The desire to flee is not always wise. That was what he’d told himself while riding the Metro in the early morning after the slaughter at the hotel and now he found himself repeating the mantra once more. He had the skills to disappear, but what would he do with the rest of his life? It was one of many things Rapp had learned in his new line of work. He knew he’d changed a great deal in the past year. All of his senses had been sharpened. He could no longer simply walk into a room. Faces, potential threats, and exits all had to be assessed and categorized, and casually so as to not draw any attention. Everything he did was strategic planning on an extremely high level. How do you outthink your opponent when the stakes are life and death? Every move, every variation of each move, has to be analyzed and the risks weighed against options until you can zero in on the path that gives you the best chance for success.
After leaving the warehouse at first light his needs dictated his actions. Shelter, care, and food were at the top of his list, and they all had to be obtained without attracting any attention. That was when the urge to flee was the strongest. To just jump on the closest Metro train and go straight to the Gare de Lyon train station, gather his emergency bag from the locker, and flee the country. He could be across the border into Switzerland in three hours. Run straight into the arms of Greta and there was a good chance Hurley would know within a day. The first order of business was almost always to get out of the country where you had committed the crime, and Rapp had been told specifically on this one that he was to get out of France immediately after killing Tarek.
Getting ambushed and shot had obviously complicated things, but Rapp was disinclined to follow through with those orders for multiple reasons. The police were sure to be on high alert after the shootout at the hotel. They would be monitoring the ports and train stations and the immigration and border control agents would be scrutinizing every detail. While Rapp seriously doubted that they had a description of him, there was enough doubt to make him hesitant. He’d lost blood, and he was in pain. He could chance it, but an alert border agent might have him escorted into a private room for some interrogation and a strip search. Once his shirt was off there would be no denying that he’d been shot.
Fluent in French, Rapp liked the odds of staying put in Paris and blending in with the city’s ten million inhabitants. Greta could collect a few things for him and then she could come to him. He did get on the first Metro train he found, however, and after a transfer he was emerging from several hundred feet underground into the grand Gare de Lyon station. Traffic was light, but as he’d guessed the police were unusually alert. Rapp, with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of the stolen jacket, kept his chin tucked in and his eyes uninterested as if he was just another laborer heading off to work. The lockers were located near the bathrooms. He purchased an espresso and a croissant from a vendor and used his wait to casually determine if any of the police had taken notice of him. They hadn’t, so he proceeded to the lockers, retrieved his backpack, and stepped into one of the stalls in the men’s room.
Four minutes later he emerged in a pair of jeans, hiking boots, blue Roots sweatshirt, and a Montreal Canadiens cap. The Palestinian passport had been torn up and flushed down the toilet and the worker’s clothes stuffed into a trashcan. His backup gun was still strapped around his ankle, but other than that he was just another tourist. He left the terminal and stepped onto the first waiting bus, not caring where it would take him as long as it was quickly away from the station. A few minutes later he found himself rolling through central Paris. When the air brakes hissed at the hideous Pompidou Center, Rapp got off. He knew of a Best Western just around the corner— the type of place that catered to tourists eager to be near Paris’s great museums.
A half block later he found a pay phone. It was brand new, shiny stainless steel; France Telecom’s newest card-operated model to help thwart city degenerates who were fond of breaking into the coin-operated machines. Rapp slid his telecard into the slot, grabbed the receiver, and punched in a number from memory. She answered on the third ring.
“Good morning, Frau Greta,” Rapp said in French. “How are you?”
“I am wonderful. Especially after hearing your voice.” Her relief was obvious.
“Good. I can’t wait to see you, but there has been a change in plans.” The chance that Greta’s phone was tapped was remote, but nonetheless, Rapp kept things as vague as possible and used their prearranged codes. “I can’t leave town. My boss dumped a bunch of work on me. Do you think maybe you could come to me instead?”
“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation, concern creeping into her voice.
“Could you drive?” It would be nice to have a car in case they needed to flee. “Maybe we could take a drive into the country tomorrow?”
“Yes, I can drive. Is everything all right?”
Rapp could tell she was worried. “Everything is fine, darling. Well, not perfect, but I’ll live.” He realized that would not calm her down, so he added, “There’s just a few complications, that’s all. Once you get here everything will be fine. Can you meet me tomorrow morning?”
“Not today?”
Rapp needed some food and a lot of sleep. And he needed some silence to sort things out. “I’m afraid today won’t work. I have to get some things taken care of, but I promise, tomorrow I will have all day to spend with you.”
“And the rest of the week?”
“And the rest of the week, too,” Rapp lied. He would explain things in person and hoped she would understand. “I have to run, darling. Can you meet me at ten tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. Where . . . the apartment?”
“Not the apartment,” Rapp said a little too quickly. Recovering, he said, “I will email you the information.” He felt a wave of pain coming down on him and he grabbed the top of the phone booth with his right hand. “I have to go, darling, but I can’t wait to see you.” Rapp practically bit off his tongue after he spoke the last word.
“I can’t wait to see you. I just wish it was today.”
Rapp closed his eyes and hung on to the case of the pay phone. The pain kept building and Greta kept talking, asking him if something was wrong. He finally managed to say, “I’ll be all right.” His voice was tight and clipped. “I have to go now, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rapp was pulling the receiver away from his ear when he heard her tell him she loved him. It was a first for the two of them and Rapp wasn’t sure if he was unwilling or unable to respond. He hung up the phone, knowing his nonresponse would be an issue. The throbbing pain slowly receded. Rapp retrieved his card, took several deep breaths, and then steadied himself enough to start down the sidewalk.
It was just past 7:00 a.m. when he crossed the hotel’s small lobby. He spoke English to the man behind the desk, who assured him that while he did not have a room available at this exact moment, he expected one to free up within the hour. Rapp presented a Canadian passport and a Visa card with the name Bill Johnson. On the advice
