Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

He drove all the way out to the Grand Arch, turning sporadically, doubling back, and in truth, not paying too much attention to whether or not he was being followed. That would come later. If they'd found the bike while he was in the hotel they could have concealed a transmitter. These types of devices kept shrinking in size and increasing in sophistication. He did not have the wherewithal to keep up with such things, so he had to take other countermeasures. As he drove through the city he was in no rush to finish the first act. There would be many tonight. It would all depend on what his very acute sixth sense told him. For this leg of the journey he went through the motions and thought more about the contract he'd been offered than the real or imagined people who might or might not be following him.

He parked the bike near the Victor Hugo metro stop in the Chaillot Quarter and left the keys in the ignition. It would be stolen within thirty minutes. He took the blue line clear across town. From there the assassin found his way up the steep steps, took in a few breaths of the cool night air, and lit a cigarette. He was a handsome man in a very masculine way. He was of average height and build, standing one inch shy of six feet and weighing 172 pounds. His longish dark hair was the color of his black leather motorcycle jacket, and was tucked behind his ears. He hadn't shaved in two days and his face was covered with a thick dark stubble. He had the uncanny ability to blend into a crowd when he wanted to, which was strange when one considered the fact that he was quite striking.

He finished the cigarette, flicked it end over end, and then ground it into the sidewalk with his boot. While he did this he looked around, noting any parked cars and people who seemed to be standing about. As soon as he had a complete picture in his mind he went back down into the metro. It was now that he went on full alert. The subterranean tunnels were not very crowded at this time of night so it was relatively easy to catalogue the various faces. He timed it just right and at the last second jumped onto a departing train. Five minutes later he got off at the St. Ambroise Station, where he took a casual five-block walk to the St. Paul Station and descended once again. And so it went for nearly an hour. After that, he walked awhile, stopping at a few off-the-beaten-path taverns where he had a beer and thought about the turn his life had just taken, and how she would react when she heard the name. He had a pretty good idea. He knew her well enough. As the clock struck midnight he decided he couldn't put it off any longer. He was confident he had not been followed, so he drained his glass and went to the apartment.

She was up waiting, as she always was. Beneath her calm demeanor she was as taut as a wire. She knew he wasn't reckless, although he walked a fine line. It was just that they did not lead an average life. She cast her book and afghan to the side, revealing a silenced Glock pistol. She was in tactical mode just like he had taught her. They had been through this drill so many times it had become second nature. At this late hour she should have been in bed or at least in her pajamas, but she wasn't. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tight black sweater. Two backpacks, loaded with only essentials, sat ready to go by the door. They always had to be prepared to run at a moment's notice.

She stood and walked over to him, raising her arms and enveloping him in an embrace. In French she whispered in his ear, "Louie, why must you always make me wait?" She rested her head against his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief.

He had many names, but the one given to him at birth was Louis-Philippe Gould. That part of his life seemed like ancient history now. She was the only person who ever used his given name. He gently placed one hand on the back of her head while his other hand found the familiar exposed skin of her bare hip. His groin began to swell almost immediately. He had been with many women-so many in fact he had lost count, but she topped them all.

"How did it go?" she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head and smelled her freshly washed hair. "I think we need to open a bottle of wine." The sex would come later.

She lifted her head and took a step back. "That bad?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't say bad…just…" He didn't bother to finish the sentence.

Taking him by the hand, she led him into the tiny kitchen. She was a good listener. "I'll get the glasses. You get the bottle."

The one-bedroom apartment came furnished, and they'd paid for the first six months in cash. They'd only been there eight days, and they would leave in the morning. The chances of them returning were slim. There was some cheap art on the walls, a couch, a chair, and a color TV that didn't work. The bedroom consisted of a bed barely big enough for the two of them, and a rickety dresser. The kitchen hadn't been remodeled in thirty years, but none of this bothered them. They were used to living a life void of material possessions. They had traveled the world together, staying in cockroach-infested hostels and war-ravaged villages. Hot water and indoor plumbing were luxuries. The rest of the stuff was mere distraction. He was thirty-two and she was twenty-nine. They were still young. Someday they'd spoil themselves with the finer things in life, but not yet. Luxury softened the primal instincts, and they needed every last ounce of those instincts to do their job.

She sat on the couch while he opened the bottle of red. The path that led Louie to his current profession was unusual, but he doubted no more unusual than the road taken by his colleagues. One did not simply wake up one morning and decide to become a paid assassin. His father had come from old money that had been derived from old connections and knowing how to curry favor among France's often changing ruling groups. The Goulds were professional diplomats who could trace their service all the way back to the coup d'йtat by Louis Napoleon in 1851. Five generations of Gould men had attended L'Йcole Polytechnique, France's premier technical university that specialized in preparing young French citizens for a life of civil service or military duty. With three daughters and only one boy, all his parents' hopes of continuing the tradition were on young Louie's shoulders and, indeed, he looked forward to following in his father's footsteps.

More than half of Louie's youth had been spent overseas while his father rose through the ranks of the French Foreign Service. There had been postings in French Guiana, New York, London, Berlin, and Washington, DC, where his father served as France's ambassador to the United States of America. It was a life filled with excitement and privilege. Louie enjoyed every minute of it, embracing the language and culture where-ever the family went. He himself could think of nothing he'd rather do than become a career diplomat.

That was right up to the point where he learned of his father's rampant infidelity. At seventeen he lashed out at the man he had spent an entire life idolizing. When Louie found out about his father's inability to stay faithful to his mother, he surreptitiously applied for and received a scholarship to L'Йcole Speciale Militaire, or as it was more commonly known, Saint Cyr. The institution was France's equivalent of West Point. On the surface it may not have seemed much of a protest, but the Goulds had a long history of contempt for the French Army. Professional diplomats to the core, they believed most, if not all, of France's great failures of the last two centuries to be the fault of the Army.

When his father found out he nearly lost his mind, but with his youngest child now legally of age, there was nothing he could do. After Louie left for Saint Cyr, things worsened between his mother and father. The secret out of the bag, his father became more brazen in his philandering, and his mother, a proud and deeply religious woman, retreated within the walls of the family's estate in the South of France. During his final year at Saint Cyr, Louie's mother took her life, and the heart and soul of the entire family was ripped from them. Devastated, Louie blamed it all on his father and decided to never speak to the man again.