Kill Shot

Chapter 29
THERE were days when his job truly sucked, but this was not one of them. Tonight Stan Hurley was a happy man. He had over ten grand in his pocket and a beautiful, classy woman at his side, who he happened to have fantastic intimate memories with. The food was off the charts and the sommelier had come through with two phenomenal bottles of Bordeaux. She'd aged a bit, but so had he, and on her it looked good. Her raven black hair was shorter now, just below her ears, and she'd added a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but in a strange way it made her even sexier. That a woman could age so gracefully was something that turned Hurley on. Whether it was due to genetics or some daily regimen, he didn't care. The end result was all that interested him, and the end result was a gorgeous forty-four-year-old woman who had never tried to place any constraints on him. There were never any games with this one. No matter how long it had been since they had seen each other, they always picked up where they'd left off. Which was dinner, lots of laughs, and great sex.

Paulette was a refined metropolitan woman who oozed confidence. She was nearly ten years younger than the rough-and-tumble Hurley, but she had a wisdom about her that Hurley had found extremely unusual for a reporter. She had pegged Hurley for a spook from almost the moment they'd met in Moscow nearly twenty years earlier. Paulette LeFevre had been a reporter back then and was stationed in Moscow, where Hurley was running around doing all kinds of bad things for the CIA. Now she had risen to the position of chief editor of Le Monde, the left-leaning French newspaper. While it was easy to classify the political bent of the newspaper, LeFevre was more complex. She was too independent to march in step with any political party and she had a contrarian streak in her that, depending on her mood, made her either predictable or unpredictable. She had been raised an only child by two devout communists who had thoroughly indoctrinated her into the utopian ways of the Soviet form of governance. She was raised in a commune an hour outside of Lyon where she had grown up speaking both French and Russian. Her parents had taken her on multiple trips behind the Iron Curtain, and she had watched them lie to themselves and their friends about how much better life was under the benign, velvet glove of the Politburo. When she was eleven they were having a picnic in Gorky Park in Moscow with several families from the commune who were all extolling the virtues of centralized planning and shared sacrifice when Paulette's mother announced that she needed to use the bathroom. She then asked one of their companions for the communal roll of toilet paper. The future reporter looked up at her mother and said, "If communism is so great, then why do we have to bring our own toilet paper everywhere we go?" It was one of Hurley's favorite stories. He'd spent drunken weekends arguing with entrenched communists and gotten nowhere, but somehow an eleven-year-old girl had managed to break the debate down to the most basic level. How could one form of government be superior to another when it couldn't even keep its public restrooms supplied with toilet paper?

Hurley smiled at her and thought back to their first meeting. It was at a party in Moscow hosted by the French Embassy. LeFevre, with shoulder-length shiny black hair, was dressed in a pair of form-fitting black pants, a white blouse, and a pair of black leather riding boots. From Hurley's vantage she looked to have the nicest ass he'd ever laid eyes on. She was an intoxicating combination of simple and stunning at the same time. Hurley couldn't resist her pull and began to make his way across the crowded room. Within an hour he had talked her into leaving the party. Unlike most foreigners, Hurley knew the local hot spots. One of the secrets of his success was that he understood the inherent economic need for a black market economy in the one-size-fits-all Eastern Bloc. Hurley specialized in getting to know the people who ran these underground markets. He'd done so in Budapest, Prague, and then Moscow. It was a world where American cash was king and the profit margins were enormous. Hurley helped these individuals set up new lines of distribution for goods, especially American ones, that were in high demand but extremely hard to come by. His wares ran the gamut from jeans, to music, to pharmaceuticals, to booze, to cars, and everything in between. The CIA was hesitant at first, but when Hurley explained that the venture would generate a profit and also enable them to find out which Communist Party officials were on the take, the powers that be back in Langley, Virginia, got out of his way.

LeFevre was amazed at the clubs he took her to. She did not think such places existed outside of Paris or New York - never in Moscow. After consuming large amounts of vodka they ended up back at Hurley's apartment. Neither was very inhibited where sex was concerned, so they were naked within minutes. The next morning the reporter in LeFevre kicked in, and she began to ask a lot of questions. Hurley didn't think his apartment was bugged, he knew it was bugged, and the people who bugged it knew that he knew. That was the way the game was played. After a few hand gestures he got her to understand that it wasn't safe to talk in the apartment, so they went for a walk, and it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship that to Hurley's great surprise ended up being about much more than just sex.

LeFevre was an intellectual dynamo with a tireless thirst for the truth and a mind that could quickly dissect the incongruities in an argument, movement, or philosophy. He remembered her saying on that walk, "If communism is so wonderful, then why must they force people to participate? If it is so wonderful, why do they control the press? Why do they have to spy on their own people?"

Hurley would have asked her to marry him right there on the spot, but he was already twice divorced and had come to the conclusion that marriage was not an institution he should participate in. His life was full of too many lies, too many late-night phone calls, too many sudden business trips where a long weekend turned into months away from his family, and worst of all too much death. LeFevre had somehow managed to make it work. She'd been married for eleven years and seemed to be happy, which sometimes irritated the heck out of Hurley.

He snagged a fresh cigarette and asked, "So how is your husband?"

Without bothering to look, LeFevre smacked him in the shoulder. "The last time I saw you, you promised you would put your jealous ways to bed."

"I said I wanted to take you to bed. I never said anything about putting my jealous ways to bed."

"You always want to take me to bed, so that is nothing new. As for my husband, he is fine."

"And he's home tonight . . . ?"

LeFevre folded her arms across her chest and leaned back. "Where he is, is none of your concern. I have told you before. We have an open relationship. He has his mistresses and I have you. As long as we are discreet there is not a problem."

Hurley did his best to look wounded, and she laughed him off. "Are there any other men that I need to know about?"

"I have lost track, there have been so many, but you are definitely in the top five."

Hurley felt his cell phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He snatched it out and looked at the caller ID. It came up as private. There was a good chance it was Stansfield. Hurley closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. He didn't need HQ ruining a promising evening. Looking back at LeFevre, he said, "I'm sorry, where were we?"

"You were about to tell me about all the women you have been sleeping with."

Hurley laughed. "There's only you, baby."

"I am not so na?ve. I know you too well. You are a very thirsty man. It would be impossible for you to be so saintly in between our rendezvous."

Hurley was about to reply when the phone began to vibrate again. He checked the small screen and again it came up as private. He grunted disapprovingly and silenced it again. These new phones would be the end of him. Hurley detested the notion of his bosses' being able to get hold of him whenever they wanted. He was used to going days, weeks, and sometimes even months without checking in with them. These phones were nothing more than a leash, and he had known it the first time they gave him one. He closed the phone, stuffed it back in his pocket, and forced a smile on his face. "I'm sorry, darling. I hate these things."

"You are a man of international intrigue," she said with a thin smile. "I would imagine the call might be important."

"Not as important as you." He reached out and grabbed her hand. "Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow." The phone began to vibrate for a third time. The smile melted off Hurley's face and his chin dropped in frustration.

"I don't want to see you this way," Paulette said. "Take your call. Get it out of the way. I will go to the washroom and when I get back you will be relaxed again."

Hurley nodded, knowing she was right. If the phone kept ringing he might kill someone. "Thank you." He pulled the phone out of his pocket and watched her slide out of the booth. Flipping it open, he pressed the green Send button and said, "This had better be good."

The metallic voice on the other end said, "Don't be a prima donna. I didn't send you over there to ignore my calls."

It was Stansfield. "And I've done just fine all these years without you snapping my leash every time the wind blows." Hurley listened to silence for a long five seconds. He hated these damn phones. The call had probably dropped. He was about to hang up when he heard an uncharacteristically angry Stansfield begin to speak.

"Things have changed," the old warrior snapped. "I'm on my way over in the morning. I want you to pull Victor and the boys immediately . . . stick them in a hotel and tell them I don't want them to move unless I say so. Have I made myself clear?"

"What the f*ck are you talking about? I've got things under control. I don't need any help."

"And I don't need you second-guessing me. There are things you don't know. I will explain in the morning."

"But . . ."

"But nothing," Stansfield said. "Consider it an order to be followed precisely, as you should have done back in Beirut all those years ago. If there are any decisions that countermand my order between now and tomorrow morning you are done. Am I understood?"

Hurley looked around the restaurant. Covering the phone and his mouth with his free hand, he asked Stansfield, "Why don't you just tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Don't be stupid. We'll talk in person. Now carry out my order and give my best to Paulette."

"How did . . ." The line went dead and Hurley pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the screen. How in hell did Stansfield know he was with Paulette? He stared at the phone for a long moment. Every instinct he had was telling him not to make the next call. Rapp was no good. He had broken every rule in their dirty little book and if he wouldn't come in on his own, he needed to be dragged in. But Hurley had rarely if ever heard Stansfield more adamant. The individualist in him wanted to ignore his boss's order and leave the men right where they were for another twelve hours, but Stansfield had made his intentions clear. After another moment of indecision, Hurley said, "Screw it." He pressed the number 2 and held it down until the phone started to dial the number.

"Hello."

"You've been yanked. Head back to the hotel and sit tight until I give you further orders."

"What the f*ck are you talking about?"

"Listen, dickhead. You think this is a debate club? If I wanted any shit out of you I'd come down there and squeeze your head. Pack everything up and get your ass back to the hotel, and do it now. Get some sleep, and I'll call you in the morning."

"But . . ."

"But nothing. Do what you're told. End of discussion." Hurley stabbed the red End button, flipped the phone shut, and dropped the small black device on the table. After two big gulps of wine he called the waiter over and told him he wanted a bourbon on the rocks. Why in hell would Stansfield be flying over here? he asked himself. He'd bring way too much heat. He was the damn deputy director, for Christ's sake. This doesn't make any f*cking sense. The bourbon arrived before Paulette and Hurley took a big gulp. He was trying to sort through the different possibilities so he could put this thing out of his mind and focus on Paulette for the rest of the evening when a man approached the table. Hurley looked up, assuming he worked for the restaurant. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and was dressed in an expensive suit. As was his habit, Hurley sized up the fit of the man's jacket for any bulges that might mean a concealed gun.

"Stan. It's been a long time." The man spoke in English with a French accent.

Hurley studied the face of the vaguely familiar man. It must have been the mustache. He couldn't place him.

"I know," the man said with an easy smile. "It's been a long time and your reputation was far beyond mine back then."

"I've been to a lot of places over the years. You're going to have to do better than that."

Just then LeFevre returned from the washroom. "You two know each other? I should have guessed." She eased into the semicircular booth and inched her way around until she was nestled next to Hurley. She pointed to the other side of the booth and said, "By all means join us for a drink. I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on."

Hurley said, "I don't have the foggiest f*cking idea who this guy is."

"Oh," LeFevre said, surprised. "This is Paul Fournier. He runs the Special Action Division for the DGSE. The same spooky black bag stuff that you do. I would have thought you two would know each other."

Hurley instantly knew the name, and it helped the face fall into place. "Shit," he said to Fournier, "it sure as hell has been a long time. Vietnam more than twenty years ago. You were a virgin."

Fournier smiled. "We all have to start somewhere."

Hurley vividly remembered the brutal interrogation he'd conducted all those years ago. "You weren't squeamish like the rest of those pussies."

"That has never been a problem for me. The ends almost always justify the means."

Hurley held up his glass and gave him a salute.

"Sit," LeFevre commanded. After she flagged down a waiter, she asked for another glass and ordered another bottle of wine. "Paul," she said to Fournier, "I get the feeling that you have some things you'd like to discuss with my friend." She hooked her arm around Hurley's.

"Men like us can always find something useful to talk about."

"I'm sure that's true, but I know you well enough that I think it highly improbable that you just happened to wander into this particular restaurant tonight."

Fournier shrugged as if to say guilty as charged.

"I am very possessive of Stan. I do not get to see him often enough, so I am going to sit here and quietly listen to the two of you share state secrets. I give you both my word that none of what I hear will be published until I write my memoirs in thirty years. If you cannot abide by that, I suggest the two of you meet for breakfast tomorrow. Are we all in agreement?"

Fournier laughed. "Yes. We are in agreement. I would not want to ruin your evening. Although, Paulette, you do not have to go to America to find your lovers. There are plenty of men here in Paris who would jump at the chance to worship you. In fact I would place myself at the top of the list."

The congenial smile melted from Hurley's face. "Listen here, douche bag. I don't give a f*ck where you work. One more comment like that and I'll rip your tongue out of your mouth and shove it up your ass."

Paulette squeezed his leg under the table and said, "Darling, there is no reason to get angry. Paul is merely trying to pay you a compliment. Aren't you, Paul?"

Fournier did not answer. He remained locked in a staring contest with Hurley. He knew Hurley was capable of extreme violence, but then again this was not the jungles of Southeast Asia. This was Paris. It was his city. "As my friends will tell you, I am exceedingly polite. My enemies, though, will sing you a different song." Fournier tilted his head to the side and asked, "Are you my friend, Stan, or are you my enemy?"

Hurley didn't blink. "I stopped taking applications for friends years ago. I'm full up."

"Surely you have room for one more . . . or at least a professional acquaintance."

"That depends."

"On what?"

"If you're going to drop your little bullshit charade and get down to business, or keep blowing smoke up my ass."

Fournier smiled. "Fair enough."

The waiter arrived with a fresh glass and new bottle. He poured a taste for Fournier, and after it was approved, he poured more into the glass, set the bottle down, and retreated. Fournier took a drink and placed the glass on the white tablecloth, holding the stem between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Looking across the table at Hurley, he asked, "So what brings you to my beautiful city?"

"Just a little sightseeing, and Paulette, of course."

Fournier laughed. "You'll have to excuse me for being so blunt, but I think it is you who are blowing smoke up my ass."

Hurley smiled in return, but inside he was boiling. Stansfield had pulled the plug on Victor, he'd announced he was flying over in the morning, and now this suit from DGSE had shown up. Individually, none of it was good, taken together, it was a mess, and now he had to dick around with this a*shole for God only knew how long before he and Paulette could be alone. A night that had started out with such great promise appeared to be going to shit.