Dead Run (7 page)

“True.”

“Yeah, so anyway, your boss wants me to check in.”

Will’s grin was tentative. “Sort of like old times.”

Taylor dredged up an answering smile. “Sort of.”

The awkwardness was fading as they slipped back into their familiar working roles. The moment to apologize was also passing, but on the whole Taylor thought it might be best to let it go, to just pretend the last five minutes had never happened. He’d been in the wrong. Will hadn’t deserved that treatment. Never again. Taylor made a vow to himself. Never again would he treat Will like that. From now on his insecurities were his own problem. His alone.

He said, “You want the shower first and I’ll go grab coffee and croissants next door?”

“You go ahead,” Will replied. “I’ve got breakfast under control.”

Taylor nodded and headed for the stairs.

* * *

The American Embassy was located at 2 avenue Gabriel, centrally positioned between the Champs-Élysées and Chatelet, a major station of the Paris Métro, on the city’s right bank. They drove, but Will was right. The embassy was close enough to Chatelet that they could have walked.

From the outside, the embassy looked like any other official building in Paris. An elegant four stories of creamy stone and black wrought iron bars over bulletproof windows.

Inside the chancery, it looked like every other American embassy Taylor had been in—maybe with better art. Once they cleared the gates guarded by marines, they passed through a beautiful entryway with a grand staircase of marble leading to the formal reception area which then led into the nicely appointed ambassador’s office. Will and Taylor did not go to the ambassador’s office, however.

They continued up through standard-issue embassy office-building-bland decor. The carpets were crimson, the walls off-white beige. Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and other Founding Fathers looked benignly down on them from their gilt frames on various landings.

Paris was America’s first diplomatic mission, and her first envoys had included Franklin, Jefferson, John Adams, and James Madison. No question that as DSS postings went, Paris was a very cool gig and Will had been lucky to get it. Taylor was proud of him. Not so crazy about the transatlantic commute, but yeah, he was proud of Will and had been since Will had been offered the posting. And if he hadn’t made that clear, he needed to do that.

They went into the DSS office, and laconic
Mornings
were exchanged.

It was easy to see that Will was right at home here, liked and respected by his colleagues. Taylor would have expected nothing less. It was still a little tough realizing exactly how well Will fit in. Initially after Will’s promotion they had kidded themselves that they might eventually work together again, but deep down they’d both known the chances of that were slim to none.

Anyway they had more important things to worry about now. Terrorism, even when not specifically directed at US citizens, was the number one priority of the Regional Security Office. Will made brief introductions while everyone waited for their boss, RSO Stone, to get out of her meeting with the ambassador. They drank office coffee, every bit as bad in Paris as it was anywhere else, and Taylor answered questions about budget restrictions and cutbacks in the States.

The Diplomatic Service staff comprised five diplomatic security special agents, an Engineering Services Office, the Marine Security Guard Detachment, Local Guard Force, the Pass and Identification Section, and the Foreign Service National Investigations Section. It was a pretty good-sized department. They’d had about a quarter that size staff in Haiti.

Forty-five minutes later, Will’s Regional Security Officer arrived. She was around forty, cool, and pretty as any Hitchcock blonde, with a surprisingly deep voice.

“Welcome aboard, MacAllister. Sorry to disrupt your vacation plans.” Alice Stone had a firm handshake and a quirky smile.

“Happy to help however I can, ma’am. But how is a bomb threat at the Eiffel Tower DSS jurisdiction?”

“Good question.” She accepted a cup of the awful coffee with a nod. “Thanks, Arthur. Helloco came in on a US plane despite the fact that we—you, to be precise, Agent MacAllister—identified him. We could have intercepted him but failed to do so. Surely I don’t need to spell out how embarrassing that is for all of us?” She looked at her team. There was a general clearing of throats and tugging on collars, although no one in that room was responsible.

Will said, “Then Helloco has been positively ID’d as the bomber?”

Stone gave her quirky smile. “As a matter of fact, no. As a matter of fact, no bomb has been found yet, although the tower is still being searched by police. However, the French paper
Ouest-France
received a communiqué claiming to be from Finistère, and we are all in agreement that Helloco’s attempted boarding of a Paris-bound flight in Los Angeles is too much of a coincidence to be overlooked.”

Stone didn’t spell out who
we
were. The Ambassador? The French authorities? The American president? Or her little team of five—now six—special agents?

The most junior member of the team, a buff, blond boy named Arthur, said, “Ma’am, I’m still not following—”

“Our primary mission,” Stone cut across, “is to protect our citizens abroad. Finistère is the violently militant wing of the FLB. They are also anti-American, which gives us a vested interest. It’s peak tourist season in the City of Lights, gentlemen. American citizens are everywhere you look. Which means they are everywhere Finistère looks.”

“What’s our protocol?” Taylor asked. Will shot him an approving look.

“To start with, we’re going to do what should have been done in Los Angeles and get a positive ID on Helloco. Brandt, when we’re done here, get MacAllister kitted out, then head over to Prefecture of Police. They can’t wait to show him their pretty picture books.”

Will nodded.

“MacAllister, I’ve spoken to your AFOD, and you’re on temporary duty with us till further notice. You’ll be comped your lost vacation time.”

Taylor nodded.

“Okay. LAPD has provided us with the intel on Yannick Hinault, who may or may not be Yann Helloco. Hinault is sixty-seven and currently lives in Burbank. According to his paperwork, he’s a French national born in Alsace who immigrated to the States—legally—in December of ’72. He married an American citizen, Angelina Duff. She passed away in April of this year. No children, no known next of kin.”

“That timeline works for our boy,” Taylor said. “If Hinault is Helloco—”

“Exactly.
If
. The only visual ID that LAPD was able to provide was driver license and passport photos.” Stone handed off a stack of papers. As the stack circled around to him, Taylor took one and studied the enlarged copy of a driver license photo.

He reluctantly shook his head. “I don’t think this is the same guy.” He looked at the enlargement of the passport photo. “They look a lot alike but…no.”

Stone’s blue eyes considered him. “Noted.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“Hinault’s fingerprints don’t match Helloco’s.”

Taylor nodded. He felt Will’s gaze. Their eyes met. Maybe he
had
got it wrong. Maybe the return of Finistère
was
a coincidence. Weirder things had happened.

Stone continued, “According to Hinault’s records, he worked as a gardener until 1999. No brushes with the law, not even a parking ticket. Interestingly, this would have been his first trip home to France in forty-two years.”

“What would bring him home now?” Will asked.

“That’s the question on everyone’s mind.” Stone placed her hands on her trim hips. “That, and whether Hinault is, in fact, Helloco.” She shrugged. “LAPD is working to get a search warrant for Hinault’s home. Once they’ve got access, we should know more.”

“Can’t
we
execute a warrant?” Will asked. “He’s a terror suspect.”

“Not yet he’s not. The only thing we know for sure that Yannick Hinault is guilty of is looking like a lot of elderly Frenchmen—and missing his flight. So far neither of those things is a crime.”

One of the older agents said, “It’s not a lot to go on.”

“No, it’s not, but if our job was easy, they’d let the FBI do it. Anyway, that’s the extent of information we have on Hinault. By all accounts he was a quiet man who kept to himself and was liked by his neighbors—and as suspicious as that sounds, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Brandt, you and MacAllister get over to our friends at
police nationale
and see if we can match Helloco to MacAllister’s airport ID. The rest of you listen up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Will jerked his head, and Taylor followed him out of the office and downstairs to the armory vault.

“How’d you land Firearms Officer?”

Will merely grinned.

Taylor shook his head in resignation as Will opened the vault. “Does Stone know she’s got the kid in charge of the candy store?”

“No, and don’t tell her.” Will led the way inside the vault lined with everything from shotguns to a grenade launcher.

“Chocolate or vanilla?” He held up a Colt SMG submachine gun.

“Do you have something black in a size nine?”

Will said in an oily French accent, “I know just zee thing for madame.” He selected a SIG Sauer P229R DAK and handed it over. “What do you think? It’s got a lighter, smoother pull than you’re used to.”

Taylor assumed a firing stance, squinting through the rear sight, focusing on the front sight post. He nodded. “Yeah. She’ll do.”

Will handed over a magazine. Taylor slapped the magazine into the grip and pulled the slide.

“Here.”

Taylor glanced up. Will held up a shoulder holster like a tailor offering a beautifully cut sports jacket. Taylor snorted but stepped forward and let Will slip the leather straps over his shoulder. Taylor slid the pistol into the sheath and put the second magazine Will passed to him into the carrier. He let his arms hang at his side.

“How’s that?” Will handed over another magazine.

Taylor slid the third magazine in for balance and adjusted the front straps. Will adjusted the rear. Taylor practiced reaching for the butt of his pistol. “Yeah. That’s good.”

Will slid his arms around Taylor, pulling him close for an instant. “How’s this?”

Taylor’s smile was twisted. He tipped his head back, trying to see Will’s face. Will craned his head, and their mouths met in a quick, hard kiss. “Good,” Taylor said gruffly.

* * *

Paris police headquarters was located in the heart of the city in a huge old nineteenth-century building. Inside the building was a network of information and command rooms coordinating the different divisions of the national police, including public order, traffic, general security, public transport safety, and regional coordination, and management of calls on the police’s
17
emergency line.

Were they not now technically on the job, Taylor would have requested that Will exert his legendary charm to get Taylor a courtesy tour of the place. But they were on the job—as was everyone else in the old building, threats against
Tour Eiffel
being viewed with the utmost seriousness.

Will’s police contact, Inspector Suzanne Bonnet, was trim, dark-haired, and all business. She probably had to be, given that cute little snub nose and the surplus of freckles. After the exchange of pleasantries, Taylor once again ran through the story of how he happened to spot a legendary and supposedly dead French terrorist from the seventies in a busy Los Angeles airport.

He was promptly provided with books of mug shots and more bad coffee. Will and Bonnet chatted while Taylor scanned the pages quickly. Pages and pages and pages of people at what was often the darkest hour of their lives.

Nobody looked good in a mug shot.

The general public was uneasy with the concept of racial profiling—Taylor wasn’t crazy about it himself—but there was no question that people ran to ethnic types. There was a lot of character in these faces, a lot of high cheekbones and aquiline profiles, dark eyes, and olive complexions. Not so many round and heavy faces as in the States.

Bonnet was saying to Will, “Do you think you and your partner will work together again after this post in Paris?”

“I hope so.” Will probably said it for Taylor’s benefit. He sounded grim.

Taylor inwardly shook his head. Even Will, a master of self-deception when he needed to be, had to know they weren’t going to be teamed again.

But if it made him feel better about everything to think it was a possibility, okay.

One of the faces Taylor was contemplating finally registered. A long, lean face staring cynically from the pages of all the other glowering or despairing faces.

“Here’s our guy.”

Bonnet rose from behind her desk and came to study the page and photo Taylor indicated. She gave him what she probably hoped was a steely look. “You are sure, monsieur?”

Taylor assented.

“You have a very good eye. This photo was taken over thirty years ago.”

“It’s him.”

“It is Yann Helloco, yes.” Bonnet turned to Will as he joined them. “Unfortunately it does not prove a great deal.”

“How do you figure that?” Will asked.

“If we had a photo of Helloco as he would be today, that would indicate…something, perhaps, but we have only these historical photos. And it is from the historical photos that your friend made the identification, yes? In fact, he may have seen this very photo.”

Taylor shook his head. “No.”

“Even so.”

“Even so
what
?” Will demanded.

“She’s right,” Taylor said. “My identifying a mug shot of Helloco doesn’t prove that the guy I saw in LAX was the guy in this photo.”

“If it helps at all,” Bonnet said, “I believe that the man you saw
was
Yann Helloco.”

“Thanks.”

Will said, “So where do we go from here?”

Bonnet shrugged, a graceful and distinctly French gesture. “We will cast our nets and see what we catch. If Helloco is in this country, he will most likely attempt to contact his old compatriots.”