| Subject: Waiting...Nine & Ten |
Author:
Enjoue`
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Date Posted: 08:05:33 03/05/01 Mon
In reply to:
Enjoue`
's message, "Waiting...by Enjoue`" on 07:14:24 03/05/01 Mon
NINE
On calm waters, the sailboat steered a haphazard course, finally bumping gently into a feeding duck. Upset, the mallard squawked angrily, then delivered a fierce glancing blow to the little boat with her broad yellow bill. The tiny craft promptly lay over onto its side and bobbed helplessly.
A few feet away from Nikita, a child’s sharp wail of protest rent the air, followed by a stream of rapid French from neighboring adults. That’s life in the duck pond, she supposed was the rough translation.
She was standing near the low concrete wall of an octagonal pool at the Jardin du Luxembourg. In the background, the beautiful Italian-style Palais de Luxembourg shone white in the slanting, late afternoon sunlight. Throughout the park, throngs of people were engaged in the various activities of a typical afternoon in the park. Reading, walking, courting, playing with children, or simply sitting in the comfortless straight-backed chairs sprinkled throughout the area. A 60-acre green oasis in the heart of the famous Left Bank, the Jardin du Luxembourg was the most popular park in Paris. Apartment-dwelling Parisiens flocked there with families in tow.
It was also a mere two blocks distant from a large apartment building on the Rue Vavin. Throughout the afternoon Michael and Nikita had tracked a steady stream of arrivals being dropped off by taxis or other non-descript vehicles. Rotating through the hours with surveillance personnel on loan from Poole, they had catalogued the arrival of more than 50 people.
Michael appeared then and took her elbow. Together they strolled slowly around the pond, still clustered thickly with pint-sized sailors and their homemade craft, then turned down one of the broad, flowered avenues that stretched away into the shady park.
“Are they getting many ID’s?” Nikita asked, referring to Section’s efforts to put names to the arrivals they had been observing.
“Some,” Michael answered briefly. “More than half are unknowns so far.”
He removed his hand from Nikita’s elbow, moving instead to drape his arm around her shoulders. Maintaining a small, intimate smile, he sent careful glances in all directions, ending by placing his lips near to Nikita’s ear and checking over her shoulder behind them.
“Birkoff has been monitoring their network. He’s found nothing to change our initial profile.”
Nikita nodded. She had heard everything through her com link, though she hadn’t replied from her position in the middle of the crowd,. “The Committee?”
“Only one has arrived. The woman. Just before I switched off with Poole’s surveillance.”
The path ended at the Rue D’Assas, which bordered the southwest corner of the park. They turned right onto the cobbled street and continued their relaxed stroll toward the Rue Vavin, half a block away.
Michael glanced at Nikita again, and she noted with slight surprise that his glance actually met hers, rather than sliding off to check the surrounding area.
“A large part of our intel comes from Poole,” he remarked.
Nikita looked down at the rough cobbles, her mind following his thoughts, as so often happened. “And you wondering what side he’s really on.”
His constantly moving gaze came back to her again. “You know that this Committee has infiltrated to the highest levels. Even if Poole himself isn’t compromised, we have to consider how much we know about his intel sources.”
“Not much,” she admitted.
“Exactly.” He delivered a meaningful squeeze where his hand rested at the nape of her neck. “Be careful.” Nikita nodded.
Reaching the corner, they turned left, crossing deftly through the fast-moving stream of miniscule French autos and onto the Rue Vavin. Birkoff’s voice came through their com links.
“Poole reports Schultheiss and Steinweg have arrived.”
“We are within 100 yards of the building,” Michael replied. Then, to the support teams: “Team One hold position until Huber arrives. Team Two move up to cover exit positions.”
As they linked hands and slowed their stroll even further, a gray BMW taxi coasted to the curb just ahead of them.
They watched closely as, with some effort, a tall man unfolded himself from the back seat. He paused to pay the driver and straighten his suit, then strode quickly into the building.
“Huber. That’s it,” Michael murmured. “Move in.”
* * *
TEN
Georg Schultheiss stood in front of the hallway mirror and with his palms smoothed down a few stray hairs on either side of his head. Briefly he closed his eyes, trying to quell the rising excitement that prickled continuously up and down his spine.
“Are you nervous, Georg?”
Schultheiss glanced around self-consciously. “Oh. Bernard. Well, yes, a little, I’ll admit.” He smiled, a small, tight grimace, then looked back into the mirror and adjusted his tie. “Just anticipation. Everyone is here. Are you ready to go in?”
Huber nodded, his gaunt frame reflecting a full head higher in the mirror than Schultheiss. “Yes. I just want to do a final check around the premises before I join you. I may miss your opening remarks.”
“I understand.” Schultheiss nodded soberly. “We must never relax our vigilance.” He looked back into the mirror once more, lifting his chin and squaring his heavy shoulders. “Aufwartung,” he said to Huber.
“Aufwartung,” the tall man said in a confirming tone.
Schultheiss walked to the double doors at the end of the room and pulled them open. Beyond, several dozen chairs stood facing a dais at the far end of the large chamber. All were filled, and the heads of every occupant swiveled and the hum of conversation died as Schultheiss entered the room and strode purposefully down the aisleway. There was no applause.
Behind him Huber watched expressionlessly. As Schultheiss reached the lectern and began to speak, he gently closed and secured the doors.
Outside the building, Michael and Nikita had separated. Michael disappeared to the south around the back of the building, advancing to a position one floor below the meeting room. The small backup unit verbally confirmed their positions around the perimeter. Nikita followed Michael around the side of the building, then paused at the second door she came to. Deeply recessed, the doorway was not visible from the Rue Vavin, and was effectively screened from other observation by mature, tangled vegetation. Quickly she disengaged the lock and slipped into the building. It was clear that the group inside had placed their reliance on anonymity, rather than on a show of force, for security purposes.
Inside, the corridor was hushed. Dimly lit and smelling vaguely of old wallboards and the ghosts of many meal preparations, it was typical of most old apartment buildings in Paris. Silently, warily, she worked her way closer to the meeting site, Birkoff’s detached voice guiding her as best he could through the old structure. As always, Nikita marveled that he had managed to come up with some kind of floor plan for the place. Finally, she reached the last door opening onto a foyer outside the meeting room. On-site thermal imaging had easily confirmed the location of the large gathering. Cautiously she pushed the door open, prepared to defend herself.
Then suddenly a low, heavy roar assaulted her ears, vibrating in her chest. Instantly she flung the door wide and scurried through in a nimble crouch, her weapon lifted and ready. The roar intensified and oscillated through her flesh to her very bones. It was accompanied by shouts and screams coming from the opposite side of the closed double doors. A smell seeped into the air, hot and bitter. Frantic screams escalated and frenzied pounding began within the room.
The doors were barred from the outside.
Holstering her weapon, Nikita dashed across the foyer and examined the heavy bar. It was held in place by two unobtrusive but massively strong cleats which were located on either side of the doors. With the doors swung open, they would never have received notice from people entering the room. She struggled gamely with the heavy bar.
“Nikita, what’s going on?” Birkoff. She ignored him, still wrenching at the bar. It was immoveable, as though welded into place.
“Nikita,” Birkoff repeated. “Can you explain the thermal signature I’m seeing?”
“Yeah,” she rasped. “The place is on fire.”
On the other side of the door, a thunderous roar arose, like a jet engine. The door rattled visibly on its hinges. Within, the piercing shrieks no longer bore any resemblance to human sound. Nikita began to back away, and as she turned toward the door to the street Michael materialized like a black shadow next to her.
“Let’s go.”
Operations broke in on the comm link.
“I want someone alive.”
The door jumped against its hinges as if the inferno had spawned something unimaginable that was now trying to break out of the room. They looked at each other.
“Negative,” Michael responded tersely. They continued to
back away.
“Unacceptable,” Operations hissed. “Find a way.”
The doors began to smolder, held closed only by the inflexible bar. Then the smoldering took on a glow and burst into flames. Quickly then the doors began to disintegrate, and the monstrous roar of the conflagration escaped the room like a living thing. It was time to leave.
Whirling to make their exit out onto the street, they saw him.
Waiting.
His tall, gaunt frame blocked the doors and he looked at them without apparent surprise. Drawing their weapons, they braced and faced him warily. From behind them, the glow of the fire cast a ruddy luminescence over the man’s spare, bleached features.
His eyes moved from one weapon to the other, then back to their faces. “You won’t need those.”
Slowly Michael lowered his gun and straightened up. Operations broke in again insistently. “Michael. Report.”
After a moment, he did.
“We have a subject for questioning.”
* * *
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