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

carry is not contagious unless I bleed on you. And you can call me Ben now. My time in this world is short. I no longer see the point of anonymity.”

“All right, Ben. What can an old fisherman do to help?”

“I need to get to the United States.”

Basile laughed—a hearty laugh that wiped away the somber tone of Ben’s declaration. “My friend, my friend, you overestimate the capabilities of my boat.”

Ben pressed his lips together. “I’m not talking about sea travel. I need to get out of here by air. Tonight.”

The fisherman remained silent for several paces, then released one of his deeply French grunts. “Mm. What makes you think I can help you with air transport? I am no travel agent.”

“I saw the panels on the Ostrich.”

“Panels? What panels?”

Ben would’ve felt insulted if he hadn’t detected a hint of playfulness in the question. “You’re a smuggler, Basile. The beach life suits you because you know it well. You didn’t buy that fedora in a shop yesterday. I noticed the inside rim when you bowed at the hotel. The band is dented from the hook where it hangs, most likely in that closet on the bridge of your boat.”

“Okay. Perhaps I am, but smuggling is an expensive affair.” Basile looked him up and down. “And I no longer see your bag of money. Can you still afford such help?”

“Give me your knife.”

The fisherman’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll give it back. I promise.”

Slowly, Basile removed the fillet knife from its sheath and placed it in Ben’s waiting hand, watching him carefully. “You keep it. You know, in case you are contagious.”

“Thanks.” Ben removed his belt and turned it over to run the blade down a long track of crisscrossing threads. They snapped as he bent the leather, revealing a shallow pocket with pink bank notes inside. He withdrew four 500-euro bills, folded together. “Is this enough?”

“So, you’re a smuggler too,” Basile said, reaching for the bills. “You have any more?”

Ben pulled the money back. “Not enough to spend foolishly. This will have to do, and I’m hoping another five hundred will buy back the SIG I gave you.”

“What happened to that nice little Glock?”

“My girlfriend stole it.”

“Meh.” The smuggler bobbled his head. “It happens. With the dying-friend discount, I think I can return the gun, clean and with a full magazine, and make your travel arrangements for twenty-five hundred.” He rubbed his fingers together. “But I’ll need the cash up front.”

“Done.” Ben placed the bills in his palm.

Basile tucked them away, then seemed to consider what had just transpired and rubbed his hand on his pants. “Are you sure you’re not contagious?”

“Yes. Now—” Pain shot through Ben’s abdomen. He grunted, forcing himself to stay upright, and drew a breath to start again. “Tell me how this works.”

Basile shrugged. “I don’t know. But I have a friend in the air cargo business in Marseilles. She’ll have the necessary connections here. But I can tell you, if we pull this off and get you on a plane, it’s going to smell bad. Very bad.”

60

SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC

Goats are mean. Ben had no idea the gregarious farm animals could turn into such vindictive tormentors, but then, he’d never been trapped with the bearded terrors in an eight-foot-by-ten-foot air-cargo livestock pen before.

And they stank.

Basile had not lied about the smell. If anything, he’d understated the problem. But the stench was a key piece of the smuggling puzzle, shielding Ben from discovery.

The wall of musk had hit Ben like a force field ten feet away from the pen. Basile’s contact explained that the stench mostly belonged to the billy, the only adult male in the shipment, who had an excellent track record of hiding contraband. The EU and US inspectors checked a sampling of the cargo pens during loading and unloading for every flight, but they always avoided the male’s pen, thanks to the smell. The same billy had made more than a dozen journeys back and forth across the Atlantic.

The pen’s top half was mostly chicken wire, so Ben had to bury himself under a pile of straw during loading and unloading at each transfer of a two-stop flight. Unfortunately, the vindictive goats peed on the same straw with impressive regularity. Worse, the male refused to let him sleep. Every time Ben managed to nod off, the billy rammed him in the arm, leg, head—whatever he left exposed. The goat seemed to blame him for each bump and burble of turbulence.

When the jet bounced on the final landing, the billy lowered its horns and threatened to charge him again.

“Stay in your corner,” Ben said, flashing Basile’s knife. “I promised your owner I wouldn’t gut you, but you can only push a man so far.”

The billy snorted.

Of everything Ben had suffered, burying himself in urine-soaked straw to sneak through the lengthy US customs process ranked among the worst. By the time he sat up, gasping for air, the pens were on a flatbed trailer, accelerating up a highway on-ramp at the eastern extent of Dulles International Airport. A cold wind bit at his cheeks. Empty trees and piles of brown slush flew by on a wintry afternoon. Virginia’s Route 50, outside Washington, DC, looked the same as always. He leaned his head against the chicken wire, holding the knife out behind him to keep the billy from attacking again, and let out a rueful chuckle. “Welcome back, Ben.”

The trucker topped off his tanks near Fairfax, at the I-66 interchange, and Ben bailed when the guy went inside for a snack. Even with the pen far behind him, he couldn’t escape the smell. He sniffed his jacket and grimaced, shooting a glance at the truck stop. He had some US cash. The air cargo smuggler had graciously changed out his last euros for dollars—after a hefty conversion fee. His rendezvous with Tess wasn’t for three hours. Plenty of time for a shower.

On a day that seemed like a thousand years ago, a Red Cross