Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [92]
These thoughts aside, Jack had always loved Paris. From the iron-lattice splendor of the Eiffel Tower to the street side cafés and the Gothic majesty of Notre Dame Cathedral, the city hummed a romantic, old-world European tune, while managing to feel modern and vibrant and alive. As they drove through the traffic-clogged streets, he allowed himself to fantasize about an alternate life. A life in which he took a small apartment and spent his evenings at the Café de Flore, drinking real Chablis as he watched the carefree young French women stroll by.
As Lapworth drove, he said, “Good to meet you, Hatfield. You did real good by Sara. Bob Copeland told me you’re one of the good guys.”
“So was Bob,” Jack said, shaking off his reverie. “How did you meet him?”
“He was a consultant on a cybersecurity case I handled when I was still a constable,” Lapworth replied. “We found we had mutual interests and stayed in touch. You can’t know how much his death angers me.”
“I think I can imagine.”
Lapworth nodded. “’Tis good to have you with us. What we lack in number, we make up for with passion.”
An odd statement, considering the size and scope of Interpol.
“And hopefully we’ll take down a few terrorists in the process,” Jack said.
“More than a few. I look forward to the day when every one of these bastards is either dead or wasting away in prison.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
Lapworth shrugged. “I’ve always dreamed large.”
It suddenly struck Jack that, like Sara, Lapworth seemed to have reasons for his work that went deeper than a sense of duty. There was a forcefulness to his words that spoke of an underlying rage, anger that had probably been cultivated by some tragedy in his past. Jack understood the sentiment, but he sometimes wondered if such feelings clouded one’s judgment.
“Where are we headed?” Jack asked.
“To our command station,” Sara said. “We’re in an apartment complex that was scheduled to be gutted and renovated until the investors backed out. Now it’s just sitting there. We had to tap a neighboring building for power, but it works well for us.”
That also struck Jack as a little strange. Why would an organization with a fifty-million-dollar annual budget put its agents up in a building scheduled for demolition, especially with their main headquarters not that far away? Then again, from what he’d heard so far, this task force sounded like a ragtag operation trying to remain as invisible as possible. Maybe the fewer ties they had to the mother ship, the better.
Interpol wasn’t a policing body. It was primarily a communications liaison between law enforcement agencies around the world, but Jack was well aware that some of the “advisors” they contracted did a lot more than give advice.
Lapworth made a turn down a desolate cobblestone street and pulled to the side of the road in front of a five-story limestone building that was fronted by a high chain-link fence. Sara popped open her door and got out, gesturing for Jack to follow. When Jack closed his door, Lapworth hit the gas and headed down the street.
“Where’s he going?” Jack said.
“To a garage down the block. He’ll be along in a minute.”
She gestured for him to follow again and they moved to a gate secured by a chain and padlock. She punched in the combination then unhooked the lock and swung the gate open, ushering him inside.
The sun was all but down now, and with little light to guide them they walked along a short stone path toward the building entrance. When they got close to the lobby doors, a hard, sinewy man emerged, an HK IAR slung over his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Ethan, it’s me,” Sara said.
The man named Ethan relaxed, nodded. “Good to see you back. We thought you were dead.” He shifted a hard gaze in Jack’s direction. “Who’s this?”
“The reason I’m not,” she told him.
Ethan quickly