Grenades, guns. Yeah, you can bet they have the word from the Count, maybe Remy Patek, too. Bring our boys back from overseas or else.”
Craven nodded. It both annoyed and fascinated him to see Bolt’s mind work. Bolt was usually out in front of everyone, even Craven on occasion, and that was annoying. When it came to expecting the worst of people and being right about it every time, no one was better at that than Bolt. It was Bolt who was fond of saying that everybody in the drug world lies, including the good guys.
Craven didn’t like to admit that was true.
“You’ve got something in mind,” said Craven. “Let’s hear it.” He was prepared to dislike it, but instinctively he knew it would make sense, because Bolt was good at screwing people he didn’t like, and at the moment he didn’t like Alain Lonzu. An agent had been killed, blown apart by a grenade, and Craven, along with Bolt and everyone in the department, didn’t like that at all.
So you put out your own particular contract on the person who did it, which is to say you went looking and kept looking until you found him.
“I’d like to fly over to Paris and go undercover,” said Bolt, his eyes sweeping the room as if daring any of the men to stand in his way. “I speak French and I’ve got a hunch about this thing.”
He paused, letting the silence draw them all in, making sure his audience was on their toes. The seven men all looked at him and waited.
Showtime, thought Bolt. “My hunch is that Remy Patek isn’t gonna like his brother, Claude, getting choked to death, so he’s gonna be out looking for Alain. Remy’s also got an interest in that four million, which could be anywhere—on the ship, or hidden—because the last time I saw Alain, he didn’t have a pot to piss in. The Count, bless him, will want to keep Alain alive, at least until he hears his side of the story.”
“And hears about the money,” added Craven.
Bolt nodded. “Yeah, I go along with that. Alain’s the key. Now, I also think that Alain, who was supposed to meet Chester Dumas in New York, but didn’t, had a good reason for meeting him here in Washington. I’ve been thinking about it, and it seems to me that Alain had other business here, like maybe Mr. X at the Justice Department. Remember that little rumor we’ve been hearing but haven’t been able to prove?”
The men in the room reacted in different ways, nodding their heads in recognition of a possible truth or taking a deep breath while deciding whether to go along with Bolt or sit back and see Craven’s reaction.
“Go on,” said Craven. A couple of men in the room translated that as: “You have enough rope to hang yourself.”
“I think Alain’s important enough to go for, but without telling the French about it—”
Craven interrupted. “Now, you wait a minute, Bolt, we can’t—”
“We can! ” shouted Bolt, “because Vanders is dead. That’s why we can. Now, hear me out, please. O.K.? Cool. Now, Alain’s worth grabbing, for Vanders’ death, and you know as well as I do that we got to come back hard for the four million, for this Mr. X, for information about their heroin-smuggling routes, for information about the two hundred keys they’re bringing in for Dumas soon. That’s the last thing they think we’ll do: sneak in and grab the bastard and squeeze him until he talks. I—”
“Stupid,” said Craven, tossing his pencil on the desk and frowning. Sneaking into a country and grabbing a major heroin trafficker. Stupid. And yet, there was something beautifully sneaky about it, something that appealed to the bastard in Craven, who never liked losing and who wanted to win at all costs. The Corsicans had just shoved D-3’s face in a toilet bowl. That was embarrassing.
“Craven, we’ve talked about it before. We’ve had funny things happen with a couple of cases here involving Corsicans. Witnesses suddenly losing their memories, and the opposition’s lawyers coming into
Craven nodded. It both annoyed and fascinated him to see Bolt’s mind work. Bolt was usually out in front of everyone, even Craven on occasion, and that was annoying. When it came to expecting the worst of people and being right about it every time, no one was better at that than Bolt. It was Bolt who was fond of saying that everybody in the drug world lies, including the good guys.
Craven didn’t like to admit that was true.
“You’ve got something in mind,” said Craven. “Let’s hear it.” He was prepared to dislike it, but instinctively he knew it would make sense, because Bolt was good at screwing people he didn’t like, and at the moment he didn’t like Alain Lonzu. An agent had been killed, blown apart by a grenade, and Craven, along with Bolt and everyone in the department, didn’t like that at all.
So you put out your own particular contract on the person who did it, which is to say you went looking and kept looking until you found him.
“I’d like to fly over to Paris and go undercover,” said Bolt, his eyes sweeping the room as if daring any of the men to stand in his way. “I speak French and I’ve got a hunch about this thing.”
He paused, letting the silence draw them all in, making sure his audience was on their toes. The seven men all looked at him and waited.
Showtime, thought Bolt. “My hunch is that Remy Patek isn’t gonna like his brother, Claude, getting choked to death, so he’s gonna be out looking for Alain. Remy’s also got an interest in that four million, which could be anywhere—on the ship, or hidden—because the last time I saw Alain, he didn’t have a pot to piss in. The Count, bless him, will want to keep Alain alive, at least until he hears his side of the story.”
“And hears about the money,” added Craven.
Bolt nodded. “Yeah, I go along with that. Alain’s the key. Now, I also think that Alain, who was supposed to meet Chester Dumas in New York, but didn’t, had a good reason for meeting him here in Washington. I’ve been thinking about it, and it seems to me that Alain had other business here, like maybe Mr. X at the Justice Department. Remember that little rumor we’ve been hearing but haven’t been able to prove?”
The men in the room reacted in different ways, nodding their heads in recognition of a possible truth or taking a deep breath while deciding whether to go along with Bolt or sit back and see Craven’s reaction.
“Go on,” said Craven. A couple of men in the room translated that as: “You have enough rope to hang yourself.”
“I think Alain’s important enough to go for, but without telling the French about it—”
Craven interrupted. “Now, you wait a minute, Bolt, we can’t—”
“We can! ” shouted Bolt, “because Vanders is dead. That’s why we can. Now, hear me out, please. O.K.? Cool. Now, Alain’s worth grabbing, for Vanders’ death, and you know as well as I do that we got to come back hard for the four million, for this Mr. X, for information about their heroin-smuggling routes, for information about the two hundred keys they’re bringing in for Dumas soon. That’s the last thing they think we’ll do: sneak in and grab the bastard and squeeze him until he talks. I—”
“Stupid,” said Craven, tossing his pencil on the desk and frowning. Sneaking into a country and grabbing a major heroin trafficker. Stupid. And yet, there was something beautifully sneaky about it, something that appealed to the bastard in Craven, who never liked losing and who wanted to win at all costs. The Corsicans had just shoved D-3’s face in a toilet bowl. That was embarrassing.
“Craven, we’ve talked about it before. We’ve had funny things happen with a couple of cases here involving Corsicans. Witnesses suddenly losing their memories, and the opposition’s lawyers coming into
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