The private jet evened out and sped to parts unknown. Nash, Eva and Bishop sat unrestrained in the back of the plane, while Sophia and her team occupied at the front. They had driven directly to the airport and then to a private hangar, likely used by used by celebrities, the super-rich and, in this case, foreign intelligence organisations who somehow managed to bypass Australian Customs. They were wheels up an hour and a half after the impromptu reunion with Sophia, leaving Australia and Nash’s toothbrush far behind.
Alone for the first time, Eva leaned forward. “Is she Tartarus?”
There was a delicacy to the question. Eva understood the weight it held. Even the normally less-than-emotional Bishop winced at the query.
“I… I don’t know.”
It was the truth. Nash wanted to believe more than anything that the woman he once loved wouldn’t have laid herself at the altar of evil, even if tempted, and would have the moral fortitude to reject all Tartarus stood for. But wanting to believe is not the same as knowing. A lot can happen in ten years. People change for all sorts of reasons. Nash certainly had. Besides, does anyone truly know another? At one time he thought he’d known this woman more than he knew himself. But that was a long time ago.
“Where do you think we’re headed?”
“Probably not the opening of the Cannes Film Festival, unfortunately.” Seeing Eva and Bishop’s humourless faces, Nash answered more seriously. “I assume France, or at least a DGSE rendition site.”
“Sounds delightful.” Bishop cracked his neck. “Do you think they have room service?”
Ignoring him, Eva touched Nash’s knee, her voice softer. “How did you two meet?”
Nash screwed his mouth to the side. “You asking because you care or because you’re looking for intelligence to leverage this situation?”
With a you got me expression, she replied, “Can’t it be a bit of both?”
There was no point being angry at the question; Nash would have asked the same. They were, after all, being held captive by a foreign power. Any information could be advantageous.
“We met in Paris,” Nash started. “I was on a job. Paul had righted my course at MI6 and I was once again the golden boy.” He shook his head. “I was so much more arrogant back then.”
Nash gazed out the window as he told his tale.
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
There were many who believed the banks of the Seine to be the most romantic place on Earth.
It was unlikely that Franciszek Andrysiak was one of them, however; at least not at this precise moment. Mainly because of the gun pointed at his forehead. Plus, he’d just soiled himself. Romance probably wasn’t on his mind.
Nash’s hold on the gun was unwavering. It was a quiet part of the riverbank, especially given the recent rains and the late hour. The bank was slick and dark. The distant thrum of a nightclub echoed from some dark corner of the city.
The rotund little man looked like a stock comedic character from central casting. His plump appearance veiled a more sinister interior. Franciszek was whimpering now, realising his fate and his utter inability to do a damn thing about it.
“I… I have money!” he blubbered in a childlike voice.
He reached into his pocket. Nash allowed it, as he’d already searched him. Dozens of five-hundred-euro banknotes cascaded from his plump hands, spilling onto the wet bricks. Snot dripped from his nose, and tears poured from his reddening eyes.
Responsible for supplying arms to terrorist organisations the world over, Franciszek was tied to at least eighty-seven deaths, likely far more. Bombings in Tokyo, Lisbon and Québec had been traced back to explosives he’d sold. A busload of tourists in Addis Ababa had been destroyed with C4 he’d supplied firsthand. And yet for all his crimes, Franciszek would never see the inside of a jail cell. He’d faced trial twice and both times had been acquitted. Each time, his powerful family had manipulated juries, had the children of jurors threatened and, in at least one instance, raped. They had bribed officials, made evidence disappear, had judge’s cars bombed. Franciszek Andrysiak and particularly his brother, Jakub, were not men who believed in the justice system. No, Franciszek would prefer to rip out his own heart with his bare hands than face prison. This man would receive no justice unless it was at the end of a gun.
Mason Nash pulled the trigger.
The echo reverberated around the brickwork on either side of the river, even with the suppressor. He took a moment to watch the lifeless corpse and felt no remorse. He’d seen photos of the atrocities, watched the surveillance footage, heard the harrowing tales of the man’s victims. Nash had no illusions as to the man’s guilt. The world would be a better place, if only marginally, without Franciszek Andrysiak in it.
Nash was disappointed that there’d been no incriminating evidence when he’d searched Franciszek. He’d hoped to find something, anything on the Andrysiak crime family or information about the whereabouts of Franciszek’s brother, the true brains of the operation. Franciszek, in the whole scheme of things, was small fry. It was his brother who Nash was really after. The UK had seven outstanding warrants for his arrest. All they had to do was find him.
Unfortunately, the only phone Franciszek had on him was a non-smart burner phone with three numbers stored in it. Nash doubted it would lead to Jakub, but he pocketed it anyway.
Giving the body a hefty nudge with his foot, the blob of a man rolled into the Seine, landing with a watery plop. It was quickly carried away with the fast-moving flow. Nash figured there was a fifty-fifty chance the body would be identified before it left the confines of the city. It would be seen, even at this hour, but the human mind prefers to suggest alternatives to anything horrific. It wasn’t a body, it was a log. Or a mannequin. Anything but a recently executed arms-dealing terrorist.
Straightening his tie, Nash brushed himself off and considered making his way to a little twenty-four-hour bistro in the 11th arrondissement. Inhaling the cold night air, he turned towards the steps.
“That was cold.”
Hand diving into his jacket, Nash stopped. The woman wore a long camel-hair coat. She was all warm chocolate brown hair and icy disposition, but that wasn’t what stopped Nash from reaching for his gun. It was her gun—aimed at his chest. The woman was neither angry nor particularly upset at having witnessed an execution. Her eyes weren’t intense, nor were they scared. Even in the low light he could see that her vivid green eyes simply were that: vivid green.
“CIA or MI6?”
Nash blinked several times. “What do you mean?”
The woman smirked. “MI6, then.”
Nash had the impression she was a well-practiced smirker, as she was damn good at it.
“You don’t seem to be overly concerned a man just died?”
She tilted her head. “Murdered, you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said while casually searching the bank for any more surprises.
She sighed, but it was more theatrical than out of frustration. “Murder is the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another. Now, as France hasn’t had an executioner in over forty years and as far as I can tell you’re not a representative of the République française, I can only assume what you just did fits the definition of murder. Unless I’m missing something, I’d say you murdered that man, yes?”
Damn. This woman is cool.
“I think man is far too generous a word to use for him.”
