Fool Me Twice (Riley Wolfe 2)

“Dear God,” Father Matteo said. “You can’t be serious.”

“But I can,” Koelliker said. “And in fact, I am.”

“But that’s— I can’t believe—”

“You will agree with me that thieves have made attempts on our artifacts in the past? Sometimes even successfully?”

“Yes, certainly, but—”

“And how much would you say the Urbino Bible is worth, Father?”

Father Matteo made a disgusted noise and waved his hand. “That’s an absurd question. It is a great work of art, one of the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts in the world, as well as a monument to faith and—”

“And absolutely encrusted with jewels,” Koelliker said. “Every page adorned with gold leaf. And to a collector, it would be a true prize, wouldn’t you say?”

Father Matteo did not say. There was no need.

Captain Koelliker nodded. “A true prize indeed,” he said.

35

An autumn wind was blowing through Paris, picking lightweight trash from the streets and flinging it along the Champs-Élysées. The front page of yesterday’s Le Figaro whipped past, followed by a handful of leaves, a paper napkin, and a piece of cellophane from a cigarette packet. Flocks of people seemed to blow along, too, as if propelled by the same brisk wind. The wind still had an aftertaste of summer, though, and the natives wore jackets that they did not yet need to button up.

Other flocks strolled slowly—tour groups, families, and couples of all ages holding hands. These people stopped to stare at the things that all their lives they had seen only in books and movies. Most of these people seemed happy—and why not? Paris has a magic that is all its own, and it has some small enchantment for everyone. And Paris never disappoints.

But not all who come to Paris are there to stroll the Champs-Élysées and drink espresso and pastis in the cafés. Because Paris is also a place where very se

rious business is conducted. There are grim, almost Germanic buildings in outer arrondissements, where vast sums of money are manipulated and matters of life and death are decided.

One such forbidding edifice lies east of the grand and beautiful Champs-Élysées, on the Boulevard Mortier. Its appearance is even more grim because even a casual glance reveals security provisions that are only seen at the top tier of government buildings, usually headquarters of military or intelligence organizations.

They are necessary here, because this building is the home of a very serious organization, the DGSE, Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure—the French intelligence agency assigned to deal with external threats to the republic of France and its interests. And in a conference room on the second floor, a group of very serious people was gathered around a table.

At the head of the table was a man with graying hair, a broken nose, and a short and scruffy beard. His name was Bertrand Bouchard, and he was the director of DGSE’s Action Division. This is the section that performs black ops, clandestine missions, and small paramilitary operations where regular troops would be inappropriate or politically embarrassing. Several of Bouchard’s subordinates sat along the side of the table to his left. Without exception, they looked like very hard individuals.

Sitting to Bouchard’s right was FBI SAC Dellmore Finn, flanked by Special Agent Frank Delgado. Next to Delgado was Howard Fleming, who commanded a team from the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group, which was more or less the FBI equivalent of a SWAT team.

“We know of this man, of course,” Bouchard said. “Patrick Boniface is in theory a French citizen. And we know of his, what—his fortress, eh?” He spoke English with the kind of musical French accent that Maurice Chevalier made sound romantic. It did not sound romantic in Bouchard’s speech, however, because his voice was as rough as his face. “This place, Île des Choux, it is guarded by missiles, electronics, mines, and other weapon systems you cannot imagine.” He shrugged. “And so we leave him alone, because he does no great harm to France, and the price is too high.”

Delgado felt a knot forming in his stomach. Not from eating French food; because he wanted this to happen very badly, and Bouchard’s words were not encouraging. In fact, Delgado had been nursing a bad feeling about the whole operation, ever since he had realized that their target, Île des Choux, was nominally a French possession. That meant they could not simply pull the CIRG team together and attack. They had to have French permission and cooperation.

That was usually a tricky thing to procure. France was, of course, an old and valued ally, and a member of NATO as well. But the French can be extremely prickly when it comes to matters of national sovereignty and pride, and it was often difficult to know where they would draw the line.

But they had to try. And so they were here, in Paris, which did not make Delgado happy. The magic of Paris was wasted on him; any magic would be, because he was closer to grabbing Riley Wolfe than he had been before, and he had run into an invisible barrier, a wall of diplomatic, legalistic obstacles that were more prohibitive than barbed wire and land mines. He wanted to stand on the table and shout, knock down all the hurdles and hitches, and leap across the barrier to grab Riley Wolfe.

But he said nothing. He was experienced and smart enough to know that the situation called for diplomacy and tact. He was well aware, too, that neither of these was his strongest suit. Finn was quite good at it when he wanted to be, however. That was one of the reasons he was SAC of a task force that regularly dealt with foreign governments.

So Delgado simply clamped his jaw shut and waited.

“We believe the situation has now changed,” SAC Finn said. Bouchard’s face did not change. It might have been carved out of desert rock, the features etched in by harsh winds over the years. “We have credible information that an attack will be made on Boniface, at Île des Choux.”

“French territory,” Bouchard said. “How is this your affair?”

Finn nodded. “The attack will be made by an American citizen,” he said. “Bailey Stone.”

“Ah,” Bouchard said. His face moved into a small fraction of expression, halfway between interest and indifference. “And so you propose, what? A joint operation?”

“Yes,” Finn said. “Exactly. A joint operation, between your team and our FBI force, led by Agent Fleming.” Fleming nodded, as stone-faced as Bouchard. He was an ex-Marine, a former lieutenant of Force Recon, and clearly did not feel he had to yield anything in toughness.