Tom Clancy, Grant Blackwood, David Michaels
Conviction
1
So confident was the target in his invincibility that Sam Fisher had little trouble finding him, and even less in determining how to best take him down. Then again, as jobs went, Romain Doucet wasn’t the toughest nut Fisher had ever cracked. Not even close, in fact. He did, however, rank high on Fisher’s “Waste of Humanity” list.
As he had been for the last hour, Doucet was holding court, as it were, on the bleachers beside a basketball court off rue Voltaire, under the shadow of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. Physically, the Frenchman was impressive: almost six and a half feet tall, 270 pounds, with a weight lifter’s body. On the other hand, his powder blue gangsta- style tracksuit and gold chains were something less than magisterial.
Fisher, sipping coffee and reading his copy of
Romain Doucet fancied himself an up-and-coming Mafioso of sorts, though most of his crimes involved strong-arm robbery and burglary. But his crew was loyal and the residents of his neighborhood frightened, so Doucet never wanted for an alibi, and this, sadly, was the case in the recent rape of a local man’s fifteen-year-old daughter. The police had investigated, of course, but with no forensic evidence, and eyewitnesses placing Doucet elsewhere at the time of the crime, the city prosecutor had been forced to drop the case. The girl’s father refused to accept this, and word quickly spread that the father would be willing to pay for retribution. Reims was a relatively crime-free city, however; what few solicitors the father received had clearly been unequal to the task. For his part, Fisher had, over the last year, realized the mercenary business was one of feast or famine (too often the latter), so he had taken the job. Any other time and he would happily have done the job for free, simply because Doucet deserved it, but men of Fisher’s ostensible vocation weren’t known for their sentimentality, and he dared not show any now. Plus, the five thousand euros — almost seven thousand U.S. dollars — would cover his expenses for the next week or so, until he received his next payment from his German friend. What interested Fisher most, however, was one of Doucet’s side businesses: identity theft. If one knew where to look, money was fairly easy to come by, but not so with passable identity documents. For what he had to accomplish over the next month, he’d need plenty of those.
Rodolphe Vernier spent thirty-two years making his fortune from a chain of high-end brasseries in Paris and Marseille before retiring in 1999 and turning the business over to his sons. A widower, he retired to Reims, where he met his current wife. Shortly after they married, Vernier adopted the woman’s daughter, Marie. He loved the girl as his own, he’d told Fisher during their first meeting, and if not for his advanced age and prominence would have happily handled Romain Doucet himself. From any other man it might have come off as a boast, but the hard sadness in Vernier’s eyes told Fisher the man was telling the truth.
“You found him?” Vernier now asked Fisher. They were sitting on Vernier’s cobblestoned garden patio, beside a trickling fountain — a puffy-faced marble cherub spitting water in a high arc. “He was where I said he would be?”
“I found him,” Fisher replied in French. He wore a disguise, not a good one, but enough that Vernier would have trouble giving an accurate description: a ball cap that hid Fisher’s shaggy hair, dark glasses, and five days’ worth of stubble.
“You can do it?” Vernier asked.
“Yes. I won’t kill him, though.”
“No? Why not? If it is money—”
“It’s not money. Neither of us needs the trouble. If you hurt a deserving man, the police will smile in private; if you
Vernier considered this, then nodded. “Do you want part of the money now?”
“No.” Again Fisher felt a pang of guilt: If not necessary to his larger mission, he would tell Vernier to keep the money. Handling Doucet was a necessary public service. Even so, Fisher now gave Vernier instructions on where and when to leave the cash. “Once I’ve done the job, I’ll pick it up. How is your daughter getting along?”
Vernier shrugged. “A bit better, we think. She is seeing a therapist. She has started talking to us, taking an interest in things. I want to thank you for—”
“Thank me by forgetting me. Forget me. Forget you hired me to do this. Don’t talk about it to anyone. No bragging. For the next twenty-four hours, go out with your family and be seen. Do you understand?”
“An alibi.”
“Yes.”
Vernier studied Fisher for a few seconds. “Aren’t you going to threaten me — tell me not to talk to the police?”
Fisher gave him a hard smile. “You won’t tell the police.”
“No, I suppose not.” Fisher held his gaze until he said it again: “I won’t.”
“They will come see you, ask you questions. Don’t be too quick with your alibi. Let them do the legwork. Tell them you’re not sorry about what happened to Doucet, but you and your wife and daughter are just trying to move on with your lives. For a while everyone will assume you’re responsible. Stick to your story and it will pass. Understood?”
“I understand.”
“Keep your eye on the news Sunday. Leave the key for me later tonight. I’ll collect.” On Fisher’s instructions, Vernier had left a manila envelope containing the money in a locker he’d rented at a local hostel. Once certain Fisher had in fact done the job, Vernier would leave the key under a bird feeder in the backyard.
Fisher stood up and extended his hand to the Frenchman. “Good luck to you.”
“And you.”
Doucet and his gang of five had watched too many episodes of
Fisher tailed them on foot for an hour, just long enough to be sure they were sticking to their Saturday-night routine of barhopping, then walked back to his car and drove to the industrial park. He found a spot a half mile from the warehouse, then walked the remaining distance, making a complete circuit of the side streets before spiraling inward to the bolt-hole he’d scouted earlier. It was nearly eleven, so the area was dark and quiet. He found the thicket of trees that bordered the warehouse’s loading ramp and settled down to wait. He had time to think.
In the space of a year his life had taken a dramatic turn. Not that he hadn’t expected it, but the adjustment had been tougher than he’d anticipated.
Someday, perhaps, the truth would come out and the situation would be judged differently, but today wasn’t
