forth. The Bimmer swerves, trying to get around him. I haul myself into the rear seat in time to slap the passenger’s pistol out of his hand. I karate chop his arm and break it above the wrist. The passenger screams and scrunches himself away from me. The driver opens his door, like he’s going to bail out at forty miles per hour.
I grab the driver’s hair and yank his head back againstthe headrest. My right hand reaches around and clutches his throat. He tries to pull my hand off his neck, but that only makes me crush his larynx even harder. Then I wrap him in a choke hold with my entire arm and drag him bodily into the backseat with me. One big punch and he’s out cold.
Suddenly gravity shifts ninety degrees. I’m propelled between the front seats and slam into the dashboard. Then gravity shifts back to normal and ungently deposits me on the center console with the stick shift jammed into my ribs. A loud bang echoes off the arch and the buildings across the plaza.
I’m dizzy, bruised, and hearing things. “Scarlet!” It’s Trick’s voice. “Hey, you okay?” Wow, he sounds like he’s right here in the BMW with me. “Scarlet, up here.” I look up. His head is poking in through the shattered driver-side window. Blue and red flashing lights wash across one side of his face.
“Ugh.” I struggle to extricate myself from my awkward position. “What happened?”
“The car crashed into a shop.”
Oh, right. Nobody was driving
.
“C’mon!” Patrick pulls on my arm to help me crawl out of the car. Then he shoves me into Jacques’s Citroën and tumbles in on top of me. We leave the scene of the accident at top speed. My partner and I untangle ourselves and sit up.
“Jacques,” Patrick comms, “what about the cops?”
“Oh, zey are not after us.” He swerves off the boulevard onto a small street. Cobblestones rattle under the tires, and the backseat vibrates against my butt. “Those two officers pulled zat BMW over for a broken taillight and discovered Cuban terrorists inside. It is a big arrest for them.”
Trick yells, “Then why are you still driving so fast?”
Jacques looks down at his speedometer and laughs in surprise. “Hah! Sorry, M’sieur Solomon.” He slows down. “I am—how you say—all jacked over?”
“Jacked up,” I say.
“Jacked up!” he repeats.
Patrick asks our speed demon host how he convinces the police, who are mostly Germans, to work with him. Jacquo explains that it’s a function of his official position at the American embassy here in Paris. His title is diplomatic liaison for classified affairs, which requires him to have close ties with, among other people, the area’s German covert community. His charismatic nature has led to a useful friendship with Herr Direktor of the regional Abwehr office. The Direktor allows Jacques to run his ops, and when applicable, Jacques lets the Abwehr take the credit. If the collateral damage gets out of hand, the Abwehr puts it on Jacquo’s bill and he forwards the bill to the Americans. It is very convenient.
Trick is stunned. “The Germans know you work for American intelligence?”
“
Mais oui
. Every second of my life is spent on their continent. How else would I operate?”
“But, but …” Patrick sputters. I think what boggles him the most is that he’s never heard of this arrangement.
Jacques continues, “For example, tonight I commed Herr Direktor about ze men we left in ze cemetery, and he was able to seem very efficient and effective when he alerted ze police. I wasn’t sure we would catch zat BMW, so I commed him a little earlier than I normally would, just in case.”
“Why would the Abwehr help us fight the Fuerza?”
“Because we are allies. It is the same reason ze U.S. works against terrorists of Europe like ze Free French, Dutch Underground, and Circle of Zion.”
I brush bits of broken car window off my shirt. “You mean we go after groups that threaten Greater Germany?”
“Not here
I grab the driver’s hair and yank his head back againstthe headrest. My right hand reaches around and clutches his throat. He tries to pull my hand off his neck, but that only makes me crush his larynx even harder. Then I wrap him in a choke hold with my entire arm and drag him bodily into the backseat with me. One big punch and he’s out cold.
Suddenly gravity shifts ninety degrees. I’m propelled between the front seats and slam into the dashboard. Then gravity shifts back to normal and ungently deposits me on the center console with the stick shift jammed into my ribs. A loud bang echoes off the arch and the buildings across the plaza.
I’m dizzy, bruised, and hearing things. “Scarlet!” It’s Trick’s voice. “Hey, you okay?” Wow, he sounds like he’s right here in the BMW with me. “Scarlet, up here.” I look up. His head is poking in through the shattered driver-side window. Blue and red flashing lights wash across one side of his face.
“Ugh.” I struggle to extricate myself from my awkward position. “What happened?”
“The car crashed into a shop.”
Oh, right. Nobody was driving
.
“C’mon!” Patrick pulls on my arm to help me crawl out of the car. Then he shoves me into Jacques’s Citroën and tumbles in on top of me. We leave the scene of the accident at top speed. My partner and I untangle ourselves and sit up.
“Jacques,” Patrick comms, “what about the cops?”
“Oh, zey are not after us.” He swerves off the boulevard onto a small street. Cobblestones rattle under the tires, and the backseat vibrates against my butt. “Those two officers pulled zat BMW over for a broken taillight and discovered Cuban terrorists inside. It is a big arrest for them.”
Trick yells, “Then why are you still driving so fast?”
Jacques looks down at his speedometer and laughs in surprise. “Hah! Sorry, M’sieur Solomon.” He slows down. “I am—how you say—all jacked over?”
“Jacked up,” I say.
“Jacked up!” he repeats.
Patrick asks our speed demon host how he convinces the police, who are mostly Germans, to work with him. Jacquo explains that it’s a function of his official position at the American embassy here in Paris. His title is diplomatic liaison for classified affairs, which requires him to have close ties with, among other people, the area’s German covert community. His charismatic nature has led to a useful friendship with Herr Direktor of the regional Abwehr office. The Direktor allows Jacques to run his ops, and when applicable, Jacques lets the Abwehr take the credit. If the collateral damage gets out of hand, the Abwehr puts it on Jacquo’s bill and he forwards the bill to the Americans. It is very convenient.
Trick is stunned. “The Germans know you work for American intelligence?”
“
Mais oui
. Every second of my life is spent on their continent. How else would I operate?”
“But, but …” Patrick sputters. I think what boggles him the most is that he’s never heard of this arrangement.
Jacques continues, “For example, tonight I commed Herr Direktor about ze men we left in ze cemetery, and he was able to seem very efficient and effective when he alerted ze police. I wasn’t sure we would catch zat BMW, so I commed him a little earlier than I normally would, just in case.”
“Why would the Abwehr help us fight the Fuerza?”
“Because we are allies. It is the same reason ze U.S. works against terrorists of Europe like ze Free French, Dutch Underground, and Circle of Zion.”
I brush bits of broken car window off my shirt. “You mean we go after groups that threaten Greater Germany?”
“Not here
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