the TV was a rerun of
The old man stopped in midreach as Valentina hollered in French, “No no no, monsieur. I’ll take it.”
Boutin blinked hard, hesitated, then sighed and collapsed back into the sofa as Valentina took his pistol and shoved it into her waistband.
Hansen shifted up beside her and asked, “Did Francois Dayreis come to see you?”
Boutin removed his thick glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then said wheezily, “Who’s going to pay for my broken door?”
Hansen took a deep breath. “I’m going to blow your brains out if you don’t talk.” He glanced over at Valentina, whose eyes were emphatic:
Boutin returned the glasses to his nose. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”
“Someone gave the police an anonymous tip about the warehouse assault. Was that you?” asked Valentina.
The old man sighed. “I don’t know anything.”
Hansen leaned in closer. Held up his free hand. And in the blink of an eye came a blade jutting from his fist. “You’re an artist. Your hands and eyes are your most important assets.”
“You don’t sound like a torturer.”
With that, Hansen grabbed the old man by the wrist, dragged him from the sofa and over to the workbench, where he pinned the man’s hand to a broad plank of maple, the stubby fingers with long gray hairs nice and flat, like sausages ready to be sliced. “Which one first? And then maybe a hook in each eye? It happens. Fishing is more dangerous than you think.”
Boutin began to lose his breath.
Hansen spoke more slowly for effect. “So, I ask, is Dayreis worth it?”
The old man’s face flushed, and his cratered pate was growing slick with sweat. “So you’re looking for Dayreis? Okay, I’ll tell you what I know. Let go.”
Hansen complied but held his blade to the man’s throat. Boutin rubbed his hand, took a deep breath, and said, “He came to me with five driver’s licenses, and then hours later the names on those licenses were on the news. Five men assaulted. I knew Dayreis was more trouble than he was worth, and I had to suspend my business because of him.”
“Marty, you hearing this?” Hansen whispered into his SVT.
Moreau’s voice came through the subdermal. “I’m hearing you calling me Marty.”
Hansen repressed a snicker and widened his gaze on Boutin. “Do you know where Dayreis is now?”
“He said he had a friend in Tuscany.”
“He’s not in Tuscany,” said Valentina.
Hansen looked at her. “How do you know?”
“Because he had to go see another forger since our friend here ruined his plans. So, monsieur, if you were Dayreis, who would you go see?”
“I don’t know.”
Valentina sighed loudly for effect. “Give us the name, and you can get back to your TV show.”
Boutin closed his eyes. “I would go see Emmanuel Chenevier. He is very good.”
“Spell the last name,” Valentina ordered.
Boutin did.
“Run that name,” Hansen whispered to Moreau.
“On it,” snapped Moreau. “Give the old man some money for his door.”
Hansen reached into his pocket and produced two hundred euros (about $270). Boutin took the bills and counted. “That door was an antique. I’ll need twice as much.”
With a snort, Hansen looked to Valentina, who managed to produce another hundred euros. “That’s all we have,” she said.
“It will have to do,” said Boutin. “And you, lady, you are a smart one to ask me about another forger. I think you will find Mr. Dayreis. And when you do, tell him I said hello and that I hope he dies.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased,” said Valentina.
Hansen tipped his head toward the door, and they hustled out of the apartment, notifying the others that they were on their way.
Moreau and Grim were still connected through the Trinity System and watching as Hansen and his team went though a series of maneuvers to discreetly collapse back in on their vehicles. The team was at its most alert now, and Moreau was impressed by how deftly they came together, if not by the fact that Hansen had chosen to park both rental cars in one spot.
“Look at that,” said Grim suddenly. “There’s someone on the park bench, right there.”
“You’re not thinking what I’m thinking… ” Moreau began.
Grim reached out toward a compasslike control and used it to zoom in on the satellite feed, where they glimpsed a bum with a newspaper folded over his head but lying on his side so that he could peer out from beneath it.
“I don’t believe it,” said Grim. “Look at Kim. She’s walking right by him. Thirty feet! I told Sam to keep them close. But not that close!”
As the cars drove away, the bum rose and began photographing them, and, yes, Moreau and Grim made a positive identification of Mr. Sam Fisher, Splinter Cell — the man who was going to bring down Kovac and stop an even bigger threat in one fell swoop.
Grim felt a pang of guilt that she couldn’t tell Hansen and the others everything; however, she was even more thankful now that she hadn’t. Kovac’s man Stingray was close. Too close.
18
Hansen and Moreau had agreed that questioning Emmanuel Chenevier would need to happen in the morning, lest they catch the man in a very foul mood at 1:00 A.M. The team was now driving straight out to Doucet’s warehouse to confirm that Fisher had been there and see if there was anything that might indicate his next move. It was a long shot, to be sure, but failing to at least inspect the warehouse would be foolish… and Hansen had already made one such mistake.
Taking a tip from Moreau, Hansen made sure that the team parked its rental cars about a quarter mile apart. He should’ve had them do likewise back at Boutin’s apartment, but he was so pumped full of adrenaline that his better judgment had been clouded. Parking the cars together was a tactical error he would not make again. Paying attention to the minutiae kept you alive. Period.
Doucet and his thugs had been living out of a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot Quonset-style warehouse within a mostly deserted industrial park on Reims’s west side. Brown and green quilts of tilled fields unfurled to the south and west, dropping off into darkness, with the only significant light coming from the streetlamps dotting the road.
After a quick radio check, the team fanned out. Noboru and Gillespie would descend from the north and set up overwatch. Valentina would advance from the south and cover the loading dock entrance. Hansen and Ames were threading between the buildings just east of the warehouse and would cross to the dock itself and enter through that rear door.
Within two minutes, the calls came in:
“Nathan here. I’m in position. All clear.”
“Kim here. Same deal on my side.”
