had never married.
Whitney broke the silence. “So, Frank. How’re things doing in… Africa?” She raised an eyebrow.
Leopole looked around. The dining area was crowded and suitably noisy. He felt free to speak in a conversational tone. “Since you left Chad, Steve’s team is wrapping up the training contract. Terry Keegan traveled to Germany with Eddie Marsh. The admiral got Marsh admitted to Ramstein, by the way. Since he’s ex-Army, there wasn’t much problem. Terry said he’s still bedridden but he should recover his health. Whether he ever flies again…”
“Is Terry coming home, then?”
Leopold shook his head. “No, he went back to Cairo. He’s putting together a jet freighter and crew in case we have to fly one of our teams someplace on short notice.”
“That makes sense,” Whitney replied. “So what about the yellow cake operation?”
“It’s now under government and U.N. supervision, for whatever that’s worth. The French PMC was ordered out of the country, but I don’t know if there’s going to be any prosecution. Steve says three or four embassies are involved, and basically everybody wants it to go away so it probably will.”
Whitney was building a head of steam. She set down her tea harder than intended, spilling some on the tablecloth. “But damn it, Frank! They shot down a helo.” Her voice hiked two octaves. “They killed a couple of Chadian soldiers and nearly killed that Marsh boy.”
Leopole made a quick motion of his fingers to his lips. “Martha, it’s pretty clear that only one or two of the French security people were directly involved, and the one who fired the missile was killed. The main thing is, the leader and a couple of his aides got away. That’s our priority. That and the cake.”
Martha Whitney brushed the liquid off the cloth. “Well, honey, all I can say is, if it was up to me, that Marcel bastard would be
58
Hurtubise walked up to Deladier, who was unloading a box of documents that the end users would require. “Paul?”
Deladier turned at the sound of his name. As he swiveled his head, he heard a loud crack. A searing pain stabbed the back of his left knee. He sagged to the floor, reaching inside his jacket.
Before Deladier could pull his own Makarov, Hurtubise fired again. Once, twice. One round went slightly wide, grazing the right forearm. The other broke the radius. Deladier registered the fact that Marcel wielded the pistol with easy familiarity, shooting one-handed.
Deladier looked into the muzzle. He visualized the chamber containing 95 grains of copper-plated extinction.
“You know why. Just end it.”
The muzzle lowered several centimeters and the next round punched through Deladier’s left sleeve. The pain forced a short, sharp bark from him.
Hurtubise regarded his colleague through dull, heavy-lidded eyes. “I have eight rounds left. How many shall I use, Paul?”
Deladier’s mind raced, treading the precipice between outrage and resignation. He was aware that his breathing had quickened; his throat was raspy dry. He thought of the afternoon in the desert where the rival PMC men were dispatched. Gabrielle had related the incident in clinical detail. Marcel had said, “Some men choose to die on their feet, but most will lick your boots for five more minutes of life.”
The next round went into the floor, a hand’s width from Deladier’s crotch. “Well?” Hurtubise used both hands now, obviously concerned with accuracy. “It wasn’t just money, was it?”
Deladier shook his head. “Gabby.”
“I thought so.” Hurtubise was eerily calm. Had he not resigned himself to dying this hour, Deladier realized that he would feel bone-deep fear. But Marcel Hurtubise had time to give Paul Deladier. Man as god.
“When did you first screw her?”
“I never did. Never.”
“I don’t believe you, Paul.”
“Screw you, Marcel:”
“Then why did you betray me?” Hurtubise’s voice raised an octave, atypically agitated.
“I didn’t betray you, you bastard! I told them where the load was embarked and what ship. It had nothing to do with you! The job was done! I didn’t know you had decided to go along!”
Hurtubise shook his head, as if avoiding a bothersome insect. He absorbed Deladier’s words, realized their validity, then focused again. “What’s that got to do with Gabrielle?”
“She wanted to leave you but she had nothing, no money, nowhere to go. And she knew she would never be free of you.”
“She loved me!”
“You’re such a fool, Marcel. She tolerated you!”
Hurtubise aimed a fast, hard kick at Deladier’s ruined knee. The blow connected and Deladier screamed from the bottom of his lungs.
“You were going to run off with her.” He kicked again. “Weren’t you?”
Deladier inhaled deeply, feeling again the dry rot building inside him. He could scent the fear now, seeping out through his pores and running down his face. In an ephemeral revelation, he grasped his revenge against his slayer.
“Yes, she wanted to be with me.”
Hurtubise’s well-oiled risk assessment machine crunched the information and spat out the conclusion. “Then you were going to kill me! That’s the only way it could happen!”
Paul Deladier forced himself to smile. “That’s what she wanted, Marcel. Only I told her I wouldn’t do it.”
Another kick.
Deladier bit down the pain. “Then why are you still alive? If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it by now.”
Hurtubise leaned forward, his face flushed with anger. “You think I’m stupid? You’re stalling for time!”
“Oh, you idiot! Gabby’s gone and I’ve already been paid. So have you! We both got acknowledgment of the deposits from Geneva, didn’t we?”
Marcel Hurtubise almost reeled from the emotional shock of realization. He knew at once that Paul’s logic was unassailable.
Deladier was speaking again, but Hurtubise’s mind was somewhere else. He looked down at the crippled man. “What did you say?”
Propping himself on his good arm, Deladier replied, “Albert. I said Albert Rumel.”
“What about him?” The voice was flat, petulant.
“He’s the ex-Legionnaire you killed. You thought that he betrayed you, too. But he hadn’t. And neither did I.”
“Then who did you see the other night? It wasn’t any Italian sisters.”
Deladier managed a crooked grin. “So you had me followed.” He nodded in comprehension. “Not that it matters, but I told my contact the ship’s name. That’s all.” The crippled man bit down a moan.
“Who is he?” Hurtubise demanded. “Who owns him?”
“I don’t know his politics, Marcel. Only the color of his money.”
Hurtubise stepped back, inhaling deeply and glancing around. Deladier knew what he was thinking.
