“The flash drive,” Norse said again. “Where is it?”
Malone rose, arms hugging his stomach. Devene drew back to swing again, but Malone jammed his knee into the man’s groin, then smacked Devene’s jaw with his right fist.
He may have been retired and jet-lagged, but he wasn’t helpless.
He whirled in time to see Norse aim the gun his way. The retort from a single shot came the instant after Malone lunged for the pavement, the bullet finding the hedges behind him. He stared up into the Mercedes’ passenger compartment and saw Norse through the half-open doors. He sprang to his feet, pivoted off the hood, and propelled his legs through the car’s interior into the far-side door.
The panel flew out and smashed into Norse, sending the phony inspector reeling backward into the mews.
He shoved himself through the open door.
Ian was running from the courtyard, toward the street.
Malone’s gaze met Gary’s. “Go with him. Get out of here.”
He was tackled from behind.
His forehead slapped wet stone. Pain shuddered through him. He’d thought Devene out of commission.
A mistake.
An arm wrapped around his throat and he tried to release the stranglehold grip. His prone position gave him little room to maneuver and Devene was hinging his spine at an unnatural angle.
The buildings around him winked in and out.
Blood trickled down his forehead and into his eye.
The last thing he saw before blackness enveloped him was Ian and Gary, disappearing around a corner.
Two
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
7:45 PM
BLAKE ANTRIM WAS NOT A FAN OF COCKY WOMEN. HE ENDURED them, as the Central Intelligence Agency was loaded with wiseass females. But that did not mean he had to tolerate them once off the clock. If a team leader, responsible for nine agents scattered across England and Europe, could ever truly be on his own time.
Denise Gérard was both Flemish and French, a combination that had produced a tall, svelte package with exquisite dark hair. She had a face that begged for attention, and a body that you wanted to embrace. They’d met inside the Musée de la Ville de Bruxelles, where they’d discovered a mutual love of old maps, architectural relics, and paintings. Since then they’d spent a lot of time together, making a few trips outside Brussels, one to Paris that had proven quite memorable.
She was excitable, discreet, and devoid of inhibition.
Ideal.
But not anymore.
“What have I done?” she asked, her voice soft. “Why end it now?”
No sadness or shock laced her plea. The words were spoken matter-of-factly, her way of shifting a decision she’d already made onto him.
Which irritated him even more.
She wore a striking silk skirt with a short hem that accentuated both her firm breasts and her long legs. He’d always admired her flat belly and wondered if it was from exercise or a surgeon’s touch. He’d never noticed any scars, her caramel-colored flesh smooth as porcelain.
And her smell.
Sweet lemons mixed with rosemary.
She was something in the perfume industry. She’d explained her job one afternoon over coffee near the Grand Place, but he hadn’t been listening, that day consumed with an operation gone wrong in western Germany.
Which seemed his lot of late.
One failure after another.
His title was coordinator of special counter-operations, European Theater. Sounded like he was part of a war—which, in a sense, he was. That undeclared one on terrorism. But he shouldn’t mock it. Threats definitely existed, and came from the oddest places. Of late, they seemed to originate more from America’s allies than its enemies.
Hence, the purpose of his unit.
Special counter-operations.
“Blake, tell me how I can make it better. I’d like to keep seeing you.”
But she didn’t mean it, and he knew it.
She was playing with him.
They sat in her apartment, an expensive, turn-of-the-century flat that overlooked the Parc de Bruxelles, a formal patch of greenery flanked by the Palais Royal and the Palais de la Nation. Past the open third-floor terrace doors he saw the trademark classical statues, framed by trees with meticulously trellised branches. The throngs of office workers, joggers, and families that normally filled the park were gone for the day. He figured her rent had to be several thousand euros a month. Nothing he could afford on his government salary. But most of the women he connected with made more than him, anyway. He seemed drawn to the professional type.
And cheaters.
Like Denise.
“I was out and about yesterday,” he said. “Near the Grand Place. I heard the Manneken Pis was dressed as an organ grinder.”
The famous statue was located not far from town hall, a two-foot-high, bronze sculpture depicting a naked boy peeing into the fountain basin. It had stood since 1618 and had become a national landmark. Several times a week the bronze boy was dressed in a costume, each one unique. Blake had been nearby to meet a contact and have a quick chat.
And saw Denise.
With another man.
Her arm in his, enjoying the cool midday air, the two stopping to admire the spectacle and share a few kisses. She seemed utterly at ease, just as she always was with him. He’d wondered then, and still did now, how many men she kept around.
“In French we call him le petit Julien,” she said. “I have seen him dressed many ways, but not as an organ man. Was it delightful?”
He’d offered her a chance to tell the truth, but dishonesty was another common denominator of the women that attracted him.
One last chance.
“You missed that yesterday?” he asked, a trace of incredulity in his voice.
“I was working out of the city. Perhaps they will dress him again like that.”
He stood to leave.
She rose from her chair. “Perhaps you could stay for a while longer?”
He knew what she meant. Her bedroom door was open.
But not today.
He allowed her to drift close.