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

with the plague just to kiss me. We’ve never said the words, but if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Clara stopped, letting him shoot out ahead.

Ben frowned and beckoned her onward with a tilt of his head. “No, I don’t have the plague. I got checked out.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. The doc gave me a clean bill of health. Now hurry up.”

The more trail they covered, the less Ben worried that this lavender-scented girl meant him harm. His earlier suspicions seemed almost comical. He’d been watching her for signs of deception, and seen none. And if Clara had a transmitter to give away his position, she’d had plenty of chances to use it. No cops had come. No Leviathan assassins had appeared on the trail.

Whatever Clara’s real story, Ben felt confident he and Giselle could handle her together. Whether at home or in a hotel, Giselle always answered the door armed, and Ben had two guns and his KA-BAR. Clara had a yippy dog.

The forest thinned. Ahead, their trail ended at a T intersection, where it split to wrap around a small lake. Ben pointed. “There, the redbrick cottage on the other side. The one with the dock and the cream-colored Peugeot 308 in the drive.”

Caution and training prevented Ben from caving in to his desire to run around the lake. He led Clara off the trail, into the trees. They found a dry patch of dead leaves, colored orange by the rising sun, and he kneeled to unshoulder his pack. He fished a sniper scope from the side pouch and held it to his eye.

Clara hung close, as if by leaning against him she might be able to see through the scope as well. “Is she there?”

“The Peugeot is hers. She bought it last summer. I’m just confirming.”

“And she’ll be alone?”

“Yes.” He didn’t see any movement at the perimeter. More than a hundred meters of lakeshore separated her place from the nearest cottages to the northeast and southwest—vacation homes, empty through the winter. Giselle had been prudent in her choice. “She told me she paid cash. Untraceable. The place is clean.”

A light flipped on in the kitchen.

Giselle.

The blinds blocked his view, but it had to be her. She’d never been an early riser—hated predawn starts to their operations. He could hear her voice now, pouring herself a cup of coffee. I hate getting up in the dark. It seems so unnatural, yes?

“She’s there,” Ben said, rising to his feet. He couldn’t wait any longer. He glanced down to stuff the scope into his bag, and a deafening explosion shattered the morning calm.

21

Ben sprinted down the lakeshore trail, a maddening circular route of nearly a quarter mile. And all the while, the fire burned.

Maybe she had survived. Maybe she had seen the bomb and taken cover before it blew. He’d walked through the cottage with her during some stolen time together before the team left for Morocco. The kitchen had a modern fridge. Free-standing. Or the cast-iron radiator in the mudroom might offer some protection.

The radiator.

“Giselle, get out! Get out!”

The cottage had central heating, fueled by a forty-year-old oil tank in the cellar. The realtor had boasted about the owner refilling the tank without adding a cent to the asking price, enough for two winters—three thousand liters of oil.

The massive secondary explosion knocked him off his feet, stopping him within thirty meters of his goal. Ben rolled onto his side, ears ringing. “No!”

The fire burned with a new intensity. The oil had set the hedges and grass ablaze. He forced himself up again, tried to push closer. By the time he reached the drive, the heat had formed an impenetrable wall.

He wanted to cry out, but his voice had no strength left.

“Ben!” Clara jogged up behind him, shouting over the roar. “There’s nothing you can do.”

He turned, whipping out the Glock. “You.” Instinct. Autopilot. Only Ben and Giselle knew about the cottage. No one else. No one except Clara. “You did this.”

She backed away, Otto cowering at her ankles. “What? Why would I?”

“You’re part of this. You’re with Leviathan. The woman in Rome. Did you kill Massir? Were you the assassin who met him at the Pantheon? We both know you brained Duval before he could give me answers.”

Her pupils darted left and right, either searching for a handle on the moment or searching for a lie. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“The intercepted call. The cops in the train station. Duval showing up at the cathedral. All of that was you.”

“You’re insane. Listen to yourself. I heard Duval tell you how he found us. I hit him to stop him from shooting you. Think, Ben. This is the grief talking.”

The fire department would be coming soon. The police too. Ben’s head throbbed. He pressed what he thought was a knuckle against his temple, then felt the heat and realized it was the barrel of his Glock.

Clara took a step toward him, reaching. He answered with his own advance, putting the gun to her throat. Then he changed his mind and swept up her dog. Ben knew how to settle this. He put the gun to the dachshund’s head and growled through his teeth. “The truth. Tell me who you work for, or watch me blow Otto’s little head off.” If it weren’t for his grief, he’d have felt ridiculous, but he needed to know her motives.

“No. Please, Ben.” She broke down into sobs. “Listen to me. I am not this person you think I am. Please don’t hurt him.”

The backpack lay on the trail, a dozen meters or more away. In his hurry and distress, Ben had left it behind. Clara had brought it for him, but at no time had she gone for either weapon inside—the KA-BAR or the revolver. She didn’t have an assassin’s instincts.

He lowered the gun to his side and pressed Otto into her arms. “Okay.”

She sniffled. “Okay? Okay what?”

“Okay, I believe you. Assassins and spies don’t