Kill Shot

Chapter 47
FAURNIER had arranged a private room at Les Enfants Terribles. He knew the manager well and could trust him for discretion. Fournier's morning had been horrible. He'd been forced to defend himself to virtually every bureaucrat and politician all the way up and down the line. The director general of the National Police wanted his head, and the feminists wanted his balls, and all he wanted was for this nonsense to go away. What were one woman's feelings when he was wrestling with the national security of the Republic?

Fortunately, Cooke had no idea about the morning's press conference. He stepped off the private jet with a bounce in his step, looking forward to concluding their business arrangement. Fournier liked Cooke for the simple reason that he was a mirror image of himself. He was intelligent and pragmatic. He never got caught up in the emotional component of things, which was the kiss of death in their business. There was no place for compassion or feelings. It was a brutal business and only the best and the brightest could survive.

It was partly why he had such respect for Stansfield and Hurley. They had been such a good team over the years. Stansfield's brains and Hurley's heartless, crush-the-enemy-at-any-cost attitude had been a very potent combination. But they were both getting old, and the fact that they'd let someone like Cooke slip under their radar was proof that it was time for them to go. Fournier worried about that. Would he know when to go himself? He had spent a lot of time thinking about it and planning for it. That's why he had all of his money neatly stashed away. When the time came he would simply vanish if he had to.

"So what can you tell me about these people?" Cooke asked.

Fournier took a sip of wine and said, "They pay handsomely for information. That's the most important thing."

"Have they ever threatened you?"

Fournier smiled. "They have a few uncivilized types, but Max keeps them in line. You'll like Max. He's a good man. He's not one of these radicals who's always threatening to blow things up."

Cooke laughed. "Well, as long as Max can keep them in line, this should go well."

Fournier looked at his watch, drained his wine, and said, "We should go. I like to keep them waiting, but not too long."

"What time were we supposed to meet with them?"

"One."

Cooke checked his own watch and frowned. It was 1:38. Both men stood. Fournier pulled back the curtain of their private room and made for the front door. Several patrons tried to get Fournier's attention and many more were staring and whispering. Fournier ignored them all. When they reached the front door, Fournier's security officer and Mermet were waiting. Mermet looked to be on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Fournier pulled him aside and asked, "More bad news?"

"Yes. The president's office called. They want to see the file."

Fournier inhaled through his nose. "That bitch has really caused me some trouble." He fished out a cigarette and said, "Tell them I am tied up debriefing a high-level intelligence asset and that we will get them the file tonight."

Mermet nodded and they started across the street. Fournier offered Cooke a cigarette but he declined, telling his friend that he still rowed and it wasn't good for his lungs. Fournier pretended not to hear a word he said.

The Hotel Balzac was directly across the street. They continued up the carpeted steps and stopped under the circular portico. Fournier turned to Mermet and said, "Wait down here. This should take thirty minutes or so." The truth was that Fournier didn't want too many eyes and ears around what was about to happen. A sizable amount of cash was going to change hands, and depending on how the meeting went, Fournier might be tempted to get into his car and drive straight for Switzerland when it was over.

He and Cooke proceeded across the lobby to the elevator bank. There were more stares and one person who tried to approach him, but Fournier kept his eyes front and center and pushed through. Fortunately, the middle elevator was available. He pressed the top button and in less than a minute they were on the top floor of the six-floor hotel. At the far end of the hall Max's bodyguard was standing post outside the hotel's nicest suite.

"Hello, Omar," Fournier called out. "Sorry we're late."

Omar didn't smile. He stepped forward and in very choppy French said, "Open your jackets."

"Must we always do this, Omar? This is my country, after all."

"Rules," was all he said.

After he was done making sure they weren't carrying guns, Omar pulled out a key and opened the door. Fournier entered first, with Cooke just a step back. They moved into the large main room, where Max was casually reclined on one of the three sofas.

"Max," Fournier said enthusiastically. "Good to see you."

"Yes," Max said with a wink and a nod toward the TV. "I see you have had a very rough day."

Fournier dismissed the comment with a scoff. "In this business, Max, I have weathered far worse."

"Yes, I'm sure you have." Max turned to Cooke and extended his hand. "I have been looking forward to meeting you for some time."

"And me as well," Cooke replied.

"Please sit. Is there anything I can get either of you?"

"No, thank you," Fournier answered for both of them. "We just finished lunch and we're on kind of a tight schedule." He sat on one of the big sofas and Cooke sat down next to him.

"I see." Max took the insult in stride and sat across from them. "So you would like to get down to business."

"That would be great. As you know, thanks to your friend Samir over there, I have some other problems I'm trying to deal with."

Cooke hadn't noticed the man with the bandage on his face until now. He smiled at him but received no warmth in return.

Fournier asked, "Where is Rafique?"

"You'll be pleased to know he is getting the plane ready. As soon as we are done with our business we will be departing the country."

"I am very happy to hear that. Thank you."

"So," Max said, looking at Cooke, "you have something for me."

"Yes, I do, but I would like to see the money first."

"Of course." Max looked over his shoulder. "Samir, bring the money."

"I assume mine will be wired as per my usual instructions," Fournier said.

"Of course. My personal secretary will handle everything as soon as I make the call."

"Good."

Samir came back with a large briefcase and set it on the table between the two sofas. He popped the clasps and showed Cooke the money.

"One million dollars, and another million in a Swiss bank account," Max said. "Now I need the information you promised."

Cooke smiled and retrieved a folded envelope from his jacket pocket. "His name is Mitch Rapp. I have a photo in there. Known addresses. He has a mother who is terminally ill, but he has a brother who could be used as leverage."