If Moreau didn't pick up Fisher soon, it'd be all over for now. And as Hansen settled down with his binoculars, he couldn't get the image of a Coke and French fries off his mind. He remembered the McDonald's, remembered Moreau's comment, and now the advertising demons were playing product placement with his mind. In point of fact, he'd barely eaten all day, barely slept in the past few days, and if he somehow managed to remain in position and not fall asleep, well, that would be an accomplishment. Some of the others had packed granola and other kinds of energy bars in their packs; he'd opted for a pack of gum, and, boy, wasn't that a mistake.
The air grew still, and the night seemed to wrap more tightly around him, like a warm blanket against the cold. The night-vision binoculars picked up headlights in the distance. He watched as the car approached and realized it was actually a pair of scooters. They raced on by, their small engines issuing a rather irritating buzz.
"Kim, how 'bout a sitrep?"
"Ames here. She's busy right now."
"Doing what?" Hansen said.
"You don't want to know."
"Shut up, fool," said Gillespie. "We're almost in town. No sign of anyone. Place looks dead."
"Same here," said Valentina.
"All right, team, we have a couple of minutes to kill while you're en route," Hansen began. "What's Fisher doing in Luxembourg?"
"Getting drunk," said Ames.
"If you don't shut up," warned Valentina.
"No, I'm serious," Ames snapped. "Luxembourg is in Guinness World Recordsfor most alcohol consumption."
"A fact you know how?" asked Gillespie.
"Everyone knows that," he argued. "And besides, I just pulled it up on my phone."
"Using Google while on the job?" asked Gillespie.
"What's wrong with that?"
"Moreau? You still with us, Moreau?"
Hansen frowned. It wasn't like the man to sign off unannounced.
26
GRAND HOTEL TEMPLIERS REIMS, FRANCE
MOREAUwas so fully immersed in the Trinity System that he failed to notice the man who had bypassed the door lock, entered the hotel room, and now stood behind him, pressing a noise-suppressed pistol to the back of his head.
"Hello, Mr. Moreau."
He tried to read the voice, the pitch, the tenor, and already decided that the man was a smoker. This was not Stingray, the mole's cutout to Kovac. He was someone else; someone probably hired by Kovac to come and take care of the problem--because the team was getting closer to Luxembourg. Without Moreau, the team would be forced to communicate directly with Grim or through cutouts, all of whom Kovac had already tapped.
Moreau snorted. "I love this country. I order room service and they send me an asshole with a gun."
"Funny man . . . and a dead one--unless you tell me what I want to know."
Moreau swiveled his head a fraction of an inch.
"Ah, don't do that," warned the man.
This was not an American. He was doing his best to adopt an American accent, northeastern to be precise, but he was failing miserably. This guy was probably a Frenchman. Or a German. Undoubtedly a fool. You don't threaten a man and then tell him you need information. That tells your victim you'll hesitate because you need something.
"Listen to me," Moreau began; then he used a word that rhymes with "trucker" to describe his assailant. "You got 3.5 seconds to get that goddamned gun off my head."
"Such bravado, Mr. Moreau. Is this where you say what you'll do to me? Break my nose? Throw me out the window?"
"One . . . "
"We know Grim is communicating with Fisher. We want the encryption codes, the name of the cutout. We want them all. Right now."
"Two . . . "
"If you don't talk, I have orders to kill you."
"Three." Moreau took a deep breath, held it.
The man snickered. "What's the half second for?"
"This!"
Moreau tipped his head, then pushed back with all his might, driving his chair directly into the man's abdomen.
Of course the guy didn't fire. He wouldn't. He had orders to get the information. Anything else was BS. Killing Moreau without getting the data would result in his own death. Now that that fact was established, Moreau would begin teaching this fool a lesson.
As soon as his legs cleared the desk, Moreau spun around. The man staggered back.
And, wouldn't you know, the idiot made the impetuous decision to fire.
The shot thumped no more loudly than a hand clap and kicked into Moreau's shoulder. He jerked back across the desk, even as he drew his own sidearm and fired at the man's crotch.
Sensory overload: pain and images and a trace of gunpowder all coming at him.
Who was his attacker? So far, he was a guy dressed in casual business clothes and wearing a long leather jacket. He was no more than thirty and most definitely European, with a simple conservative haircut, no earrings, and nothing to distinguish him save his twisted grin. He leaned forward, groaned, then fell back onto his rump.
With a fire now burning in his shoulder, Moreau charged forward from the desk, and fired again, his suppressed round hitting the man's arm point-blank and causing him to drop his weapon.
Moreau dove for the gun and came up with it just as the man began to sit up, shivering and groaning.
"This would've been the part where I ask you questions. But I'm not doing that."
"You're not?"
Moreau shook his head, took both pistols, and placed them on the floor beside him. Then, remembering Noboru's words and imagining himself as Jules Winnfield, Moreau crawled forward and began choking the man with one hand.
Now, with a grimace of pain, Moreau wound up and punched the guy so hard in the mouth that several teeth loosened. The thug tried to reach up to stop him, but Moreau delivered another blow that sent both of them falling forward onto the rug. Teeth flew from the man's mouth as Moreau loosened his grip.
"I'll tell you what you want to know," the guy lisped through a gurgle of blood.
Moreau straddled him and widened his eyes as blood rolled down his arm. "You want to talk to me? You don't know jack. All you know is that a man named Stingray hired you. You don't even know who Grim and Fisher are. And I bet when you go to the beach, you wear a little Speedo like all those other European fools trying to show off."
The man shook his head. "I know about Stingray. Let me tell you something about him. Please don't hit me anymore. I'm just doing a job."
Moreau cursed, winced over the pain, then struck the man in the temple so hard that the thug passed out.
Beginning to shudder with the throbbing in his shoulder, Moreau stood, breathing heavily, and rushed to the bathroom to check the wound. He slowly sloughed off his shirt. Damn, off to the hospital he'd go, but the wound didn't look too bad--clean entry and exit. He'd have time to pack up and get down to the hospital.
Moreau got back on the Trinity System and told Grim what had happened. She ordered him to get treatment.
"What happened to our tail on Stingray? He should've let me know about this guy. They must have met," he said, growling more than speaking.
"I know. They either took him out or bought him off. I've had no contact from him."