They used greed and faith as weapons, their concern for humanity never stretching beyond the limits of their own selfish interests.
Jack remembered what the Reb had said about al-Fida at Cousin Ohad’s dining table.
“He’d just as soon see people like you and me buried under a pile of rubble.”
Thugs like Swain and Zuabi and al-Fida and Haddad had no qualms about killing. Why, Jack thought, should he?
Because that’s one of the only things that separates human beings from animals, he reminded himself. And if that didn’t matter, then the bad guys had already won.
As it said in Jeremiah, “In truth, in justice, and in righteousness; then shall the nations bless themselves by him…”
Paris, France
“Good to see your bonnie face again,” Lapworth said to Sara, with only a hint of the rolled r s that signaled a Scottish burr. “We were afraid we lost you.”
“You nearly did,” she told him. “If it weren’t for Jack, I’d be rotting in a chair right now.”
Brendan Lapworth had picked them up at the Paris train station, the Gare du Nord, in a battered Citroen Berlingo panel van. Up close, Jack noted that the curly hair was flecked with gray, and there were lines in Lapworth’s ruddy face-the roadmap of a hard life. But his eyes were clear and blue and unflinching.
Jack sat in the backseat, watching the sun drop below the horizon as he absently wound his watch. Ironically, his last visit to Paris had been for a story, when the city was plagued by Muslim riots. It occurred to him that, except for the trip to London with Rachel, most of his world travel had been accompanied by war or political upheaval.
At some point in his life he’d have to take a real vacation, assuming the world would still be around when he was ready for one. Considering what was going on these days, the machinations of Islamic extremists, the anger back home, the turmoil in the Middle East, it sometimes seemed to Jack as if we were already in World War III and losing.
These thoughts aside, Jack had always loved Paris. From the iron-lattice splendor of the Eiffel Tower to the street side cafes and the Gothic majesty of Notre Dame Cathedral, the city hummed a romantic, old-world European tune, while managing to feel modern and vibrant and alive. As they drove through the traffic-clogged streets, he allowed himself to fantasize about an alternate life. A life in which he took a small apartment and spent his evenings at the Cafe de Flore, drinking real Chablis as he watched the carefree young French women stroll by.
As Lapworth drove, he said, “Good to meet you, Hatfield. You did real good by Sara. Bob Copeland told me you’re one of the good guys.”
“So was Bob,” Jack said, shaking off his reverie. “How did you meet him?”
“He was a consultant on a cybersecurity case I handled when I was still a constable,” Lapworth replied. “We found we had mutual interests and stayed in touch. You can’t know how much his death angers me.”
“I think I can imagine.”
Lapworth nodded. “’Tis good to have you with us. What we lack in number, we make up for with passion.”
An odd statement, considering the size and scope of Interpol.
“And hopefully we’ll take down a few terrorists in the process,” Jack said.
“More than a few. I look forward to the day when every one of these bastards is either dead or wasting away in prison.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
Lapworth shrugged. “I’ve always dreamed large.”
It suddenly struck Jack that, like Sara, Lapworth seemed to have reasons for his work that went deeper than a sense of duty. There was a forcefulness to his words that spoke of an underlying rage, anger that had probably been cultivated by some tragedy in his past. Jack understood the sentiment, but he sometimes wondered if such feelings clouded one’s judgment.
“Where are we headed?” Jack asked.
“To our command station,” Sara said. “We’re in an apartment complex that was scheduled to be gutted and renovated until the investors backed out. Now it’s just sitting there. We had to tap a neighboring building for power, but it works well for us.”
That also struck Jack as a little strange. Why would an organization with a fifty-million-dollar annual budget put its agents up in a building scheduled for demolition, especially with their main headquarters not that far away? Then again, from what he’d heard so far, this task force sounded like a ragtag operation trying to remain as invisible as possible. Maybe the fewer ties they had to the mother ship, the better.
Interpol wasn’t a policing body. It was primarily a communications liaison between law enforcement agencies around the world, but Jack was well aware that some of the “advisors” they contracted did a lot more than give advice.
Lapworth made a turn down a desolate cobblestone street and pulled to the side of the road in front of a five-story limestone building that was fronted by a high chain-link fence. Sara popped open her door and got out, gesturing for Jack to follow. When Jack closed his door, Lapworth hit the gas and headed down the street.
“Where’s he going?” Jack said.
“To a garage down the block. He’ll be along in a minute.”
She gestured for him to follow again and they moved to a gate secured by a chain and padlock. She punched in the combination then unhooked the lock and swung the gate open, ushering him inside.
The sun was all but down now, and with little light to guide them they walked along a short stone path toward the building entrance. When they got close to the lobby doors, a hard, sinewy man emerged, an HK IAR slung over his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Ethan, it’s me,” Sara said.
The man named Ethan relaxed, nodded. “Good to see you back. We thought you were dead.” He shifted a hard gaze in Jack’s direction. “Who’s this?”
“The reason I’m not,” she told him.
Ethan quickly patted Jack down, then pulled a radio from his belt and spoke into it, saying, “Two coming up.”
As it squawked in response, Sara pushed the lobby doors open and Jack moved with her.
“An Infantry Automatic Rifle,” Jack observed.
“Sorry?”
“That’s what your friend Ethan was carrying,” Jack said. “I don’t believe that’s standard Interpol issue.”
“As I’ve said, this is not a standard Interpol operation.”
They continued down a dingy hallway to a set of wooden steps, Jack once again wondering why the unit was housed here. Nothing about this struck him as part of a sanctioned operation, Interpol or otherwise, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d been too quick to trust these people.
They started up the stairs, but as they reached the third-floor landing, Jack abruptly stopped.
“We’re on the fifth,” Sara said, gesturing him upward.
“I think I’ve gone far enough.”
“What’s wrong?”
Jack stared at her. “You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you? You people don’t have a thing to do with Interpol.”
She didn’t have to respond. Her face said everything.
Jack turned, looking down the stairwell toward the first floor, where Ethan now stood, staring up at him suspiciously, his hands on the weapon.
Sara touched Jack’s arm, squeezing it. “It’s all right, Jack. You’re safe here.”
“Then why did you lie to me?”
“Because I wanted you to trust me. Take me seriously. I was with Interpol, but I left the agency some time ago.”
“Then who the hell are you people?”
“Survivors,” she said.
“Of what?”
