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

Known as the Euro Quarter and planned by Mussolini in the 1930s, Rome’s Esposizione Universale Roma looked like the Epcot of fascism. Broad streets, dystopian megastructures, and the lightest foot traffic in the entire city made it Ben’s first choice for a contingency rendezvous.

Ben grabbed an outdoor table at Geco Ristorante, which gave him a nice view of the quarter’s central obelisk and the approaching roads, and ordered some focaccia and a sparkling water.

Giselle appeared on the sidewalk beyond the obelisk just as Ben dipped his second bite of focaccia in the olive oil at the edge of his plate. He held up an open palm when she took the chair across from him. “Stay back, but don’t make a scene.”

“What is it?” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned close in blatant defiance of his request. The fur and the platinum hair were gone, replaced with a red wool overcoat and a darker honey blonde. “Are we social distancing again?”

“Just . . . don’t touch me. Something happened in the old city.”

“I assume you are referring to the burning body near the Pantheon.”

He let his eyes give him away, not bothering to hide the guilt.

“So, it was you.” She gave him a playful gasp. “Ben, I have seen you get violent in the heat of battle, but lighting a man on fire?” Her gaze drifted up to the stocking cap he’d stolen on the train. “Nice hat, by the way. Green is your color.” She reached for a slice of focaccia.

“Don’t!” He reached to push her hand away, then thought better of it and pulled back. The outburst brought a look of concern from the waiter. Ben gave him a fleeting smile and lowered his voice. “I had to burn him—the body, I mean. There’s a bug. I may have been exposed.”

Unconcerned, Giselle lifted the bread from the plate and touched it to her bottom lip. “What kind of bug, mon chéri?”

“I thought we agreed not to use that term in public.”

“Like anyone can hear. The comm net is off, yes? Dylan is long gone.” She took a bite, talking as she chewed. “What bug, Ben?”

“The symptoms looked like the plague. Black boils near the lymph nodes, a sign of the bubonic form. But he also lost the ability to speak, which hints at pneumonic, and that could be airborne.”

She put the back of her hand to his cheek.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“Quiet, please.” She checked his forehead next. “Nothing. No temperature. Your color is good.”

“My heart rate is up.”

“Isn’t it always when I am with you?” Her lips curled into a smile and she stole some more focaccia, dipping it into the olive oil.

“Giselle . . .”

“You’re fine. Relax.” She took a bite, pointing the remainder his way. “What about this morning? What happened at the briefcase switch?”

“You tell me.”

“Ambushed by a Dutchman in the square. And you?”

“Accosted by an Algerian on the rooftop. Massir. The guy whose info led us to the case.”

“And this Algerian, he was your burning man?”

“I planted a tracker during the fight. I’d have held on to him, but I let him go when I heard you scream. Giselle—”

Another couple claimed a table not far away, loudly calling the waiter over. Ben watched them.

Giselle touched his arm. “They are no threat, Ben. Go on.”

“Massir . . . uh . . .” Ben finally tore his gaze from the couple and met Giselle’s eyes. “He knew my name. Not the alias I used the first time I found him. My real name. He called me Calix.”

She laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m serious.”

“You misunderstood.”

“No. I didn’t. He said someone called Jupiter has been watching me, and he’s pleased.”

She made a face, flicking her hand. “I guess that’s better than displeased.”

“Don’t joke. I heard the same name later.” He told her about the chase to the Pantheon and the woman who met with Massir. “I think the Hagen he mentioned was your Dutchman.”

“Probably. What about the woman? Could you describe her voice to the Company analysts?”

Ben shook his head. “Her whisper masked any tone or accent. But she has to be the one who hit him with the weaponized bug. The symptoms came on so fast.”

The idea gave him hope. If the woman infected Massir, then she’d probably used a needle. A virus requiring injection left Ben in the clear.

Ben had been drinking the water straight from the bottle. The waiter pointed at his glass. “Posso prenderlo, signore?” May I take that, sir?

“Sì. Grazie. And another bottle for the lady.”

Giselle waited for him to walk out of earshot. “All this tells us is another team was guarding the courier, yes? We were blown.”

“We were blown from the start.” Ben clenched a fist. “Massir gave me the intel. That means the case is suspect at best. Our bomb maker may not exist. This whole thing could be a setup.”

“For what purpose? For the Algerian to give you Jupiter’s praise and then die?” She laughed.

He didn’t.

They ate in silence for a while, until Ben pushed his plate away. “I’m not going straight back. I need to see Tess.”

Giselle coughed on her sparkling water. “You don’t need to see Tess. You’re fine.”

“I need to get checked out.”

“By the pretty doctor?”

“I trust her, more than I trust the other medics. And if I can catch her in Belgium, it’ll only add a few hours to my trip—a day at most.”

“She’d better not keep you a full day.” Giselle set her bottle down with enough firmness to make Ben worry it might crack. She pursed her lips and sat back, crossing her arms. “Fine. I am taking a detour as well.”

“For what?”

“It’s personal. You know the rule.”

She meant their rule—Giselle and Ben’s—not some section of the Company regs. When their less-than-professional entanglement began a few weeks earlier, they’d agreed to keep their past lives separate from their present. Hidden. Unspoken. It was better that way.

“I’ll meet you day after tomorrow,” she said, scooting back her chair and dabbing her lips with her napkin.

“Where?”