Double Dealing: A Menage Romance(56)

We made our way to the display area, where the Quran was sealed within its case. Reaching into the small toolkit at my waist, I withdrew the small aerosol canister inside. The seams of the display side melted under the catalyst, Felix quickly catching the pane of Lexan before it could fall to the floor and make a noise.

"There it is," Felix whispered, taking the Quran into his hands and closing it carefully. He slipped the book into the carrying case on my back, a hard style slim case that was just big enough for the book and no more. Made of aircraft aluminum, it would protect the book from all sorts of rough handling, short of actually getting shot. That would have been a bit much, honestly. Latching it closed, he looked at me. "Ready. Time?"

"Two minutes," I said, turning and hurrying away without another word. We hit the hole in the side of the building with thirty seconds to spare. We descended quickly, hanging from the cut hole before dropping, letting the grass absorb the shock of landing and took off running into the mist, heading for the Seine.

Next to the river, moored on the muddy bank was our getaway, a black rubber boat that we climbed into quickly. Stroking with the current, we disappeared into the darkness. "Five kilometers," I said to Felix. "You okay?"

"It went smooth, I don't think we've had a heist go that smooth since our training days," Felix replied. We pulled out large bladed oars and pulled, adding to our speed. "That catalyst worked perfectly."

"I told you it would," I replied with a touch of pride. It was my strength in our partnership. Yes, Felix was overall more studious, and certainly knew more about computers and general tactics than I did, but I knew chemistry. Even though I'd never gone to university level classes, I'd pushed myself to learn a lot about the subject, especially where it applied to that night's heist. Acids, bases, catalysts . . . that was my specialty. "Once I was able to find out what they chemically welded the seams with, the proper reactant was a matter of child's play."

"Then let's get this over with," Felix said as he lowered his oar and pulled hard, the wide blade cutting through the water. "Get to the meet-up, come back, get Jordan, and get the hell out of Paris for a very long time."

"I'm going to miss the lights," I said as we rowed, looking around as Paris passed us. The city never really goes to sleep, but we were traveling through it at its nadir, and it was deceptively peaceful, especially with the late night fog obscuring some of the harsher corners. "At least for the next year or so."

"We'll be back," Felix reassured me. "That was a flawless operation."

We got to our getaway vehicle, an old Peugeot that we’d put false license plates on, and drove north towards Calais. It was late at night and the roads were mostly deserted, especially the highway. We got to Calais a few hours before dawn and headed for the ocean. I had to chuckle to myself as we followed the directions from our contact. The Rue du Moscou was within spitting distance of the water, and the name had a certain ironic ring to it. While the last e-mail from my contact hadn't given me exact details as to who would be taking possession of Felix, I had my guesses, and most of them pointed toward the east.

"Over there," I said, pointing out the address. We pulled into the industrial parking lot, shutting off the engine. It was still dark, and we could only see the bare outline of the building against the sky. "They're inside."

Felix nodded. "Ready?"

"Yeah. Sure you don't want to carry a gun?"

“I’m sure. If they don't give us what we want, we don't give them the Quran," he said. "You have the case, right?"

I nodded, holding the metal box. "Safe and sound. Let's go."

Felix led the way, as usual in these sorts of situations. The building was an old, rusty top Quonset hut looking warehouse, probably a relic of the rebuilding of the area sixty years ago during the fifties. Felix walked in, and it was then that the trap sprung.

Felix was barely inside the door when the baton hit him in the back of the head, sending him tumbling to the ground dazed. He was hard headed, and the blow didn't knock him out. Instead, he crawled forward, trying to regain his feet while my contact's man followed him. “Francois . . . help . . .”

"Not this time, brother,” I said, as the baton wielder brought the club down again. Felix dropped like a sack of rocks with that blow, his forehead bonking off of the concrete. "Your time is up. My time begins.”

"You have the rest of our bargain, I assume," a voice in the darkness said. "The book?"

"Of course," I said, turning to see our Spanish agent emerge into the dim light. "Here you go. Where is my money?"

"It’s a remarkable thing, brothers," the Spaniard said as he handed over a backpack. I looked inside and saw a bag full of cash, enough that I didn't want to waste time counting at the moment. "I too had a brother once. The price I sold him out for was remarkably less than you. Congratulations on a good bargain."

"Congratulations at having agents from so many different backgrounds," I returned. "There's no way that anyone could have suspected that you were involved in all of this. Russians, Moroccans, you, Mexicans, you have quite the network. So is he going where I suspect he is going?" I asked. The Spaniard shrugged.

"It’s an age-old tale. The sins of the father are often visited upon the son. You should be grateful that my clients think it is only one son that needs to pay the price.”