“I assume he was on the operations side of the business.”
“Yes.” Fournier shook his head as he thought of the time he’d watched Hurley slice a man’s ears off in Vietnam. And then there were the stories he’d heard over the years involving the Soviets. “He was very good at his job. Drove the Russians nuts, or so I’ve been told.”
“So what is he doing in our fair city?”
“That is a very good question. Did your men follow him?”
“No . . . we didn’t know who he was and thought it was better to stay with the surveillance van.”
Knowing how thin they were stretched, Fournier couldn’t chastise Mermet. “Tell our people to check the customs database. Look for the name Stan Hurley and any other aliases we may have on file. The next time he shows up, I want him followed. I want to know every move he makes.”
“I assume they should exercise a fair amount of caution.”
“That is a very astute observation, Pierre. He is a man very comfortable with violence.”
“An ally, though?”
The idea made Fournier smile. France’s relationship with the United States was fraught with complications. “Traditionally yes, but we have no way of knowing who he is working for at the moment.” The truth was Fournier trusted no one, but he knew that position would sound a bit too paranoid to a pleaser like Mermet. “We shouldn’t assume he is still beholden to the CIA. Just find him and let me know as soon as you do.” Fournier reached for the door handle, assuming the meeting was over.
“There are two more things. Your friend, the Spaniard.”
Fournier let his hand fall to his knee. He was parked in front of the Balzac because he was going in to meet Max Vega. “Yes.”
“Well . . . his friend has not left the country.”
Fournier thought of Samir the idiot. He so disliked the man that he didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “You’re certain.”
Mermet nodded. “He’s upstairs in Vega’s suite right now.”
Fournier swore to himself. These fundamentalist morons were turning out to be more trouble than they were worth.
Mermet saw the frustration on his boss’s face and offered, “I can have him forcibly deported if you’d like.”
Fournier shook his head vehemently. “We don’t need to draw any more attention to these fools than they’ve done on their own.” He might have him killed, though, if the man continued to be such an irritant. “What’s the last issue?”
“Your old friend, Commandant Neville?”
Fournier smiled as he remembered the passionate sex they’d had. “Yes.”
“She had a forensics team on the roof of the hotel all morning.”
“There is nothing for her to find. You took care of that problem.”
“I removed the rope, but there is undoubtedly some evidence that was left behind.”
Fournier shrugged. He supposed the problem was unavoidable. Sooner or later, Neville was going to figure out that all the ballistics didn’t add up. The Libyans were holding up their part of the deal, but that would only work for so long. Neville would figure out that the bodyguards weren’t in fact bodyguards. The only question was what type of evidence she could collect to prove her suspicions. The entire crime scene was a mess and he and Mermet had done just enough to make her job all the more confusing. Turning to his most trusted aide, he said, “I would not worry about her. She is not going to get very far in solving this case.”
“Well, she’s looking for you, and I’ve been told she’s suddenly very interested in compiling a list of everyone who was at the crime scene the morning in question. Especially a certain sandy-brown-haired man who was with you.” Mermet was speaking about himself. “What would you like me to do?”
“Lie low. Stay away from the office. I will handle her.”
“All right.”
Fournier reached for the door again and Mermet asked, “Anything else?”
With one foot on the pavement, Fournier turned back to Mermet and said, “Yes. Find me Mr. Stan Hurley. I would very much like to have a talk with him.”
CHAPTER 20
IN general, big cities the world over shared the same basic makeup. They had centers for banking and finance, business districts, retail meccas where you could buy almost anything, museums and concert halls, above- and belowground rail systems, and roads that traveled out from the central downtown to suburbs like arteries from a heart. There were parks and neighborhoods that accommodated the super rich, the destitute, and everything in between. The affluent neighborhoods had fine restaurants, fine jewelers, art dealers, and boutique stores that carried the most expensive clothes. The poor neighborhoods had pawn shops, greasy restaurants that had to bribe health inspectors to keep their doors open, gambling shops, houses of prostitution, check-cashing hovels with bars on their windows, and of course drug dealers.
Paris was no different really, other than the fact that Parisians loved their art so much that they had more museums than most. While Rapp was confident that he could handle himself in any neighborhood, no matter how rough, he thought it was best not to complicate things. What he was looking for could be found in little pockets of almost every quarter of Paris. He could jump on the Metro and go out to one of the slums in the outer ring, but a hardened criminal would ask too many questions, and might bring a few of his cohorts along, all of which would unnecessarily complicate things. Rapp didn’t need a true thug. He just needed someone looking to make a little money. Paris was filled with lonely strung-out souls—men and women who had fallen to the addiction of heroin, or crank, or crack, or whatever else they were calling it these days.
Over the last year, Rapp had gotten to know many of the intimate details of the City of Love. Paris had been his
