Violence was power. Violence and terror and death.
Neuilly had excited Alexis. He watched the news reports endlessly, picturing the fat American rich kids screaming and running for their lives, like squealing pigs.
Tonight, at long last, it would be Hunter Drexel’s turn to squeal.
The Americans, the British, Interpol, they were all here in Paris, swarming the city like flies on shit, searching for Hunter and the three Group 99 gunmen who had wreaked such delicious havoc. But they knew nothing. He, Alexis Argyros, had outwitted them all.
The pleasure of killing Hunter Drexel would be his and his alone.
Tonight.
In his dingy caravan at the campsite, he slipped on his overalls and the thin black balaclava he would use, right up to the moment of the kill. He wanted Drexel to see him then. Not just the look in his eyes but the smile on his face as he took the American’s life, the ultimate act of domination.
The days of his humiliation were over.
I am Apollo the Great.
The God of plague and destruction.
Scourge of the boastful.
Slayer of Giants.
It would be done tonight.
JEFF STEVENS CALLED MAJOR General Frank Dorrien.
“It’s tonight. Tracy’s going to a poker game at Pascal Cauchin’s apartment.”
Frank took a sharp intake of breath. “Drexel’s going to be there?”
“Possibly. All I know for sure is that Tracy’s going to the game posing as a rich Texan widow with a hundred thousand euros in cash.”
“Shit.” Jeff could hear the general’s mind racing. Presumably Tracy Whitney must believe Hunter Drexel would show up tonight, or she wouldn’t be going. And it made sense. Cauchin was probably the biggest name in the fracking industry in the whole of France. “Does the CIA know about this?”
“I don’t think so. Walton thinks she’s tracking Althea.”
“And Cameron Crewe?”
“She hasn’t called him today,” Jeff said. “I think she’s working alone on this. We have to get down there, Frank. We have to protect her.”
“Of course,” Frank Dorrien said smoothly. “We’re on it. Just sit tight.”
“Sit tight?” Jeff said. “I’m not sitting anywhere. I’m going to that game.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’ll blow your cover. The moment Tracy sees you she’ll . . . Jeff? Jeff!”
The line was dead.
PASCAL CAUCHIN WAS IN an excellent mood.
He’d just finalized a lucrative deal to joint rights in a new gas pipeline, running from Bratislava to Poland and the East. His mistress had returned from a trip to Florida last night with even bigger breast implants that Pascal couldn’t wait to get his hands on. And tonight’s poker game looked set to be extremely interesting.
Lex Brightman, the flamboyantly gay New Yorker, was attending. Pascal Cauchin had only met Brightman once before, at a house party last weekend, but in that short time the theater producer had impressed him as displaying a uniquely American combination of arrogance and stupidity that boded well for tonight’s game. “I’m a pretty great poker player, if I do say so myself,” Brightman had informed Pascal, proceeding to talk him play by play through some of what he considered to be his top techniques for outwitting his opponents.
Pascal was looking forward to relieving Lex Brightman of a considerable sum of money.
Another new player was expected too, a last-minute addition by the name of Jeremy Sands. Pascal’s good friend, the art dealer Antione de la Court, had called just an hour ago to have Sands added to the guest list.