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

the docks. The clues left behind brought Calix to Massir, and later to the Princess, where he learned of the Behemoth and Sea Titan’s connection to Leviathan. We even showed him where the Behemoth docks. So . . . now that you understand the path I laid out for him . . . where would you expect our friend Calix will turn up next?”

Terrance opened his mouth to reply, but the light on his face faltered and he closed it again.

“Here!” Jupiter stomped a heel into his precious grass. “Calix will come here.” Had he not just said that very thing? He clenched his fists to soak up the oncoming rage and released it back into the air by opening his fingers. Wisteria. Pangolins. “Calix will want to infiltrate our facility to gather intelligence and destroy our new weapon. He’s coming here. Make your call. Tell our asset to get in place and be ready to engage. And then send your final note to Duval.”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant backed away, turning to go.

“Wait.” Jupiter raised a finger. “Where are we in our production efforts?”

In this, at least, Terrance showed self-assurance. “I checked with Dr. Kidan before coming to see you. The CRTX layer is set, and the seed tanks are in place. The rest are being loaded now. Given the rapid self-replication rate of PB2, the bacteria will propagate through the water vapor in all ten thousand tanktainers by the time the Behemoth reaches her target.”

“And you’ve delivered the captain’s final orders?”

“I’ll do so tonight.”

“Good.” Jupiter lifted his chin, indicating they were done. He wanted to return to his moonlight. “Go and make your calls. I want my prize before the final phase begins.”

48

Basile’s rusty fillet knife kept Ben awake for the entire journey. Nothing screams Slit my throat and rob me louder than handing over a big wad of cash.

The fisherman gave him few opportunities to rest anyway. Mop, brush, wrench, funnel—he made sure Ben’s hands were always occupied. Shrewd. But the time spent detailing the boat confirmed Ben’s suspicions about the man. He’d chosen his captain well. He found six hidden compartments with cover panels all but invisible to the untrained eye. And he doubted he found them all. Ben had picked a smuggler.

“You know,” he said, laying his mop aside, “I don’t think making me swab the deck is getting us to Valencia any faster.”

“Yet here we are.” Basile thrust his gray-whiskered chin at a row of lights to the southwest, outshining the sunset’s red glow. He turned the wheel a few degrees. “I’ll drop you at the marina.”

“Not the marina.” Ben walked forward to the pilot house and pointed south, where the lights turned from the warm yellows and oranges of resorts and restaurants to a cold, industrial white. “Take me to the cargo docks. I’m in a hurry.”

“The cargo docks are too high for my Ostrich.”

“They must have berths for tugs and runabouts.” Ben opened his go-bag and retrieved the second half of his payment. He laid it on the dash between the radar and the fish finder. “Get me as close as you can to the big ships.”

A mile out from the docks, Basile cut the engines and inclined his head northwest.

Ben looked to see a cutter slicing through the chop, moving fast on intercept heading. The orange paint visible in its deck lights left no doubt. He groaned. “Spanish Coast Guard.”

“Yes. And going somewhere in a hurry. Hopefully not here.” Basile swept the money off the dash and shoved it deep in his pocket. When his hand appeared again, it held the knife—a move Ben did not know how to interpret. A threat to him? To the coast guard? Or maybe Basile simply needed to feel the knife’s cool handle in his palm when he felt stressed.

The trawler slowed to a drift, and both men watched to see if the cutter adjusted course. In the failing light of dusk, Ben couldn’t tell. For the first time since they’d met, Basile spoke English. “Did you see the news reports last night? Strange happenings in Zürich and Paris.”

Ben froze. He’d been too confident in his instructor’s theory about fishermen and screens. He’d tucked his Glock in his waistband hours ago, concealing it with his coat. But could he draw faster than Basile could slash with the knife?

Basile kept his gaze on the cutter. “They say a madman is on the loose. He took a hostage, doused a man with chemicals and set him on fire, blew up his woman’s cottage.”

“You don’t say.” Ben hadn’t heard any mention of the cottage on the train.

“Mm.” The skipper let out one of those deep c’est la vie grunts only old Frenchmen could make. “With the woman inside.” He turned to give Ben a hard look. “It is bad, my friend. Very bad. I wonder if the Spanish Coast Guard is looking for this man, and how much they might pay for his capture.”

The cutter continued on its heading, on a course to pass them by. Basile could change that with a burst of throttle or a touch of his emergency beacon switch.

Ben shifted his weight to prepare for a showdown. “I don’t believe everything I see in the news. There are always two sides to a story. These days, the media services report only one. I believe this man they call a monster is fighting for his life, and maybe a cause—a good one.”

Basile squinted one eye at Ben. “What cause?”

How much should he reveal? “The attacks. Munich. St. Petersburg. Tokyo. Another attack is coming—possibly a disease like the plague. I expect the man in the news is trying to stop it.”

The admission did seem to help. Basile’s hard look turned fearful. “The plague?” He waggled a finger over his own nose and cheeks and thrust his chin at Ben. “Like your blisters?”

“No.” Ben let out a halfhearted laugh. “These blisters are from frostbite. I recently spent some time at the bottom of a frozen lake.”

The coast guard cutter