CHAPTER 42
It was almost two o’clock in the morning and Kate sat before a jumble of notes and papers covering the kitchen table in the small apartment in Paris.
She got out her chair and grabbed the coffee pot, filling two mugs and handing one to James on the sofa.
He was studying a street map of Paris.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the mug from her.
She noticed a contemplative expression on his face.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking about Max Baer and the possibility that he’s hiding somewhere in the Latin Quarter. The taxi driver seemed sincere when he told us what he’d seen.”
“If only we had something concrete to justify a redistribution of our resources.”
Then one of the secure phones started ringing.
James almost dumped his coffee in his lap when he stood up.
Kate answered the phone.
“Hello.”
“Is this Kate Webb?”
“Yes.”
“Andrew Billings, Kate. I think we’ve come across someone who might be helpful to the investigation.”
Billings ran a detective agency in London that James and Kate had hired. A bulldog in pursuit of bonus cash, he’d unleashed his investigators on the pubs that dot the streets of London, searching for someone, anyone, who knew Max Baer and was willing to talk about him.
It was the latter that was making the hunt so difficult; nailing down someone who was prepared to divulge information about Baer was no easy task.
In the wake of his efforts, Billings hit pay dirt.
One of his investigators struck up a conversation with a man in a pub along St. Chad’s Place. Sam Wright was on his last legs and wasting away from liver failure. When the investigator got on the subject of Bear he couldn’t get the guy to shut up. Wright and Bear had met in the 1990s and were comrades until Baer was expelled from the British Secret Intelligence Service.
They were nonconformist rebels, covert operatives and drinking buddies who chased women across three continents. While he didn’t give details, Wright told the investigator that he and Baer had parted under “less than amicable circumstances”.
The investigator hurried back to his office and assisted by two colleagues, verified enough facts about Baer to convince him that Wright’s information was genuine.
Then he went to Wright’s apartment and put on a pot of coffee in hopes of sobering him up. He phoned Billings who patched the call through to Kate.
“My investigator is with him now, Kate. His name is Sam Wright.”
He handed the phone to the aging skirt chaser.
“Hello.”
So that James could hear what Wright was saying, Kate put the phone on speaker mode.
“Good evening, Mr. Wright. My name is Kate Webb. I apologize for keeping you up this late.”
“It’s no bother. I haven’t slept an entire night in years.”
“I’m in Paris and having a difficult time locating a man named Max Baer. I was hoping you could help me.”
“What do you want to know?”
The investigator brought Wright another cup of coffee, his fourth in less than an hour.
“I know he’s in the city, but where is something I’m having trouble pinning down.”
Sam Wright laughed heartily.
“That’s an easy one.”
Kate and James closed their eyes and waited for the answer.
“The Latin Quarter.”
James whispered to Kate, “Just like Remi said.”
Kate nodded, then she said to Wright, “What makes you say that?”
“If Paris is his first love, then the Latin Quarter runs a close second. Max was educated there, at the Sorbonne. He’s attached to the area, the lifestyle. He was drawn by so many things.”
“Can you be specific?”
“Oh, the nightlife mostly, the environment there suits him.”
“I have footage of Baer taken from a surveillance camera. He’s accompanied by a woman.”
He laughed again.
“That doesn’t surprise me. Max has always had a weakness for women.”
“What about his tastes?”
“He prefers brunettes, and he likes ‘em buxom, full-figured.”
“And if he’s with a woman now?”
“I’d imagine her to be about thirty or so. He likes ‘em young.”
James looked at Kate and when their eyes met, he grinned.
Satisfied with Wright’s information, he gave her a nod.
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Wright,” Kate said.
“Glad I could help,” he replied cheerfully. “Good luck with your endeavor.”
The investigator came back on the phone. Kate concluded her business with him and turned to James.
“The noose is tightening.”
“Let’s get to work.”
With one phone call the strategy had changed.
They dove in, engaging more investigators to scour the Latin Quarter in pursuit of the “ghost”.
Streets, alleyways, food shops, cafés and bars were staked out.
The insights they’d gotten from Sam Wright had narrowed the search parameters, but the task was still daunting.
The area that was now the focus of the manhunt covered almost three square miles.
Kate looked out at the city and fixing her gaze, whispered softly, as though she was talking to herself. “What if he’s aware?”
“Aware of what?” James said.
“That someone’s after him.”
“Given the manpower we’ve got on the ground, he probably does.”
“Okay, what would you do?”
“I’d lay low. Stay indoors. Any attempt to leave Paris now would be too risky. The city’s covered like a blanket. He’s too smart to run.”
“How would you eat?”
“Takeout food. Those places deliver you know.”
Kate shot him a skeptical look.
“You’d eat takeout food three times a day?”
“I guess not, that would get old after a while.”
“So, someone else might be doing the grocery shopping for both of them.”
“Could be. It would give him good cover.”
“Exactly,” Kate said.
“Sam Wright did give the impression of a guy who’d sooner cut off his arm than to forego having a woman.”
“And we have a pretty good description of his type.”
James thought about this.
“Brunette, large breasts, mid-forties and sleazy enough to be hanging out with a scumbag like Max Baer.”
“We need to stake out every place in the Latin Quarter that sells food. Anyone answering to her description will be followed. And when she gets to her destination, one of our teams investigates.”
“And if they think they have a positive I.D. on Baer they call us.”
“Right.”
CHAPTER 43
T
he atmosphere in D.C. was getting more intense as the evening settled on an avalanche of more rumors and speculation.
For some, the nerve-racking ordeal had gotten to the point where any diversion was welcomed.
Senator Charles “Charlie” Watson was no exception.
Exhausted, he jumped at a chance to join his girlfriend for dinner. He stood in front of a mirror and gave a stamp of approval to his athletic frame. He was pushing sixty and he took pride in his condition. Having grown apart from his wife, he was enjoying the life of an eligible bachelor.
He pulled a bedroom curtain back and peering across the street he saw a sedan parked at the curb. Inside were two FBI agents assigned to protecting “Good Time Charlie”.
He went into the garage and climbed into his Corvette, the FBI men tailing him as he drove into the night. The top was down and as he breathed in the cool night air he thought about his new lady friend. A reporter in her mid-fifties, she was fun-loving and interesting, qualities he liked.
When he turned into a parking lot at a restaurant, he noticed the bureau-issue sedan in his rear view mirror. Once inside his girlfriend arrived and the maître d' led the way to Charlie’s favorite table. They ordered drinks and enjoyed their meals.
After dinner and a couple of drinks Charlie suggested they leave. As they stepped into the night air his lady friend noticed the FBI sedan.
“Do they have to follow you everywhere?” she complained.
He opened the car door for her before climbing in and pulling into traffic, the FBI agents following a few car lengths back.
Then a van pulled up alongside the FBI sedan and its side door slid open.
A masked gunman fired a burst of rounds that smashed the side window and shredded the front and rear tires.
Tear gas grenades were shot into the sedan and the agents choked on the vapors as the car came to a stop. Jumping out, they called for backup and watched as the van pulled alongside Charlie Watson and his girlfriend.
Charlie was coming near a bridge when he glanced over in horror as the masked man again fired a burst of rounds and shot out two of the Corvette’s tires.
Two men jumped out of the van.
They grabbed Charlie and his girlfriend and scrambled down an embankment where the driver of a second van was sitting beneath the bridge, lying in wait.
Watson and the woman were shoved into the cargo area and the driver took off, racing along the Rock Creek Parkway and turning into a neighborhood along Embassy Row.
He pulled to the curb along a wooded stretch of the road and stopped.
Charlie’s lady friend was bound and face down in a thicket of brush as the van sped away.
_______________
A few miles away an FBI agent was sitting in his sedan across from a row townhouses on a quiet residential street.
The lane was dark except for street lights dotting the sidewalk every thirty yards or so.
Two hours earlier Senator Natalie Lopez entered her townhouse, number 54. Minutes later her husband came home.
Sometime later a couple exited their residence next door, number 56. Holding hands, they strolled along the sidewalk, turned the corner and disappeared.
In actual fact, two hours earlier a man had entered the townhouse beside the Lopez residence, but he was not the owner.
A Dr. Becker lived there, though he was being impersonated by someone.
Using the doctor’s own key, he walked inside and closed the front door behind him.
Going down to the basement he stood near a stone wall. Built in 1815, the foundation was constructed of stones and mortar.
He opened a briefcase and taking out his tools, put a drill against a mortar joint between two stones and bored a hole, repeating the procedure until the borings covered an area two- feet square.
Inserting rolls of plastic explosive into the holes, he connected them to a firing mechanism on the opposite side of the basement.
He then took cover behind the furnace and set off the charges.
Bits of mortar and stone shot through the basement and he pulled aside the loosened stones.
Crawling through the opening he went into the adjoining basement and climbed the stairs to the main level of Senator Natalie Lopez’s residence.
Then he sat by her front door, and waited.
Two hours later he heard the sound of a key, turning the lock.
Natalie Lopez opened the door and reaching for the light switch, felt a hand grab her wrist.
Her mouth was covered as she was pulled into her kitchen and handcuffed to the stove handle.
“I think you know why I’m here,” the man said.
She did, and all too well.
“Cooperate and you won’t be harmed. If you scream, I’ll shoot you,” he told her, pulling a silenced Glock pistol from a holster. “When do you expect your husband?”
“Any time,” she managed to say.
Minutes later Lopez’s husband entered and he was forced into a bedroom, handcuffed to a bed frame, bound with plastic ties and his mouth covered with duct tape.
In the kitchen, the man removed from his briefcase a wig and make-up. He put the hairpiece on her and applied the make-up to her face.
“What have you done with my husband?” she demanded.
“He’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
The man took Natalie Lopez down to the basement and they crawled through the makeshift opening in the wall.
He spoke into a two-way radio.
“We’re almost ready. Three minutes.”
Then a response.
“Copy.”
As the two of them stood near the front door of Dr. Becker’s townhouse, he turned to Lopez.
“Okay, we’re gonna go down the steps, turn to the right and walk to the corner. Keep your eyes on me, and no stupid moves. If you try anything I’ll gun you down. Got it?”
She tried to steady her nerves.
“Yes.”
He opened the door.
In the dim lighting, the pair easily passed for Dr. Becker and a companion heading out for an evening walk.
They walked down the sidewalk and when they turned the corner, a van came up alongside them and its side door slid open.
Lopez was shoved inside and the van sped away to a preset rendezvous with the other team.
Sitting in the back of the van, Natalie Lopez stared at her captor. “Who are you people?”
“I know who you are.”
She frowned at him.
He grinned.
You’re number thirteen.
CHAPTER 44
A
gent Carter hurled the report to the floor and shouted a stream of expletives at a subordinate who delivered the bad news.
He kicked his desk and sent a violent shudder through the room.
“Are you kidding me?” he howled. “Both of them?”
The colleague nodded and cast his eyes downward.
“I could see this coming from a mile away. Damn it.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Get the hell out of here. Now!”
As if on cue, the man scurried out the door.
Carter paced the room.
Moments later Gordon Edwards, Director of the FBI, entered.
“Have a seat,” Edwards told him.
Carter sat down and glared back.
“You knew this was going to happen, even before this crappy assignment was dumped in my lap.”
“Calm down.”
“Good Time Charlie Watson,” Carter mumbled under his breath. “I warned you about him.”
“How about Natalie Lopez?”
Carter sighed.
“Same damn thing, highly professional. I told you we were outmanned. It’s a recipe for disaster. This is impossible.”
Edwards felt his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket.
“I have to take this,” he told Carter, and disappeared.
Carter stewed for thirty more minutes. Then an assistant came in holding a file in the crook of her arm.
She dropped it on his desk.
“What the hell is this?”
“Just in from Paris,” she said, smiling. “I knew you’d wanna see it.”
She left as Carter flipped the file open.
Looking back was a sketch of James Webb, drawn by a police artist from eyewitnesses who’d seen him in the Paris hotel bar with Tiffany, right before her dead body was fished out of the hotel swimming pool.
Holy shit! James Webb? First he and his wife blow off their FBI protection and now he’s involved in a triple murder? The killers must’ve found them and the Webbs got away. Damn.
A few minutes later Gordon Edwards was standing in the doorway.
“I’m meeting with the President in less than an hour. Give me something new to tell him.”
Carter handed his boss the file.
Edwards opened it and looked at the sketch.
“That’s James Webb. We find him and we find the perpetrators.”
“Interesting. I’ll look this over on my way,” Edwards said.
At the Southwest Gate of the White House, Edwards was cleared by a Secret Service agent and he stepped to the entrance of the West Wing. A U.S. Marine stood guard and opened the door as he entered a small lobby. Once inside, a staffer escorted him into a reception area just outside the Oval Office.
A woman was sitting in the outer office, and a fresh cup of coffee sat nearby as she burned the midnight oil.
She smiled and said, “You can go in, he’s expecting you.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
As he opened the door, the President was already on his feet and extending a hand to shake.
“Hello, Gordon.”
“Mr. President.”
Edwards gave him a firm handshake.
“So good to see you,” the President said, gesturing toward a seating area. “Please sit down.”
They were joined by the National Security Advisor.
The President began, “Well, gentlemen. This is one hell of a mess. It’s not easy to run the government when four of your senators are dead.” He turned to Edwards. “Gordon, where do we stand with the car crash on the parkway?”
“Still nothing, sir.”
“The man driving the car, what’s his name?”
“Daniel Baylor,” Edwards replied.
The President looked at him.
“Maybe he can shed some light on this. How’s he doing?”
“In a coma sir, unresponsive.”
The President rolled his eyes.
“Terrific. What about the others?”
“Same thing with Kowalski and Bailey. We’re still investigating.”
“In your opinion, could this be the work of terrorists?”
The National Security Advisor weighed in.
“Not likely. These deaths have been very clean. More likely mercenaries, highly skilled, ex-military types.”
“Anything else?” the President asked.
Edwards was skimming the file that Carter had given him. He looked at the President.
“Sir, Special Agent Carter, the man in charge of the case, he’s convinced that James and Kate Webb are crucial to the investigation. As you know from previous briefings, Daniel Baylor, the driver of the car that crashed on the parkway, called Mr. Webb’s cell phone roughly five minutes before the car went into the ravine. We don’t know the substance of the conversation, but given the duration of the call, ninety seconds, we can assume a dialogue occurred.”
“Where are they now?” the President asked.
Edwards looked down at his feet and back up at the President.
“We don’t know, sir. We got a warrant and searched their residence. And that’s when Carter discovered that they’d given their protection detail the slip.”
“Wonderful,” the President sighed.
“There’s something else,” Edwards said. “A couple of days ago two assassins and a female were murdered in a Paris hotel. We’ve obtained a composite sketch of the suspect. It was drawn by a police artist from eyewitness accounts.” He handed the President two items. “This is the sketch and a recent photo of James Webb.”
The President compared them, their likeness uncanny.
“So, James Webb is in Paris.”
“We believe so, Mr. President.”
“How’re you doing with the authorities in France?”
“They’ve been working with our boys in the Paris office.”
The President turned to his National Security Advisor.
“Contact our embassy in France.” He turned back to Edwards. “They’ll assist your station chief there.”
“Carter wants to go to Paris, sir,” Edwards said.
The President glanced at his watch and shrugged. “It’s his case.”
He then rose from his chair, signaling the end of the meeting.
The National Security Advisor went out the door.
Now alone with the President, Edwards hesitated for a moment.
The President’s personal assistant had put a call through to him after the Security Advisor passed her desk on his way out. He picked up the receiver and paused, looking at the FBI chief.
“What is it, Gordon?”
“Mr. President, we firmly believe the Webbs are in Paris.”
“Then I suggest you find them, and quickly.”