
‘I’ll meet you two jailbirds at the Eiffel Tower in thirty minutes.’ Finn purposefully picked that location because it was the one spot in Paris that he didn’t need a map to find, the damned thing visible from just about everywhere.
‘There’s a café on the corner, one block due east of the tower,’ Aisquith said, jutting his chin towards the famous landmark on the other side of the Seine. ‘We’ll wait for you there.’
‘Gotcha.’ Swinging his Go Bag behind him, Finn went into a sprinter’s stance. ‘Time to do or die.’
38
How could I have missed both shots!?
Standing in the shadow cast by a stone sculpture, Dolf Reinhardt stared at the offending Heckler & Koch Mark 23, ready to hurl the piece of shit across the Jardin du Carrousel. The American soldier who sold it to him had claimed that with the laser-aiming device, hitting the target would be child’s play.
Humiliated by his ineptitude, Dolf shoved the pistol into his waistband. He then wiped his palms on the leg of his jeans. That’s why he’d missed both shots: his hand slipped on the gun handle because of his excessively clammy palms. Palmar hyperhidrosis. Another side effect of all those fucking steroids he’d been force-fed at the Sports Dynamo.
I should have worn gloves.
But it was ninety degrees in the shade. And Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant that he not draw any attention to himself. People would have noticed a big bald-headed man wearing gloves in August.
‘Scheisse! ’ How was he going to make this right? The trio had dived into the bushes, vanishing from sight.
Removing the GPS transmitter from his pocket, Dolf stared at the minuscule screen. According to the map, they were somewhere in the bushes southwest of his current position.
Yes! But which fucking bush?
And what if they were armed? It would be three against one. They could shoot him dead, piss on his corpse, and walk away with no one the wiser. Then who would take care of his mother? He couldn’t take that kind of chance.
Overcome with shame, his chin dropped to his chest. Unable to think straight, he stared at the ground. A few feet from where he stood, two tottering pigeons fought over a discarded crumb. Flying rodents, the city should poison them all, he thought, tempted to blow the heads off of the squabbling pair.
Instead, he shoved the transmitter back into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone. For several long seconds, he stared at it, vacillating. He wanted to call Herr Doktor and ask whether he should remain in the Jardin du Carrousel or leave the vicinity.
But if I make the call, I’ll have to own up to my colossal failure.
Dolf bit his lip, well aware that he was knee-deep in shit without a shovel.
It was like the summer of ’92 when his thirteen-year-old sister, Annah, had been raped. While Annah refused to go to the police and identify the bastard who attacked her, Dolf had been certain that her rapist was the Turkish fruit vendor down the street. Dolf had seen the bastard eyeing his sister. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, she was like an angel, and the rape was retaliation for the apartment fire.
Determined to avenge his sister, Dolf had waited in the dark alley behind the market where the Turk sold his over-priced produce. When the Turk hauled a crate of rubbish out to the metal dumpster, Dolf sneaked up from behind and bashed him on the head with his grandfather’s truncheon. Gasping for breath, the Turk had peered at Dolf, a pleading look in his limpid brown eyes. ‘Please, who will take care of my wife and four children if you kill me? I beg you, sir! Have mercy!’
About to bash him again, Dolf hesitated. Confused. Uncertain what to do. When he had earlier fantasized about killing the Turk, it had been quick and easy. Like in the movies. He hated the fact that his enemy, the man who raped his sister, had just caused this minefield of doubt. Enraged, Dolf ended up pummelling the man with his bare fists, swinging with all the might of his 223-pound body.
The long-ago memory caused Dolf’s gut to twist into a painful knot. Afraid that he might actually puke the contents of his stomach on to the pavement, he removed a roll of antacids from his pocket.
Just as he was in the process of peeling the foil away from a pink tablet, he saw Finnegan McGuire emerge from the hedgerow and sprint towards the plaza.