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

wobbled his head, seeming to let it go, and turned to Ben. “Radio traffic from the Rotterdam customs authority alerted the Company to the bomber’s presence. A bomb-sniffing dog at the docks had flagged a backpack, but the target escaped.”

“A red flag priority,” Ben said, filling in the details from what he knew of Company operations. “Protocol requires the watch commander at headquarters to reroute the nearest asset.”

“Yes. In this case—me, only one city away, prepping for another job. Cyber ops used cameras across the city to locate the threat and predict his path. I intercepted and neutralized his weapon.”

“I saw the news reports,” Clara said, looking from one to the other. “They said the bomber accidentally set off his explosives before reaching his target. Only a dozen warehouse workers were injured, but if he’d reached a public square, hundreds might have died.”

The German chuckled. “The bomb went off early, yes. But the bomber made no error beyond choosing a predictable path.”

Ben followed Sensen with his eyes as the German returned to his chair. “You shot the bomb.”

“Cyber ops forecast his route and sent me a location surrounded by warehouses, minimizing the blast effect and loss of life. But a fraction of a second before I took the shot, he turned, and I saw a design on the backpack’s top pocket.”

“A design,” Clara said. “You mean a logo?”

“No . . . Ein Gekritzel . . . What do the Americans call it?” Sensen snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “A doodle, in silver pen—small but definite. Our would-be bomber fancied himself an artist. He’d drawn a sea monster.”

“A leviathan,” Ben said.

Sensen pursed his lips. “Probably nothing, hmm? A thread as thin as spider’s silk.”

“Not a thread. A lifeline. Rotterdam is where Leviathan made their first big mistake—where the whole case breaks.” Ben rummaged in his inside coat pocket. “I can fix this. I can find out their plans and prove my innocence.”

“My friend—”

“No. Listen. A sea monster must have been on the bomber’s mind. There must be a connection. Did you see any part of the device itself?”

“I saw nothing. After the shot, I had to leave. You know the drill. Get far fast. Then get farther faster.”

“Please.” Ben slapped the fragment he’d found at Giselle’s house down on the table. “Look at this. Tell me you recognize it.”

Frowning, like a parent humoring a child, Sensen crossed the kitchen and picked up the fragment. A smile formed on his lips. Not an encouraging smile. An I told you so smirk. “Yes. I’ve seen something like this before, but not in Rotterdam.”

Sensen left the kitchen, and Ben heard him open the same closet where he’d stashed the sniper rifle. He tensed, but Sensen returned unarmed, carrying a small black case, and popped it open on the table between his guests. He lifted a cloth, revealing two blocks of C4, a remote, and a receiver/detonator.

Sensen held Ben’s fragment close to the detonator’s lower left corner—a perfect match, right down to the seam in the plastic. “Do you recognize it now? This is a Company demolition package.”

Ben stood, knocking over his chair. “No. This can’t be right.”

“But it is. And these packages are highly controlled. This one is left over from my Amsterdam mission. I’ve been ordered to hold on to it until my next assignment.”

A hole developed in Ben’s gut. He nodded. “I had one just like it sent to us for the Morocco gig. For contingencies. Never used it.”

“So you still have the package?”

“No.”

“Then where did it go?”

“I’m not sure.” But he could guess. The evidence told Ben the explosive package he’d signed out for his last mission had been used to blow up the cottage and murder Giselle. But he hadn’t seen it in days. “In Rome, on the morning of our last day while we were setting up at the piazza, I gave it to our mission tech to carry back to DC, along with the case we stole.” He locked eyes with Sensen. “I gave it to Dylan Morgan.”

26

“Dylan can’t be involved.” The protest sounded hollow the moment it fell from Ben’s lips. The fragment matched the detonator in Sensen’s case in every detail. Ben let the fragment slip from his fingers. “Unless he turned traitor and joined Leviathan.”

Sensen gently removed the fragment from the case and set it in front of Ben. “Open your eyes. There is no great conspiracy of traitors. Leviathan has not infiltrated our ranks. The most likely answer is that you are in denial. Your own guilt is too great for you to comprehend.”

Absurdity. Ben kept his focus on Sensen. “I need a meeting with the Director.”

“And I would like a pig who whistles.”

Ben only stared at him.

“Oh, you were serious?” Sensen laughed. “My friend, you are radioactive—persona non grata. And even if you weren’t, foot soldiers like us do not demand meetings with the Director.”

“Please. Try to set it up. You have access to lines of communication no longer open to me.”

“And be dragged deeper into the mess you’ve made for yourself? No thank you. I will offer you my guest rooms for the night.” He regarded Ben’s mud-caked shirt and jacket. “And perhaps some clothes. That is all. Rest. Clean yourself up. But when I wake tomorrow, it will be best if you are gone.”

The evening may have started with a shootout, but Ben could not complain about Sensen’s hospitality. He emerged from the shower to find a button-down shirt and a pair of khaki slacks laid out on the bed. Sensen had him by more than an inch in height, but the two were close enough in size that Ben could get away with wearing his clothes. Clara—not so much. When he checked on her in the room next door, he found her wearing a sweater long enough to be a dress. She sat on the bed between two dinner trays with venison steaks and greens. A third tray, now empty, sat on the floor beside a bowl