CHAPTER 1
The grip of the SIG Sauer P226 pistol in his coat pocket reassuredCaleb Frost. He stepped off the Métro car as the doors swooshedopen. Heavier and taller at six foot four and 205 pounds than theaverage Parisian, he made his way easily through the crowd waiting toboard. Warm, body-odor-laced air from the packed Métro car collidedwith the cold, damp-clothing smell of the impatient, homeward-boundcrowd. Out of habit, Caleb slipped his hand more deeply intohis pocket, feeling for the security of the SIG Sauer's textured grip.
Women glanced at him, appreciative of his youthful appearance,his longish blond hair, and his open-faced honesty. Without question,women found him attractive. At thirty-two, he still looked as if hewere in his twenties. His look of innocence served him well in theworld in which he had to survive. The images resident deep within hispale-gray eyes told another story. They had witnessed and recordedscenes and events most people would not be able to assimilate andthen continue with their normal lives. His resilience to the onslaughtof life's ugly realities left him a tortured force within a deceptivelybenign exterior.
Caleb Frost was a professional—a professional assassin. He wason the payroll of the US government, and he was an expert in blackand very wet operations.
Pausing, he scanned the crowd exiting the cars and spilling ontothe platform behind him. He didn't expect to see anyone followinghim, but evasion lessons, drilled into him during long days of training,had become second nature. This was his sixth change of Métro linesover the past two hours.
When he was a child, his father had made a game out ofshadowing. If he could follow his father to the local ice-cream storewithout being seen, the prize was chocolate with sprinkles in a sugarcone. Sometimes, the roles were reversed. And sometimes, his motherplayed the game. By the time he was twelve, his techniques for bothevasion and shadowing were equal to his parents' skills. Or so theysaid. And, as he came to learn a couple of years later, they wereprofessionals.
He emerged from the depths of the Métro onto Boulevard SaintGermain in the Sixth Arrondissement. A freezing January rainpounded Caleb's leather coat. He strode past a café and inhaled theharsh odor of Gauloise and Gitanes cigarette smoke. It melded withthe more subtle smell of espresso and perhaps the fragrance of agrilled croque-monsieur sandwich dripping cheese. The windowsof the café and the small shops along the street were etched bycondensation, blurring his view of the people inside. Hand-clearedpeepholes wiped by comfortably seated patrons allowed them to lookoutside. The blurry apertures permitted him to see threads of steamfloating from wet shoulders and heads. Customers fondled theirsmall cups of espresso. He envied the lucky souls who had escapedthe biting wind and angled spears of rain stabbing the city; theygathered the café's cloaking warmth around them. In Paris, the coldclimbed inside bodies, chilling them to the core; it slicked the skinwith moisture, dampening clothes and souls.
A maze of small streets and passages leading toward the Seinebranched off Rue Bonaparte. He followed them until he arrived onBoulevard Dauphine, at the end of which he could see the Pont Neufgracefully spanning the river. Each ornate light along the bridge washaloed by the fog rising from the gray water.
He stepped into the Hotel d'Aubusson's elegant lobby and took aseat that allowed him to see through the front window into the street,while keeping an eye on the revolving door at the hotel's entrance.
His SIG Sauer was a pleasant weight on his thigh. Upon his arrivalin Paris, he had picked up the weapon in a back-alley porn shop runby an American operative of one of the alphabet-soup agencies. TheP226 had a double-stack magazine holding fifteen nine-millimeterParabellum rounds—sixteen slugs, if there was one in the chamber, asthere was tonight. Among handguns, it was Caleb's favorite. He foundthat his accuracy with this gun was exceptional, even at distances ofas much as fifty yards. While the P226 would win no beauty contestswith its dull, dark-gray, flat finish, there were few guns as functionalor reliable in its class. Caleb was going to do some work with it thatnight.
Turning his coat collar up against the rain, he left the hotel'scomfort, assured that no one was following him. Only one man knewwhere he was going to be tonight—at least that was how the script waswritten. But one never knew.
He took a left down Rue St. Andre d'Arts, a dark and narrow street.These buildings had been overlooked during the facade-cleaningprogram, which had turned the edifices along the major boulevardsand rues of Paris a glistening white. Above his head, on a metalbracket attached over a door, was a bravely flickering, red neon signthat simply announced, "Hotel." A number of à louer signs hung infilthy windows. Signs announcing studios and galleries for rent werefrequently so faded and aged that it was unlikely that whatever hadbeen available at the time of posting the ad was still for rent. At theend of the street was a plaza with the mandatory café. Inside, studentshuddled around small tables or stood at the zinc bar engaged inintense "save-the-world" and "condemn-the-American-involvement-in-the-Middle-East"conversations. He suspected that the abusedcountry was now Afghanistan or, perhaps, Yemen. Caleb had spent ayear as a student in Paris, and although the times and issues changed,he found that the Franco-American love-hate relationship continuedunabated.
He stepped into the shadowed doorway of an elegant apartmentbuilding and waited five minutes. He was on time for hisrendezvous with the informant. His father had always insisted thatif something was worth doing, then preparation and anticipationof eventualities—if it can go wrong, it may well go wrong—werecritical to the success of the venture. "Visualize the conclusion," hewould say, "and keep that objective in mind." Being early was anadvantage as well.
Across the Seine, at the tip of the Île de la Cité, an oppressiveceiling of dark-gray clouds, their underbellies illuminated by thecity lights, rolled above the towers of La Cathédrale de Notre-Dame.The blunt towers of the cathedral stood as pillars, shouldering theheavy skies above them. In the distance, he could see the Préfecturede Police and L'Hotel Dieu, the center of administration and securityfor the city of Paris. A large plaza separated the government officebuildings and La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris. The substantialexpanse between these buildings belied the close proximity of themutual interests of the Church and the State.
Caleb walked down Rue Cloitre Notre Dame to the Pont SaintLouis, a bridge connecting the larger Île de la Cité to the smaller,but incredibly more affluent Île St. Louis. Many of the buildingshoused families whose heritage spanned a couple of centuries onthe small island in the middle of the Seine. The old money, thecorps diplomatique, whose political service or family connectionshad earned them postings to Paris, or the seriously nouveau richebusinessmen found that the Île St. Louis address enhanced theirpositions. Five-story buildings crowded along the streets nestled up tothin sidewalks. Tall, narrow rows of windows observed the streets andriver traffic below with a haughty indifference. Many apartments hadtheir gray, horizontal metal-slat shutters closed for the night. Yellowlight glowed through them, warm and inviting, as Caleb passed byin the chilling rain.
At the end of the bridge, Caleb paused to prepare for his descentto the quays below. He leaned on the bridge railing and peered down,searching for anything out of place. The quays' broad, cobblestoneexpanses circling the islands and along the Seine's banks had servedfor centuries as the loading docks for river barges delivering goodsto the city and taking away Parisian artisans' products. Long, slopingstone stairways clung to towering sandstone walls leading from thesurface streets to quays at river level.
Caleb sensed his heart rate increasing. Relaxing his hold onthe SIG, he drew in a deep, fog-laden breath in preparation for hismeeting at the river's edge.
CHAPTER 2
For two weeks, Caleb Frost had worked with a mélange of formerInterpol associates, French law enforcement contacts, and sleazyinformers who were intimate with the Muslim underworld in Paris.He had spent days developing intelligence on the daily habits ofan Iraqi national, Amahd al-Tikriti. As a representative of SaddamHussein's regime to the country of France, al-Tikriti had been officiallyattached to the Iraqi embassy as the deputy ambassador for academiccooperation. With Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003, the French hadcancelled the diplomatic credentials of all Iraqis in the French capital;the papers the French had so readily provided in 2001 when Saddamsent al-Tikriti to Paris became worthless. The French governmentadvised him to leave the country as rapidly as possible.
With the fall of his benefactor and the death of the dictator's sons,there was little to lure al-Tikriti back to the desert. The prospect ofincarceration by the American infidels held little appeal, as did thethought of answering to the Shiites, whose anathema toward a majorArab Socialist Ba'ath Party thug would be substantial and unpleasant.Moving rapidly, al-Tikriti procured false papers. Over the course ofthe years he had spent in Paris, there had been many opportunities tosubmit false expenses and to skim major amounts from the accountshe managed. Now, those Euros were snug in a number of accounts inseveral small, very private banks in France and some large banks inSwitzerland. Financially set for years to come, al-Tikriti had meltedinto La Goutte d'Or section of Paris.
Most people who knew al-Tikriti's history and predilectionspreferred to keep any child of theirs well away from him, as hispreference for young children, boys or girls, was widely rumoredin Baghdad. Two of his best friends were Saddam's sons, Uday andQusay Hussein. Matching sadistic enterprises one for one, the threetore through Baghdad killing and maiming at will. One night, al-Tikriti'spersonal bodyguards snatched a six-year-old boy for whomal-Tikriti had developed a sexual desire. The child was kidnappedright out of his mother's arms, and she was severely beaten as sheattempted to rescue her child. Al-Tikriti proceeded to have his waywith the screaming child, penetrating him repeatedly and viciouslybeating the little boy, ultimately causing the boy to bleed to death. Hisnaked body was found lying on top of a garbage heap the followingmorning.
The murdered boy's father was a highly placed Ba'athist Partymember and powerful in the Chaldean Christian community.Saddam had made the Christian a minister of minor importancein his government as a token non-Muslim. There was no doubtwhatsoever as to the identity of the beast who had killed the little boy.However, no public recognition of the murder appeared in the Iraqimedia. That would have had exceptionally unpleasant consequencesfor the publishers, editors, and journalists, all of whom worked atSaddam's pleasure.
Despite the risks associated with taking on a favorite of Saddamand the bosom buddy of the dictator's sons, the boy's father requestedan audience with Saddam Hussein. He demanded al-Tikriti's arrestand beheading. Saddam Hussein was at his most compassionate andshared his grief for the family and the little boy. He sent al-Tikriti toParis.
Uday and Qusay visited him in Paris frequently, and, if necessary,their methods of disposal of used-up bodies were more carefullyplanned. If the police had their suspicions, they did not act on them;no charges were ever brought. Aside from al-Tikriti's infrequentceremonial duties for international academic cooperation, he spenthis days happily enforcing Saddam's wishes in the Iraqi communityand feasting on those children in the community who caught hisfancy.
La Goutte d'Or, the Drop of Gold, was a section of Paris knownfor harboring immigrant populations, including Algerians, Iranians,Iraqis, Yemeni, and Saudis mixed in squalor with Africans fromthe Côte d'Ivoire, Senegal, and other former French colonies. Themixture made for an evil brew of discontent and hatred for their hostsand for any Muslim, Christian, or, most frequently, Jew, they saw ashindering them from attaining their rightful rewards in life.
The mindless fervor among the Muslims in La Goutte d'Or,justified by gross distortions of the messages of Islam's holiest ofbooks to suit their own purposes, continued to stun Caleb eventhough he had, at times in the past, lived undercover in Muslimcommunities in Isfahan, Iran, and Mosul, Iraq. He wondered how themoderate Muslims could permit the continued funding of the dregsof their cultures. But millions of dollars from all over the world flowedthrough insurgent cover organizations' coffers. Caleb knew the insand outs of the fractured nature of Islam and the social structure inwhich alliances were strongest at the family and tribal level. The localsheiks were the first bricks in the foundation of the power structure.They were the base of the social pyramid. At the top were the clergyand the politicians sitting on a precariously balanced, fluid, andvolatile construction of personal interests and power struggles. Theywere also responsible for crafting inflammatory misinterpretations ofa beautiful religion to achieve their own goals. Some of the historictribal feuds existed over several centuries and were still blood hot.
Despite knowing full well the extent of criminal activitiesrampant in La Goutte d'Or, the police and the government wereeither unable or unwilling to take control, so crime, conspiracy, anddrug trafficking flourished.
* * *
Thoughts of his recent search for al-Tikriti filled Caleb's mind as hestarted down the long stone stairway to Quai d'Orléans. The stonesteps were worn from years of traffic. One of his sources, a one-eyedAfghan, had contacted Caleb with word that a former Iraqi embassyguard had information about al-Tikriti's whereabouts. It would costone thousand Euros in cash in advance of the rendezvous. The ex-guardwould meet Caleb on Quai de Bourbon, arriving by boat at 9:00p.m. sharp. Be there on time or the informer would leave immediately,the go-between had said. Money changed hands.
The rain released the musty odor of decades of rotted vegetablematter, dead meat, blood, mud, and all manner of collected filth fromwithin the cracks between cobblestones. Lining the top of the walls,standing along the sidewalks and roadways above the quays like aragged, black fringe, were kiosks and stalls. Their backs to the Seine,they awaited the next day's brisk business.
Caleb walked slowly down the quay, staying close to the wall andwithin its shadow, to Quai de Bourbon on the north side of the island.He could see the Seine through the threads of rain splashing onthousands of cobblestones stretching into the distance. The blurredlights of the city and the river traffic reflected off the surface of theriver. The putt-putt of an outboard motor grew louder. Caleb quicklycrossed the width of the key to its edge, peering intently into thedarkness, searching for the boat.
He felt a tug to his coat sleeve and a burning sensation on his leftforearm. Almost as an afterthought, he heard the soft report of a shot.He dived for the ground. What the hell was he doing meeting out inthe open like a rank amateur? How could he really have believed thatan ex-Saddam guy would sell out for a lousy one thousand Euros—tenthousand maybe, but for chump change, what was he thinking?Set up like a dummy. He could hear the putt-putt of the rendezvousboat receding.
A second shot, splashing off a cobblestone inches from his left eye,sent a fragment of the bullet's jacket spinning like a circular saw. Thecopper chip zipped through Caleb's left eyebrow and buried itself inhis coat's shoulder pad. He stifled his impulse to shout out in pain andrage. The rest of the bullet ended up in the back of a kiosk across theSeine above Quai de l'Hotel de Ville. Tourists enjoying a late supperaboard a passing Bateau Mouche tourist sightseeing boat had no ideahow close they had come to having a bullet enter their boat's Plexiglascanopy. Nor would the couples scurrying to find sanctuary from therain across the light-dappled black strip of river know that evil waspresent in the soft thud heard from behind a kiosk.
Caleb wrestled the P226 out of his coat pocket and rolled over toface the direction from which he sensed the shots had come. He layprone, giving as small a target as possible, arms outstretched, handstight around the SIG Sauer's grip, safety off, searching the darkness.He blinked furiously to clear the rain and blood out of his eyes as hesearched the recesses in the quay wall for the gunman. He did his bestto melt into the cobblestones. The thought of getting up and runninglike hell appealed to him for a millisecond.
