Breezy sat upright. “We were, uh, just saying that you seem really well informed. Sir.”
Bernard Langevin beamed. The former Air Force short colonel was unaccustomed to compliments from knuckle-dragging door-kickers. “Just doing my job, son. Just doing my job.”
38
Whitney knocked on the apartment’s weathered door. It had “safe house” written all over it: not too fancy, a plain, white-washed exterior with a good view front and back and access to two streets. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that Johnson and Wallender would be watching her from a rented panel truck.
Gabrielle answered the door and greeted her guest in English. “Martha! So good to see you. Please come in.” She stepped back to allow the American to enter.
Whitney took three steps inside, facing her host. As she did so, she took in the setting with the mindset of an alumna of the CIA Directorate of Operations.
Tixier smiled. “After last time I think we should have some tea!” She managed a credible giggle. So did Whitney.
Whitney nodded politely.
Tixier accepted the fact that she had been outmaneuvered and led the way to the kitchen. Whitney recognized the signs of a setup: Venetian blinds mostly closed, tile floor for easy cleanup of messy fluids.
Gabrielle made a point of turning to the stove to retrieve the teapot while Martha remained standing, holding her purse. The sound-activated mike inside was tuned to the frequency that J. J. Johnson was monitoring in case the conversation was conducted in French. He and Wallender could be inside in about thirty seconds, which was the best compromise. Any closer and they would surely be spotted.
While Tixier was adjusting the burner, Whitney did a complete scan. She was comfortable that nobody else was nearby. Not yet, anyway. She turned back to Tixier.
The Frenchwoman carried the pot to the table where cups and saucers were set. She looked a little surprised. “Oh, please, sit down, Martha.” She patted a chair to the left of her own.
Whitney took the chair opposite Tixier rather than the one indicated, keeping the table between them. Apparently in frustration, Tixier dropped the smiling pretense. She took two quick steps to the side of the table, dropped the teapot’s lid, and flung the contents at Whitney’s face.
Martha reacted instinctively. She sidestepped most of the scalding brew, ignoring the liquid pain on her left arm and shoulder. As Tixier grabbed for a towel on the ledge, Whitney stepped in, connected with a swift overhand karate chop to the base of the neck, immediately following with a backhand blow to the larynx. Tixier gasped, slumped against the counter, and grabbed for the towel. As she fell to both knees, a 9 mm Makarov clattered to the floor.
Whitney kicked the pistol away and drew her Glock. “She’s down, J. J.!” Whitney wanted backup available soonest. “I’m unlocking the back door.”
Before turning away from an assailant, Whitney wanted some insurance. She set down her bag, brought up a can of pepper spray and gave Tixier a four-second dose to the face. The Frenchwoman reeled away, fell on her back, and rolled in pain, hands at her eyes.
Johnson and Wallender entered with pistols drawn. Without a word, they obeyed Whitney’s head gesture to clear the apartment. They disappeared through the door, “slicing the pie” to search progressively around each corner.
Whitney knew it would take at least a couple of minutes to complete the search. She locked the door and closed the blinds all the way. Then she turned to Gabrielle Tixier.
The fight was gone from her. She had managed to raise herself to a semi-reclining position, back against a kitchen cabinet. She inhaled slowly, watching the American woman with awe in one eye, fear in the other; streaming tears in both.
Whitney picked up the Makarov, dropped the magazine, and ejected the chambered round into the sink. She ran some water in a glass and examined her assailant. “That’s right, honey. Slow breaths. Breathe through the mouth; your sinuses are messed up.”
Wetting one end of the towel, Whitney poured water over Tixier’s face and gently wiped away some of the OC spray. Nasty stuff. Great stuff. She allowed the younger woman to rinse her mouth with some water and spit it onto the floor. Tixier needed both hands to steady the glass, allowing Whitney to search her. There was a switchblade in one vest pocket. “You expecting trouble, sweetie?” Whitney grinned as she tossed the shiv over her shoulder.
In a moment Tixier was able to focus. Then she said,
Whitney gave a forced laugh. “Kill you? Why would I do that?”
Tixier spat out some mucus. “If you don’t, Marcel will. That’s why I had to kill you.” She spat again. “I am finished.”
Martha made a point of sitting on the floor, appearing less threatening. “Sweetie, don’t you think you’re premature? You can come with me. We’ll take you away and you never need to see him again.”
Tixier’s blue eyes were still watery. She rubbed them with the back of one hand, an endearing little-girl gesture. She sniffed loudly, then shook her head. “No, it’s no good. I know something of the intelligence world. I would be useful for a while, then…” She shrugged. “Believe me, if it took the rest of his life, Marcel would find me. I would never have any peace. I would rather be dead.”
Whitney placed a hand on Tixier’s arm. “Gabrielle…” She sought the right words. “You know, in America we have a saying. Never kid a kidder. Well, honey, we’ve been trying to kid each other. You know what I mean? We been playing this damn game trying to get each other to talk. The other night you talked more than I did, and now your friend Marcel wants me dead. But you know what? It don’t matter. He must know that, too. My friends already have the information, sweetie.”
Tixier nodded gravely, staring at the far wall. “Yes, I know.”
“Well then?”
“It is as you say Martha. It doesn’t matter. Marcel knows that I betrayed him even if I didn’t mean to. There’s no going back.” She turned her head to spit up again.
“But…”
Tixier raised her left hand. It trembled as if from Parkinson’s. “You don’t know him. A few years ago he thought a man had betrayed him. A friend from
“Well, I see what you’re saying…”
“No you don’t, Martha. A few weeks later Marcel learned that the man had not betrayed him. Somebody else did and blamed the Legionnaire. You know what Marcel said?” Before Whitney could respond, Tixier added, “He said,
“Bad luck?”
“That’s all. Just that. Then he spent more time looking for the one who really turned on him. But that man had burned too many others and he turned up dead in Marseilles. So Marcel never got his revenge. He was furious about that. Which is why I know he will never stop until he finds me.”
Johnson stepped into the kitchen, holstering his Sig. “All clear. Martha, we’d better get her out of here.”
Whitney stood up, rubbing her arm. “Gonna have to get some ointment,” she said.
“Yeah, but what about…”
“No. She’s made up her mind.”
“Well, I don’t know, Martha. She’s a good source.”
