Private Paris (Private 10)

THE HOOKER, THE props, the locks, and the flankers were tight in the scrum when the eighth man joined them, and the battle began.

On a pitch in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the scrum half player snatched up the rugby ball and pitched it to the fly, who sprinted madly to the outside of a defensive mob in full pursuit. The fly passed the ball to the inside center, who took a hit, but not before he lobbed the ball on to Émile Sauvage.

Sauvage snagged the rugby ball out of the air, tucked it, and accelerated right at his enemy. He smashed the heel of his palm into the face of the first defender and broke into the open field. Out of the defensive pack a big coal-black guy appeared. Moving laterally with tremendous speed and agility despite his bulk, he seemed sure to flatten Sauvage.

But a fraction of a second before he could, Sauvage laid down a stutter step that suggested he’d change direction. The feint worked. His pursuer planted a foot so hard to cut the other way that he tripped and sprawled while Sauvage loped on toward the in-goal area.

A whistle blew. Sauvage slowed to a stop well shy of the try line and went back to help the big guy to his feet. “You didn’t roll that ankle, did you, Mfune?”

Mfune smiled, shook his head, and said in the clipped French of West Africa, “Nice move, though.”

“Keep them guessing, embrace the chaos,” he said. “It’s the only way to survive and win a battle. Any battle.”

“Best tactic,” Mfune agreed.

The other players were drinking water and gathering their gear. Practice was over.

Sauvage said, “I think we have time for a few rounds before the lecture, don’t you?”

“If we’re quick about it.”

They grabbed their bags and water bottles and hurried off the field, crossing an equestrian track and parking area to get to a three-story, tan-colored building. They passed through double doors, went to a locker room, stored their cleats and practice jerseys, and retrieved their pistol cases.

After signing into the fifty-meter range in the basement, they received 9-millimeter ammunition, ear protection, and shooting glasses.

They set human assailant silhouette targets at thirty-five meters, loaded their MAC 50 pistols, and fired in five quick, two-round bursts until their weapons were empty. When they called back the targets, they saw that four of Mfune’s shots were to the forehead, and six clustered over the heart.

All ten of Sauvage’s bullets, however, had patterned tight between the eyes. They cased their pistols, turned in their protective gear, and returned to the locker room. Drying off after a shower and shave, Sauvage moved to his locker, already forcing his complex mind to compartmentalize.

The uniform helped as it always did.

In short order, he was dressed in French Army–issued khaki shirt and trousers, a black tie, and a green commando sweater with epaulets. Polished black shoes and a green garrison cap completed the transformation.

He shut his locker door. Mfune was dressed and ready as well.

Mfune gave him a crisp salute and said, “Major Sauvage.”

“Captain Mfune,” Sauvage replied.

“I don’t know why these guest lectures always occur at night,” Mfune complained softly. “And tonight of all nights.”

“At ease, Captain,” Sauvage said. “We’ve got a few hours before AB-16 is launched.”

The French Army officers left the locker room and walked outside across a cobblestone courtyard. Other men and women in uniform were already hurrying into a two-story buff-colored building through light-blue doors in nee

d of paint. Next to the door, a brass plaque read, “École de Guerre.”

War School.

Chapter 5

5:15 p.m.

LOUIS WAS RIGHT about plumber being the perfect disguise.

We passed four or five small groups of menacing-looking types, and as soon as they’d had a hard stare at our plumber’s logo, they relaxed and looked away. The last group was out in front of the entrance to the address we’d been given, a building at the rear of Les Bosquets.

I remembered enough from high school French class to understand when one of the guys asked where we were going. Louis never broke stride, just went past him saying something I couldn’t follow. It seemed to do the trick, however, because no one trailed us into the lobby, which featured poor lighting; a wall of mailboxes, many broken; and a cement floor that was cracked and offset in several places.