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

you’re using it to hide the gash on the back of your head. It bled through.” She yanked the hat off for him and pulled his head down to dab at the wound.

“Ouch!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“When did you first notice the blood?”

“On the train.” She paused her work to add more water to the gauze.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“We were busy.”

“The panel, Clara.” He raised his head.

She grabbed both his temples and pulled him down again. “After the fire, I moved to Paris to sketch the restoration . . . and to avoid returning home to my father. I pitched the project as a master’s study to my university in Bratislava. They bought it, and here I am with a full stipend.”

“And this project included permission to enter the construction site?” He found it hard to engage in meaningful conversation while staring at his knees.

After a few last painful dabs, Clara lifted his head. “Not exactly. I tried to get permission, but the contractor denied the request. Then one day, while sketching the western façade, I saw two crewmen sneak out for a smoke break. Same thing the next day and the next. The following Sunday, when all the crews had the day off, I took a chance.” She lifted a sketchbook from her bag and handed it over. “I’ve been sneaking in every Sunday since.”

The detail in her work stunned Ben. He flipped the page to a sketch of the north gallery columns, shifting his gaze to the real columns and back. A perfect match in both appearance and emotion. The broken stone on the paper bore such texture and loneliness, he imagined he might feel the depth of the cracks and divots if he dared touch the page.

He flipped backward in the book through buttresses, angels, and gargoyles, until he reached sketches from before her arrival in Paris. The earlier work felt darker—a young man bruised and crying, an older man in grubby coveralls passed out at a mechanic’s worktable. He wasn’t sure she’d meant for him to see those, so he turned back to the column sketch before handing her the book. “These are incredible.”

“They’re okay.”

Clara gave him the bloody gauze and first aid kit in trade and pointed over her shoulder. “The trash can is back there. On your way, you can return the kit and tell me why your call for help brought the Police Nationale down on top of us.”

The gauze went into Ben’s pocket, not the trash. He’d wiped his DNA trail by destroying the apartment. He didn’t feel like starting a new one in the middle of Notre Dame.

He wandered up the nave to the altar, gazing at chipped masonwork angels and crumbling prophets. He struggled to find even one intact. “Duval—the man in the brown jacket who grabbed you on the bridge—I think he works for a terrorist group called Leviathan, but he carries a French anti-terrorism division badge.”

“So he’s a dirty cop.” Clara appeared behind him in one of the patches of filtered light. “You said that before. But can a dirty cop command so many police and make them appear at our precise location even after we’d escaped him?”

“I don’t know.” It killed Ben to say those words. “I made the call. My agency’s automated system picked up, and then the line went dead. Maybe the system sensed a local hack trying to break in.”

He was reaching—finding excuses for the Company. And he knew it. The operative side of Ben’s mind shouted about timing and traces. If Duval or Jupiter’s people were trying to hack the call, why had the system waited ten rings before cutting him off? He buried the thought. “Cell tower triangulation.”

“What?”

“A hack. Like I said. Leviathan intercepted my call. My agency cut the line, but too late. They’d already gotten a trace.” He nodded, trying to convince himself as much as her. “If Leviathan’s people infiltrated the Police Nationale, they’d have the local resources and the clout required to send in the troops.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her.

He wished it had satisfied him. “And now the whole Paris police force is looking for us. They’ll have all the exits from the city covered.”

“So, we’re trapped here.”

“I didn’t say that. We just need to wait until late tonight, that’s all.”

Clara stepped closer, lifting her chin. “You sound like you have a plan.”

“Don’t be fooled by my confidence. It’s a spy thing. Fake bravado. I don’t have a plan. I have a loosely formed idea that will probably get us both killed.”

16

Luis Duval shoved a handkerchief into his sergeant’s chest as the two reached the third floor of 36 Rue du Bastion, the Police Nationale’s headquarters for criminal investigation and anti-terror operations. “You’re bleeding again, Renard. Go to the infirmary.”

“But, Capitaine, I—”

“Now.”

The sergeant tilted his head back with the kerchief to his nose and walked off, feeling his way along the hall’s marble panels.

“And you can keep the kerchief, you understand? I don’t want it back.”

Renard waved.

How had Calix gotten the better of them both?

Foolish question. Duval knew how. The do-not-kill order. Calix had blown up a flat and killed a man—the act of a terrorist. Even with the witnesses and Renard watching, Duval could have justified shooting him. He needed to make a call.

On his way to the tiny windowless office he shared with Renard, he pointed at the section’s intern. “I’m not to be disturbed. I don’t care if the director general calls.”

The young woman opened her mouth to respond.

Duval cut her off with a shake of his finger. “No interruptions.” He slammed the door, and the impact’s percussion passed through his broken ribs. He groaned and lowered himself into his chair. “Calix.”

The secure line took ninety seconds to connect using the encryption app on Duval’s smartphone. By strict police regulations, all employees left their personal devices in their lockers, but the rank of captain came with certain privileges—certain rules that no longer applied. Everyone knew this.

He heard a click and a change in the