“Maya, wake up. Our runner is here. I don’t think you’ll be happy.”
Hansen and Ames were about halfway to Boutin’s apartment when Grim called, and he spoke to her via his SVT and subdermal. “Ben, I need to make this brief. There’s been a slight change in how this operation will be coordinated. When your runner arrives, he’ll explain everything. I’ll be out of touch for a little while.”
“Grim, wait. I have questions.”
“I wish I could answer them. I really do. Suffice it to say that you need to focus on the job. Good luck, Ben.”
“Wait.”
She ended the call.
“She says there’s been a change in plans, in how we’ll coordinate.”
“What does that mean?” asked Ames.
“The runner’s supposed to tell us.”
“What is this?” asked Valentina, standing outside their car. She was furious that Moreau et al had lied to them about his whereabouts and probably more. “You were just talking to Kim on the computer, and she said you were back at Fort Meade.”
“First, let’s slow down, Nurse Ratched — and speaking of which, I’ve got your uniforms and IDs in the trunk.”
“Nurse who?”
“I don’t believe it. Are you going to stand there and tell me you have not seen
Valentina frowned. “It’s a movie?”
“Of course it is, sunshine!”
“I am not familiar with that movie, either,” said Noboru.
“Aw, you boys and girls got to be kidding me. When you’re drunk or bored sometime, Google it. For now, listen up.”
Valentina snickered. “For the second time, why are you here?”
“I’m getting to that. You’ll be coordinating directly with me right here in Reims, but we want them to think I’m at 3E headquarters.”
“We want who to think?”
“Kovac.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He’s got his eyes and ears all over us. Grim and I decided that it was more important for me to work hands on this time around. So I brought you the gear and my shining personality, and I’ll be staying right here while you track Fisher. You’ll have a secure, encrypted link directly to me, and I’ll update Grim. Bottom line: Tech operations has just gone mobile. Hallelujah!”
Moreau stood there a moment as Valentina and Noboru faced him, resigned to their fate.
“What’s the matter, Nurse Ratched? You’re not happy to see me?”
“Thrilled.”
“Sir, I am glad to see you. I have been thinking about a nickname for you, and I wanted to share it.”
“You’re not going to use foul language, Bruce, are you?”
“No, sir. Have you seen the movie
“Of course I have.”
“You are Jules Winnfield, sir. You are a black hit man, but you don’t have the Jheri curls. When you retire, you will walk the earth like Caine in
“You bet your ass I will.” Moreau threw his arm over Noboru’s shoulder. “Just don’t call me Grasshopper. Now, come with me. I got all kinds of heavy gear bags for you to load while I supervise. Then we’re going to dress you up nice and pretty like a nurse.”
As they went to Moreau’s car, a silver four-door Mercedes (leave it to him to rent a Mercedes), Valentina activated her OPSAT and opened the channel to Hansen. “Ben?”
“You make contact with the runner?”
“Unfortunately, we did.”
“What’s wrong?”
Valentina took a deep breath and told him.
16
Romain Doucet was sitting up in bed, his leg wrapped in a heavy cast and elevated by a sling. His face was a mottled mess of purple and yellow bruises, and somewhere amid those venous flowers was a pair of dark, narrow eyes. Valentina could only imagine how much swelling there had been, but some of it had subsided. Admittedly, it was unnerving to see a man this imposing as battered as he was; it suggested that his attacker was either bigger and stronger or a whole lot smarter. Valentina suspected the latter to be true. Indeed, Doucet was a giant of a Frenchman, over six feet, to be sure, with a chest like the front bumper of a pickup truck. You wouldn’t call the things at the ends of his arms hands, but paws, and his pitch-black hair was matted as though he’d been rolling around on a thick carpet.
Behind Valentina, at a nurses’ station walled in by glass, Noboru was presenting the four duty nurses with a stack of bogus paperwork he’d brought in from central administration. Noboru’s English was very good, but his French was poor, which only added to the mayhem. The nurses were gaping at the reports, which included new work schedules for each of them, new sets of duties, and enough other incendiary material to keep them diverted for a week, let alone five minutes. The geeks back home must have had a good time composing those documents — geeks enjoy wielding their intellectual power to piss people off. Valentina ought to know — she was in their club and just needed to make other people realize that.
For now, though, she was back to the same old pathetic ploy: using sex as a weapon to get what the team needed. She undid one more button on her uniform, opened the glass door, and sashayed into Doucet’s room.
Playing on the TV was a rerun of
“That’s right, Mr. Doucet. My name’s Nurse Ratched.”
In fact, that was the name Moreau had placed on her ID badge; he’d planned that from the beginning. Valentina reached around and drew the curtain around his bed… so they’d have privacy.
Doucet raised his brows. “What do we have to do now?”
“That’s up to you, sweetheart.” Valentina did her finger-to-the-lips thing that all the dogs loved.
The look in his eyes made her want to put a shotgun to his crotch and pull the trigger.
But she had work to do.
“You’re not a real nurse.”
“And I thought you were a stupid man.”
“Who hired you?”
“They did. They want me to make you feel better.”
He started to chuckle. “They’re good friends.” He stopped and winced through the pain.
“Oh, my poor baby. What happened to you?” She crossed around the bed and stared at his leg.
“Skiing accident.”
“That’s not what they told me.” Valentina undid another button, leaned back, and showed him more of her cleavage.
He gasped and said, “What did they tell you?”
