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

“No.”

“Pity.”

What was his game? Bore her first, slit her throat later? The backpack looked well stuffed. She guessed the assassin, like Ben, always kept a go-bag on hand.

“I left ham and butter in the refrigerator. Bread and dog food in the larder. Fish and chicken in the freezer.” He shouldered the pack. “I imagine you know how to use an oven, correct?” He lifted the briefcase and opened the front door.

She didn’t understand. No knife? No silenced gun? Perhaps he’d poisoned the ham. “You’re leaving?”

“We already established that.”

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

Sensen shook his head without turning to face her. “This is the problem with listening to only one half of a conversation.”

“But you’re going to kill Ben. I didn’t misunderstand that part. What else is the sniper rifle for? This Director you both work for. I heard he was a good man, but he’s a monster.”

“The Director only wants a safer world. And he’ll do what’s necessary to achieve that goal.” Sensen walked out. “I’ll see you when I return.”

“Wait!” She bolted up from the chair, gun leveled.

The German let out a sigh. “Dieses Mädchen.” He lowered his head, growling at the flagstones. “Sie geht mir auf den Keks.”

Her finger tightened on the trigger. “I told you. I don’t speak German.”

“I said, you’re getting on my nerves.”

“I can’t let you kill my friend.”

“You understand nothing.” He dropped his case and had a handgun out and pointed at her head before it hit the flagstones.

Clara froze. She should have shot him in the back when she had the chance. Now? Could he dodge bullets? Could she?

Sensen echoed the voice in her head. “If you pull that trigger, Clara, you will die.” His eyes flashed down for a nanosecond, then returned to hers. “You cross this threshold and leave my protection? You die, because I will not be responsible for you. That is your reality. Your best and safest move is inaction. Enjoy my house. Get rest.” He frowned, gesturing upward with his chin. “Your dog is happily asleep upstairs, correct?”

What did Otto have to do with this? Clara nodded.

Sensen kept his gun steady while bending at the knees to recover his briefcase. “Then perhaps you should leave him be.”

“You’re saying I should let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I’m saying you need to stay out of my way.” Sensen lowered his gun and walked off, letting the door fall closed.

Clara tracked him through the front window with the revolver’s front sight, begging herself to pull the trigger and unable to do it, until he disappeared into the detached garage. Moments later he sped away on a classic black motorcycle.

She stood there, pointing her gun at an empty drive for another thirty seconds, or perhaps five minutes. She didn’t know. And then she ran upstairs and woke up the dog.

38

JUPITER GLOBAL INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX

The squeaking drove Terrance mad. Watching through successive hallway security cameras, he tried for more than a minute to identify which of the two stainless steel breakfast trolleys had the bad wheel. The second—had to be. Both were pushed by nurses in full biohazard protective gear. He checked the time in the screen’s upper left corner and keyed the microphone hanging at his shoulder. “Hurry up, ladies. You know how he hates delays.”

The first nurse kept her head low and quickened her steps. The second, who Terrance decided must have the squeaky wheel, shot an I’m going as fast as I can scowl at the camera.

Terrance gave a tiny shake of his head, huffing to himself. “Death wish.”

The words elicited a cough from Dr. Kidan, standing beside him, though the sound might have doubled as a whimper.

He offered the Pakistani microbiologist a reassuring smile. “Not you, Doctor. Keep your answers brief and to the point, and you’ll be fine.”

“But my predecessor—”

“Made mistakes. Don’t repeat them.”

A bead of sweat broke out on the biologist’s forehead.

Good. Terrance liked maintaining Jupiter’s reputation as a man with a low tolerance for incompetence. It kept things running smoothly. He keyed the mic and made sure to let his own impatience shine through. “Where are my trolleys?”

Long windows set into the observation room wall gave the appearance of two-way mirrors looking into side-by-side apartments. An illusion. The windows were LCD screens, showing feeds from tiny cameras in the patient facility across the compound. The two apartments currently in view were in the incinerator section.

A floor-to-ceiling panel slid open in the kitchenette section of each apartment, revealing the trolleys.

“Thank you. About time.”

Both patients rolled out of bed when the trolleys appeared—a learned response. They’d been taught by experience that if they didn’t move quickly enough, the panel would close and not open again until the next meal. Patient E Prime crossed his rooms with rapid steps and wheeled his trolley out. Patient C Prime moved slower. Understandable, given his place in the experiment. They wore matching tank tops and shorts, and with each having committed to daily showers and shaves, they looked quite different from the men Terrance had recruited at the Valencia soup kitchen.

A red box flashed on his tablet, and he nodded to Kidan. “He’s here.”

Jupiter entered from a door at the far end. The microbiologist took a step, as if to meet him halfway, but Terrance caught him with a backhand to the chest. “Don’t.”

“How are our friends this morning?” Jupiter paced along the false windows, watching the subjects lift the silver domes off their platters.

Terrance lowered his tablet. “E Prime is in high spirits. C Prime is beginning to feel some effects. Not long now.”

“I see he’s still spry enough to take advantage of the food.”

All the subjects in the program had signed on to a closed nutritional test hosted by one of Jupiter Global’s many subsidiaries. The supposed test involved rich foods made healthy by imaginary nutritional magic. The patients never questioned the literature.

That morning, C Prime chose the Belgian waffles with Chantilly cream and bacon. E Prime, a bulky man, chose the vegan omelet. Who