Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Sixty-One

Durwood couldn't find a place for his boots. The cafe's wrought-iron table had arced legs that took twice they space they ought to. Sue-Ann was under his chair, finally snoozing. Her lungs had been giving her awful trouble, and he was not included to disturb her.

He tucked one boot uncomfortably forward. The other he pulled up onto that knee.

The Seine flowed black out past the sidewalk. Trash bobbed along. Some flaming. Some just smoking. The sounds of crime were as common here as in New York. Sirens. The shtock of fists on chins.

Durwood had done a double patrol here last night. He'd done doubles every night since what he'd done to Hatch.

How many bad men had he dispatched?

Not enough.

He had prayed for forgiveness. He'd sat with Hatch when the doc took out the stitches and fixed up the big man's Harley, which had been bleeding oil.

None of it was enough.

Quaid sat beside him at the frilly table.

"Let's go tomorrow," he said. "Monday morning. Every office is sluggish on Monday morning."

Durwood tapped his bootheel. "Plan's not ripe."

"Not ripe? We've been in Paris a week, how much riper can it get?"

"Still doing construction on those tunnels."

"So we go in another way."

"Talked about that. Tunnels is best."

"You don't always get the best!" Quaid flung one arm toward Quai Saint-Bernard. "It's time, Wood—time to play the cards we have."

They had gone round and round on this point. After tunnels, their next option was a surgical strike though the visitors center. Some fake fire or health emergency for cover. If they'd had the Jackson girl to disrupt electronic surveillance, maybe. But they didn't have her.

Rivard did.

Also, the pattern bothered Durwood. They had used similar tactics against Blake Leathersby in past missions. Leathersby might be arrogant as the men who built the Titanic, but he knew tactics. If he smelled a pattern, they were sunk.

This argument didn't sway Quaid. No sir. Quaid was ready to waltz in with a false nose and wig, pull the ripcord on that motormouth of his and go. Like he always did.

All the talk in the world wouldn't do Molly and Piper Jackson one whit of good—not if Durwood didn't beat Leathersby on tactics.

"Need those tunnels." Durwood turned to the cafe entrance. Parisians streamed in and out. "Everywhere else, Roche Rivard is buttoned up tight as a tick."

Quaid puffed his cheeks.

A businessman entered. Briefcase, newspaper. Put-upon air at the length of the line. These French coffee folk took their time.

Quaid said, "That him?"

Durwood kept his head a different way, looked from under his brim.

"Yes."

The man shifted from wingtip to wingtip. Glanced at the register, then his watch. Squeezed his newspaper into a tighter tube.

Durwood took out his notebook, fit right in. All he needed was an earring and beret.

The man ordered a croissant and drink, ate at the counter, used the john, and left.

Durwood finished jotting a note. "Next question's scope. Just Moll and Jackson? Or do we go looking for the kernel, too?"

"Where would we look?"

"Pomeroy says it's in the Great Safe."

Quaid heard the skepticism in his voice. "You don't buy it?"

"Don't help us much. He says the safe's in the bowels somewhere. That's ten tons of limestone to search."

Quaid twisted his mouth. "Seems like a waste to blast in for Molly and Jackson, but leave the kernel. Like breaking into the candy store to steal taffy and leaving all the fudge in the case."

Durwood didn't favor sweets himself. "Agreed."

"Is there anyone inside we can lean on for the location?" Quaid said. "What about that Thérèse Laurent? Could we nab her?"

"Pomeroy said it's just immediate family that knows. The Rivards. If you buy that."

"You don't?"

Durwood picked up his boot and set it down in the same spot. "Man's a known philanderer."

"So am I," Quaid said.

"There's things I don't trust you about neither."

"Touché."

Course, Pomeroy was more than a philanderer. He'd been a cog in Henri Rivard's immoral regime. Rumor was he'd been the go-to emissary with Saddam Hussein.

"Well," Durwood said. "I figure he's right about the safe. Makes sense they'd keep that close to the vest."

They talked through the pros and cons of getting just the hostages, or the hostages and kernel both. Durwood was surprised to find Quaid leaned toward rescuing just the hostages.

Normally he was a home-run type. "Believe, Wood!" he'd say. "There's nothing on God's green earth you can't accomplish if you believe."

But not today. Today he seemed to think discretion was the better part of valor.

Durwood knew Quaid had been to Moll's place back in New Jersey. Said something about a spaghetti dinner. Might be that spaghetti dinner had something to do with it.

Women could change a man's arithmetic. That was certain.

Back in West Virginia, Durwood kept a scrapbook file. Keepsakes from their most daring operations. The real humdingers. Ticket stub from the Trans-Siberian railcar they froze with liquid nitrogen. Glove he wore disarming the boobytrapped Olympic torch in ninety-six. Quaid's scribble of that Tunisian madman's lair, which he'd drawn while blindfolded and drugged.

The most treasured item in Durwood's file was from a failed operation: an orange stocking cap. The very cap his wife Maybelle used to hunt grouse in. She'd generally worn it in the field in Iraq, underneath her camo-helmet, but had not the morning of her capture.

Durwood had tucked it into his Kevlar, planned on pulling it snug over her ears once he had her safe.

That situation hadn't been so different from this. The Tikrit warlord knew the value of his hostage. Knew they were coming, fortified his defenses. Flat desert terrain darn-near impossible to cross unseen. Poor odds.

Durwood's commanding officer had reservations. Wanted to wait for a darker moon. Wanted auxiliary extraction support from Charlie company. Wasn't satisfied with Durwood's initial grab plan, insisted on seeing three-fork contingencies starting at minute one. Final document ran twenty pages.

After all that, the warlord executed her the night before the raid.

"Just hostages, then," Durwood said now.

Quaid nodded. "How about tomorrow morning?"

Back to this.

"If they get that tunnel work finished up."

"We can only wait so long."

Durwood's legs had stiffened. He shifted, nudging Sue-Ann with his boot on accident. She snorted out of her doze, rolled over. Fell back asleep.

"That's true," he said. "Too true."