The Double Eagle (22 page)

HÔTEL ST. MERRI
, 4
TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
7:26
P.M.

T
om threw his head back under the shower’s massaging pulse and closed his eyes, letting it run through his hair. The water flooded his ears, blocking them, and as he listened to his suddenly amplified breathing and the strangely distant sound of the water splashing all around him, the dull throb in his head subsided a little. It was only then that he realized how tired he was.

He slid the cubicle door back a bit and a thin cloud of steam escaped through the narrow gap into the bathroom, fogging the mirror. He reached out toward the sink, his eyes blinking as they fought against the water running in rivulets off his head, and closed his fingers around the small complimentary bar of soap and bottle of shampoo that the hotel had thoughtfully provided.

He rubbed the soap all over himself, rinsed it off and then washed his hair. He reached toward the sink again and located the small razor that had also been provided, somehow managing not to cut himself as he shaved. Then he stood there, his hands leaning against the chipped tiles and flaking grout, the water thudding onto the base of his neck, sluicing over his shoulders and down his back. He turned the temperature up a little.

How had he ended up here? He’d almost forgotten now. Uncle Harry. That was it. He’d wanted to find Harry’s killers. To make them pay.

And to help himself. He couldn’t deny it. Jennifer’s deal offered him a real chance. His file wiped, the CIA off his back, Clarke warned off. Could he trust them, though? Could he trust her? He still wasn’t sure.

He flicked the water off and grabbed first one, then another, towel off the rail over the bath. He dried himself, the rough cloth rasping over his skin like sandpaper, smoothing his hair into shape with his hand. Then he pulled on clean underwear, a pair of jeans, and a T-shirt, all in the bag of clothes provided by the ever-efficient FBI. Finally, he laced up the sneakers that he’d shoved on that morning when the police had first shown up. He stepped out into the bedroom and then made his way down the narrow staircase to Jennifer’s room on the floor below. He knocked.

“Come in.”

“I’m just going down to see about getting us a table at the restaurant next door.”

Jennifer nodded.

“Okay. I’ve got to make a phone call anyway. I’m going to suggest that we go to Amsterdam and follow up on this Steiner angle.”

“Fine. But don’t forget our agreement. Unless you get my deal confirmed, you’ll be going on your own.”

“Understood,” she agreed.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Sure.”

She stepped into the bathroom and Tom noticed the smooth muscle of her neck as it curved into her perfect brown back. He shook his head ruefully. That was exactly what Jean-Pierre had meant about her being dangerous.

A few moments later he emerged onto the street below. The pale buildings glowed a deep yellow as the sun melted into the horizon and the stone began to radiate an intense baked-in heat. The streets were already alive with people and the noisy cafés and restaurants spilled their eager customers out onto the street under an array of brightly colored umbrellas, lit from underneath like lanterns. Innumerable conversations ducked under the buzz of scooters and climbed over the growl of traffic on the nearby Rue de Rivoli.

The area was notorious for prostitutes and, looking up, Tom noticed that one of them had already opened her window and placed a small red towel over her balcony. It was the usual signal. She was open for business.

“Tom. Over here.” At the sound of his name Tom spun round to face the table he had just walked past.

“All right?” came the voice again, this time accompanied by a wave.

Archie was virtually unrecognizable. A baseball cap, T-shirt, and shorts formed an effective camouflage amidst the crowds of tourists. The camera hanging round his neck and the knapsack at his feet completed the image. A pair of sunglasses sat on his face, his stubble rougher than before. It seemed to be some sort of disguise, although for what purpose Tom couldn’t say. In any case, he was too surprised to comment.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Have you been inside? There’s an art deco mirror behind the bar. Saw one like it sell for ten grand a few months ago.”

Tom grabbed him by his T-shirt and lifted him right out of his chair.

“What are you doing here? What are you playing at?”

“Easy, tiger,” said Archie, his sunglasses half off his face.

“How did you find me?” Tom snapped.

“Jean-Pierre called me this afternoon,” Archie croaked, the collar of the T-shirt pressed against his throat. “He was just returning a favor, that’s all. Honest, mate.”

Tom relaxed his grip slightly.

“What did he say?”

“That you were in Paris. I dusted off my passport, jumped on the next Eurostar and gave him a bell when I arrived. He told me he’d sent you here.”

“He didn’t tell me that he’d called you when I saw him.” Tom’s voice was edged with suspicion.

“Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m here now.”

Tom stared at Archie for a few seconds before letting him go so that he slumped back into his chrome seat. Archie pushed his sunglasses back on his nose as Tom sat heavily in the chair opposite him.

“What do you want, Archie?”

“We need to talk. There’s all sorts of shit flying around. None of it good. It’s a real dog’s breakfast.”

“Why, what have you heard?”

“Word is you clipped old man Renwick. It looks bad.”

“Do you think I did it?”

“Don’t be daft.”

Tom leaned back, sighed, and rubbed his eyes. He signaled to the waiter who came over and took their order.

“Bloody foreigners,” Archie grumbled. “Never serve proper beer, just this fizzy shit.” He eventually settled with a grunt on the lager he deemed least offensive. Tom, predictably, ordered a vodka tonic.

“I’ve been set up, Archie. I had dinner with Harry last night. Next thing I know Clarke tries to nail me for whacking him. Says that my prints are everywhere.”

“Why would someone try to set you up?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Is it anything to do with the bird?” asked Archie, his eyes flicking back toward the hotel doorway.

“How do you know about her?” Tom snapped back.

“Keep your hair on.” Archie looked around nervously at the people at the neighboring tables. “Jean-Pierre told me you were with a bird, that’s all. Seemed to think she might be giving you a spot of bother.”

The waiter returned and deposited their drinks on the shiny table, slipping the bill under the edge of the blue Pernod ashtray. Archie reached into his backpack and pulled out two mobile phones, checking each of their screens for messages or missed calls and then placing them on the table, their color screens reflecting rainbows in the sinking sunlight.

“You could say that. She works for the FBI.”

Archie half stood up.

“The FBI! Are you having a laugh?”

Tom motioned at him to sit down again.

“I wish I were. Apparently, they got a DNA match from the New York job. The only reason they haven’t picked me up is because they think I knocked off Fort Knox and want to try and cut some sort of deal with me.”

“Fort
Knox
?”

“I’m in it up to my neck, Archie, and they’ve got me by the balls. They can prove I had nothing to do with Harry’s death but won’t unless I help them recover what was stolen from Fort Knox. If I do, then they’ve promised to wipe my file clean, too.”

“And you believe them?”

Tom nodded and Archie gave a short laugh. He took the phone nearest to him, checked the screen again and then began to spin the phone around on the table in front of him with a flick of his fingers. Every so often his gold bracelet clinked against the edge of the table.

“They’re all the same, these coppers, mate, whatever fancy initials they give themselves. To them, people like you and me are the enemy. If they can milk us for a while, they will, but when the time comes, they’ll do us over just like that.” Archie snapped his fingers. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“I do.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “I know it’s stupid but I don’t think she’s like that.”

“Oh, do me a favor! You barely know her.”

“No, but I know people. And I think she’s being straight with me.” Tom was surprised at the confidence in his voice.

“She can promise you anything she bloody well likes, but it’s the people telling
her
what to do you need to be worried about. They haven’t promised you shit.”

Tom nodded.

“Not yet, but what—”

“Anyway, how can she prove that you had nothing to do with Renwick’s murder?”

Archie picked up his second phone and checked the screen with a quick glance before replacing it and resuming the spinning of the other one.

“Because she was at the dinner with me. Apparently, Harry did some work for the FBI a few years back and they wanted some more help on this Fort Knox thing. She saw me leave and that Harry was alive when I did. She had agents watching me all night who can vouch for the fact that I didn’t leave my house or call anyone.”

“And then the next morning she shows up like Mother fucking Teresa offering you a deal?”

“That’s about it.”

“Wake up, Tom. She’s a federal agent, not your fairy godmother. What do you think fires her up most, you or her job? Christ, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d had Harry whacked in the first place just so you’d help her.”

Tom had a sudden chilling thought. Jennifer had known where to find him. The plane in Kent, the car and the clothes in Deauville, it had all been so smooth, so efficient. So convenient. Was Archie right? Was he missing something?

“What happens when these witnesses disappear rather than back up your story in a few weeks’ time?” Archie continued, his sceptical tone unrelenting. “What happens when Clarke turns up and suddenly she isn’t around anymore to help out like she promised? What happens when another CIA assassin tries to stick a bullet in the back of your head to finish the job once and for all?” He glanced at the screens of both phones again.

“You got any other suggestions?” Tom drained his glass.

“Yeah. You get up from this table right now and you walk away and you take your chances on the run. At least there you’ll see them coming rather than get knifed in the back by people you thought you could trust. You’ve done it before.”

“That was different. I had something to trade with the French. The CIA thought I was dead and stopped looking for me. That trick only works once.”

“I can help you,” Archie pleaded, his hands gripping the side of the table. “Come and do this job for me. Get the other egg. I’ve got it all nailed down in Amsterdam. The money for that will set you up somewhere else. I’ve been thinking about a change of scenery myself. Maybe we could go together. Hong Kong? Buenos Aires? You choose.”

“Is that what this has been all about? This fucking job? Do you ever think about anything other than money?”

“I think about staying alive. So should you. I can have your gear ready by tomorrow, latest. The egg’s in a private collection. You know that one we looked at a few years ago and called off? Two, maybe three guards, max. It’ll be easy as pie.” Archie snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. One of his phones rang and he snatched it off the table.

“Yeah…well, you can tell him from me that he’s—” Tom grabbed the phone out of Archie’s hand and dropped it into his largely untouched beer.

“Are you listening to me now? I’ve told you no. I won’t do it.” Tom raised his voice as he said this, his finger stabbing toward Archie. With an angry look, Archie rescued his phone from his glass, wiping it on a paper napkin. The screen had gone blank.

“Are you listening to yourself? You’re going to put all your trust in the same people who betrayed you ten years ago. And you’re going to blow out this job and have Cassius after you, too. It’s not just bad odds, it’s bloody suicide. At least if you walk away and do the job, you’ll only have the Old Bill to worry about. And we both know you can deal with them.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Tom stood up and leaned down toward Archie, his fists resting on the table between them. “If I do what you’re suggesting, I’ll be on the run for the rest of my life. Always looking over my shoulder, unable to trust anyone, running away from shadows. That’s not a life worth living. Yes, it’s risky, but what she’s offering me is the best chance I’ve got of getting out clean. If there’s even the smallest chance that could happen, I’ve got to go for it.”

Archie shook his head and took the back off his dripping phone. A trickle of beer fell onto the table as the plastic cover was released. He looked up at Tom reproachfully.

“And Cassius?”

“Cassius? I don’t know. I’ll just have to deal with him when I see him. If I see him.”

“So you’re not even going to think about it, then?”

“Okay, I’ll think about it if that’s what you want me to say. But you need to think about finding someone else to do that job and soon.”

Archie shook his head, the dying embers of the sun reflecting off first one sunglass lens, then the other.

“If you make the wrong decision, Tom, it’s going to cost us both. I guarantee it.”

He picked his remaining working phone off the table, checked the screen, stood up, adjusted his glasses on his head and melted away into the evening.