Noble Intentions: Season Two (Episodes 6-10) (13 page)

“Ready to check out this house?” Jasmine asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be after driving non-stop for twelve hours and then filling up on grease and coffee and carbs.”

5

Boris sat alone in his study. The room screamed of masculinity with its oversized desk, dark wood tones, and aged books. He had wanted it that way. Anyone who entered should feel threatened and intimidated. People usually did when near him, whether they were in this room or not. Even complete strangers took extra care to get out of his way on the sidewalk or in the supermarket, among other places.

He rose to his feet at the sound of a knock at the door. Crossed the room and opened the door.

“Fletcher,” Boris said. “Glad you could make it.”

Fletcher nodded and waited for Boris to gesture him in.

“Have a seat over there.” Boris pointed toward his desk.

The men sat down opposite each other. Boris in his large patent leather chair. Fletcher in a smaller, stiff chair with wooden arms and a padded seat and back.

“The reason I wanted you here,” said Boris, “was to begin to review these documents. We need to identify our initial targets.”

“What exactly are these documents?”

Boris smiled without lifting his head. “A lot of effort went into obtaining these.” He picked up a manila folder and dropped it onto the desk. “What I am told is someone inside the government has turned.”

“The U.S. government?”

Boris leaned back and drummed the edge of the desk with his fingertips. He said, “Yes, that is correct.”

“For who? Us?”

“No, not us. My understanding is that these documents were on their way to someone or some place that is in direct opposition of the U.S.”

“Iraq?”

“Don’t think so. Iran or North Korea, if it was a nation.”

“You think it might have been another organization?”

“It’s possible. Frankly, it doesn’t matter.”

“How did Feng know about these?”

“I would assume someone tipped the old man off. But I don’t think he realized what he was getting when he hired the man to steal the documents. And I don’t think he realized what he had when he sold them to me. He could have received a lot more money for them than what I paid. Hell, I would have paid a lot more to procure them.”

Boris gave Fletcher a few minutes to let it sink in. The man squinted and nodded as he worked through the information.

Boris opened the folder and leafed through paper after paper. “Over one hundred vulnerable places for us to target. Each place being critical infrastructure or psychologically important to the weak people of this country.”

“We could figure out targets, Boris.”

Boris lifted his head and nodded. “Yes, this is true. But what we don’t know are the weaknesses, the vulnerabilities of each target, my friend. This information has it all.”

Fletcher reached out and grabbed a piece of paper. “Bridges.” He looked from the paper to Boris. “I could tell you how to take out a bridge.”

Boris smiled. Waved his hand.

“Read on.”

Fletcher mumbled through the document, stopping occasionally to nod and soak up the information. As he neared the end, his eyebrows remained arched an inch into his forehead. He finished reading and sat the paper on the desk, exhaling loudly.

“Yes,” Boris said. “We could figure out how to take down a bridge. But that document right there lists the top ten bridges, plus the why and the how. And that’s not the end of it. Look at what we have here.”

He dropped stack of paper after stack of paper onto the desk. It was all there: airports, tunnels and bridges, nuclear power plants, national monuments, environmental targets, and places where thousands of people would be gathered and the times they would be there. Detailed instructions on bypassing or overcoming security measures were included for each target.

“What’s the plan?” Fletcher asked.

Boris smiled. He placed his palms on the desktop and stood. Walked around the desk and stopped behind Fletcher. He placed his hands on the man’s shoulders and squeezed. Said, “We are going to hit as many of those targets at one time as is possible. Six months from now. On the day of rest when these poor saps gather for sporting events. I foresee over one million dead and injured. I foresee national monuments crumbling. I foresee an environmental catastrophe unparalleled by anything in history.”

“Greater than…” Fletcher brought his hand to his face and rubbed his cheeks.

“Yes,” Boris said. “Even greater than Chernobyl.”

Boris let go of Fletcher and the man rose from his chair. He paced the room and stopped at the far wall. Leaned against the bookcase.

Fletcher said, “How do we know the old man won’t turn on us?”

Boris laughed and waved his hand dismissively at his associate. “Of all people, he would be the last person to call attention to himself. If he turned us in, then the matter of how he came to be in possession of such documents would be called into question.”

“Good point. What about the mole in the government?”

Boris returned to his chair. “Wish I knew who he was.”

“Bring him on board?”

“Kill him.”

“Why?”

“As I see it, he is the only one who can disrupt our plan. His conscience might get in the way. Some of these documents have recommended dates for attacks. Dignitaries scheduled to be in attendance. Look at this one.” Boris held up a paper for Fletcher to see. “There will be a Queen in attendance. And that isn’t the only event where someone of notoriety from another country will be present. Can you imagine, Fletcher? Not only will the citizens of the U.S. be terrified, but other nations will turn on this country, and its government, for failing to protect their famous citizens.”

Fletcher’s smile broadened. “Brilliant.”

Boris leaned back. Crossed his legs. He opened a drawer and pulled out two cigars. He pointed one in Fletcher’s direction.

“Yes, please,” Fletcher said.

Boris clipped the ends and handed one to Fletcher. Pulled out two wooden matches and lit them.

“Have you spoken with him yet?” Fletcher asked.

“Ivanov?” Boris nodded. “I let him know we had something special in our possession.”

“Are you going to go see him? Or will he be coming here?”

“God, I hope not,” Boris said. “Old bastard gives me the creeps.”

Both men laughed.

“I’ve never met him,” Fletcher said after the laughter had trailed off.

“You’re lucky. He’s a, what do they say here in the U.S., a heartless bastard. But he’s in charge now. Has been since Dorofeyev and his men were murdered off the southern coast of France.”

“What ever happened with that? They caught the assassin, yes?”

“Yes. Black Dolphin is what happened.”

Fletcher lifted his shoulders and shuddered.

“Didn’t take long for him to die there,” Boris said.

Silence fell over the room. The men smoked and stared at the papers spread across the desk.

“Jack something or other,” Boris said.

“What’s that?”

“The assassin. His name was Jack.”

“Wish I would have been there. He would not have gotten away with it.”

Boris rested his cigar along the edge of a large glass ashtray. “Likewise, my friend. Likewise.”

6

Pierre slid across the backseat of the stopped cab, and opened the door, and stepped out onto the curb. The driver didn’t get out. Only popped the trunk. Pierre walked around the back of the taxi and grabbed his two gray duffel bags. He closed the trunk lid and the cab sped off.

Pierre moved to the curb and scanned the crowded sidewalk and street. He didn’t know who or what he was looking for. Charles had told him that he needed to be at the corner of Madison and Market in Manhattan by ten-thirty a.m.

Pierre looked at his watch. Nine-thirty a.m. He ignored the crowds and looked for a place to grab a cup of coffee. Spotted a cafe a block and a half away on the other side of the street. He adjusted the handle straps in his hands and started down the sidewalk. A break in the traffic gave him the chance to cross the street. After another half block he walked into the small cafe named
Cuppa
.

An attractive early twenty-something woman with short blond hair streaked with pink smiled at him from behind the counter.

“What can I get you? Cappuccino? Maybe an iced coffee? You look like an iced coffee kinda guy.”

“Espresso. Double.”

“You Dutch?”

Pierre laughed. The woman’s smile broadened and she winked.

“I’m French,” he said.

“Well I’m Marcy.” She turned her back to him and started on his order. “How long have you been in New York?”

“Two hours, give or take.”

“Fresh off the boat, eh?”

“Excuse me?”

She turned and placed his drink on the counter. “Just an expression, hun. So what brings you to New York? Business or pleasure?”

He took a moment before answering. Sniffed the black liquid in the small cup in his hand. The smell matched the drink, dark and bold.

“Business. Definitely not pleasure.”

She leaned across the counter. Her unbuttoned blouse revealed her small, bare breasts. She said, “I can add the pleasure if you are going to be in town for a few days.”

Pierre lifted his gaze from her breasts to her eyes. He smiled. Shook his head. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Espresso.”

“Right, double.”

He took a seat in the corner. Got up and grabbed a copy of the
Times
from the table next to him and buried his face in the paper for the next fifteen minutes. He felt her staring at him, but did not look over at the counter. He might be thousands of miles from Kat, but that didn’t mean he could indulge in guilty pleasures. It didn’t take long for the other side of his conscience to create a somewhat convincing argument.

Kat hadn’t seemed happy when he told her he had to go to the U.S. for a job. She looked sad, in fact. It didn’t matter that with the job came the promise of enough money for them to semi-retire for a few years. Enough time for Pierre to sort himself out mentally. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t do a job or two on the side from the French Riviera. Many people who deserved to die passed through Monte Carlo on a daily basis. He just had to get his name out there.

He didn’t know for sure that Kat would be waiting for him when he got back. He had a feeling that she would take off. Leave her job and apartment and even her cat behind if necessary in an effort to give Pierre the slip.

He finished his espresso. Dropped the newspaper on the table. Got up and went to the door. He heard a sigh from behind him. He opened the door an inch or two and stopped. Turned around.

Pierre said, “Do you have a phone number?”

Marcy smiled and handed him a slip of torn notepad paper. He took it from her hand and stuck it in his pocket without reading it. If he read it, the number would be committed to memory. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he would call her. Better to not have the number stored where he could easily access it until he made a decision he couldn’t back out of. Besides, he didn’t know that he would still be in New York come nightfall.

Pierre merged onto the sidewalk and walked to the corner. There, he joined a throng of people waiting to cross the street. A man made of light bulbs changed from orange to white and the group moved like an amoeba across the asphalt.

He walked until he reached the corner of Madison and Market. Looked at his watch. Ten a.m. He spotted a row of bistro tables outside a restaurant and took a seat.

A waiter walked out. “What can I get you to drink?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Better go wait somewhere else then, pal.”

Pierre felt the rage build inside of him. The muscles in his chest and upper arms constricted. He knew that the man would last no longer than ten seconds if Pierre decided to take him out. He smiled.

“I’ll have a coffee then.”

The waiter disappeared into the restaurant.

“I’m back,” Pierre whispered under his breath. He felt more like himself than he had in a long time. He wondered if being on the job would bring him full circle. Back to the man he was. The man he wanted to be again.

He lit a cigarette while waiting for the waiter to return with his coffee. He already felt amped from the double espresso, but figured a little more caffeine wouldn’t hurt. He spotted a white Mercedes as it pulled up to the curb. The tinted rear passenger window rolled down. Pierre instinctively reached for his gun. Came up empty handed.

A thin older Asian man peered over his sunglasses at Pierre.

“Mr. Pierre?”

Pierre pulled five dollars from his pocket and dropped it on the table. Picked up his bags. Walked over to the Mercedes.

He said, “You Charles’s boss?”

The old man nodded then called to the driver. “Help Mr. Pierre with his bags.”

A large, burly man got out of the car and rounded the back. Opened the trunk. Placed Pierre’s bags inside. He motioned for Pierre to follow him. They waited at the back corner of the car for a break in the traffic. They didn’t have to wait long. The man opened the rear driver’s side door and waved Pierre inside.

Pierre took a seat next to the old man. “Where will I be staying?” He hoped the old man would tell him that he’d be staying at one of those posh hotels that overlooked Central Park.

“With me. For tonight, at least. Tomorrow you’ll be on a plane.”

Pierre felt the paper in his pocket with Marcy’s number written on it. He crumpled it in his hand.

“A plane to where?”

The old man smiled without looking at Pierre. His yellow stained teeth blended with his aged skin. “I promise to tell you tomorrow, Mr. Pierre.”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble of putting me up for the night. I can get a hotel by the Park.”

“Nonsense,” the old man said. “You will stay with me. It’s no trouble. Besides, I can’t risk having you get into any trouble and revealing your reasons for being in the States.”

Great. Stuck with this old bastard all night.

Pierre shrugged and stared out the window. The car sped up and then stopped. The process played out several more times. People on the sidewalk went from blurs to still images and back to blurs again. He thought about Marcy from the cafe. Her imaged blurred, too, into that of Kat. He reached inside his jacket for his phone. Thought better of it. He’d wait until he was at the old man’s house. He’d have privacy there. Besides, the old bastard might confiscate his phone and replace it with one that could track Pierre.