The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [181]
Agent Cotrell took the paper, looked at it, then handed it back. As he did, Jean Claude Dumas walked to the far side of the car and looked in. Other than the woman, it was empty.
“One moment,” Cotrell said. Stepping back, he took his own radio from his jacket and walked off. As he did, Dumas came back to the driver’s side.
Glancing in her mirror, Avril saw agent Montand behind her, a hundred feet back down the driveway.
A moment later Cotrell abruptly put away his radio and turned back, approaching the car. His entire body language had changed, and Avril could see his hand moving out of sight behind his jacket.
“Is it all right if I open my purse for a cigarette?” Avril said, looking at Dumas.
“Oui,” Dumas nodded, then watched as Avril’s right hand went to her purse for the cigarette. It was her left hand that took him by surprise. There were two quick pops and he fell backward into Cotrell. For an instant, Cotrell was off balance and all he could see was the Beretta in Avril’s hand. It jumped once. And Cotrell grabbed for his neck. Her second shot, the one between the eyes, killed him.
Montand was running toward her, the Famas assault rifle coming up to fire, when she leveled the Beretta. Her first shot hit him in the leg, punching him down and sending the Famas clattering out of reach across the driveway. He was on the ground, gritting his teeth in pain and straining for it, when she walked up. Looking down at him, she raised the pistol slowly. Gave him a moment to think about it, then shot him. Once just under the left eye. Once in the heart.
Then, straightening her jacket, she turned and started for the farmhouse.
90
* * *
VERA HAD seen everything from the bedroom window. Immediately, she’d reached for the telephone but could get only a dial tone. Nothing she could do would clear the line or ring through to an operator.
Earlier, when François had first brought her there, she’d asked him for a pistol to protect herself in case something went wrong. Nothing could go wrong, he’d told her. The men guarding her were the finest in the French Secret Service. She’d argued that too much had already happened, that whoever these people were, they had a very definitive way of making things go wrong. François’ answer was that that was why she was here, two hundred miles from Paris, sequestered out of harm’s way and guarded by his best and most loyal men. And that had ended the discussion.
And now his best and most loyal men lay sprawled in the driveway and the woman who had killed them was almost in the house.
Avril Rocard reached the edge of the driveway and walked over a small expanse of lawn and stepped onto the front porch. So far the Organization’s intelligence had been valid. Three men had been guarding the house. It was possible, she’d been warned, that a fourth agent might have somehow been missed and could be waiting inside. It was also possible the second agent had broadcast an alert on his radio before she’d killed him. Assuming that was true, it meant the rest, fourth agent or not, had to be done swiftly.
Snapping a fresh clip into the Beretta, she stepped to the side of the front door, turned the knob with her left hand and pushed gently. The oak door swung partway open. Inside, it was silent. The only sound came from behind her, where the songbirds had started vocalizing once more, following their abrupt silence at the first gunfire.
“Vera,” she said sharply. “My name is Avril Rocard. I am a police officer. The telephones are out. françois I Christian sent me to get you. The men protecting you were criminals who had infiltrated the Secret Service.”
Silence.
“Is someone with you, Vera? Is that why you can’t speak out?”
Slowly, Avril pushed the door open enough for her to step inside. To her