Chapter 7
The reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable. Bald, with brown eyes, a red-hued beard, four inches taller, and wearing a suit, Harbinger called a limo service and ordered a vehicle to pick him up. He checked his makeup closely, looking at the adhesion of the prosthetic nose and the foundation covering the glue. He glanced at his watch and headed back to the communications room, locking his private area and moving his clothes back to hide the entrance even further.
Harbinger made sure to walk in a swagger completely different from his normal stride. Con turned around at the sound of his approach. The man jumped off the stool and grabbed his bag. He whipped out an automatic pistol and held it on Harbinger. “Who the fuck are you?”
“The person letting you stay here, so don’t shoot me, asshole.”
Con blinked rapidly, and then his jaw almost hit the floor. “Harbinger? How the hell did you do that in … twenty minutes?”
“Practice. Do you have the cloned phone?”
“Yeah, right here.” Con gave the phone to him and then narrowed his eyes. “Man, that shit is spooky. Your eyes don’t even look the same.”
“Contacts and face tape.” Harbinger placed the cloned phone in his inside breast pocket. “Get some sleep.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Con said as he turned back to the workbench. “I’ve been looking into the catacombs. Specifically, the type of limestone produced from them. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure the background we saw in her photo is the same type of limestone.”
“How?” Harbinger walked up behind the tech guru.
“I sent pictures of the limestone to a geologist who’s done work for Guardian. It took him less than five minutes to identify the rock as Lutetian limestone, which is the ancient name given to the limestone of this area by the Romans. He found two distinct gastropods in the pictures that are only found in the Parisian area, so we’re in the right geographic area.”
“You did that all in twenty minutes?” Harbinger returned the guy’s question.
“No, I wish. I sent the pictures before I fell asleep waiting for the conference call.” Con rolled his shoulders. “I’m brain dead right now, or I’d start working on …” Con stopped and jumped over to his stool. “Incoming call.” He started typing furiously. “Yes, I see it, I’m on it.”
Harbinger glanced at the man, then noticed his comm device in his ear.
Con stared at his screen. “Yeah, come on, leave a voice message. I need ten more seconds …” Con stared at the screen and then pumped his fist in the air. “One tower.” He pointed to a set of numbers, then sighed before swearing. “No voice message, but we have a ping on this tower. Let me call it up on the map.”
Harbinger stared at the map overlay that came up on Con’s computer. “That’s the 14th Arrondissement. It’s also where the legal entry to the catacombs is located.”
“That doesn’t help much, then, does it?” Con rubbed his face.
“It gives a place to start. Is there any way to get a list of the unofficial entrances to the catacombs?” Harbinger asked, straightening his jacket.
Con cocked his head. “There should be, right? I mean, if there’s a society of people who enter the tunnels on the regular …” Con yawned until his jaw cracked and then started typing.
“Give it to one of the others to look up. Get some sleep, or you’ll be no good to anyone,” Harbinger said as he moved to look at the screen with the monitors to the building on it. There was a new man sitting in the car outside the door. Harbinger narrowed his eyes at the individual. Why? As far as he knew, there weren’t any photographs of him, and he would make damn sure there weren’t any.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wondering what the person on this building is there for.”
“You, probably.”
“But there are no photographs of me, and I was right in front of the other man earlier.”
Con frowned. “Maybe they’re waiting for someone to come into the building, not leave it.”
Harbinger’s eyebrows rose as he snapped a picture of the new man with the camera currently monitoring him. “Have your people run that for facial rec, please. There’s another picture with the first man on the desktop.”
“I’ll find it. Do what you need to do, and then please turn back into you. This thing you got going on now is just … weird.”
Harbinger chuffed out a laugh. “Get some sleep.”
“Maybe, but not right away. You made my brain wake up. I’m going to pop over to the dark side and see if any of my contacts know about the cataphiles.”
Harbinger glanced at the cameras once more and headed downstairs. The limo he’d ordered hadn’t arrived yet, so he paced up and down the walk while pulling out a cigarette. He made a show of patting his suit pockets before turning to the man whose entire mission seemed to be watching the door. He tapped on the window and made a motion for the driver to roll down the window. In fluent French, without a trace of an accent, he asked if the man had a lighter. Harbinger had seen him light up earlier, and the cigarette in his hand was his ticket to talk to the man.
The guy stuck his cigarette in his mouth and reached into his pocket, giving Harbinger a glimpse of his automatic settled snuggly under his arm as he took out his lighter. After lighting his cigarette, Harbinger drew a long drag of nicotine and resisted the impulse to cough. He blew out the stream of smoke and let his shoulders drop.
“Nice day,” he commented as he handed it back.
The man shrugged and started to roll up the window. Okay, so he wasn’t going to be communicative. The guy’s eyes kept darting to the street, assessing each of the cars that drove by.
“Waiting on someone?”
The man’s eyes snapped to Harbinger, and the window stopped moving up. “Why do you ask?”
Harbinger laughed. “My apologies; I assumed because you were parked here, you were waiting for someone.”
“No.” The guy finished rolling up the window, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared resolutely toward the street. Harbinger’s limo pulled up, and he took a final drag off his cigarette before flicking it into the middle of the road and getting into the back seat of his car. As the vehicle pulled away, Harbinger watched to see if the man would retrieve his cigarette. It was what he’d do if he were tracking someone and didn’t know for sure who his target was. DNA was definitive. But the man didn’t move. Harbinger turned around and rested against the seat.
His car dropped him off in front of Archambeau’s office building. Harbinger went in and was stopped by a security point. “May I ask who you are here to see?”
“Pierre Archambeau.” His French once again held an American accent.
“May I ask your appointment time?”
“I don’t have an appointment. Tell him a friend of Heath Morris is here to see him.”
The security point was on the phone a second later. Harbinger took in the sparse decoration and furnishing of the first-floor entry area. Although the building was modern, it was … empty. He swept the camera system, noting there were no screens at the security checkpoint. So, security was separated from the holding area where he currently stood. The doors behind the sentry that had greeted him appeared to be wooden, but he’d bet his year’s wages they were bulletproof and alarmed.
The guard put down the phone and said, “Please, follow me, sir.”
He fell into step behind the suited-up security specialist and notched a mental check in the correct box when he saw the vault-like door open. The protected interior of the building was furnished in dark brown, leather, and gold. He was led to an elevator, and the guard swiped a card held to his belt with a plastic-coated wire. “You’ll be met at your floor.” The guard stepped out, and the door shut behind him. Harbinger didn’t glance at the camera but stared forward. When the car stopped and the doors opened, another security guard was there.
“Sir, I’m going to have to pat you down and ensure you don’t have any transmitters on you.”
Harbinger stepped out of the elevator and lifted his arms, silently giving the man permission. He waited while the man did his job and then followed him down the hall. There was no receptionist, just a long hall of doors. The security specialist stopped at one door, knocked, and looked up into the camera. The door lock clicked, and the guard stepped aside. “I’ll be here when you need to leave.”
When he entered the office, Pierre Archambeau looked up from a desk that sat in the middle of a windowless office. “You have a message for me?” The man didn’t look a thing like he did last night at his apartment. His suit was crisp, no wrinkles. His hair was neatly combed, and the haggard look had disappeared. Harbinger’s supposition that the entire event had been an act was reinforced.
He walked forward and handed Archambeau the cloned phone. In a voice higher in pitch than his, he said, “You must ask for proof of life, and Mr. Morris wants the list of accounts with names.”
“I don’t call them. They call me. I don’t have the list here.” The man took the phone and placed it on his desk.
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have left your only means of communication with Mr. Morris, would you? Contact them. Get the list to him. It is not optional.”
Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know Mr. Morris?” Pierre stared at him with a hostile glare.
“Proof of life, Mr. Archambeau, and the list. Get it done.” Harbinger turned around and headed to the door without answering his question.
Pierre called from behind him. “Do you work for the government?”
Harbinger didn’t break stride. Pierre’s desire to know if he worked for the government was becoming an obsession. He opened the door and waited for the security specialist to power walk back to him. “This way, sir.” The man held an arm out in the direction they’d come from.
Harbinger left the building, and his waiting car pulled away from the curb with him securely ensconced a few seconds later. Traffic was horrendous, but it always was in Paris. Harbinger rolled down the security window and instructed the driver, “Take the long way back. I’m in no hurry, and your fee will be bigger.” After the driver acknowledged the order, Harbinger put the security divider back and swiveled so he could assess if he were being followed. He watched for over twenty minutes before he was satisfied Archambeau was caught flat-footed and hadn’t been able to have one of his minions follow him.
His cell phone rang. He retrieved it and swiped the face. “Go.”
“I’ve found a guy who will take you and one other down. I didn’t tell him what we were looking for. He said if we have the money, he’ll spend the next month showing us everything he knows about the tunnel system.” Con yawned again. “Sorry, man.”
“You’ve done well. Leave the contact information. I’ll instruct the driver to return immediately.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s a second thing. The guy in front of the building is a known member of the Corsican mob. So is the dude in the other picture.” Con yawned again. “Fuck, sorry, dude. I’m crashing hard.”
“I’ll be there shortly. Get some sleep.” Harbinger hung up without waiting for a response. Con had been working his ass off, and it had paid out. Corsican mob … Why would the people who were hired to protect Ysabel be watching his apartment building? A piece of the puzzle that didn’t yet fit. He dialed Val’s number because he didn’t have Smith’s.
“Go,” she said by way of greeting.
“Tell Smith to put on his spelunking gear.”
“When?”
“One hour.”
“See you then.” Val hung up, and Harbinger stared out of the back of the limo. Ysabel … He wasn’t sure what she’d become involved in, but one thing he couldn’t shake was the idea her father was deeply involved. The man reeked of complicity. It was an intangible skill Harbinger had honed over his career with Guardian. He could smell it on a person—the acid-like stench of someone guilty of crimes against weaker people. For money, fame, love, or a combination of those three, people would do the most heinous things imaginable—even fathers.