Chapter 2

2

Owen Pace tugged down on the brim of his baseball cap and adjusted his wool scarf so that it covered his mouth and nose. Once satisfied, he exited the Saint-Michel Notre-Dame Metro station.

As he’d hoped, the sidewalk was packed with a mix of tourists and Parisians on their way home from work. Melding into the crowd, he entered Paris’s Latin Quarter unnoticed.

He maintained his vigilance as he made his way through the quarter’s warren of narrow, cobbled roads, and reached his destination without any of his internal alarms going off.

Bar Dupuy was in the basement of a centuries-old building. Owen had been there many times and knew the layout well, which was why he had suggested it as a meeting place. The long, dimly lit room was about twice as wide as the narrow alley above. Booths ran down the wall on the right, and stools lined the bar on the left. At the back was a shadowy hallway, where the restrooms and an emergency exit were located.

The only customers were all sitting at the bar. Owen ordered a whiskey and carried it to the booth closest to the back hallway, sitting so that he faced the main entrance.

The meet was set up for ten p.m., but that time came and went without the other party showing up. This was not unexpected.

Tonight was to be Owen’s first meeting with a potential source. The person in question worked for the embassy of a former Soviet republic. Owen had learned that the man had become disillusioned by the corruption in his government and his president’s rapid turn toward authoritarianism. Owen’s hope was that he could persuade him to become an inside source for the CIA.

Cultivating these kinds of connections was Owen’s specialty, so he was well aware that an aborted first meeting was not out of the ordinary.

He nursed his whiskey, giving the man extra time in case he was only running late. His stomach began to rumble, and he cursed himself for not picking up something to eat earlier.

He checked his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty. He’d waited long enough. He tipped back the rest of his whiskey and pushed himself out of his booth.

But the moment he stood his bowels twisted into a knot. He doubled over and grabbed the table to keep from falling.

“You all right, my friend?” the bartender asked.

“Something I ate, I think.” Owen tried to recall what that could have been, but he was having a hard time concentrating.

“Do you want some water?”

Owen shook his head. “I just need to—”

He was hit with a cramp so intense he had to sit back down.

The bartender hurried over. “You don’t look good.”

Owen could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to ride out the cramp. Gritting his teeth, he whispered, “Toilet.”

The bartender helped him to his feet and guided him into the back hallway.

Owen shuffled forward, unable to focus on anything but the pain in his gut.

A door opened, and he assumed they’d reached the men’s room. But then another pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him forward. The next thing he knew, he was moving up a set of stairs.

He tried to look around and see what was happening, but between the darkness and his inability to open his eyes beyond slits, all he could see were shadows.

With as much strength as he could muster, he whispered, “What’s…going on?”

Someone leaned next to his ear and said, “Payback.”

Owen felt a prick in his arm, and within moments, his world went black.

The sedan pulled in behind the row of police vehicles, and the driver killed the engine.

“Would you like me to check first?” he asked.

Rick La Rose shook his head. “I’ve got this.”

The CIA’s Paris Station Chief climbed out and made his way toward a group of floodlights set up at the edge of a pond, thirty yards from the road.

An officer near the front of the park put up a hand and said, “I’m sorry, sir. This area is currently closed to the public. Please return to your vehicle.”

Rick flashed his ID and said in French, “I’m expected.”

“One moment.” The officer spoke softly into his radio, then waved Rick through.

Several cops were huddled in conversation near the pond. As Rick approached, a woman broke from the group and intercepted him.

“Monsieur La Rose,” she said. “I am Ann de Coster, DGSI.” DGSI was the acronym for France’s internal security agency.

They shook hands.

“Sorry to have you come out in the middle of the night like this,” she said.

“Not your fault. Part of the job. The body?”

“This way.”

She led him to a body bag that lay on the grass.

“Shall I open it?” she asked.

“Please.”

She unzipped it halfway but hesitated before pulling it open. “It is not pleasant.”

“Death seldom is.”

“More than usual.”

“I understand.”

She separated the halves, exposing the body from head to stomach.

While bruises and cuts vied for space on the man’s torso and face, it was the slice across his throat that undoubtedly ended his life. Even with all the damage, however, there was no question that the victim was Owen Pace.

“One of yours?” de Coster asked.

“He is.”

“I am sorry.”

“Thank you. Was he searched?”

“He was.”

“May I see?”

“Of course.”

She led him to a portable table on which sat a clear plastic bag holding Owen’s belongings. Without opening the bag, Rick pushed the items around so that he could see everything—a thin wallet, some coins, a few hundred euros, keys, and a business card.

It was this final item that caused his jaw to tense. The only thing on the card was a stylized letter T printed in black.

Rick had been right to come here himself.

He turned back to de Coster. “Thank you.”

“The police will have to process the body,” she said.

“I understand. If you could ask them to contact my office as soon as it’s released, I’d appreciate it.”

“I will.”

When he returned to his car, his driver asked, “Home?”

“I’m afraid my day’s begun already.”

“The office, then.”

“Please.”

Rick raised the privacy divider and called CIA Director Lance Cabot.

“Is it Pace?” Lance asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The business card was there.”

“So there’s no chance his death is a coincidence.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then we have a serious problem.”

After hanging up with Rick La Rose, Lance pondered how to proceed. A conventional route, using only Agency resources, would be the safest bet. But safe meant slow, and in this case, slow meant more deaths, likely many more.

There was a potentially quicker way of ending the assassinations of his people. If successful, it could drastically cut down the number of dead. The only problem was it would mean involving someone no longer associated with the CIA, a man who might not be keen on working with Lance.

Lance would need help convincing him, and as luck would have it, he knew just who to call.

The man answered on the first ring. “Stone Barrington.”

“Stone, it’s Lance. Do you have a moment?”