Death and Conspiracy Read online

  I said, Remember when I rescued her mom from the assassins? Back when she was an admiral. The brass tends to expect a concierge rescue. But not Admiral Wilkes. She fought and ran and knocked out bad guys like a superhero. That woman was determined to get out of there. I was impressed. When Jenny showed up, I realized the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She was just as determined and driven as her mom. A woman like that, you can build a life together. A real partnership. We could grow old without the flame dying out.

  Mercury said, Determined? Driven? You really want a woman like that, dude? Nothing but trouble if you ask me. In my day, women didn’t read, they didn’t vote, they didn’t talk back. We had a good thing going and y’all messed it up.

  My phone’s screen was blank. Still no word from Jenny.

  I said, Maybe she needs something more than just sex?

  Mercury said, What else is there?

  I dunno, I said. Like therapy or something. She had a traumatic year. Maybe she needs help with her mental health.

  Mercury said, What would you know about mental health?

  The waiter brought a vase for my bouquet. It was wilting. I gave him a nod. “Merci.”

  Pretty much the extent of my French vocabulary.

  I was stuck. If I went back now, I’d look insecure, worried. If I kept my cool, acted unconcerned, maybe she’d come around. Maybe she’d text me back.

  Ugh. I hate playing games. Unless I win.

  See here now, bro. You need to take down those terrorists with the two coats. Mercury nodded at the men he’d pointed out earlier. You can be a hero again.

  I said, What makes you think they’re terrorists?

  Mercury said, They radiate hate.

  Across the lane was a large, open plaza. In the center stood a massive chunk of marble with statues of ancient Frenchmen in niches surrounded by water splashing from a central fountain. The Frenchmen were probably important at some point in the history of the area, but now they were just a backdrop for selfies.

  Two guys stood next to the fountain. They stole glances at the cathedral doors. They had black hair and beards. One had a swarthy, Mediterranean look. The other looked distinctly American. They kept their heads down, their hands shoved in their coat pockets. Their overcoats were heavy enough for winter, but it was a sunny spring day.

  Maybe Jenny was worried about the paparazzi. We’d been swarmed outside our hotel. Again later when we went out to dinner. Neither of us is a celebrity, but her divorced parents are minor tabloid material. Jenkins Pharma sold a questionable number of opiates, and her mom is now the Vice President of the United States. Which is why there’d been plenty of controversy over Jenny’s pardon.

  The paparazzi couldn’t be it. I’d shared Ms. Sabel’s advice for dealing with tabloid photographers with Jenny. Ms. Sabel told me to smile for the cameras because (a) they hate that, and (b) they’ll print it anyway so you may as well look good. Jenny still hated them.

  I thought about going to church. I checked the name of the one across the street. Église Saint-Sulpice. I invited Jenny in a text. We hadn’t discussed religion, and she didn’t seem the type, but if she was mad at me, where better to work things out? She was the kind of woman worth working things out for. The kind worth having an intimate relationship with. Someone you could tell all your secrets to. Or is it, someone to whom you could tell all your secrets? I never get that stuff right. Maybe she didn’t like my grammar.

  Mercury grabbed my hair and pulled my head up out of my phone. He pointed at the two guys. Quit thinking about getting laid and ask yourself the million-dollar question: why two coats?

  Shoplifters wear overcoats. It gives them room for all their stolen merchandise. So do mass shooters. Coats cover weapons.

  The shorter guy fiddled with a string of beads. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He mumbled to himself. The American looked calmer, yet significantly more agitated than your average churchgoer. My military training included a good deal about recognizing terrorists. They often say prayers. They’re often quite nervous. They often sulk to avoid notice.

  Either these two were sinners in desperate need of redemption … or they were terrorists.

  I found myself crossing the street, heading for the fountain. At the same time, the two men headed for the church. As he pushed off, the short guy tossed his beads into the water.

  It was a wide plaza, and they had a shorter distance. I changed course to intercept them. Being unarmed put me at a disadvantage. But they had the terrorist’s tunnel vision. Their eyes remained glued to the entrance. Nothing around them mattered anymore.

  A few people in nice clothes funneled up the steps and filed through the massive front door, each taking a bulletin from the greeters. None of them wore more than a light sport coat.

  The overcoat guys slowed and hung back. When the funnel cleared, the greeters at the door waited. The overcoat guys trotted up the steps and entered without taking the offered bulletin. Without a bulletin, they would have no idea which hymns to sing. Definitely terrorists.

  I bounded up the steps, full throttle.

  CHAPTER 3

  They were shedding their coats as I transitioned from the bright daylight to the dark interior. My vision was off, but I could sense they had rifles out and raised. I jumped and tackled the shorter guy. My arms wrapped around his back and slammed his elbows to his chest. The move drove the rifle stock under his arm and jerked the muzzle of his weapon upward just as he fired on full auto. His bullets hit the ceiling.

  He yelled a loud curse that ended when his face hit the marble floor. Our combined body weight drove him in hard enough to leave a dent.

  His partner wheeled around and leveled a Beretta AR70/90 at my head. An automatic rifle used by the Italian military that’s capable of firing over 600 NATO rounds per minute. NATO bullets are high-velocity rounds that tumble on impact, destroying all bone and tissue on their way through the human body. They’re designed to kill an enemy without requiring a direct hit.

  I stuck my knee in my victim’s butt, grabbed his shirt collar, and yanked him back hard. His backbone cracked as it bent backward. The man’s body shielded mine. His partner froze for a second.

  Rapid, panicked exits weren’t a high priority for seventeenth century church builders. Worse, the nave didn’t have fixed pews like modern churches. It had wooden chairs. When everyone started screaming and scrambling for the exits, they turned over chairs and crushed into each other. They gridlocked the space in seconds.

  The guy in my grip tried to shake me off. I held firm. He pulled the trigger again, sending a spray tinkling through a stained-glass window high in the vaulted ceiling. He yelled, “Allahu akbar!”

  He tried to fire again. I fought and managed to wrestle the barrel under his chin. He panted and squirmed.

  “Let him go,” the other guy shouted in perfect English.

  I said, “Drop your weapon or die.”

  The guy in my grip tried to repeat God is the greatest in Arabic again. His accent was terrible. I pulled harder on his collar, cranking his backbone farther to maximize his pain. He stopped.

  The American’s eyes shot around the room. The crowd had stumbled and fallen, people and chairs sprawled in every direction. Some folks desperately reached for the elderly and the children, compounding the problem by blocking the narrow aisles for the quick.

  The American’s eyes came back to me, filled with hate and anger. “Turn him loose, or I let you both have it.”

  “I’m a former Ranger. I can kill you before you can blink. Drop the weapon. NOW.”

  I could see the gears in his head turning while he thought it over. He came to the wrong conclusion. He turned to the crowd pinned against the stone walls. A third of them found protection behind the thick stone arches. The rest were exposed. He raised his rifle.

  With an extra-hard yank on my victim’s collar, I freed the muzzle and wrapped my hand around his. His finger was still inside the trigger guard. I squeezed. Three poorly aime
d bullets fired off. My worst fear, hitting an innocent civilian, didn’t happen. My best hope, killing the American, didn’t happen either. Instead, the bullets clanged off the organ pipes at the far end of the church. The metal vibrated with dissonance.

  Shrieks and screams reached a fever pitch. Worshippers squeezed behind the pillars. The children’s piercing cries rose like a descant to the adult howls.

  The American’s furious eyes swung back to me over the iron sights of his Beretta. The muzzle pointed directly at me; his finger squeezed. I pressed my victim’s finger and tried to roll. Rounds spewed from both weapons. The American’s bullets struck my human shield with a wet slap, exiting with the crunch of broken ribs.

  My aim had improved—considering I wasn’t the one holding the rifle. A couple of my rounds missed but three of them hit and put the American on the ground.

  Dropping the carcass in my grip, I pried his Beretta from his dying hands. I staggered to my feet and trained the AR70/90 at the American. He didn’t move, but he held his weapon close. I approached cautiously, expecting a trick.

  The congregation had stopped screaming. There were plenty of kids still crying. Their wails reverberated in the stone chamber. Parents huddled over, shielding the little ones with their bodies. No one wanted to face the danger or see a bullet coming.

  I kicked the rifle away from the American. He made no attempt to hold on. I stepped closer and saw the back of his skull lying ten feet down the center aisle.

  I flipped the Beretta’s safety on. I turned to the people on the left. “It’s OK. You’re safe. No more danger.”

  Slowly, people began to peep around the stone pillars. What just happened wasn’t clear to them. They looked at me, then at the gore, and then back at me, and back at the gore.

  Mercury twisted his head to examine the American. Whooee, dawg! We’re gonna be famous now. You saved a whole bunch of Christians from these … these … what are these guys?

  I said, I don’t know. That guy was trying to speak Arabic but it’s not his first language.

  Whatever they are, I can’t wait to tell Jesus about this. Oh brutha, he’s gonna owe me big time.

  You mean He isn’t here? I looked around the ancient church filled with sacred art.

  Mercury looked at me like I’d farted. You serious right now, homie? You think he hangs in a place like this? He’s all about lepers and hookers and homeless people. Mercury looked to the ceiling. I had me nicer places than this back in Rome, y’know. And I stayed in them all the time, too. None of this associating-with-losers bullshit. Gotta be available to your peeps, right?

  An angry official shouted behind me. His tone caught me by surprise. I didn’t need to speak the language to realize what was going down. The AR70/90 was still in my hands. To the first responders, I had every appearance of being an active shooter. The shouts continued, two or three guys yelling at me simultaneously. The faithful started wailing again. With any luck, some of them would defuse the situation by explaining my heroic acts. If they saw anything from behind the stone arches.

  It occurred to me that I could explain things in a reasonable tone. The police might understand, lift me on their shoulders, and carry me outside to a hero’s welcome.

  Or, none of them spoke English and I could get shot by a nervous cop.

  Surrendering has its advantages. Like, living until lunchtime.

  I spread my arms out wide, lowered my knees until the rifle butt touched the marble, then gently laid down the weapon. I raised my hands slowly, knitted my fingers, and put them on top of my head. My knees touched the floor as many booted footsteps rushed in behind me.

  The police were not gentle. They tackled me, forcing my face to the floor. My hands were yanked behind me. Cuffs snapped on my wrists. Shackles clicked around my ankles. Someone grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head up. An angry face met mine, shouting French insults and swear words. Spittle flew from his lips, landing in my eye and covering my cheek.

  A well-dressed, handsome lady ran to my aid. She spewed what sounded to me like a lengthy rebuke at the officer.

  Then she spat on me.

  At first, I thought she must have been spitting on the other American and missed. Then she kicked me. She shouted, “Va te faire foutre!”

  It was a phrase I wasn’t familiar with, but given her tone and delivery, I figured it meant, Go fuck yourself.

  Swearing in church. What has the world come to? Then I realized, the worshippers had huddled together, seeking cover behind the supports and shielding each other. Not the best vantage point for observing what was going on in the nave. They misunderstood what had transpired.

  A young couple came to my defense. I think. They appeared to be arguing with some of the cops and the old lady. They were all pushed back to the sides.

  The cop dropped my head on the marble like a melon. Only a thin layer of blood cushioned my fall.

  Mercury got on his hands and knees and lowered his face to the floor. How did you manage to mess this one up, dawg? Couldn’t drop the rifle before the cops showed up?

  I said, I secured the area.

  All she saw was you and a weapon. Mercury stood and dusted his hands. Well, they’re gonna give you the Marie Antoinette treatment, so I gotta find someone else to evangelize for me. Good luck, homie. It’s been nice.

  WAIT! Aren’t you going to help me? Can’t you get me out of this?

  “Américain?” the cop asked. “Get you out? Most certainly.”

  Two guys grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. A fist landed on my right cheek.

  I made no move to defend myself. More punches landed in my breadbasket. After the man in charge finished with me, they swung me around and dragged me outside. Other officers pushed the so-called Christians back and taped off the area around the bodies. As we exited the building, I looked up at a clock over the front door. A video camera sat on top of it.

  I said, “Tell me that thing’s on.”

  CHAPTER 4

  They shoved me into the sliding door of an ambulance. A medic approached. I stole a glance at the Café de la Mairie across the street. I’d left my phone and bouquet over there, not to mention a small bill for breakfast. I wondered if Jenny had arrived. A quick scan of the guests told me no. With my luck, she probably texted me while I was busy doing my hero-not-hero schtick.

  The cop in charge blasted a few questions my way. I could tell they were questions because his voice went higher at the end of each rant, along with his furry eyebrows. He was heavy for a Frenchman with a thick, gray mustache and a paunch. The men around him snickered. The medic pushed them aside, opened his ambulance, and grabbed gloves. He peeled my jacket down to the cuffs.

  “I’m not hurt,” I said.

  “We must check just the same,” the medic said with a light accent and a bit of a lilt. He craned over his shoulder at the big cop. “Major Pavard, our suspect speaks English, you know.”

  Major Pavard, my inquisitor, grunted.

  The medic lifted my t-shirt and raised his brow, the way women do, when he saw my abs. “Quoi. We are working out most regular, no?”

  “Thanks. My boss was a world-class athlete. She insists we stay in shape. What’s with Major Pavard?”

  He said, “Pavard speaks the English—when he wants to. He thinks only of French dominance. Turn around.”

  I complied and lifted my cuffed hands.

  After a second, he dropped my shirt and turned me back to face him. “All the bullets flying, yet you are not wounded?”

  “Aside from Pavard throwing a few punches, no.”

  “We must check for the internal injuries.”

  “I don’t have any. I’m fine.”

  The guy leaned in close enough for me to smell his fancy cologne. “We are stalling. Pavard’s superior comes this way soon. A more civilized man.”

  When I’m in France, I can never tell which guys are gay. Not that I care. I’d rather not waste their time. I’m a friendly Midwesterner from a small town, a
n attitude that is sometimes mistaken for interest. I’ve ended up in a couple of awkward situations.

  “Would you mind wiping the blood off my face?” I asked. “My girlfriend is supposed to meet me in a few. I don’t want to look like a serial killer.”

  His attitude changed dramatically at the reference to Jenny. He sounded a bit huffy when he said, “Of course. Right away.”

  Mercury looked over the medic’s shoulder. Aw, dawg. Rude to brush the guy off like that. Benoît here dances at the Moulin Rouge on his days off. You might want to catch his act.

  Not my style, I said. I thought you dumped me. Again.

  That was before Lieutenant Colonel Hugo took an interest in our exploits. Mercury slapped my shoulder and nodded at a newly arrived officer who was making a grand entrance. Guy like him might turn your fortunes around, get things going. With the right presentation, we could put you on a path to Caesar-hood.

  The ranks of cops surrounding me broke their shoulder-to-shoulder formation. Two guys walked through the line. One was a thin, middle-aged Frenchman wearing a military uniform with the bearing of a king. The other was a short, wiry, bald guy with a piercing gaze, business casual khakis, and a blue button-down. The king-guy held a tablet under his arm.

  Pavard met them with a scowl. The king-guy made a formal introduction in French. The only part I recognized was Lieutenant Colonel. The king-guy held out his tablet, but Pavard waved it away. Pavard stroked his mustache as he drooped an inch. He backed up and said something to his men. One of them trotted to me and removed my cuffs and shackles.

  Benoît wiped the last traces of blood off my forehead, dried it, brushed my short hair back, and looked me over. He broke a smile. “Well. Are you not the most important of men?”

  “Most of the time, I’m the only one who thinks so.”

  “If your girlfriend does not think so, I can show you the best side of Paris.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I shook his hand. “Thanks for your help, Benoît.”