Read Online An Affair of Vengeance by Jamie Michele - Free Book Online
Authors: Jamie Michele
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blood pumping through her skull masked Mason’s next question. She pressed her phone more firmly to her ear. “What?”
“Do you get the sense that he’s recruitable?”
Did she think she could convince him to inform for the CIA? All they’d been able to pull from Interpol indicated that McCrea was a minor gangster out of Glasgow, with no prior indictments.
“Tout est possible,”
she said, reverting to French to admit that anything was possible, and then asked if they had any more details on who he was.
“Nothing more on his criminal record, but I’ve put in a request with the British for more detail on his finances and known associates. We know that his mother is in a convalescent home in northern Scotland. His father is MIA. His older brother died a few years back of a drug overdose.”
“Ce n’est pas très utile,”
she huffed, indicating that the information wasn’t very useful. To turn a crook into an informant, the Agency looked for an area of weakness in a target’s life. Money, sex, and security were the top baits, and informants sought them not only for themselves, but for those they cared for.
“It’s irrelevant. He’s like anybody. He’ll go for money. Stay with him for now. Contact me immediately when he stops again.”
The steps widened as the stairwell opened to the spacious lobby. Digging in her purse as she walked toward the large doors that exited to the street, she kept her eyes down but looked about for McCrea and Ménellier.
A tall, ponytailed man slid into a black Jaguar that sped north toward the harbor as soon as the porter closed the car door. Ménellier, gone. But McCrea was on foot, heading in the opposite direction. He slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses ashe sauntered past the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling windows. His stride was both long and nimble, and had a steady, rolling cadence.
She chewed on her lip and watched him walk almost out of view. That he had the grace and body of a dancer meant nothing to her except to illustrate the athleticism of his strong legs. He’d have a hell of a first step in a sprint, and he’d also able to hold a steady pace over a very long stretch. She was quick, but he’d outrun her at any distance. He’d have more reach, too. If it ever came to a fight between them, she’d have to get on the inside of those long limbs and strike with elbows and knees. Some big guys had trouble fighting small girls, and while she hoped she’d not have to find out if he was one of them, she was ready for the possibility.
She stepped out of the lobby and strode onto the concrete behind a foursome of sweaty, pink-skinned tourists heading toward the grand-colonnaded facade of the opera house. They doddered at a painfully slow pace, but they provided an excellent screen between her and her tall target. Bright sun pouring into the small, plain square in front of the Opéra Municipal hurt her eyes. She put on her sunglasses.
At the Opéra, McCrea turned left up Rue Saint-Saëns into one of Marseille’s busiest shopping districts. There, two tight lanes of traffic buzzed between lines of locals shopping and tourists gawking at the windows of fine
ateliers
. Behind those shops ran alleys, useful for loading freight as well as for dodging surveillance. Following a man on such a crowded street was child’s play. If McCrea wanted to be sure he wasn’t followed, at some point, he’d find his way into an alley.
After two blocks of walking, he sidestepped into a small shop, as she’d known he would. The wooden sign hanging above it read “Chocolatier.”
Chocolate! Of all things. He went from buying shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles to bonbons? It’d be funny if it weren’t so strange. He hardly seemed the type of man who would enjoya pleasure as visceral as chocolate. Maybe he was trying to trip any surveillance. Classic espionage tradecraft dictated that one should meander through stores to detect a shadow. Perhaps criminals received the same sort of
“Do you get the sense that he’s recruitable?”
Did she think she could convince him to inform for the CIA? All they’d been able to pull from Interpol indicated that McCrea was a minor gangster out of Glasgow, with no prior indictments.
“Tout est possible,”
she said, reverting to French to admit that anything was possible, and then asked if they had any more details on who he was.
“Nothing more on his criminal record, but I’ve put in a request with the British for more detail on his finances and known associates. We know that his mother is in a convalescent home in northern Scotland. His father is MIA. His older brother died a few years back of a drug overdose.”
“Ce n’est pas très utile,”
she huffed, indicating that the information wasn’t very useful. To turn a crook into an informant, the Agency looked for an area of weakness in a target’s life. Money, sex, and security were the top baits, and informants sought them not only for themselves, but for those they cared for.
“It’s irrelevant. He’s like anybody. He’ll go for money. Stay with him for now. Contact me immediately when he stops again.”
The steps widened as the stairwell opened to the spacious lobby. Digging in her purse as she walked toward the large doors that exited to the street, she kept her eyes down but looked about for McCrea and Ménellier.
A tall, ponytailed man slid into a black Jaguar that sped north toward the harbor as soon as the porter closed the car door. Ménellier, gone. But McCrea was on foot, heading in the opposite direction. He slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses ashe sauntered past the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling windows. His stride was both long and nimble, and had a steady, rolling cadence.
She chewed on her lip and watched him walk almost out of view. That he had the grace and body of a dancer meant nothing to her except to illustrate the athleticism of his strong legs. He’d have a hell of a first step in a sprint, and he’d also able to hold a steady pace over a very long stretch. She was quick, but he’d outrun her at any distance. He’d have more reach, too. If it ever came to a fight between them, she’d have to get on the inside of those long limbs and strike with elbows and knees. Some big guys had trouble fighting small girls, and while she hoped she’d not have to find out if he was one of them, she was ready for the possibility.
She stepped out of the lobby and strode onto the concrete behind a foursome of sweaty, pink-skinned tourists heading toward the grand-colonnaded facade of the opera house. They doddered at a painfully slow pace, but they provided an excellent screen between her and her tall target. Bright sun pouring into the small, plain square in front of the Opéra Municipal hurt her eyes. She put on her sunglasses.
At the Opéra, McCrea turned left up Rue Saint-Saëns into one of Marseille’s busiest shopping districts. There, two tight lanes of traffic buzzed between lines of locals shopping and tourists gawking at the windows of fine
ateliers
. Behind those shops ran alleys, useful for loading freight as well as for dodging surveillance. Following a man on such a crowded street was child’s play. If McCrea wanted to be sure he wasn’t followed, at some point, he’d find his way into an alley.
After two blocks of walking, he sidestepped into a small shop, as she’d known he would. The wooden sign hanging above it read “Chocolatier.”
Chocolate! Of all things. He went from buying shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles to bonbons? It’d be funny if it weren’t so strange. He hardly seemed the type of man who would enjoya pleasure as visceral as chocolate. Maybe he was trying to trip any surveillance. Classic espionage tradecraft dictated that one should meander through stores to detect a shadow. Perhaps criminals received the same sort of
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