The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (the dot read aloud .txt) 📗

“How did you know we could get out that way?” she asked.

“Madrid and London.” He helped her up onto a narrow walkway at the tunnel’s edge and shoved Otto back into her hands. In answer to her questioning look, he pressed his lips together and gestured for her to keep going. “Madrid and London—the train bombings in the mid-2000s trapped many passengers. Today most trains have a fail-safe evacuation route. Tough magnetic seals give the illusion of a locked door to discourage jumpers, but the rear exit should always open.”

Thirty meters from the train, a red ACCÈS DE MAINTENANCE sign pointed them to the way out—an alcove with a steel staircase leading up to an alarmed door. Ben pushed through and set it off, blinking in the winter sunlight. He turned north on the sidewalk, away from the station entrance. “Come on. I have to make a call.”

Clara hurried after him. “You don’t have a phone?”

“It died.”

“Mine still works. You should’ve asked.”

“I’m asking now. Can I borrow it?”

Shifting the dog into an awkward position, Clara dug into her purse. A moment later she held up the phone.

“Thanks.” Without breaking his quick stride, he swept the device from her hand and chucked it sidearm across the street, skipping it into a sewer drain.

“Hey!”

He shot her a flat look. “Given everything you’ve experienced so far, are you really that surprised?”

“Yes. I am.”

Ben sighed. “This is gonna be a long day.”

His plan of hopping a B train to Montrouge looked less and less likely with each moment. Hagen had been in Rome, almost certainly driven by this Jupiter character and the organization rumored behind the attacks—Leviathan, according to the Dark Web whispers. But how did Duval fit in? Were he and his partner acting alone—two dirty cops—or had Leviathan infiltrated the Police Nationale’s higher echelons? The uniforms in the station looked angry and out of the loop, but Duval couldn’t have stopped the train without support from his headquarters. From that moment on, for Ben and Clara, no more train stations.

Several blocks north of the station, Ben found what he needed—a boutique electronics store with the kind of cheap knockoff products most people avoid. “Stay out here,” he told Clara before going in. “Keep an eye out for police and our two friends.”

She set Otto down to let him stretch his legs. “So these cheap phones are better than mine?”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”

The concept of a burner phone all but died in the United States and Europe in the early 2010s. Most current sellers require an ID, and most service providers require a credit card and address to connect the device. Only the most disreputable dealers still sell cash phones. Fortunately, Paris has more disreputable dealers than most cities.

Ben picked a Chinese knockoff of a Motorola Razr and handed it to the short man behind the counter. His name tag read YNOVIK—JE PEUX VOUS AIDER? French for May I help you?

Ynovik scanned the package. “Cinquante euro.”

Ben drew a fifty halfway from his wallet, then paused. “How much to activate the phone for me?”

“Another twenty-five, but I need a name and address. It’s the law. Seventy-five in total.”

Ben pulled out a second bill and handed both over. “Here’s a hundred. The name is Jean Tout-le-monde. The address Number Five, Avenue Anatole.”

Jean Tout-le-monde. Jean Everyman. He might as well have said John Doe.

Ynovik considered the name and address, pupils drifting, then grinned. “So, Monsieur Tout-le-monde. You live beneath the Eiffel Tower?”

“It’s a very expensive flat.”

“Yes, it is.” Ynovik snatched the bill away and held out his palm again. “That’ll be another fifty.”

Ben didn’t hang around the store to make his call. He and Clara found a small garden park, surrounded on three sides by a wedge-shaped block of homes and businesses. A wrought-iron fence, overgrown with ivy, offered a touch of cover from the street. He sat down on a bench and dialed the number. “I’ll catch no end of grief for what I’m about to do. But we need an exit, and my boss needs to know what’s happening. His people will take care of us.”

Static buzzed on the line—no surprise with a Chinese knockoff—but Ben could hear it ringing. One. Two. Three. An automated voice answered. “If you know your party’s extension, please dial it now.” He punched in a nine-digit emergency code. “Thank you,” the automated voice said. “One moment, please.”

More ringing. One. Two.

Otto trotted over to him, whimpering. The dog met his eyes with a concerned gaze and then turned his head to watch the street. In the next instant, a cacophony of distant sirens grew loud enough to overcome the hum and bustle of the nearby traffic.

Clara looked toward the sound.

Ben tried to reassure her. “We set off an alarm when we used the maintenance exit, that’s all. They’ll blow right past us a few blocks south, closer to the station. Count on it.”

Six rings. Seven.

The sirens grew louder, closer—at least three cars.

“Ben?”

“Hang on. I’m almost through.”

Nine. Ten. A screeching tri-tone beep sounded in his ear. “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

He closed the phone and stood, staring down at it. “This can’t be right.”

The incoming sirens grew to a deafening blare, accompanied by the chaotic flashing of blue and red lights. Police cars stopped nose to nose, blocking the park’s wrought-iron gate.

“Ben Calix! Ne bougez pas!” A voice said through a loudspeaker, then repeated itself in English. “Don’t move!”

14

Ben crushed the phone under his heel. “I’m really sorry about this.”

“Sorry about what?”

He let the ferocity in his eyes give her his answer. With a rough hand, he spun her around and jerked her back against his chest, while Otto yipped and barked. The dog had trusted him before, but manhandling Clara clearly crossed a line. Ben ignored him. He drew the Beretta he’d stolen from Duval and pointed it at the police cars. “Leave me alone!”

A locked gate at the park’s rear barred Ben’s access to