through the crowds, constantly remaining in the company of one group after another until he was within fifty feet of the rendezvous. He studied the two men between the two imposing statues; they were calm, as immobile as the monuments, the immobility only slightly marred by their slowly turning heads. Latham moved with his current group of tourists, instantly, alarmingly, noting that they were Asian and uniformly much shorter than he. Another small crowd of Westerners was coming from the opposite direction; he joined it, ironically realizing by the language that these sightseers were German. Perhaps it was a favorable omen; then it became practically optimistic. As one, the group closed in on the monument to Napoleon, conqueror of conquerors, and by the stridency of the comments there was a certain unmistakable association. [email protected] Nappy! thought Drew as he kept his eyes on the two false couriers, now less than ten feet away. It was the moment to do something, but Latham was not sure what it was. Then it came to him. Les rues de Montparnasse.
Pickpockets! The scourge of the seventh ariondissement.
He chose the thinnest, least imposing woman nearest him and suddenly grabbed her shoulder bag. She screamed, "Ein Dieb!" In the semidarkness, Drew threw the purse to an unsuspecting man closest to the first false messenger from the embassy, and pummeled a couple into him, then another man and then another, while shouting unintelligible words in ersatz German. In seconds, a minor riot was taking place in front of Napoleon's statue, the screams reaching a rapid crescendo as everyone in the crowd tried to locate the thief and his stolen property in the shadows. The first illegitimate courier was caught up in the melee; he awkwardly struggled against the encompassing crowd, when suddenly -Latham stood in front Of him.
"Heil Hitler," said Drew quietly in counterpoint to the surrounding hysterical voices as he punched the man in the throat with all his strength. As the neo collapsed, Latham dragged him away, pulling him into the darkness behind the row of statues that overlooked the Eiffel Tower, its majestic spires bathed in floodlights.
He had to get the man out of the Troca&ro! Get him out but avoid the second courier and whatever backups there were in the black sedan. He had come prepared to this rendezvous as he had to the others, with equipment willingly provided by the Antinayous.
A medical spray of
Arcane that would numb the vocal chords, a wire garrote that served to immobilize wrists, and a cellular phone with an untraceable number. He exercised the first two, taking a moment off to render his awakening captive back into unconsciousness, then pulled out the phone from his inside pocket. He dialed the colonel's unlisted home number.
"Yes?" came the soft voice over the line.
"Witkowski, it's me. I've got one."
"Where are you?"
"The Trocadero, north side, last statue."
"The situation?"
"I'm not sure. There's another man, and a car, a black four-door parked above. Who's in it, I don't know."
"Is the place crowded?"
"Half and half."
"How did you grab your target?"
"Have we got time for this?"
"If I'm to operate effectively, we make time. How?"
"A crowd of tourists near the marks. I stole a purse and started a riot!
"That's good. We'll escalate. I'll call the police and say we believe an American may have been murdered for his money."
"They were German."
"That's hardly relevant. The sirens will be' there in a few minutes. Get to the south side and work your way to the street. I'll be there soon."
"Jesus, Stanley, the guy's dead weight!"
"You out of shape?"
"Hell, no, but what do I say if I'm stopped?"
"He's a drunken American. Everyone in Paris loves to hear that.
Should I repeat -it in French-actually it doesn't matter, you'll do better your way-more believable. Get going!"
True to the colonel's words, ninety seconds later the clamorous hee-haws of the Paris police filled the vast complex of the Trocadero as five, patrol cars converged on the entrance. The crowds raced toward the street and the excitement as Latham, his arms supporting a dragging figure, hurried across the concrete to the south side. Once behind the statuary, he lifted the neo over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and raced up the darkness to the street. The Nazi's body slumped beside him, Drew knelt waiting for Witkowski's signal. It came when an embassy car swerved into the curb, its lights flashing on and off twice, the basic signal to evacuate.