Dead Run (15 page)

Anyway, most of the romantic poems and songs and paintings in the world were by men, so what was she talking about?

She’d just hitched her wagon to the wrong star. Helloco hadn’t deserved that unswerving loyalty. He’d been willing to abandon her for his own safety—hell, he’d been willing to blow up the house of the people giving them shelter and murder a man. Abandonment had been the least of his sins.

The problem with love was you didn’t always get to choose who you loved.

And sometimes the people you loved didn’t love you back.

He glanced at Taylor. All through that interrogation—in fact ever since they’d left Will’s apartment—he’d seemed withdrawn. Polite, professional, pleasant—and about as distant as you could get and still be in the same room. Or car.

“Look,” Will said abruptly, awkwardly. “I just want to say—”

“I know. It’s easier if you don’t.” Taylor glanced his way, and he seemed so cool, so composed that Will felt foolish for bringing it up again. Especially when they were supposed to be on the job.

But he had to—wanted to—say it anyway. “There isn’t anyone who means more to me than you.”

Taylor said in the same calm voice, “Will, if you say you still want to be friends, so help me God I’m going to shove your teeth down your throat.”

Chapter Eleven

They were not speaking.

They had not spoken since Taylor had threatened to pop Will in the face. He was a little ashamed of that, but Jesus, Will could be an insensitive bastard.

Work was the best refuge, and there was a mountain of it. Taylor was diligently researching everything he could find on Yves Helloco and not letting himself think about anything else—like the fact that Will was sitting in his cubicle talking to David Bradley on the phone.

He’d nearly walked in on the conversation but had caught a low-voiced and apologetic “So if I said anything out of line…” in time to back out the door again.

He’d nearly fallen over the fax machine in his haste, but he thought he’d got out without Will seeing him. That was the main thing. For his own sake, not Will’s. If he could salvage some of his pride, that would be something. At this point it might be the only thing.

So…Yves Helloco. Yann’s older brother. Schoolteacher. By all accounts—not that there were many—a quiet, law-abiding man who was sympathetic to the aims of his politically active sibling but not motivated to join the cause. A normal citizen, in other words.

Something Taylor hadn’t paid much attention to in his earlier info gathering were casual mentions that the Hellocos had been a close-knit family. It was an open-ended term people used to describe everything from cousins marrying cousins in Arkansas to anyone still speaking to their relatives by the time the holidays were over. Now Taylor considered it from the perspective of the mix-and-match passports in Hinault’s possession.

Yves had been married and living in Los Angeles at the time of Yann’s death. He had traveled to Brittany with his wife for his brother’s memorial service and gone back to the States two days later. Taylor frowned over that date. Not a lot of time to visit the family. He lifted a pile and began searching for another printout of Helloco’s passport records. Unfortunately, back in the seventies there had been no biometrics with which to track passport use. Even with biometrics, it was still possible to scam the system, especially in the case of imposters, people who closely resembled the owners of the stolen passports they were using. It was primitive but effective, where there was a strong family resemblance.

That was Taylor’s hypothesis. That Yves had handed his passport over to Yann, and Yann, posing as Yves, had flown home to the States with Yves’ wife.

Which meant Yves would have returned home a short time later using a different passport. Not Yann’s obviously. No, he’d have used Yannick Hinault’s.

Because there was no Yannick Hinault.

And instead of tracking Yves’ movements, Taylor needed to track Yannick Hinault.

He rose from Special Agent Arthur’s desk and the computer he was borrowing and started for Will’s cubicle. However, a glance across the dividers and desks showed Will in Stone’s office with the door closed.

What was that about?

Of course it could be about anything. There was no reason for that instant sinking in Taylor’s stomach. He was too much on edge, that was the trouble. Waiting for the next bomb to drop—figuratively, not literally. At least he hoped so.

He went back to Arthur’s desk. He’d have liked to bounce his theory off Will like they used to do, but maybe the timing wasn’t so great, come to think of it. Picking up the phone, he began the laborious process of negotiating his way through the circuits to the Prefecture of Police and his new good buddy Inspector Bonnet.

Inspector Bonnet was a little—actually beaucoup—busy, but once she understood what Taylor was requesting, she agreed to do the background research.

“You understand this does not change the fact that regardless of who we are dealing with, this man has made a threat most grave against this nation? And that we have less than forty-eight hours to deduce what he intends, and stop him.”

“Depending on who we’re dealing with, maybe not,” Taylor said.

“I’m not following, Agent MacAllister.”

“If we’re dealing with Yves Helloco, all bets are off. We don’t know enough about him to predict what he might or might not do. It’s possible he went off the deep end after the death of his wife and brother. But if we’re dealing with Yann Helloco, then I think we do have enough information and history on him to make an informed guess about what he’s up to now.”

“And that is what?”

“I have a theory, but I’d rather not make a fool of myself until I’ve got a little more information.”

“Very well, but it may take some time to collect the information you wish.”

“I just want to know if this guy, Yannick Hinault, ever existed. I don’t believe he did. I think Hinault was a false identity, an alias used by Yves Helloco to return home after he’d sent his kid brother ahead with his wife.”

“How would Yves, a schoolteacher, know how to procure forged documents?”

“I don’t think Yves set it up. I think Yann set it up. There have always been links between terrorists and organized crime. I think Yann planned the whole thing out ahead of time and then enlisted Yves’ cooperation.”

“Why would Yann not use the Hinault passport if that’s the case?”

“The risk of discovery was higher with the Hinault passport. Yves’ identity was real, and traveling with the wife made it all the more legitimate-seeming. The Hinault passport was a little trickier, but Yves’ chances of succeeding were much higher, especially since they could use his real photo.”

Bonnet’s sigh was just audible. “I’m confused, but I suppose it is not so important. I’ll see if I can find the confirmation you require.”

“Thanks. I mean, merci.” Taylor’s gaze was on Stone’s door. He automatically replaced the handset as Stone entered the main office, followed by Will. Something was up. Something major. Will stood behind her, arms folded, looking uncharacteristically somber.

“If I can have your attention,” Stone said. Her voice was even, but it carried. The other agents pushed their chairs back or hastily ended their phone conversations.

Taylor stepped out of the cubicle and leaned against the wall. He was directly across from Will, but after a brief, uncomfortable tangling of gazes, they both avoided each other’s eyes.

Stone was saying, “As you’re all aware, the annual D-day anniversary celebration has been one of several potential blips on our radar as a possible target for Finistère. Given their virulent anti-American sentiments, it’s not a stretch to believe whatever this target is, it’s something that will hit home for US citizens as well as the French. Brandt has spent the afternoon on that angle, and he’s come up with what I believe is a pretty strong indicator that Normandy is where we need to focus our preventive efforts.”

Even given the strain between them, it was startling that Will hadn’t talked any of this over with him. Taylor looked at Will, but Will was gazing fixedly at Stone.

Of course
. Forgetting all the rest of it, Will would be uncomfortable talking to Taylor about this particular supposition because of David Bradley’s involvement in the D-day memorial. Will believed Bradley was in peril, and he was acting fast while trying not to rub it in Taylor’s face.

Or something like that. It didn’t really matter because Will had it wrong. Taylor was almost certain.
Almost
. Not so certain that he wanted to propose his theory without a little more supporting evidence.

Stone nodded to Will, and Will stepped forward.

“Thanks to MacAllister’s groundwork on the history behind the founding of Finistère, I got the idea to focus on the Front de libération de la Bretagne. FLB was Finistère’s parent group. One of the things I discovered was that Breton nationalism became largely discredited through its collaboration with the Nazis during World War Two. And a couple of its founding members were sentenced for treason.”

Taylor could see that
aha
! moment radiate through the room.

Stone said, “I think the connection between the FLB and tomorrow’s events scheduled to take place in Normandy is pretty clear. D-day was an Allied effort. It will take place on French soil, but there will be plenty of Americans on hand, which I believe makes it an ideal target for Finistère both from a symbolic and a practical standpoint.”

“From a practical standpoint, it’s a logistical nightmare,” Will put in. “I’ve been talking to some of the brass involved, and it’s going to be tough to achieve any kind of security perimeter.”

“Correct,” Stone said. “I’ve alerted the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of the Interior. The National Gendarmerie is policing the memorial service, and they’ll be expanding their onsite presence in response to the increased threat.”

“We need to be there,” Will stated. His very quiet was convincing.

There was a murmur of agreement from the remaining agents. Stone nodded. “That’s my thought.”

Don’t say it.

Don’t do it.

This was where Taylor had come in. Sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Maybe even wasn’t needed. If he was right, it wasn’t going to do anyone any harm to muster out the DSS tomorrow. Two-thirds of RSOs in France would have been attending the service anyway. Will and Taylor would have gone in honor of Will’s grandfather, who’d taken part in the landings.

No need to volunteer his own wild theory, and it was sure as hell going to look wild in comparison to Will’s. He didn’t want to challenge Will anyway. Things were bad enough between them without it looking like Taylor resented David Bradley so much he was willing to risk the lives of hundreds of Americans.

Keep your damn mouth shut.

The phone was ringing at Arthur’s desk. All he had to do was turn and answer it, and he could decide later how much to tell Will. If anything.

“I think the D-day memorial is a dodge.”

Every head in the room turned Taylor’s way. He steeled himself and forged on. “I think we were meant to hit on the anniversary ceremony as Finistère’s target. I think Helloco deliberately dropped those bread crumbs for us to gobble up.”

“Bullshit.”

Stone looked startled at Will’s flat response, but she didn’t caution him. “What’s your theory, MacAllister?”

“First, there is no Finistère. Finistère is defunct. There’s one man, and he’s acting on his own. I don’t believe his motivation is political.”

Will demanded, “Then what is it?”

Taylor sidestepped. “Second, how come all at once Helloco has started playing guessing games? Up until now he’s always said exactly where he was going to strike. But suddenly he’s playing coy. Why?”

“He doesn’t want us to stop him,” one of the other agents said.

“I don’t think so. I think he wanted us to stay busy trying to figure out where this big attack was going to happen. If he just named the site, we’re liable to start wondering exactly what else he might be up to. But think about it. Where else
would
this strike take place? What other major newsworthy event is going on this week that involves Americans and the French?”

Will was shaking his head. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I don’t think I am. Here’s another thing. Why is Helloco suddenly so anti-American? He’s been living in the States for forty years. And living comfortably enough, it sounds like.”

Stone said, “That’s pretty shaky, MacAllister. We have no way of knowing what might have triggered Helloco’s return.”

“You think you know.” Will was watching Taylor with hard, unfriendly eyes.

“According to Helloco’s wife—ex-wife? Whatever—Helloco had lost interest in the movement. He didn’t care anymore. He said all governments were equally corrupt. He just wanted out. And he was willing to commit murder to get out.”

Will said, “Again, this is bullshit. You’re speculating. You have no idea what Helloco thinks or feels after all this time.”

“Well, I know one thing, Brandt. I know Finistère is not, and never was, the FLB. And the connections you’re trying to draw between collaborations with the Nazis that took place before Helloco was even born are totally bogus.”

Will’s face tightened. “Okay, Monsieur Poirot. What’s your theory? What’s his target? You keep avoiding that question. What do you think he’s after? Why do
you
think Helloco’s back?”

The phone was ringing on Arthur’s desk again.

Taylor tried to picture excusing himself to answer it. Or maybe he could just decline to answer on the grounds he was going to look like he’d been hitting Will’s bourbon.

“I think he’s here to recover a cache of paintings by Jacques-Louis David which he liberated and then hid when Finistère bombed a small museum in Bagnols-sur-Cèze.”

It could have gone worse.

No one laughed. Even Will was silent, eyes narrowed in that way he had when something struck him out of the blue. Taylor offered his reasoning, such as it was, and Stone heard him out all the way to the end without interrupting.