‘Appreciate that.’ Lightly placing his hand on the small of her back, Finn guided Kate through the crowded reception hall. With two hundred or so jibber-jabbering attendees, it was the perfect place for an assassin to lurk. No wonder FJ-58 stipulated the embassy party.
‘The opulent fête champêtre and sumptuous joie de vivre put me in mind of a Watteau painting.’
‘Sorry. Not registering. You lost me at French fries.’ Flagging down a penguin-suited waiter, Finn snatched two glasses of champagne from a silver tray. ‘Here you go. What’s a party without a lil’ bubbly?’ Forcing his lips into a semblance of a smile, he handed Kate one of the glasses.
‘What I was trying to say is that I feel out of my element.’
‘I hear ya.’ A few feet away, Finn observed two female guests bend and sway as they gave each other a well-practised air kiss.
‘You know, Sergeant, er – I mean, Finn –’ Kate took a measured sip of her champagne – ‘I don’t know anything about you. However, if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that you hail from the Boston area.’
‘Guilty as charged. I’m a Southie born and bred. The lady clearly knows her accents.’ Mimicking his date, he took an obligatory swallow. Christ. Talk about French pansy piss.
‘Given that you sound like Mark Wahlberg in The Departed, it wasn’t so difficult. Good movie, by the way, although a bit on the violent side. It’s all about all these Boston gangsters who –’
‘Yeah, I saw it,’ he lied.
‘I grew up in Pasadena … in case you were wondering.’
He wasn’t.
‘Right. Pasadena. Rose Bowl parade.’ He surreptitiously searched the tight clusters of champagne-swilling partygoers. Come on, asshole. Come to daddy.
‘Don’t they teach children to speak in full sentences in South Boston?’
‘Nope. Can’t recall that Sister Michael Patrick ever used a complete sentence. “Stand.” “Sit.” “Pray.” “Open your books.” ’
Clearly amused, Kate laughed, champagne sloshing over the side of her glass. ‘Which are complete sentences, albeit commands.’
Knowing it was time to cut her loose, Finn cleared his throat. ‘Listen. Kate. I just caught sight of someone I know and I, um, need to talk shop for a few minutes. Would you mind if I –’
‘Not to worry. I’m a big girl. Besides, the dessert table awaits me.’ A good sport, she waved him on his way.
‘Shouldn’t be gone too long,’ he said, the lies fast mounting.
Spying a double set of French doors that led to an outside courtyard, Finn headed in that direction. According to the email he’d received, he was to wait there until he received further instructions.
As he stood at the open doorway, Finn knew that he made an easy sniper target, although he figured that whoever lured him to the embassy wouldn’t try to kill him until after they’d interrogated him. That was, after all, the point of the exercise. If they’d wanted him dead, he’d already be six feet under. Just like Dixie and Johnny K.
He still couldn’t believe his two buddies had been murdered. No, correction: tortured and then murdered.
Once, in a drunken stupor, Lamar Dixon confessed that he liked the Dixie Chicks. Despite being one of the biggest, baddest, blackest men you’d ever want to meet, the inebriated admission instantly earned him a new nickname. When the team tried to stick John Kelleher with the handle ‘Baby Huey’ – on account of his shaved head and ruddy cheeks – the trooper went on a rampage and actually opened a bottle of Killian’s Irish Red with his teeth. Thereafter he was known as Johnny K.
Corporals Dixon and Kelleher were not just personal friends, they were valiant soldiers. Dixie had joined the army two days after 9/11; Johnny K signed up soon thereafter. Both men were true patriots who put their lives on the line numerous times to protect and defend their country. They did not deserve to die like animals led to slaughter.
I swear that I will get you guys the justice you deserve. Or die trying.
Finn glanced at his watch. 1700.
‘Right on time,’ he muttered under his breath as a tall, dark-haired man broke away from the crowd. FJ-58. Coming round the mountain.
‘Monsieur McGuire, I am pleased that you managed to elude the two CID agents,’ FJ-58 said by way of greeting, the words spoken with a cultivated French accent. ‘But, then, we knew you would successfully escape your would-be captors. No doubt, it was child’s play for a man with your training.’ The Frenchman extended his right hand. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Minister of Cultural Affairs, Fabius Jutier.’
Finn glared at the proffered hand, refusing to take it.
‘How about we cut the crap and get down to business,’ he growled, not in the mood for phony pleasantries.
‘Ah, you Americans … such a colourful way with the language. Perhaps we should take this conversation to my office.’
‘Lead the way.’
6
‘May I offer you a cigar, Monsieur McGuire?’
Seated in a sleek white leather chair situated in front of Fabius Jutier’s desk, Finn tersely shook his head. The Frenchman clearly thought that he was the one in control of this lil’ shindig. They were, after all, on his turf – an ultra-modern office that gleamed with lots of shiny metal and shimmering glass. What the French dude didn’t know was that Finn intended to yank the bright red carpet right out from under his leather-shod feet.
Jutier extended the inlaid walnut cigar box a few inches closer. ‘Go ahead. It’s perfectly legal. We French are not bound by the same trade restrictions with Cuba as you Americans.’
Again, Finn shook his head, determined to keep his cool.
‘D’accord.’ The Frenchman strolled to the humidor on the other side of the office. ‘I imagine you’ve had a difficult time adjusting to your new job at the Pentagon,’ he remarked casually as he placed the cigar box in the cedar-lined humidor. ‘A pity, what happened to you in Al-Qanawat.’
‘It’s obvious you flipped someone in the command loop. There’s no other way you could know about the Al-Qanawat mission in Syria. It was strictly black ops. Mind telling me who the turncoat is?’
‘Was.’ Robusto in hand, Jutier walked to the sideboard where there was a miniature guillotine set on a black marble plinth. ‘Given that General Cavanaugh died in a car accident yesterday morning, the question should be framed in the past tense.’
Finn sat up straighter in his chair, surprised the treachery went so high up the chain of command. General Robert ‘Battling Bob’ Cavanaugh had been a top planner at JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. He was also the same general who had put the Al-Qanawat mission into play.
‘Dead men can’t talk. Making me think the General’s accident wasn’t so accidental.’
‘Alas, the General did not keep up his end of our bargain.’ Smiling, Jutier slid his Cuban into the miniature guillotine and, staring directly at Finn’s missing finger, let the blade drop.
A bolt of pain shot through Finn’s phantom finger.
‘Trust me when I say I derived no pleasure from the General’s death,’ the Frenchman glibly continued as he next removed a wooden match from an ebony container. ‘However, we offered him a great sum of money and he failed to deliver as promised.’
‘How about Dixie and Johnny K? Did you enjoy slicing them from stem to sternum?’
With a crisp snap of the wrist, Jutier struck the match against the side of the ebony container. In no apparent hurry to answer the question put to him, he held the match to the foot of the cigar, his cheeks moving like a bellows as he unhurriedly lit it. Finn assumed the theatrics were for his benefit and wondered if he should give the French jackal a round of applause.