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

Zürichberg’s wooded hilltop—the zoo, the university sports complex, and the towering headquarters building of FIFA, the International Football Federation. Whoever lured Calix to this place had chosen well. The zoo’s perimeter walls forced him to a single point of entry and exit, and the random bag and wand checks at the gate made bringing a gun inside too risky—for a criminal, at least.

When the young security guard eyed the bulge in Duval’s jacket, he flashed his badge. The kid backed off.

“How do you know he’ll be here?” Renard asked.

“I told you. I have contacts in several intelligence agencies. This tip comes from a source high up in an international agency.”

“What agency?”

“None of your concern. Let your captain have his secrets.”

“Okay, but why doesn’t this secret agency pick him up?”

Duval steered his partner right at a fork in the path, following a sign that read TROPICAL RAINFOREST in four languages. “Because he is ours, eh? Yours and mine.” He swatted the sergeant’s arm with the back of his hand. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid of him?”

“No.” Renard let out a dissatisfied grunt. “Certainly not.”

Shaming the sergeant seemed to work. He quit prodding Duval and put his energy into the path’s steep grade, wheezing audibly through his crushed nasal passages.

The lush trees and foliage, so out of place in the wintry alpine city, parted, and the two walked out into a small square with tables and food carts. Parents sipped lattes and caramel macchiatos while children played on a rubber-padded playground. At the far end, a glass dome rose four stories to become the highest point in the zoo—Zürich’s Masoala Indoor Rainforest. The American’s coordinates had fallen like crosshairs on the structure’s peak.

Renard made for the coffee cart.

Duval caught his elbow and yanked him toward the square’s edge. “Calix knows us by sight. You want to spook him?” He chose an alcove partially blocked by trees and sat Renard down on a bench. “We stay hidden and keep watch.”

“You’re sure he’ll be here?”

“What did I tell you, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah. Your source.”

He’d pulled Renard out of sight just in time. A man in a brown leather jacket emerged from the tree-covered path and quickstepped toward the dome, head low, shoulders hunched. A hoodie, pulled low over a stocking cap, hid his face, but Duval knew him by his gait—he hoped. He thrust a chin in the newcomer’s direction. “There. You see? Calix.”

Renard moved to stand.

Duval laid a heavy hand on his shoulder to keep him seated. “Easy, boy. Where’s he going to run? Give it a minute, and we’ll move closer. We can pick him up on his way out.” He watched, grinning when Calix used the motion of opening the dome’s door to check over his shoulder. His face looked worn and abused, much like Renard’s, yet still recognizable.

Renard bucked under the weight of his hand. The sight of Calix appeared to have awoken the sergeant’s rage.

Duval nodded. “Yes, my friend. That’s the anger and focus I’ve been waiting for. You don’t need any coffee now, eh?”

“You’re right. I don’t want your source to get him first. That pleasure is ours. I want to see the look of shock in his eyes as I pound my fist into his face.”

“And I’ll make sure you do. You deserve the first punch.” Duval held a straight face as he made the promise, but Calix would be dead before Renard got close enough. “Come on, it’s safe now. Let’s take the bench by the playground.” As they walked, Duval’s hand brushed the bulge in his jacket, the one that had sparked the security guard’s interest. He’d bought a new Springfield .45—excellent range and stopping power. The American wanted him to capture Calix, but Duval could justify a killing in a confrontation gone wrong. Bad things happen in the field.

Sensen’s black motorcycle left the autobahn at the outskirts of Zürich. Clara watched him wind around the exit loop, heading east along the city’s north side. He looked up as he gunned it beneath the overpass. Had he seen her?

She’d found the keys to Sensen’s compact pickup hanging on a cupboard door in the kitchen and thrown whatever she might need into the cab—some clothes, the bread and ham, Otto’s dog food. Nothing went into the pickup’s bed. There were red stains, possibly rust. Clara thought it best not to take the chance.

She broke a dozen laws while speeding south in search of the motorcycle, and at least a dozen more after she picked him up on the A4 between Saarbrücken and Strasbourg.

If Sensen saw her, he gave no indication. No erratic driving. No sudden turns. He zipped past the fields and suburbs like a man out for a fast-but-leisurely Sunday drive. Clara held back, trying to keep two hundred meters between them, until the assassin’s route turned south into the city, forcing her to close the gap.

Where was he going?

She’d overheard Zürich during the late-night conversation, but she’d gained no specifics. “We have to think like an assassin,” she said to Otto, who lay beside her in the truck’s cab.

The dachshund raised his head, as if to look for the motorcycle over the dash, then set his chin on his paws and let out a huff.

“No?” She had to agree. Sensen hadn’t chosen the meeting place. The higher-ups had picked it for him. “So you’re saying we need to think like a spymaster.”

She had no idea how to do that. She’d only just learned to think like a spy.

Each turn brought the anxiety of losing sight of her target. And each straightaway brought the relief of picking him up again, until the inevitable happened. The motorcycle passed through a crosswalk. Before Clara reached the same spot, an elderly woman stepped off the curb.

Clara stomped on the brake pedal, dumping poor Otto onto the floor. Her protective instinct brought her eyes inside the cab. When she looked up again, the motorcycle had vanished.

The old lady paused right in front of her to give her a