Authors: James Twining
The Double Eagle (23 page)
HÔTEL ST. MERRI, 4TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
8:01
P.M.
J
ennifer’s hair was wet and her shoulders still glistened with hundreds of dew-like water droplets as she slipped her panties on and fastened her black lace bra. Then she sat on the edge of the narrow bed and stepped into her black jeans, maneuvering them up her long legs, lying back and lifting her hips up in the air as they slipped around her waist.
She was still hot from the shower and stepped to the window to let some air in, only remembering at the last minute to hide from the street below behind the net curtains that alternately rose and fell in the slight breeze. Her silvery flip-top phone began to vibrate frantically on the dresser. She paused for a few seconds before answering it, knowing who it would be, wanting to make sure that she was fully composed and had all her facts in order. She knew that the conversation she was about to have might be a difficult one.
“Hello.”
“Browne? It’s Bob Corbett.” The clipped, rapid-fire intonation immediately confirmed her suspicions. Jennifer kept her own answers short and to the point, as she knew Corbett preferred them.
“Yes, sir.”
“How are you getting on? Tell me you’ve got some good news. Christ knows, I need some.” He sounded tired and anxious and she guessed that Piper and the others must have been giving him a hard time since Renwick’s murder and the loss of the coin.
“We’re making some progress.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “What have you got?”
“We went to see Van Simson as agreed. His coin’s still there. But we—I mean I,” she corrected herself quickly, knowing that Corbett was the sort of person to read all sorts of implications into that sort of slip of the tongue, “sensed that he knew more than he let on. He acted surprised, but maybe not surprised enough. I think he already knew about the coins.”
“Anything else?” He didn’t sound impressed, although then she knew he rarely did.
“We went to Ranieri’s apartment but it was a decoy. Kirk found his real apartment and a German newspaper, dated a few days after Ranieri’s murder, which had an article mentioning a robbery from Schiphol Airport.”
“Oh, yeah?” Corbett sounded more interested now.
“I got Max to look into it. Apparently a few weeks after this Schiphol robbery a German wound up dead in Amsterdam, stabbed in the chest just like Ranieri.”
“What’s the link?”
“When the Dutch police went to this guy’s apartment, they found some of the gear taken in the airport job.”
“I don’t follow.” She could sense a slight tension in his voice, as always when his patience ran low.
“His name was Carl Steiner and guess who bailed him out of jail a few days before he got killed.”
“Ranieri?”
“Exactly.”
“So what are you saying?”
“It’s just a theory, but what if whoever stole the coins from Fort Knox tried to smuggle the coins back to Europe by hiding them in a freight shipment? Then this German guy, Steiner, got lucky at the airport and one of the packages he stole had the coins in it. Steiner knew Ranieri and so came to Paris to ask him to fence one of the coins for him. Then when Ranieri got killed, Steiner went back to the Netherlands, leaving the newspaper we found behind. A few days later, he got killed, too.”
“And your conclusion is…?”
“That the same person killed both Ranieri and Steiner,” Jennifer said firmly. “That this person was probably someone they were trying to sell the coins to. And given the small universe of people who would actually be interested in the coins, it’s even possible that Ranieri and Steiner tried to sell them back to the same person who’d had them stolen in the first place.”
There was a pause until Corbett spoke again and although she felt confident about what she’d just said, the silence was still an uncomfortable one.
“It makes sense,” he said eventually, to her relief. “In any case, it will give me enough to keep Piper and Green happy and buy you a few days. But you need to get to Amsterdam. Soon.”
“I was planning to drive there tomorrow.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I’ll see what else I can dig up about the airport robbery and the murder and get it to you. That reminds me, by the way—we got Renwick’s phone records. He made two calls that night, both to cell phones.”
“And?”
“They were both taken out in dummy names. One in the U.K., one in the Netherlands.”
“The Netherlands? You think there’s a link to Steiner?”
“No way of knowing. The phones are dead now. Maybe he was calling round to try and generate a bit of interest himself.”
“Well, clearly one of the calls hit home. Problem is we don’t know which one or who it was to.” There was a pause. “What do you want to do about Kirk?” She tried to ask the question casually, not wanting him to think she was especially bothered.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did Secretary Young go for the deal or do we need to cut him loose?”
“Oh, that. Yes, I think we can live with that. As long as he keeps his side of the bargain and buries this whole Centaur thing.”
“Good.” Almost immediately she wished she had allowed herself at least a brief pause before answering to signal her indifference too Tom’s fate in case Corbett misinterpreted it as a sign that she was getting too close. He didn’t disappoint.
“Don’t get too friendly, Browne.”
“I won’t.”
She shook her head ruefully. She wasn’t losing perspective, of that she was sure. But there were certain things that didn’t add up and she wanted them explained.
“You need to watch out for Kirk,” Corbett continued.
“I know. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“I don’t think that Piper gave us the whole story about Kirk.”
“You mean he didn’t murder his handler?”
“No, he admits he did that. But he says that he was double-crossed. That the CIA tried to have him killed and that he only acted in self-defense.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course not,” Jennifer shot back. “At least not at first. The thing is the French secret service confirmed his story.”
“The what?” Real concern in Corbett’s voice now. Jennifer shook her head, annoyed with herself. This wasn’t coming out like she’d wanted it to.
“They caught up with us in Ranieri’s apartment. Followed us there from Van Simson’s, who apparently they’ve had under surveillance for months. They know Kirk. Told me that his story checked out. All of it.”
“The truth is, Browne, that we can’t be sure what happened back then. But even I would sooner take Piper’s word than the word of someone who has spent his whole life lying to people. At the end of the day he’s a crook, plain and simple.”
“I don’t deny he’s a thief. But what if he’s right? What if Piper trained him up and then cut him off? Wouldn’t that make us at least partly responsible for what he’s become? I’m not sure what choices we’d left him.”
“Okay, Browne, I take your point,” Corbett conceded. “Maybe there is more to this than Piper’s let on. But we can deal with that when this is over. Believe me, I’ll be the first one to stick it right up Piper’s ass if I find out he’s lied to us. But in the meantime, you just gotta drop it. Kirk is not your problem. Getting the coins back and whoever took them is.”
“I know that.”
“You gotta stay sharp and alert. Focused on the job at hand. If you’re not, I’ll pull you out right now. No questions asked.”
She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t joking. And she could see Corbett’s point. Raking this whole thing up wasn’t going to help her solve this case. And certainly the last thing she wanted was to be taken off it. Better just to tell Corbett what he wanted to hear and keep her thoughts to herself for now.
“No, I’m good. You can count on me to do whatever it takes to get a result. My only interest in Kirk is that I think he can help solve the case. Other than that, I don’t care.”
“You’re doing a great job, Browne. Keep it going.”
The line went dead.
A few moments later there was a faint knock at the door. She grabbed a thin black sweatshirt from the back of the chair and slipped it on.
“Come in.” She was still standing by the window, her phone in her hand, as Tom entered.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Sure.” She thought she might be imagining it, but she detected a slightly hostile tinge to his voice. “I’ve booked us a table at the place next door.”
“Great.” She turned her phone off and tossed it onto her bed. “Let’s go.”
RESTAURANT LE PAVÉ, 4TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
8:26
P.M.
T
he restaurant was old-fashioned and busy, smoke lazily rising from between gesticulating fingers, dented cutlery chiming against the dull glaze of white china. Their table was at the back of the room, a slab of cold marble on cast-iron legs, a chair on one side and a bench on the other, its red velvet covering worn and stained. Tom chose the bench, Jennifer took the chair.
A waiter appeared and handed them both menus before lighting the candle that had been jammed into an old wine bottle, its neck thickened by layer upon layer of melted wax. The wick sputtered into life, the flame teasing and dancing as it grew, until its pale glow soared and reflected off the mirrored ceiling back down on to them.
Jennifer looked up from the menu and glanced at the room around her.
“Great place.”
“You can tell it’s good because it’s full of locals.” Tom nodded at the tables around them. A young couple, wedding bands freshly minted. A solitary old woman, wire-wool hair drawn back into a chignon, cracked face caked in white foundation, feeding surreptitious scraps to the Shih Tzu lurking in the depths of her handbag. A middle-aged man, arm ostentatiously draped around the shoulders of his handsome young male lover, reveling in the jealous glances from the two single women at the neighboring table.
“Has it been here long?”
Tom’s head snapped back round to face her.
“Years. Since the 1930s, at least. The Germans used to come here all the time during the occupation and if nothing else, they were always good judges of restaurants. The rest of Europe at war and this place was making a fortune.”
The waiter reappeared and took their order. Green salads to start and then steak for Tom and lamb for Jennifer accompanied by a bottle of Burgundy. The wine appeared almost immediately and Tom tasted it before nodding his approval. Two glasses were poured and the bottle was deposited on the table between them. The salads arrived, big green leaves coated in a thick, mustardy vinaigrette. They ate in an awkward silence, Jennifer’s mind drifting over her conversation with Corbett until Tom spoke, his question coinciding with her own thoughts.
“So is our deal still on?”
Jennifer nodded as she swallowed her mouthful.
“You help us, we help you. The deal stays the same. And when this thing is over, you bury Centaur. Otherwise, they’ll come after you with everything they’ve got.”
“And you believe them?”
“Why shouldn’t I? They’re not interested in you anymore. They just want the coins.”
“What if they don’t get the coins back? What if they change their mind? I’ve got no guarantees, have I?”
“Look, I give you my word on this.” Her eyes met his as she said this and she saw the same suspicion there that she had seen when they had first met. A suspicion that had faded during the day, but now seemed to have returned stronger than ever.
“Your word?”
“If you knew me, you’d know it was worth having.”
The waiter swooped down, carrying off their empty plates with a flurry of his black apron. Jennifer helped herself to another glass of wine, the alcohol helping to soothe her frayed nerves.
“So why the Bureau?” Tom asked after a long silence.
Jennifer smiled, glad for the opportunity to discuss something different.
“It’s in the blood. My father, Uncle Ronnie, Grandpa George, they were all cops. I guess the Bureau was just a small step on from that.”
“And you enjoy it?”
“It’s like any job; there are good times and bad times. But I guess I get a kick from feeling that I’m making a difference.”
“And that’s important to you, is it? Making a difference.”
“Isn’t it to everyone? Otherwise, why bother?”
Tom nodded and again she got the sense he wasn’t actually that interested in her replies, that he was just making conversation. She guessed that he was probably finding their unlikely cooperation as hard as her to reconcile with a lifetime of prejudices.
“So what do you do when you’re not working?”
“Sleep, mainly.”
“Oh.” Tom’s mouth curled into a mocking smile. “Not seeing anyone, then?”
“No,” she shot back, immediately defensive.
“But there was someone?”
“Yes.”
“What happened.”
“He died.” As soon as she said this she wished she hadn’t. This was the one thing she’d buried deep, far away from her own penetrating gaze, let alone that of others.
“How?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She drained her glass and filled it up again, feeling a little light-headed now, the candle smoke irritating her eyes.
Their food arrived and they continued eating in silence, the restaurant quieter as a few of the tables emptied. Their plates were cleared away and Tom ordered an espresso, Jennifer preferring to finish the last of the wine. When the coffee came, Tom stirred it a few times, letting the creamy film on the surface melt into the black liquid beneath.
“So where are you from, Jennifer?”
She was relieved that he seemed to have moved on.
“Do you know Tarrytown? Westchester County?” Tom shook his head.
“New York State. It’s a nice place. Shaded streets, craft stores, shiny red fire engines, active Little League. Safe.”
“And your family?”
“Mom’s a hairdresser. Worked at the same salon all her life. Just retired this year. All she wants is for me to get married so she can have grandchildren.”
Tom smiled.
“Dad’s just the opposite. Very quiet but also real funny. I think he wanted a boy but he got two girls instead, so he just always made us do boy things.”
“Is that why you drive so fast?”
“It’s the only way I know.” She grinned. “Anyway, he left the force five years ago now. My sister Rachel’s just finished at Johns Hopkins. She wants to be a doctor.”
“You get on well with them all?”
“We have our moments, like everyone. But yeah, sure. I don’t see them as much as I should, though.”
There was a pause.
“They must be…very proud of you,” said Tom.
Perhaps it was the sudden sadness in Tom’s voice that hinted at his own loss, or the smoke from the candle, or even the sharp pain of Jennifer’s unspoken guilt. Whichever it was, she suddenly felt incredibly sad.
They were both silent as the waiters pirouetted around their table, suffocating the candles between their saliva-coated fingers with a sharp hiss.