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

A soldier. A cog. Just as Giselle said. That was all Ben had ever been to this man. Ben let out a quiet laugh. “Okay.” He dropped the sir. “What about the Behemoth?”

“You mean the cargo ship resting comfortably in the shade of a Spanish dry dock?”

“She’s not in dry dock. I’m telling you, the Behemoth is coming to Baltimore—the biggest bioweapon the world has ever seen, enough to make the last pandemic look like a mild flu season.”

“Or,” the Director said, keeping his voice low, “a ship called the Clementine is coming to Baltimore, carrying tanktainers full of ammonia, pesticides, and cheap wine. Think, Calix. You’ve now become the king of red herring intelligence. You fell for Massir’s lie about a sale of CRTX chemicals, getting your team ambushed in Rome. And the case you sent us after that debacle ate up our HUMINT and analytical resources while we tried to determine if anything about it could lead us to Leviathan.”

“I know, but—”

“And here you go again. Leviathan fed you the perfect story about a plague ship booby-trapped with a nuke’s-worth of CRTX.” The Director walked on toward the circle’s edge. “They want us to expose our water assault tactics, then burn thousands of man-hours inspecting every tanktainer on board and tracking any cargo that slips past us. Meanwhile Jupiter detonates a dirty bomb in Miami or sets the Houston refineries ablaze.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’m done with you, Calix. Thanks for wasting my night.”

The detail parted, allowing the Director to walk through.

Ben drew his gun. “No!”

With a rippling clatter, six APC9s came to shoulder height.

The Director raised a hand. The detail held their fire.

“You can’t leave,” Ben said, keeping the SIG level, fighting back the blur in his eyes and mind. “I won’t let you leave without giving me an answer. I signed my life away. Fine. And now it’s gone. But at least tell me why. Why me? Why the severance? It can’t be all about Rome. Tell me, sir. You owe me that much.”

The Director kept walking. “I don’t owe you a thing.” He snapped his fingers, and the detail followed him toward the dogwoods.

“I deserve better! Do you hear me?” Ben held the Director in his sights until he disappeared, then fell to his knees among the graves and cried.

68

“Ben.” A soft hand touched his face. “Are you still with me?”

He kept his eyes closed. No more hallucinations. He didn’t want to hear Hale anymore. He didn’t want to see Clara again. Why wouldn’t the disease just take him and leave his body here with the other dead cogs?

But this hallucination looped an arm under his elbow and hauled him to his feet. “You’re not dead, mamour. I can see your breath, yes? Get up.”

“Giselle?” Ben’s voice had grown so weak, he doubted she’d hear the question.

“Correct, mon rêve. My dream. I’m here. I will always be here.”

Reluctant, he gave up on death and opened his eyes. She stood before him, strong, blonde once again, and Photoshop perfect, as if they had walked out of Rome together the day before.

“How did you find me?”

She showed Ben a picture of himself on her phone, resting his head back in a taxi. “Your cabdriver called the police. He gave them your picture.”

“Rayan. Nice guy. Not his fault. He thought he was doing me a favor.”

Giselle swiped to another image of Ben, this time from a Metro station security camera.

His illness had made him incautious. “So why haven’t the cops snatched me up? You can’t tell me they didn’t track me to my motel after I hid out in the woods or figure out I left the Metro at the cemetery.”

“Don’t you see? You are under Jupiter’s protection. He still has hope for you.” Giselle lifted his arm over her shoulder and helped him walk between the graves. “Remember the police and SWAT teams in Paris, Rotterdam, Zürich? The Director cast you out into the cold. Now, Jupiter has wrapped you in his warm embrace.”

“The Director. He met me here. You must have seen him.” Ben lolled his head over to meet her eye. “You could have taken him out. Isn’t that what your Jupiter wants?”

She laughed, leaning her temple against his forehead. “I am no superwoman. The Director casts a wide protective shield of operatives and surveillance wherever he walks—so inaccessible. But not Jupiter. You may come to him freely.”

A coughing fit caused him to stumble, and Ben let Giselle lift him up again. They had reached the outer wall. “That’s why you’re here. You want me to go to him, trade my loyalty for my life.”

“For your dignity, mamour.”

“There’s no dignity in being Jupiter’s trophy.”

“There is dignity in being valued. And if not for dignity, do it for justice, Ben. Aren’t you ready for justice?”

They crested a low hill. A black sedan idled on a road at the bottom. The rear passenger door stood open. Ben stopped at the hillcrest.

Giselle didn’t push him, not physically. She let her head rest against his and whispered into his ear. “You’ve suffered enough. It’s time, Ben—time to see Jupiter. Aren’t you ready to end this?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready for the end.”

Consciousness darted away from him like a fox hunted in the woods, always in reach but never in hand. The hum of the tires and Giselle’s familiar perfume tumbled together in a white noise of sound and scent. Blurred highway signs flew by. The sedan rolled to a stop.

“We’re here, mamour.”

“Where?”

“Wait and see.”

She helped him rise from his seat into the dim echoing gray of a parking garage and once again draped his arm over her shoulder to help him walk. “Come. The elevators are over here.”

The driver stayed with the car. Clearly Ben was no threat to these people.

The elevator smelled like vinegar, a sign of fresh caulk between the brushed steel panels. “New building?” he asked in a quiet