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

“Remember that cottage I showed you in Chaville?”

“You bought it?”

“Cash. The Company is no wiser.”

A lot of cash. Ben had seen the asking price when they walked through together. He lowered his chin. “Not your go fund, right?”

“I wouldn’t dare. Our go funds are Company money. I told you I had some personal savings.” She gave him that mischievous smile. “And now I have a personal safe house. Meet me there. You’ll know I’m home when you see the Peugeot.”

“Giselle, I—”

“Till then.” She stood and leaned in to kiss him.

Ben drew back, but Giselle caught the back of his head with her usual speed and strength. How often he forgot her capabilities.

She kissed him on the lips—a longer goodbye kiss than usual. “That is for you to remember when you see Tess.”

“You really shouldn’t have done that. What if I’m infected?”

“Then Tess will know, and you will find me at my little safe house, and we will go through this together.”

She straightened and buttoned her coat, and Ben caught her fingers before she turned to go. He’d never spoken the words, but with that touch, he said I love you.

Neither had to say it out loud, especially not Giselle. Her disregard for the danger of infection—that kiss—said it all.

6

JUPITER GLOBAL EXECUTIVE RETREAT

VALENCIANA PROVINCE

SPAIN

Emil Jupiter sipped his evening espresso and studied the holographic screen hovering above his porch table. A distant huff and snarl stole his attention for only a moment. By the sound of it, somewhere out in the dark mountainous acreage of his personal retreat, one of his projects had found its supper.

More than a dozen windows divided the holographic screen into stock tickers, news reports, video feeds, and the like. Jupiter frowned at a decrypted message rolling across the top and flicked it away into oblivion with a swipe of his hand. He turned his attention to a video in the lower corner and moved it to the center. A courier crossed a square, carrying a briefcase, viewed from a distance. A woman in fur and sunglasses spilled her coffee. A determined fighter changed the vector of his opponent’s knife, letting the blade’s sweep come within a centimeter of trimming the deep brown hair spitting out from under his wool cap.

Jupiter paused the playback when the camera zoomed in on the fighter. “Ah. Mr. Calix.” He spread his fingers, and flashing holographic dots spread like foam, adding dimension to the flat image. He turned the fighter’s face left and right, like an uncle holding his nephew’s chin, and studied the hazel eyes. “Confident. Assured in purpose. I’m told you’re a patriot, a true believer. We’ll see.”

The face of the unseen opponent, the one wielding the knife, must have looked quite different. Jupiter imagined Massir wearing an expression of surprise and dismay. Pitiful. His job had been to control Calix while Hagen dealt with the woman, and he’d failed.

Massir was loyal, if not adequately skilled, and Jupiter regretted his death. But someone needed to die in Rome to pull the first card from the Director’s precarious house. What had his old friend Hale used to say? Pick up the trash. A hockey term. When an operative misses the goal, trap the rebounding puck and shoot again.

Jupiter had salvaged the operation by sacrificing a player. Now Hagen needed to follow up.

A knock on a porch pillar interrupted his analysis. His executive assistant waited for an acknowledgment and then spoke. “Our Dutch friend is here to see you, sir. He brought the guest you requested.”

Speak of the devil.

Jupiter pressed the hologram down into the tabletop and stood. “Thank you, Terrance. Bring them through.”

Hagen stepped out of the palatial house with professional bearing. He had walked the paths of Jupiter’s private reserve before.

The courier had not. He had likely never heard of Jupiter Global before Hagen had dragged him out of Rome earlier that day. Shells and subsidiaries kept the main corporation well-insulated. The young man bore the look of a mouse entering a lion’s den. Not far from the truth.

Jupiter spread his hands. “Hagen. Thank you for coming. Did you enjoy your swim in the Tiber?” He saw a flash of fear in Hagen’s eyes. Good. So, he still had a brain.

The Dutchman lowered his gaze. “Cold.”

“Not as cold as the morgue I’ll stick you in if you come up empty-handed again. I sent you to extract the woman. Instead, you brought me this”—Jupiter looked the courier up and down—“loose end.”

The courier turned a shade whiter.

Jupiter polished off his coffee and poured a tumbler of seltzer water to clear his palette. “Relax. I’m joking.” He walked behind the two men. “Mostly.”

Neither turned, and both kept their eyes level. Like all his employees, Jupiter had taught Hagen never to look down at him, despite his less-than-average stature. The courier wisely followed Hagen’s lead.

“Oh, cheer up, children. The operation went as smooth as I expected. The Company, and thus the rest of the world’s key intelligence forces, will remain distracted, looking for bomb makers.”

This seemed to strike a nerve. Hagen had run point in Tokyo and Munich. “The CRTX explosives did well for us.” He pronounced the acronym as cortex. “The markets moved as we predicted. Your investments—”

“How many times must I tell you?” Jupiter smashed his tumbler on the pavement, making the courier yelp in surprise. “This is not about money!” He kept walking, returning to the front of the two men. Inhale. Exhale. Pulse rate descending. He unclenched his fists one finger at a time. How could he make them understand?

Jupiter glanced through his home’s open wall at a picture of a young couple in Hong Kong. The antique frame was the only wood in the grand interior veranda of marble, aluminum, and glass. The couple looked out of place, a Greek American and his pregnant wife among a throng of Chinese protestors, as if the crowd might envelop them at any time. Pure chaos. No control.

Stepping carefully around the