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

“I wouldn’t dare.” Ben held back, giving the man some social distance. “I imagine you’re pretty quick with that rusty fillet knife you’re hiding. I like to keep my throat unventilated.”

The skipper hopped into his boat, glancing back with a grizzled smile. “Not as quick as I used to be. You want something, boy? A job? My crew’s full.”

“I need a ride.”

“Where?”

“Valencia.”

“Two days’ roundtrip for my crew and me. And the fish avoid the Spanish coast this time of year.” With a heavy grunt, the man hauled a crate of netting from his boat and climbed out onto the dock to pick it up. “No sale.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

The man stood there, waiting for Ben to get out of his way.

Ben didn’t move. “We leave now and steam at your best speed to Valencia. No trawling. No crew. I’ll pay you the cost of two nights’ catch, twice what you’d get if you fished east for the night you’ll miss. You’ll make a good profit. We both know you’ll pick up a slack crew in Valencia and trawl all the way home.”

Most people need money. And those who don’t need money want it anyway. Whatever this man’s story, Ben had his attention. He could see the numbers crunching behind the fisherman’s eyes—calculations to decide how much to inflate the price.

“Three nights’ catch, and I want half up front. My boat takes two men to run. You’ll work when you’re told. Understand?”

“Done.” Ben offered him a roll of cash.

The skipper took it and shoved the crate into Ben’s arms. The reek of the sea bottom filled his nostrils. “Welcome to the crew of the Lazy Ostrich. I’m Basile. And your name?”

“I’ll answer to hey-you and crewman.”

“Fine by me.”

Eight hours had passed since Zürich. For eight hours, Clara had slipped farther and farther away. And for eight hours, the world had slipped closer and closer to Leviathan’s next attack.

47

The Swiss doctor’s condescension made Duval sick. Who was she to tell him what his body could or could not handle?

She jogged backward down the hallway in front of him. “Please, Mr. Duval. Return to your bed. A bullet passed through your bicep, nicking your artery. The repairs I made will not hold if you refuse to rest.”

“It is Capitaine Duval.” He brushed her aside with his good arm, plucked a paper bag full of meds from her hands, and hurried on. “You’ve done enough. If the repair ruptures, I’ll seek further medical attention. I’ve got a job to do.”

“What job?” she called after him. “Renard told me you’d been fired.”

Duval silently waved her away, then slapped the exit bar and walked out into the cold Swiss night.

A cab waited for him. He’d called ahead—made a point about getting a driver who spoke French. “Where to?” the man asked in English as Duval dropped into the back seat.

He sighed. Typical. “The Econotel, Zürich Nord.”

With no cooperation from Graf or his own headquarters, Duval had few clues to rely on in guessing Calix’s next move. He needed to call Rotterdam and interview witnesses, find out what Calix wanted with the cargo ship. Time to get back to basics.

His phone rang. He held it to his ear. “Oui?”

No voice. Only static.

“Quoi! Allô!”

Nothing.

Duval lowered the phone and checked the screen. Another pdf file waited for him, like the one in Rotterdam. He clicked it to open, and let out a disbelieving laugh when he read the message. Incredible. His strange American benefactor could work magic.

Duval banged on the Plexiglas barrier. “J’ai changé mes plans.”

The driver shook his head. “English, German, or Italian. No French.”

Imbecile. “I said I changed my plans. No hotel. Take me to the airport.”

Jupiter wiggled his toes in the Zoysia grass, enjoying the moonrise. Soft by nature, the Asian creeper became softest on cool nights when moisture from the soil inflated the blades—like a million tiny pillows for his feet.

Walking beyond the intersecting circles of the patio lights, he found one of his many special creatures. Curled up at the base of a blue wisteria, the scaly pangolin looked exactly like the coiled water dragons on the Ming dynasty medallions hanging on Jupiter’s wall. He made a clicking sound to wake it and watched the little mammal scurry away across the lawn.

The pangolins, protected by their reptilian plate armor, were the perfect neighbors for his blue tigers. And their meat was delicious—the reason they’d been hunted to near extinction. Like the tigers, Jupiter rescued the pangolins, and he managed their population on his reserve, enjoying the fruit of his labors while ensuring both species’ survival. Perfect control.

“Sir.”

Jupiter sighed and turned. “Yes, Terrance?” His assistant stood at the patio’s edge.

“There are news reports you should see. Word has come from Zürich that your—”

Jupiter coughed.

“—our French recruit has failed . . . again . . . and in quite spectacular form.”

Terrance had drive and more raw intelligence than most of Jupiter’s people, but he still failed to grasp his master’s full vision. He failed to see all the paths about to merge. “Don’t panic, Terrance. All is well. Duval’s accomplishments—or lack thereof—are exactly as I hoped.” He strode to the patio, stepping once again into the light. “Like Hagen, I sent Duval to harry Calix and help him see how far his hero, the Director, had pushed him out into the cold. Giving them both a do-not-kill order ensured Calix’s survival. Now we’ll provide Calix with more competent help and shift into our final phase.”

“So, you want me to call the woman?”

Jupiter nodded.

“But the target has gone dark again. What coordinates should I give?”

“Why, here of course.”

“I don’t get it.”

The statement frustrated Jupiter. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the image of the little dragon-like pangolin curled beneath the blue wisteria center him. When he opened them again, he gave Terrance a patient smile. “We set up our own bomber to fail in Rotterdam, leaving him stranded at