Kill Shot

Hurley looked around the restaurant. Covering the phone and his mouth with his free hand, he asked Stansfield, “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll talk in person. Now carry out my order and give my best to Paulette.”

“How did . . .” The line went dead and Hurley pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the screen. How in hell did Stansfield know he was with Paulette? He stared at the phone for a long moment. Every instinct he had was telling him not to make the next call. Rapp was no good. He had broken every rule in their dirty little book and if he wouldn’t come in on his own, he needed to be dragged in. But Hurley had rarely if ever heard Stansfield more adamant. The individualist in him wanted to ignore his boss’s order and leave the men right where they were for another twelve hours, but Stansfield had made his intentions clear. After another moment of indecision, Hurley said, “Screw it.” He pressed the number 2 and held it down until the phone started to dial the number.

“Hello.”

“You’ve been yanked. Head back to the hotel and sit tight until I give you further orders.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Listen, dickhead. You think this is a debate club? If I wanted any shit out of you I’d come down there and squeeze your head. Pack everything up and get your ass back to the hotel, and do it now. Get some sleep, and I’ll call you in the morning.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing. Do what you’re told. End of discussion.” Hurley stabbed the red End button, flipped the phone shut, and dropped the small black device on the table. After two big gulps of wine he called the waiter over and told him he wanted a bourbon on the rocks. Why in hell would Stansfield be flying over here? he asked himself. He’d bring way too much heat. He was the damn deputy director, for Christ’s sake. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. The bourbon arrived before Paulette and Hurley took a big gulp. He was trying to sort through the different possibilities so he could put this thing out of his mind and focus on Paulette for the rest of the evening when a man approached the table. Hurley looked up, assuming he worked for the restaurant. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and was dressed in an expensive suit. As was his habit, Hurley sized up the fit of the man’s jacket for any bulges that might mean a concealed gun.

“Stan. It’s been a long time.” The man spoke in English with a French accent.

Hurley studied the face of the vaguely familiar man. It must have been the mustache. He couldn’t place him.

“I know,” the man said with an easy smile. “It’s been a long time and your reputation was far beyond mine back then.”

“I’ve been to a lot of places over the years. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Just then LeFevre returned from the washroom. “You two know each other? I should have guessed.” She eased into the semicircular booth and inched her way around until she was nestled next to Hurley. She pointed to the other side of the booth and said, “By all means join us for a drink. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.”

Hurley said, “I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea who this guy is.”

“Oh,” LeFevre said, surprised. “This is Paul Fournier. He runs the Special Action Division for the DGSE. The same spooky black bag stuff that you do. I would have thought you two would know each other.”

Hurley instantly knew the name, and it helped the face fall into place. “Shit,” he said to Fournier, “it sure as hell has been a long time. Vietnam more than twenty years ago. You were a virgin.”

Fournier smiled. “We all have to start somewhere.”

Hurley vividly remembered the brutal interrogation he’d conducted all those years ago. “You weren’t squeamish like the rest of those pussies.”

“That has never been a problem for me. The ends almost always justify the means.”

Hurley held up his glass and gave him a salute.

“Sit,” LeFevre commanded. After she flagged down a waiter, she asked for another glass and ordered another bottle of wine. “Paul,” she said to Fournier, “I get the feeling that you have some things you’d like to discuss with my friend.” She hooked her arm around Hurley’s.

“Men like us can always find something useful to talk about.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but I know you well enough that I think it highly improbable that you just happened to wander into this particular restaurant tonight.”

Fournier shrugged as if to say guilty as charged.

“I am very possessive of Stan. I do not get to see him often enough, so I am going to sit here and quietly listen to the two of you share state secrets. I give you both my word that none of what I hear will be published until I write my memoirs in thirty years. If you cannot abide by that, I suggest the two of you meet for breakfast tomorrow. Are we all in agreement?”

Fournier laughed. “Yes. We are in agreement. I would not want to ruin your evening. Although, Paulette, you do not have to go to America to find your lovers. There are plenty of men here in Paris who would jump at the chance to worship you. In fact I would place myself at the top of the list.”

The congenial smile melted from Hurley’s face. “Listen here, douche bag. I don’t give a fuck where you work. One more comment like that and I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth and shove it up your ass.”

Paulette squeezed his leg under the table and said, “Darling, there is no reason to get angry. Paul is merely trying to pay you a compliment. Aren’t you, Paul?”

Fournier did not answer. He remained locked in a staring contest with Hurley. He knew Hurley was capable of extreme violence, but then again this was not the jungles of Southeast Asia. This was Paris. It was his city. “As my friends will tell you, I am exceedingly polite. My enemies, though, will sing you a different song.” Fournier tilted his head to the side and asked, “Are you my friend, Stan, or are you my enemy?”

Hurley didn’t blink. “I stopped taking applications for friends years ago. I’m full up.”