She ignored him. “You’re very lucky, Cris Rhodes. I attempted to get inside the George V to poison your food, but their security was too tight.” She sneered, “That’s my specialty, poisoning. They put me in the gulag for twenty-eight killings.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  She’s mad, totally bananas. Keep talking, lady. While you’re talking, I’m alive. And while I’m alive, I’m in with a chance.

  “The body count was more like one hundred and twenty-eight.” She giggled and wiped a trickle of drool of her chin, “I poisoned every one of them, and enjoyed watching them die in agony.”

  “Sure you did.”

  He moved a fraction, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’m warning you. Don’t try anything stupid, Mr. Rhodes.”

  What’re you gonna do? Kill me?

  “How come you enjoyed killing so many people? Didn’t you feel anything for them?”

  “Feel!” The word came out as a shriek, “Why would I feel? Men have abused me since I was a little girl, so why should I care about them?”

  “They were all men?”

  A gloating expression came over her face. “All men. All dead.”

  “Madame, je dois passer!”

  The maintenance man was getting angry, and his voice was loud. Maybe if he’d known she was armed it would have been different, but he didn’t know, and it wasn’t different. She swung around; gun raised, and put a bullet into his chest. Rhodes didn’t wait. He leapt forward, and this time wrapped a hand around the barrel of the gun. She couldn’t turn the muzzle into him, and she screamed in frustration and anger. He held on grimly, and she was pummeling his face with her fist, trying to get him to release the barrel, but he had a free hand, too.

  He punched her, a smashing blow into her face, and the bones in her nose gave with a ‘crack.’ Her eyes widened in shock, and she threw a hand up to protect her face. The hand that had been holding the gun, and she realized her mistake. She grabbed for the gun, and he let her have it, a hard, slamming blow into the ruined center of her face. The shriek of agony was feral, a wounded animal, the sound echoing off the glass dome. He drew his hand back to hit her again, and she jerked away. Her body hit the handrail and rebounded back toward him, and he slammed in another hard blow.

  She recoiled, her face displaying the agony of the repeated punches. She tried to avoid the next blow and dodged under the handrail. What she had in mind he’d never know. Probably in her agony she’d forgotten she was on the roof. Assumed all she need do was slip beneath the rail, and she’d avoid the next punishing blow.

  She was correct, at least in theory. She did evade the next blow, but not in the way she’d intended. The would-be killer plunged down toward the beautiful, ornate glass dome, the proud centerpiece of the Galeries Lafayette. Down, down, and she smashed through the first glass panes, which slowed her for no more than a second, and she continued her fall. Through the open center of the store, shrilling a long, loud scream of fear, spite, and fury. The drop was long, and several seconds later he heard the ‘thud’ as she hit the ground below.

  He looked down. She’d collided with a huge, glass display case on the basement level, filled with expensive wristwatches. The glass had shattered into long, slim shards, one of which pierced her body like a sword, and she lay impaled. Unmoving. Heads turned to look up at the dome to see where she’d come from, and on the second floor he saw two faces he recognized. Maria and Jacques, both looking up at him. The Frenchman was quick to recover, and he gestured to him. The meaning was unmistakable.

  Get out of here, now!

  * * *

  Another man was looking upward, and Cris failed to notice him. Vladimir Ushakov had chanced to look over the balcony when the body went past. He knew what had happened the moment he heard the shots. Unlike most shoppers, he hadn’t mistaken them for firecrackers. It was too much to hope she’d killed the interfering American, and so it proved. Lydia Litvak was dead, the last of his killers from the gulag. The mostly-mad prisoners he’d brought back from the dead, and they’d all failed him. Perhaps he should have done it himself. In his former days with KGB, he’d been an assassin, and his skills were legendary.

  He quickly left the store and hailed a cab. “Russian Embassy.”

  As the taxi threaded through the Paris traffic, he was firming up his plans, and felt a rising tide of excitement. It would be just like old times. On arrival at the Embassy he paid the driver and went inside the building. First, he put through an internal call to a man who occupied a room in a dingy hotel. The room was packed with computer equipment, and he knew the man he spoke to would be hunched over a keyboard. Like he was every waking moment.

  “It’s not over. I need to know their movements for the next twenty-four hours. Everything.”

  “I’ll get onto it right away. Mr. Ushakov, Sir, when this is done, you will keep your side of the bargain? A new identity, and a visa for America.”

  “I guarantee it. I will even fix up a work visa for you, a green card. You are too valuable for me to do otherwise. Get moving with that itinerary. I want to know everything they are planning. Everything.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s as good as done.”

  Dmitry Novokov, the hacker who’d uniquely broken into the President of Russia’s personal email account, would not let him down. Ushakov had given him a second chance. There wouldn’t be a third chance, and he knew it. If he failed, what awaited him was a bullet to the back of the head, the traditional punishment for enemies of Mother Russia. And failures.

  “Don’t let me down.”

  Afterward, I’ll arrange a little accident for you. You know too much, and if it got out, it could damage me. That is unacceptable.

  Chapter Five

  They made it back to their suite in the George V, avoiding the cops who’d burst into the Galeries Lafayette after the shootings. Cris didn’t anticipate any problems. After all, the dead woman had shot two men and then killed herself. Although jumping through a glass roof was an odd way to commit suicide. He doubted there were CCTV cameras up on that maintenance ramp to capture what had happened. As far as the Paris police were concerned, they were in the clear. They could pack their things and get out of France without fear of arrest. Maria had other ideas.

  "Cris, there's one thing I haven’t done, and this could be my last chance. It’s something that’s been on my bucket list for a long, long time, and I wouldn't want to miss it. I might never come back here, if the French cops have their way.”

  "What is this thing?”

  She glanced out the window, and she was smiling. "Look outside. It's a beautiful sunny day. Blue skies, and the threat is over. We’re safe."

  “We don't know that. Remember, Ushakov is still in Paris."

  The smile faded, and she flicked her hair back in irritation. "He’s just a bureaucrat, a pen pusher. Ushakov gets other men to do his dirty work. On his own he’s no threat. Besides, he doesn't have time to organize more shooters. The guy’s a busted flush."

  "You could be right, but I don't want to take any chances. Not after everything we’ve been through. I want to get you back to the States alive, back to your son. You must miss him."

  “Of course I miss Alexander, very much. But he is safer where he is. Please, Cris, it’ll be fine. You’ll love it, a boat trip on the Seine. Just a nice peaceful cruise along the river."

  He tried to put her off, although he didn’t tell her the whole truth. His chest was on fire, as if it was about to explode. He wanted to get back to the States to get the lump of lead removed. "You’ve seen those river cruisers, packed with tourists. Somehow, that doesn't look your kind of thing."

  "It isn’t, but there are smaller craft. They hold a dozen or so people. They call them inflatable RIBs. I've seen them going quite fast, so it would be a thrill. We can’t leave without doing this.”

  “No. You’d be too exposed, and it would be an insane risk."

  Ten minutes later, he logged onto the internet, and booked three tickets. Like she’d said, it was a RIB, a rigid inflatable boat. Big, fast, and stable. He called Jacques to their suite and explained what they'd be doing. His only comment was, "If we get into trouble, the boat looks fast enough to get out of it."

  “You think there could be a risk?”

  He raised an eyebrow, without answering. By mid-morning, they were traveling on the Paris Metro toward the Left Bank of the River Seine where they would embark on Maria’s bucket list boat trip. She’d assured them they’d enjoy it. This would be pure relaxation.

  “Don’t bring any guns. We’re going to have a great time.”

  They made certain their guns were tucked under their coats.

  * * *

  He was in the tiny office they’d allocated to him inside the Embassy; trembling with rage at the thought she’d thwarted him again.

  Should I return to Russia, where I’ll face the wrath of my President. Or should I consider setting up home in another country? Somewhere I’ll be safe from Kremlin retribution.

  He was still thinking about it when the call came through. Dmitry Novokov.

  "Mr. Ushakov, I’ve got something. I scanned for anything that came up in the next twenty-four hours that included the names Maria Tereshkova and Cris Rhodes. I got a hit."

  “Go on.”

  "They booked three seats on a riverboat, a cruise along the Seine. I imagine they’d be vulnerable riding a slow moving riverboat."

  He felt the feeling in his guts, the old familiar surge of adrenaline. “You could be right.” He wrote down the information, “Dmitry, what’s your next move?”

  “I formatted the hard drives like you told me. A low-level format, it would be impossible to retrieve any data from them.”

  Nothing is impossible, that’s something my opponents have learned the hard way. And it could work against me. If the authorities get hold of Novokov’s equipment, who knows what they could extract from it?

  “Good. What about the data server?”

  “I’m working on it now, Sir.”

  “You have done well. I will come to your hotel and hand you the new passport and visa, as well as the sum of money we agreed upon. Continue dismantling your equipment, and make sure the hard drives are all wiped.”

  Ushakov tucked a silenced pistol in his coat and raced out of the Embassy. He had to reach Novokov before he sensed anything wrong and made a run for it. He arrived outside the crumbling hotel in a poor immigrant district of Paris and raced up the stairs. He knocked the door. There was no answer. He pushed the door and it was unlocked.

  Novokov wasn’t there and neither was the equipment. He was furious, but he had more important things on his mind. As he exited the hotel, he was thinking. The hacker had been correct, a boat on the River Seine would move slowly, making for an easy target.

  Once he’d been employed to travel the world and kill the enemies of the Soviet State. After the demise of the KGB, many of his colleagues had moved sideways to the SVR or the FSB. Some had taken enforced retirement. He’d chosen a different path, and the door of the Kremlin had opened for him. His present boss knew of his skills, and offered him the post of special personal assistant. Now he would employ those skills again.

  Despite the passage of time, he doubted he’d lost any of his lethal abilities. Perhaps his speed would be a little less than it was once, but it was like riding a bike. Once you learned, you never forgot. He knew the place and the time from where the boat would embark, and he used his hands-free phone to call the resident SVR agent.

  “I will be in your office less than an hour. I need a weapon.”

  Forty minutes later, he was entering the office of the resident.

  “I need an automatic rifle, something compact."

  “An assault rifle?" The man barked with laughter, "What are you planning? To start a war?"

  He gave the man a cold, hard stare. “Can you give me one or not?"

  The SVR resident looked at Ushakov’s expression and sobered. He remembered the stories about this man in the old days and recalled he was a creature of the Kremlin. Which meant the President. Not a man to cross.

  "You'd better come down to the armory."

  He carried the weapon away in a nylon sports bag. Traveling in the cab on the way to the river, he once more felt his pulse quicken. Just like old times. As well as the AKS-74, he had the silenced pistol under his coat. The old training had come back to him, and if he were to attack and kill Tereshkova, he'd need a means to get close to them on the river. He climbed out of the cab and went looking for what he wanted. He found it along the bank of the river. A man was working on a polished mahogany speedboat, a superb example of the famous Rive Gauche, the Italian-made plaything of millionaires.

  He looked like a mechanic, and Ushakov nodded a greeting. "That’s a nice boat you have there."

  The man stared at him as if he was a moron. "Are you an expert, do you want to buy her? Half a million euros."

  “It belongs to you?"

  He burst out laughing. "Not a chance. I just do the work so the men with the money can take their pretty girlfriends for rides along the river."

  “Would you mind if I had a closer look? It’s such a beautiful craft."

  The man was hesitant at first, but eventually he gave a reluctant nod. “Be careful not to put any finger marks on the varnish."

  He stepped off the wooden dock onto the vessel. The silenced pistol was in his hand, held low and out of sight.

  “This is a beautiful boat. I’m very grateful you let me have a look."

  “A beautiful boat if you’re a millionaire," he grunted.

  "Or an assassin."

  Ushakov had spoken in Russian, and the man didn’t understand. The pistol coughed twice. He lowered the body into the water and pushed it out of sight under the overhang of the dock. The controls were simple, a key to start the engine, forward and reverse gears, and a throttle. When he turned the key, the needles on the panel flipped over, showing the gas tank full. He turned the key a fraction more, and the engine throbbed into life. He cast off the mooring lines, sat behind the wheel, and engaged forward gear.

  The powerful marine engine responded, and the vessel skipped out onto the river. He spun the wheel, narrowly avoiding a crowded trip boat. The angry driver banged on the klaxon horn to order him out of the way. Ushakov smiled to himself as he spun the little craft around and headed upriver. The driver of that boat was fortunate. In another time and place, he'd have put a bullet through his head for his insolence.

  He steered the craft along the river. The tourist RIB was loading passengers, and he estimated it was almost ready to start the trip. He saw Maria Tereshkova amongst the throng, and he was satisfied. The RIB would be faster than he’d anticipated, but he could deal with that. A mile downstream, he came to a wide bridge with several arches, and he tucked the boat into the narrowest arch, closest to the bank. Realization dawned. He was next to the famous island on which the Cathedral of Notre Dame stood.

  Scene of a previous failure, but this time, things will be different. Maria Tereshkova is about to meet an expert.

  When the RIB came through the bridge, he'd open fire immediately. He carried five spare magazines, over a hundred bullets in all, and his plan was simple. He’d rake the boat from front to back with automatic fire. Keep firing, changing magazines, and when he'd finished, the vessel would be a sinking wreck, its only cargo a heap of dead bodies.

  Another man may have stopped to consider the unnecessary and appalling collateral casualties, but Ushakov wasn't another man. During his KGB days, he’d never stop to consider the trail of bodies he left behind him. The question of collateral damage had never bothered him in the past. Why should it now? He cradled the AKS in his hands, keeping it out of sight, so that passers-by wouldn't be alarmed by the armed man sitting in the expensive speedboat. All he had to do was wait.

  * * *

  She was enjoying every minute of the ride. He was happy for her, despite the agony of torment in his chest. He’d made a mistake not getting it tended to before they left the States, but now he’d have to live with it. Jacques sat behind them, sandwiched between an older couple. They kept nudging him to point out the landmarks as they went past, as if he wasn’t a Parisian, and hadn’t lived in the city for most of his life. He’d managed to source a replacement Walther, and despite Maria’s optimism, something told him he was going to need it. The Frenchman was looking everywhere, watching the path alongside the river, checking out passing boats, and even scrutinizing the other passengers on the RIB. After they’d traveled a mile without incident, Jacques visibly relaxed, and he leaned back against the seat.

  Cris noticed and glanced at him. "You haven't seen anything suspicious?"

  "Nothing. We may not have anything to worry about."

  “Keep watching."

  “Don’t worry, I will."

  They were approaching the Ile de la Cite, with the smaller island of Ile Saint Louis to the east. The bridge that crossed to the island and the Cathedral of Notre Dame was built on several arches, but Cris wasn't looking at the bridge. He was staring up at the Cathedral, recalling the fight he'd had with Ushakov's shooter. He’d been lucky to walk away from that one without a murder rap hanging over his head.

  He looked across at Maria, and she was still smiling. "Cris, look, you can see everything from here, almost the whole of Paris.”

  “You’re having a good time?"

  She took his hand and gazed into his eyes. "This is wonderful. Like I said, we don't have anything to worry about. Ushakov is finished. He won’t even know we’re here."

  The moment she spoke, he felt his guts churn. Each time she’d predicted the threat had ended, she'd been wrong. Almost as soon as she said the words, the bullets had started flying.

  He’d never discovered where they’d got their intelligence. Almost like they were looking into a crystal ball. He’d made sure their cellphones were clean of any surveillance, and switched off the GPS. He’d also gone through every stitch of their clothing, and every item of their luggage and possessions for bugs. There were none. For once she could be right. Maybe.