The Paris Betrayal

  “A masterful thriller is created by a masterful writer, and James R. Hannibal is at the top of my list. I devoured every page with the lights on!”

  DiAnn Mills, DiAnnMills.com, author of Airborne

  “James Hannibal once again displays his dazzling prose and ability to keep even the more experienced readers guessing. In The Paris Betrayal, Hannibal sets his hook deep and early, then drags you through a riveting, edge-of-your-seat story. Another gripping, high-octane book from one of the best thriller writers in the business.”

  Simon Gervais, former RCMP counterterrorism officer and bestselling author of Hunt Them Down

  “Riveting and action-packed! The Paris Betrayal is everything you want in a thriller—suspense, intrigue, and white-knuckle action. Hannibal has a knack for keeping you guessing in a plot that moves at a breakneck speed. This is one you don’t want to miss!”

  Ronie Kendig, bestselling author of The Tox Files

  © 2021 by James R. Hannibal

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-3045-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Half Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

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  4

  5

  6

  7

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  71

  Author Note

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  PIAZZA DEL POPOLA

  ROME

  PRESENT DAY

  From a rooftop perch, Ben Calix watched the courier leave the Tiber and cross the piazza. He traced his scope from the man’s temple down to his forearm. No cuff secured his wrist to the steel briefcase. Foolish. Ben’s team had been tracking that case since Morocco. This morning, they’d claim their treasure.

  “Micro, Saber has eyes on.”

  “I hate that call sign.”

  Ben frowned in Dylan’s direction, his young Welsh hacker-slash-technician, out of sight and grumbling in the ancient sewer beneath Rome’s Piazza del Popolo. Smelly, but warmer than Ben’s post. The night’s frost still whitened the stone lip of the roof. He shivered, returning his eye to the scope. “Now is not the time, Micro.”

  “Right. Sorry. Micro copies your eyes-on call. I’m flipping the switch. The system is hot.”

  The day’s first tourists filtered out onto the streets—the early risers and the overzealous fathers dragging bleary-eyed kids. In this city, even in the dead of winter, an operative could always count on a crowd. Rome—the true neutral ground of the espionage world. The Swiss claim neutrality, but everyone knows they have an underlying conscience. Rome does not.

  The Italians maintain a true laissez-faire approach. Americans, Russians, Iranians—everyone does their own thing with impunity. Bullets must fly in the open streets for the Italian cops to take an interest.

  Ben dialed in the scope’s rangefinder. “Nightingale, he’s twenty meters out. You’re on.”

  Giselle Laurent, a platinum blonde for this op and sporting faux fur, tipped her oversize sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “I see him. Poor little man.” She set off from her post at the piazza’s sphynx fountain on a course to intercept.

  “See,” Dylan said, jamming up the comms. “That’s what I’m talking about. The Company gave you Saber, like you’re the tip of the spear or something. Miss Tall, Questionably Blonde, and Gorgeous gets Nightingale. And what do I get? Micro. What are they implying?”

  “They’re implying you’re short. Shut up. She’s almost there.” Ben wiggled a black box in his fingers, as if the kid could see it. “The thing you gave me. Do I need to point it like a TV remote?”

  “A TV remote? Nice, Grandpa.”

  “I’m barely thirty.”

  “You’re making my point. It’s not a TV remote or a gun. No need to point it at anything. The antenna is omnidirectional.”

  “Uh. Sure. The antenna.” Ben turned the box over and found a black rubber nub buried in a hole in the top. He grabbed it with his teeth and pulled. “Got it.”

  Down in the piazza, Giselle hit her target full on with a cappuccino. Ben winced at her squeal, piercing despite the comm link’s static. She bellowed at the target in French about fur coats and coffee stains, poking him in the chest. He backed away, expertly steered into a lamppost with a false utility box Dylan had placed there the night before. Trapped, the courier set his case down to fend off the crazy fur lady.

  In the middle of her tirade, Giselle spoke the trigger word. “Mink.”

  Ben pressed the switch.

  By the time the courier reached for his case again, Dylan’s contraption had swapped it with a duplicate—same make and weight, thanks to Giselle’s photos and Dylan’s calculations. A moment later, Ben heard the buzz of a motorbike in his earpiece—Dylan tearing away through the sewers with the prize. “Micro has the package. Contents look good. I’m off.”

  Ben didn’t envy the courier, poked and swatted by Giselle before breakfast and destined for a pre-lunch beating once the buyer opened a case full of blank papers and empty steel tubes. But he’d brought the beating on himself with his sins. Ben and Giselle wouldn’t interfere. They’d need to watch the buyer to see what he did next, now that they’d messed with his world.

  With the real case in hand and the buyer under surveillance, the Company would finally get a trace on the organization behind the destruction in Munich, St. Petersburg, and Tokyo. Each strike built upon the ferocity and death toll of the last until Rotterdam, when the bomber had botched his job and killed only himself.

  Rotterdam was the break the Company needed. An undetonated fra
gment proved the attacks involved a new type of explosive—CRTX, five times as powerful as C4 and previously considered impossible to make. With the bomb compound identified, the Company field operatives went into overdrive searching for leads. Ben found the big one. An Algerian contact in his home base of Paris hinted at an order of rare chemicals heading to a bomb maker. Ben put a hasty mission together, pulling in Giselle and the Company’s top tinker—Dylan. The Algerian’s info led them to the case, and the case led them here.

  “Micro,” Ben said, laying his scope in its case. “That’s a job well done. Enjoy the flight home. Nightingale, keep tabs on the target. I’ll—”

  A shadow darkened Ben’s perch. Strong arms flipped him over and slammed him down, breaking roof tiles.

  A brute stood over him—bald, Arab, packing a SIG. “Enjoying the show, Mr. Calix?”

  “Massir?” The Algerian—the criminal from Paris whose rumor about an order of bomb-making chemicals led Ben to the case. Ben feigned relief and exasperation and rolled onto his shoulder, hiding his hand in his coat pocket. “Did you follow me?”

  He didn’t give Massir a chance to answer. In a snap motion, Ben reversed his body and used the momentum to scissor the Algerian’s legs from beneath him. The SIG flew from Massir’s hand. Scrambling over the tiles, Ben pinned him down, one knee on an arm and the other across his chest. His left hand brushed Massir’s side, leaving behind a gift.

  Massir swung a knife.

  Ben jerked his face back and caught the man’s wrist. He clamped a hand over the fingers, trapping the blade. “Bad idea.” A strike to the elbow bent Massir’s arm, and with both hands, Ben pressed the knife down until the tip found Massir’s Adam’s apple. “When we met in Paris, I used an alias. How do you know my real name?”

  “Jupiter has been watching you. He is pleased.”

  Screams hit Ben’s ears—two versions of the same scream, one live and one over the comm link. Giselle.

  “Saber, this is Micro.” The echoing howl of a motorbike in a sewer pipe nearly drowned out Dylan’s voice. “Something’s wrong.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Should I go back?”

  “And do what?” Ben knocked Massir out with a right cross. “You never carry a gun.” He launched himself over the ledge and rode the fire escape down until it clanked against its stop, leaving him dangling five feet above the pavement. He dropped to the ground in a crouch. “Go, Dylan. Get out of here.”

  Ben rose and turned. The crowd before him scattered, some running for their lives.

  Fifty meters away, a red-haired man the size of a small house held Giselle by the neck, dragging her backward toward a runabout bobbing against the Tiber River docks.

  Ben charged.

  Giselle’s attacker raised a SIG like Massir’s to her neck. “Stay back. I’ll kill her.”

  Without slowing, Ben drew a Glock and leveled it. “Not a chance.”

  2

  With a speed Ben could never match, Giselle’s hand flashed up to her attacker’s wrist. The gun spat as she pushed it away. A single round sparked off an ancient paver, eliciting new screams and gasps from the onlookers brave enough to have hung around. Giselle elbowed him in the ribs and spun. “Now!”

  Two quick trigger pulls sent the redhead reeling off the dock. His skull glanced off the hull of a runabout, and he sank like a stone. Ben advanced, keeping his weapon trained on the cold froth that remained.

  Whistles blew. Shouts reached his ears from a hundred meters away. He tucked the Glock away. “Giselle?”

  “I’m fine. We need to go. Contingency Alpha?”

  “Yeah. See you soon.”

  Giselle ran west across the bridge. Ben headed east through the piazza and into the maze of gardens and monuments comprising Villa Borghese. He scanned the walkways and trails.

  The courier was gone.

  Too many eyes witnessed the shooting. Bullets had flown in the streets. Ben had crossed the Italian cops’ only line, and now they’d come looking. He’d have to lose himself for a while—no time to search for the courier. Fortunately, he’d created another option to salvage the mission.

  Pick up the trash, boys. The gravelly voice of Colonel Hale, the Company schoolmaster, still rang in Ben’s ears on every field op.

  Field ops are like hockey. One miss doesn’t mean the play is over. When your team takes a shot and the puck glances off the post, trap the rebound and slap it home. Pick up the trash. The heart of field ops is flexibility. Missions go wrong. Deal with it. Regroup and try another angle.

  Ben slipped between a pair of sculpted hollies to let a cop run by. He’d trapped this mission’s puck by placing a tracker on Massir during the rooftop scuffle. He’d lost one quarry but picked up another—one who knew way more than he should.

  The smartphone in Ben’s pocket buzzed. He checked the screen. Massir had reached the limits of the tracker’s range, deeper into the park gardens. Ben broke into a jog, fallen leaves crunching under his Oxfords. A tracker allowed him to split his attention—evade the cops while following his quarry. But this one had a severely limited range.

  Trackers with full satellite connectivity never got much smaller than a smartwatch—good for planting on gofers and delivery boys, but not real players with the training to spot them. For alert adversaries, Ben preferred a lighter touch. He’d placed a thumbnail-sized patch known as an echo on Massir’s coat. Nothing fancy. Just two layers of electromagnetic insulation to passively reflect a short-range signal from Ben’s phone—caveman tech by Dylan’s standards. “The oldies still have their place in the field,” Ben had told him when the Welshman scoffed at the echo earlier that morning. “Like my dad used to say when building cabinets. For some jobs, a hand tool serves better than an electric, as long as you don’t mind hard work.”

  He slowed, checking behind him for cops. His gray canvas trousers and a wool coat helped him blend into most crowds, but they didn’t fit the image of a man out for a jog. On the upside, the run pulled Massir’s blip into a comfortable range, continuing south along one of the park’s gravel paths.

  The park’s tree-covered path gave way to a set of worn stone switchbacks descending to a sidewalk and a busy street. A light snow fell, making the cobblestone walk slippery. Ben pulled his coat tight and ventured off the curb into the chaos, dodging a scooter and offering a congenial wave in answer to the angry shouts of a taxi driver. On the other side, he joined the flow of pedestrians passing between the gate towers of an ancient wall. His target had crossed into the old city. Ben checked his watch, cognizant of the fact that while he pursued his quarry, the Italian cops were pursuing him.

  Go far fast. Then go farther faster. Ben heard Colonel Hale in his head again.

  In the mathematics of escape, time and distance have an exponential relationship. Move two or three hundred meters away from the crime scene in the first three minutes, while confusion reigns. In the next five, as hair and clothing descriptions are gathered and police radio nets go active, you need to be on a train or bus, putting kilometers between yourself and the scene.

  Ben needed to talk to Massir, but hanging around in the city put him at risk of capture or exposure, and by extension, his whole team.

  The echo, two streets ahead, shifted west. Ben did the same. He turned one street short and paralleled its course, quickening his steps. If he could move ahead and find a crossing alley, he could intercept.

  Mistake.

  No alley appeared. In a sector of Rome known for narrow passages and hidden courtyards, Ben had picked the one block without a single cross-through. Ahead, a cop wearing the black coat and wheel cap of the old city polizia looked his way, talking into his radio. By now, they’d recovered the sniper scope and broken tiles on the rooftop. They’d have questions Ben didn’t feel like answering. He averted his eyes and made an abrupt turn through the open doors of a basilica.

  The blip kept going, moving out ahead of him on a street Ben couldn’t reach. He’d lost the courier, and it l
ooked like he might lose Massir too.

  3

  Ben hurried down the marble colonnade beside the pews. A crack of light appeared at the far end—a door opening. He broke into a run and squeezed through, nodding to the entering priest. “Grazie, Padre.”

  Confusion creased the priest’s brow. “Eh . . . Prego?”

  Steps led down to a small piazza where pigeons fluttered Ben’s way. He jogged to a stop in a courtyard and checked his phone. Massir stopped too. But where? The blip covered the square’s opposite half. At close range, the echo reflected a signal too large for precision.

  The locals coming out to snap pictures of the rare snowfall strengthened the numbers of the usual tourist crowd. Ben spotted a familiar jacket on a man facing away from him. The bald head, partially hidden beneath a new winter cap, turned left and right as if looking for a contact.

  He closed in. Fifteen meters. Ten. Five. The Glock came out of its holster, held low.

  The target wheeled around and stretched out a hand to a woman near Ben. “There you are. I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I stopped to get a picture.”

  The two embraced. The man kissed her on the cheek. Wrong guy.

  Ben altered course and hid the Glock under his coat, coming to rest against a rounded wall in the courtyard’s northwest corner. The echo’s signal return surrounded him. It made no sense. Massir had to be right on top of him.

  Right on top.

  He turned to glance up at the rounded wall—red plaster, marred and broken, so much older than everything around it. He chuckled at himself. Coming upon it from the rear quarter, Ben hadn’t recognized the famous circular structure. The Pantheon. The upper level’s hidden corridor might be a great place for a meet. Massir had to be inside.

  Three-story bronze doors led to a marble rotunda surrounded by angelic statues. A shaft of gray, littered with falling snow, shone through the open oculus at the dome’s peak. The tourists entering with Ben gaped up at the iconic hole, once a natural spotlight for the emperor. Ben’s gaze went straight to a set of wooden steps between the inner and outer walls, guarded by a velvet rope. He unclipped it and walked through as if he worked there. No one challenged him.

  Red ropes always have a reason. The upper passage, created using an early version of concrete, had started to crumble since the last time Ben worked a job in Rome. He crawled through an obstacle course of scaffolding filling the tight space, built as much to hold the place together as to support the restoration. He reached an arch looking out across the interior, locked an arm over the scaffolding, and hung sideways in the planks and pipes, listening. Whispered voices hovered above the crowd, caught in the strange acoustics of the dome. One male—Massir. One female.