“Actually,” the voice came from the far side of the chapel, “this beautiful church is a tribute to France’s victory in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. You should read your history, Samir. The Koran makes you a very narrow- minded person.”
Fournier breathed a sigh of relief. It was Max Vega, or at least that was one of his names. Fournier knew of two others. Unlike the two men he was facing, Max was a man of intellect and civility.
“I don’t care when it was built,” Samir snarled. “It is an offense to my faith.”
“The important thing,” Max said in an easy voice, “is that this is a safe place for us to meet.”
“It is a convenient place for him to meet,” Samir said, pointing a finger at the Frenchman. “It reeks of death.”
Max wandered over at a casual pace. “Samir, you need to show some respect to our friend, and lest you forget, Christianity predates our faith by some six hundred years.” Samir started to complain, but Max shushed him with a wag of his finger. “I have never heard Paul complain when you have asked him to meet you in one of our houses of worship.”
“That is different. We don’t fill our mosques with dead bodies.” Samir spat on the ground.
Fournier was a casual Catholic, but even he couldn’t stomach this kind of disrespect. Turning to Max, he said, “I give him protection, and this is how he shows his gratitude.”
“He is right,” Max announced in a disappointed voice. “Is it possible, Samir, that you are mad at yourself for your own failures?”
The comment stung. “What is that supposed to mean?” Samir asked, his eyes wild with anger.
“I would say it’s pretty obvious,” Fournier said, folding his arms across his chest and letting his weight settle on one leg.
“You were not there last night, so I would be careful what conclusions you draw.”
“Conclusions? What conclusion should I draw from nine murders in the heart of Paris? You came here to kill one man, you failed, and now I have nine bodies to deal with.”
Samir stepped forward to within striking distance. “I will only say it one more time. You weren’t there, so I think you should be careful what tone you use with me.”
Fournier laughed. “I’ll use whatever tone I like, you little turd. You are here because of my generosity. I handed you this assassin on a silver platter and you fucked it up so badly I’ve spent the entire day trying to clean up your mess.”
“My mess!” Samir yelled. “I think you set me up! I think you are playing both sides in this. Profiting from them and us with the same information.”
“Lower your voice, you idiot,” Fournier hissed.
“Why . . . are you afraid the dead people will hear me?”
“No . . . I’m afraid one of the priests will come down here to investigate why they have a screaming terrorist in the basement of their blessed church.”
Before Samir could respond, Max stepped forward and motioned for his man to back off. In a sensible voice he ordered, “Samir, tell our friend what went wrong last night.”
“I will tell you what went wrong last night.” Samir nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We were set up. The assassin was waiting for us. When we came into the room, he was concealed, and he shot my men before they had a chance to fire their weapons.”
Fournier shook his head, not buying a word of it. “You are a liar, Samir.”
“How dare you!” Samir snarled.
“I was there, this morning. There were bullet holes everywhere. Shell casings littered the floor, and I saw at least three empty magazines lying next to your men. Your men were not ambushed . . . they were outmatched.”
“We were ambushed,” Samir said, his eyes wild with rage. “Look at my face. I barely escaped. I have wood splinters in my cheek. I was almost blinded.”
“Yes . . . well, you are doing much better than your men, so consider yourself lucky.”
The third man finally spoke up. Rafique Aziz looked at Fournier and asked, “How did he know we were coming?”
This one made Fournier nervous. Samir was a zealot, and he was blinded by his own rage, but Aziz was more complex. He had the anger as well, but was more calculating. Fournier had been around killers before, and Aziz had that same look in his eyes. “Who says he knew you were coming?”
“Samir.”
“Samir,” Fournier said, scoffing at the idea.
“Yes. I believe my brother.”
Fournier took a step back and looked to Max. “I know one thing. Samir here was given a golden opportunity last night and he blew it. And then after he blew it, he managed to kill three innocent civilians on his way out of the hotel, and now he wants to blame this on me.” Then, looking back at Samir, he said, “I’m not the one who should be explaining myself. In fact, you are lucky I don’t have you thrown into the Mediterranean and drowned.”
Samir drew his gun and pointed it directly at Fournier’s face. “How dare you!”
Aziz drew a knife from his waist. “Maybe we should slit your throat and rid ourselves of a traitor.”
“Put your toys away, gentlemen,” Max ordered.
Samir did as he was told but Aziz kept his knife out, proving he was less willing to comply. Locking a menacing
