"Scott, we're in the middle of the biggest power grab this town has seen in fifty years. Mark Ross is trying to exert his new authority over the CIA and the rest of the intelligence community, and the billions of dollars that goes along with their budgets, and I'm guessing he wants full disclosure by everyone under his command."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"He's not stupid. He wants to know what we were talking about with Irene. He called her the next day and asked her to brief him."

"What'd she tell him?" asked Coleman.

"We're looking at using your firm for some of our overseas security needs."

"Well, you are."

"And we're also thinking about using you to do a few other things."

"Yeah, but he can't know that."

"He suspects something, and I'd say based on your audit and the request for your jacket at the DOD, he's not satisfied with the answer Irene gave him."

"Fucker." Coleman's fists were clutched so tight the veins on his forearms were bulging.

"Don't worry…I'll figure out a way to make this go away."

"How?"

"I'm not sure, but I'll figure something out."

"The IRS is coming by tomorrow."

"I know a lawyer." Rapp smiled. "A real bastard. He specializes in this stuff. They hate him at the IRS. I'll have him call you. He'll have no problem putting them off until I can call off the dogs from the other end. In the meantime, keep working on what we talked about. I don't want this to slow us down one bit. I'll have you all freed up by next week, and then we can get moving."

Coleman nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Anything else unusual happens I want you to call me right away."

The former SEAL nodded.

The assassin had been wandering the streets in a seemingly aimless pattern for over two hours, which was about how long it had taken him to sort things out. He could be an exceedingly patient man when the situation called for it, and this was one of those times. The first thing he had to do was dump the motorcycle. It had been waiting for him two blocks from the hotel. He would miss the agile, high-powered Ducati, but scooters and motorcycles in Paris were like beautiful women; they were everywhere. He would find another motorcycle in the morning, and he was done chasing beautiful women.

He no longer considered himself a Frenchman. He was a man without a country, but he supposed if there was any place that he had to call home it would be France. He knew Paris very well and had a network of motorcycle and scooter garages that specialized in servicing the underbelly of Paris. They sold new machines, but always had plenty of used bikes, and preferred to deal in cash, which suited him perfectly. When he was actively engaged in new business, like now, he sometimes changed bikes daily, and even resorted to stealing them himself. Among his many skills, he was a mechanic. He knew how to take a pile of junk and turn it into a dependable machine in a matter of hours. If it had an engine and two wheels, he could fix it.

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.