Victor was writhing in pain. Snot was pouring out of his nose. He mumbled some more.
Rapp shoved the gun down hard. “I’m going to count to five again. Remember how that worked last time? One . . . two . . . three . . . four.”
“Paul Cooke!” Victor yelled.
Rapp stood, looked at the glass, and nodded. He looked back down at Victor and said, “If it was up to me, Victor, I’d put a bullet in your head right now.” Rapp turned for the door.
Victor started laughing. Slow and soft at first and then faster and loud.
Rapp stopped and turned back to face the man. “What’s so funny, Victor?”
He got his laughter under control and said, “I knew you didn’t have the balls for this line of work.”
Rapp looked him over, considered his options, and then raised his gun. He fired two shots into Victor’s groin and said, “Well, I guess that makes two of us.”
Rapp knocked three times on the door and a moment later Hurley opened it. “How’d it go?”
“He fingered Cooke, so I guess we have one more rat to deal with.”
“You got that right.” Hurley looked beyond Rapp and saw all of the blood. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
“I gave him a bunch of chances to tell the truth. It just took him a while to figure out it was in his best interest to stop lying to me.”
“What am I going to do with him?”
Rapp shrugged his shoulders. “I promised Doc that I wouldn’t kill him, so it’s up to you.” He walked past Hurley and down the hall to the observation room. The door opened before he got there and Dr. Lewis stepped into the hallway.
With an anxious look on his face, he asked Rapp, “How are you feeling?”
Rapp stopped, considered the question for a second, and said, “Fucking great, Doc. Never better. How about you?”
CHAPTER 47
FAURNIER had arranged a private room at Les Enfants Terribles. He knew the manager well and could trust him for discretion. Fournier’s morning had been horrible. He’d been forced to defend himself to virtually every bureaucrat and politician all the way up and down the line. The director general of the National Police wanted his head, and the feminists wanted his balls, and all he wanted was for this nonsense to go away. What were one woman’s feelings when he was wrestling with the national security of the Republic?
Fortunately, Cooke had no idea about the morning’s press conference. He stepped off the private jet with a bounce in his step, looking forward to concluding their business arrangement. Fournier liked Cooke for the simple reason that he was a mirror image of himself. He was intelligent and pragmatic. He never got caught up in the emotional component of things, which was the kiss of death in their business. There was no place for compassion or feelings. It was a brutal business and only the best and the brightest could survive.
It was partly why he had such respect for Stansfield and Hurley. They had been such a good team over the years. Stansfield’s brains and Hurley’s heartless, crush-the-enemy-at-any-cost attitude had been a very potent combination. But they were both getting old, and the fact that they’d let someone like Cooke slip under their radar was proof that it was time for them to go. Fournier worried about that. Would he know when to go himself? He had spent a lot of time thinking about it and planning for it. That’s why he had all of his money neatly stashed away. When the time came he would simply vanish if he had to.
“So what can you tell me about these people?” Cooke asked.
Fournier took a sip of wine and said, “They pay handsomely for information. That’s the most important thing.”
“Have they ever threatened you?”
Fournier smiled. “They have a few uncivilized types, but Max keeps them in line. You’ll like Max. He’s a good man. He’s not one of these radicals who’s always threatening to blow things up.”
Cooke laughed. “Well, as long as Max can keep them in line, this should go well.”
Fournier looked at his watch, drained his wine, and said, “We should go. I like to keep them waiting, but not too long.”
“What time were we supposed to meet with them?”
“One.”
Cooke checked his own watch and frowned. It was 1:38. Both men stood. Fournier pulled back the curtain of their private room and made for the front door. Several patrons tried to get Fournier’s attention and many more were staring and whispering. Fournier ignored them all. When they reached the front door, Fournier’s security officer and Mermet were waiting. Mermet looked to be on the verge of an anxiety attack.
Fournier pulled him aside and asked, “More bad news?”
“Yes. The president’s office called. They want to see the file.”
Fournier inhaled through his nose. “That bitch has really caused me some trouble.” He fished out a cigarette and said, “Tell them I am tied up debriefing a high-level intelligence asset and that we will get them the file tonight.”
Mermet nodded and they started across the street. Fournier offered Cooke a cigarette but he declined, telling his friend that he still rowed and it wasn’t good for his lungs. Fournier pretended not to hear a word he said.
The Hotel Balzac was directly across the street. They continued up the carpeted steps and stopped under the circular portico. Fournier turned to Mermet and said, “Wait down here. This should take thirty minutes or so.” The truth was that Fournier didn’t want too many eyes and ears around what was about to happen. A sizable amount of cash was going to change hands, and depending on how the meeting went, Fournier might be tempted to get into his car and drive straight for Switzerland when it was over.
