“Carmine, circle the other way. Calmly, now. Calmly.”
“Go, Kreskin,” cheered Carmine Santini.
“Keck, put your system on automatic pilot. You’ll ride in the second car. Be ready to hit the street at my mark.”
“And you,” Chapel said very quietly to Mr. Leclerc of the Sûreté, first name unknown. “Where I come from we like our prisoners alive, so please put away that peashooter and get on your feet.”
But the last word belonged to Keck. Keck with the spiky blond hair and elfin stature. “Hey, dude,” he said as they filed out of the hotel suite. “Three words.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Don’t fuck up.”
Mohammed Al-Taleel, aka Romeo, emerged through the tinted glass doors of Royal Joailliers fifteen minutes later. In his hand, he carried a scuffed leather briefcase, the tried companion of attorneys and academics around the world. He left the square along the same path as he had entered it, walking with the same brisk gait that Chapel had remarked on earlier. One more man about town in the world’s most cosmopolitan city.
“All right, Carmine, move in. Put a smear on Romeo. One chance, my man. Do not mess up. Tag him.”
“Tagging” referred to the act of depositing a trace of tritium on a subject’s person. Though invisible to the naked eye, the mildly radioactive substance could be tracked by a sensitive Geiger counter at distances up to five hundred yards.
Santini closed in on Taleel. As he passed, he nudged him ever so slightly, a shoulder glancing against the back, nothing more. Taleel never felt the applicator brush his trousers. Bingo, thought Chapel, you’re ours.
From the Place Vendôme, Taleel walked up the Rue de la Paix, turning left on Rue Daunou and passing Harry’s Bar, one of Ernest Hemingway’s favorite haunts when he’d lived in Paris in the 1920s. Keck followed at twenty yards, with Leclerc shadowing him ten yards farther back on the opposite side of the street.
By the time they reached the Madeleine, the sidewalks pulsed with a vibrant, swarming humanity. Chapel decided that blue blazers and tan slacks were a kind of French national uniform. From his position in the passenger seat of the postal van, he counted seven men wearing a similar outfit crossing the intersection at the Boulevard des Capucines. A small metallic box similar to a Magellan GPS rested on his lap. The backlit display showed a map of Paris. The blinking red dot above the Madeleine Métro station represented Mohammed al-Taleel.
“He’s hitting the Métro,” said Santos Babtiste. “Merde.”
“Ligne douze. Mairie d’Issy,” said Leclerc, already underground.
“Keck, pull back,” Chapel ordered. “Leclerc, it’s your turn to play shadow.”
“D’acc,” replied the Frenchman.
“I’m going in,” said Chapel, flinging the tracking device onto the seat.
Crossing the street, he hit the stairs to the Métro at a run. The underground was crowded and hot. White tiled tunnels led in four directions. It was a labyrinthine steam bath. The sign for Ligne 12 pointed to the right. Not stopping to buy a ticket, he jumped the turnstiles and dashed down the corridor toward the platform. At least, he’d picked up one worthwhile skill growing up in Brooklyn. Hustling down another flight of stairs, he rounded a corner to find the platform deserted and the door to the train closing.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, even as he rushed toward the train. As if by a miracle, the doors wheezed open and he slid into the car. At the next doorway, Leclerc retrieved a foot from the entry. Taleel sat ten feet away, paying the briefcase between his legs no concern.
A pro, thought Chapel, as he took a spot toward the rear that positioned Taleel in his line of sight.
Concorde. Assemblée Nationale. Solférino.
The stations passed in turn. Chapel swayed with the train’s rhythmic swagger. Don’t look at him, he repeated over and over, reciting the lines from his training manual. Live
“Go, Kreskin,” cheered Carmine Santini.
“Keck, put your system on automatic pilot. You’ll ride in the second car. Be ready to hit the street at my mark.”
“And you,” Chapel said very quietly to Mr. Leclerc of the Sûreté, first name unknown. “Where I come from we like our prisoners alive, so please put away that peashooter and get on your feet.”
But the last word belonged to Keck. Keck with the spiky blond hair and elfin stature. “Hey, dude,” he said as they filed out of the hotel suite. “Three words.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Don’t fuck up.”
Mohammed Al-Taleel, aka Romeo, emerged through the tinted glass doors of Royal Joailliers fifteen minutes later. In his hand, he carried a scuffed leather briefcase, the tried companion of attorneys and academics around the world. He left the square along the same path as he had entered it, walking with the same brisk gait that Chapel had remarked on earlier. One more man about town in the world’s most cosmopolitan city.
“All right, Carmine, move in. Put a smear on Romeo. One chance, my man. Do not mess up. Tag him.”
“Tagging” referred to the act of depositing a trace of tritium on a subject’s person. Though invisible to the naked eye, the mildly radioactive substance could be tracked by a sensitive Geiger counter at distances up to five hundred yards.
Santini closed in on Taleel. As he passed, he nudged him ever so slightly, a shoulder glancing against the back, nothing more. Taleel never felt the applicator brush his trousers. Bingo, thought Chapel, you’re ours.
From the Place Vendôme, Taleel walked up the Rue de la Paix, turning left on Rue Daunou and passing Harry’s Bar, one of Ernest Hemingway’s favorite haunts when he’d lived in Paris in the 1920s. Keck followed at twenty yards, with Leclerc shadowing him ten yards farther back on the opposite side of the street.
By the time they reached the Madeleine, the sidewalks pulsed with a vibrant, swarming humanity. Chapel decided that blue blazers and tan slacks were a kind of French national uniform. From his position in the passenger seat of the postal van, he counted seven men wearing a similar outfit crossing the intersection at the Boulevard des Capucines. A small metallic box similar to a Magellan GPS rested on his lap. The backlit display showed a map of Paris. The blinking red dot above the Madeleine Métro station represented Mohammed al-Taleel.
“He’s hitting the Métro,” said Santos Babtiste. “Merde.”
“Ligne douze. Mairie d’Issy,” said Leclerc, already underground.
“Keck, pull back,” Chapel ordered. “Leclerc, it’s your turn to play shadow.”
“D’acc,” replied the Frenchman.
“I’m going in,” said Chapel, flinging the tracking device onto the seat.
Crossing the street, he hit the stairs to the Métro at a run. The underground was crowded and hot. White tiled tunnels led in four directions. It was a labyrinthine steam bath. The sign for Ligne 12 pointed to the right. Not stopping to buy a ticket, he jumped the turnstiles and dashed down the corridor toward the platform. At least, he’d picked up one worthwhile skill growing up in Brooklyn. Hustling down another flight of stairs, he rounded a corner to find the platform deserted and the door to the train closing.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, even as he rushed toward the train. As if by a miracle, the doors wheezed open and he slid into the car. At the next doorway, Leclerc retrieved a foot from the entry. Taleel sat ten feet away, paying the briefcase between his legs no concern.
A pro, thought Chapel, as he took a spot toward the rear that positioned Taleel in his line of sight.
Concorde. Assemblée Nationale. Solférino.
The stations passed in turn. Chapel swayed with the train’s rhythmic swagger. Don’t look at him, he repeated over and over, reciting the lines from his training manual. Live
Similar Books
