Chapter Two
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The Cours Mirabeau served as the very heart – the cours– to Aix-en-Provence, a vielle ville, old village, in the south of France. So far, Marisa had been enjoying her time spent in hiding from the "real world."
On this particular day, she found herself at the famous terrace café,Les Deux Garçons (the Two Waiters), having a breakfast of omelets and bread served with jam and margarine. She was also sipping from a "grandes crèmes" one of their specialtycoffees. She had very little to complain about.
Aix-en-Provence (pronounced Aches-en-Provence) certainly had its charm, with its tree-lined avenues giving plenty of shade, terrace cafes, bookshops, and fountains. (Marisa had counted six already.) The air was warm, the light divine, and the whole area felt alive, teeming with history and ignorance. The kind of ignorance Marisa wished she had.
Her job as a manager at the Organization seemed to place a constant cloud over her head. There were so many boundaries, rules, stress, and heightened sense of alertness that all came hand-in-hand with multiple headaches, injuries, and plenty of guilty-consciousness'. With the Organization staying on the down low, one could wish this kind of emergency would happen more often. Clearing out her schedule to make time for herself and actually enjoy her surroundings, instead of always feeling she had to look over her shoulder; it was something she hadn't done in a long time.
After paying the bill, Marisa left Les Deux Garçons and made her way across the Cours Mirabeau. She passed one of the many fountains, this one known as the 9-cannons fountain, which stood in the middle of the street.
Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, a number of markets set up their multicolor arrangements of food, flowers, clothes, and other knick-knacks. Saint Madeleine Church served as the backdrop for all of it.
She made her way over to the first stand, a table holding ornate pieces of jewelry. She looked through the pieces, eyeing each one with a careful, well-trained eye.
"C'est le plus cher," said a voice to her left. That's the most expensive. Marisa nearly dropped the wood-bead bracelet in her hand. "127€," the man said from next to her, he seemed to be the supervisor of the jewelry displays.
She nodded and replaced the piece of jewelry, moving to another booth. This one was a flower vendor, selling large sunflowers, which gave off the most beautiful smell. She contemplated buying one, but thought against it. Her temptations were tested again, when she passed a tray of éclairs and pastries, for a very cheap price. The vendor, an aging dame, practically shoved a tarte aux pomme (apple tart) in Marisa's hand so she couldn't refuse. It turned out to be très délicieuce.
The market was filling up with customers fast, Marisa saw this as a good time to head home now, not wanting to spend any more money or time here. On her way out, she tripped on something and stumbled forward.
She would have hit the ground, except a pair of strong arms caught her, pulling her to her feet.
Stupid heels, she cursed herself. "Merci beaucoup," she told the man who had helped her. It was the jewelry peddler from before, the one with the expensive bracelets.
"Ce n'est pas grave." It's not serious. He took her hand in his, holding them as if they would break. She felt something hard in her palm, but before she could think too long on it he let her them go and walked away, back to selling his jewelry.
Marisa didn't want to draw attention to herself, something the Organization had taught her. So she walked back towards the Cours Mirabeau, her hands still clenched together. When she came to a busy intersection, she looked down at her hands. It was the wood-bead bracelet she had been admiring at the markets. Only this one had a slip of paper attached to it. She untied the velvet ties to pull the thin paper off, unfolding it in the process.
Gratuitement was all it said. Free of charge.
To anyone it would have appeared that she had just received a very expensive bracelet out of the kindness of someone's heart. Though that was true, it was only partial, especially to Marisa. Free of Charge had a double meaning – she could thank the Organization for this knowledge – she was being called out of hiding. She was free of her charge, free to become Marisa Hodges, hired assassination manager, again.
With that in mind, she doubled her pace home. The Organization was going to try and contact her now. She had to be ready.
Home was a second floor suite at the Hotel Ravel d'Esclapon (with its proud stone walls, nicely faded, and large windows), located on 9 Cardinal Street in the Quartier Mazarin, just south of the Cours Mirabeau. The Quartier Mazarin was an area full of "hôtels particuliers" or town houses dating back to the 17th century. It's main attraction was the exquisite "Fountaine de Quatre Dauphins" (the Fountain of Four Dolphins) at the crossing point of the Rue du 4 Septembre and the Rue Cardinale.
The interior of Marisa's suite was hardly special. A single lamp and chair in the entrance hallway, a small bathroom, a modest kitchen tucked into the corner of the building, an adjacent dining room, and a bedroom, complete with master bathroom, all with familiar and inviting views only the second floor could offer.
Coming into the small suite, Marisa dropped her purse on the welcoming chair. Toying with the bracelet in her hands, the note shoved into her pocket was extracted and immediately thrown into the kitchen sink. She then proceeded to light a match and burn it.
A part of her had been happy to see the hastily scrawled French words, practically screaming her freedom. Free of Charge. She could be normal again…whatever normal meant. But at the same time, she had become depressed in finding that all too familiar creep on her neck at every turn, the fear and anxiety of being watched. She would have to leave the quaint little town of Aix-en-Provence, which seemed to remain thoroughly sheltered.
When the note was nothing more than a pile of ashes, the phone rang.
"Allô?" She said into the phone.
"Mademoiselle Hodges?"
"Oui." Yes.
"Êtes-vous seul?" Are you alone?
"Oui, bien sûr." Yes, of course.
"We don't have much time to talk. We don't want to be traced. A car will pick you up at 8:01 this evening outside your apartment. Bring one suitcase. Do not be late."
"Where will I – "
The line went dead. The conversation had been over and done in less than twenty seconds. Marisa didn't have much time to dwell on it, so she hung up and went to her room. One suitcase could hold plenty; it was all she had anyway. She began to pack.
Marisa had changed her clothes three times before she finally felt satisfied in cropped pants, a thin sweater, and a jacket. Now standing in the autumn night, she was shivering from the cold, wishing she had chosen those jeans instead.
It was currently eight o'clock, according to the clock tower, which had begun striking the hour with a series of bells. She stood outside her apartment, her one rolling suitcase in one hand, and her small purse in the other. Tied around her wrist was the wood-bead bracelet with the velvet tie, a token of her stay in France, but also of her discharge, her discharge from a chance of living. Now it was back to hell.
She heard the sound of a motor. A car? Her transportation? It came down the street, lights cutting through the darkness, coming to a full stop before her. The driver got out and made his way to Marisa.
She felt like laughing out loud, which would have been highly inappropriate for such a serious situation. It was the jewelry peddler.
"Mademoiselle?" He greeted her with a small nod, holding out the door for her. She returned the nod of acknowledgement and climbed into the backseat. The jewelry peddler – if that was his real job? – took her suitcase and packed it into the trunk of the car – a black, tinted window, leather interior seating – Peugeot 607. It was probably the most luxurious car in the area.
The driver/jewelry peddler/Organization member stepped into the drivers seat. Marisa was about to ask him what his name was, when he answered for her, in English.
"It's Gregoire. Greg for short."
"Marisa," she introduced herself to the older man. "Are you a messenger?"
"And a driver."
"Where are you taking me?" His eyes, a dull blue color, caught her pale green ones in the rearview mirror. If she had blinked she would have missed the quick glance, for they moved back onto the road ahead of them.
"No questions," he said, then added: "Remember you're still not fully 'free of charge.'"
Marisa found herself smiling at the back of his head. "You must have a knack for tripping people?" She could his cheeks crinkling into a smile.
"It was the only way I could give you your message. Consider it one of my specialties." His voice had a slight regional accent to it. If one weren't looking for it they would have never noticed.
"Are you from around here?"
Greg shrugged. "When I am not working for the Organization, I spend my free time here."
"Selling jewelry?" She lightly touched the bracelet on her wrist.
"Depends."
The drive didn't last much longer. When Greg had parked the car, Marisa recognized that they were at the Aix-en-Provence TGV station.
"Why not just pick me up in a jet?" She suggested to Greg as he opened the door for her.
"Too much unwanted attention. We'll be traveling like normal people?"
"We?"
"My instructions were to take you as far as Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris." He opened the trunk and pulled out Marisa's suitcase, followed by a second one, which she assumed was his own.
The TGV, Train à Grand Vitesse (high speed train) holds the record for the fastest wheeled train and the highest average speed for a regular passenger service. At exactly 8:12 pm, Greg and Marisa were leaving Aix-en-Provence, heading for Paris Gare de Lyon. It would take just under three hours.
"What other information do you have?" Marisa asked, once they were settled in their compartment.
"Nothing."
"Not even my flight information?"
Greg shook his head. "Messengers aren't allowed to know too much. But from what I've heard, you're the first one out of 'charge.' No other active member has been contacted."
Marisa willed herself to sink deeper into the seat, trying to melt away from her surroundings. Being the first one called out of hiding was usually for a major operation. But for what, or for whom, Marisa couldn't fathom.
Then again, Marisa reminded herself. We are dealing with the Organization. Very few knew what they were getting themselves involved in with the Organization.
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Jackson was a firm hater of hospitals. He hated the smell, the squeaky clean façade, the sounds, and – more importantly – the nurses. Just an hour ago, one had come into his room, all cheery-eyed and smiling, holding a tray of hospital food (another thing he hated about hospitals).
"Hungry?" she had asked him, placing the tray in front of him, while strategically bending over in such a way so that he could catch a glimpse of a lacy push-up bra down her shirt.
He didn't reply, but rather continued to glare daggers at her (clearing avoiding her chest), wanting nothing more than to take her skinny, little neck in his hands and squeeze the living breathe –
"Your face is bright red, did you that? It might make you feel better if you breathe?" He did, straining the muscles in this throat from his wound.
"How are the injuries?" The smiling nurse asked, looking so oddly happy that Jackson was afraid she might piss in her pants.
"Can I make another phone call?" He had asked instead, his voice scratchy and hoarse.
"I'll see what I can do?" She winked at him and left.
Well, that was over an hour ago, and the nurse hadn't come back. He was beginning to doubt that he would ever make that call. It had been a little over twenty-four hours since his last phone call to Linda at the Organization. Surely she would have made some progress.
His musings were interrupted when the door opened. It wasn't the nurse.
Detective Tucker Browne was a tall man – with typical police intimidation skills – cropped dark hair, and hazel eyes.
"Good afternoon, Rippner."
"Tuck." Jackson addressed the detective, however brief.
"Miss Reisert filed a restraining order," he said, settling himself into a seat and resting his arm on the small table. "300 feet."
Jackson didn't say anything, but Tucker saw a muscle clench in his jaw. Peachy, he thought.
"They're going to discharge you tomorrow," Tucker continued. "You'll be transferred to a medium security cell without bail."
The only change in the young man's face this time was the slight raise of his eyebrows. "Only medium?" There was humor evident in his tone.
"All the maximum security cells are in use. But that doesn't mean we're letting you off easy. You'll be staying there until the trial."
The room lapsed into silence.
"Can I ask you a question?" Tucker asked after a few sufficient pauses.
"If I say no," Jackson croaked, "you'll ask it anyway."
The detective smirked, but then became serious again. "Who hired you?"
"I'm not entitled to speak until my lawyer gets here."
"Don't give me that bullshit. Look," he leaned forward in his seat, bringing his hands together to keep them from wanting to smack the other guy so hard he fell off the bed. "The FBI is sending one of their guys down. He won't hesitate for a second to beat the living shit out of you."
When it appeared that Jackson wasn't going to open his mouth any further, the older man sighed, running a calloused hand through his short hair in frustration. He stood up. "Fine," the detective said, holding up his hands as if accepting defeat. "I'll get you a lawyer and you can release a statement, until then your stuck here. In the meantime, I'll send Brooke in here to keep you company."
"Brooke?" One delicate eyebrow had risen until it became lost behind his dark hair.
"The nurse with the creepy smile that makes her jaw look like it's about to detach itself from her face." He smiled when he saw Jackson's eyes now widen, and he seemed to look…afraid?
"She said you wanted to make another phone call. Sorry Rippner, I can't let you do that." He turned to leave. "Until we meet again." He left to room to Jackson staring a spot on the wall.
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The Boeing 777 jet was already soaring above the clouds, heading across the Atlantic Ocean. The lone passenger in the first-class cabin was busy stirring her drink – a Cape Cod – and idly flipping through a magazine.
She came to a page, listing the in-flight movies, playing at all hours, when a slip of paper fell out. Checking to make sure the flight attendants were nowhere in sight, she bet to pick it up. It was a plane ticket for First Class Seat 27K
She replaced her magazine and left her seat – 14A – to the next cabin. This one was empty too, save one person in seat 27K.
"I had a feeling I was being stalked," she told the man sitting in the seat.
"You've been requested Miss Hodges."
Marisa stared at the man. The Boss rarely ever became involved with the employee's or clients of the Organization. He had been a top assassin in his past life; nobody doubted that he was any less of one now. He rose easily through the ranks, traveled all over the world, and was wanted in over 100 countries.
The Boss had become no less attractive, in fact he seemed to defy human nature of aging by being more handsome at an older age – a mere forty-six years old. His once thick blond hair was thinning and graying in some places. His eyes held that kind of wisdom laden with images of the people he had killed and the grief and destruction in his wake. He was not a man to the challenged against.
And still Marisa was in awe that he was right here, sitting onboard a plane no less, a common people's plane. (Such peoples with the prestige The Boss had made for himself did not fly on commercial jets.) He looked like a businessman on his way to work.
"I beg your pardon?" Marisa stuttered, now finding her voice once the initial shock at finding the man she presumed was untouchable and had never seen the real world had – in fact – spoken to her.
"Perhaps you should sit down?" He gestured to the open seat next to him.
Marisa took the seat without question, her legs seeming to collapse underneath her as she plopped into the cushions. She felt the overbearing aura emanating from the Boss that she had trouble hiding from him. The man was a legend hardly anyone knew his name, he was just the Boss. She had the idea that many people felt an inferiority complex in his company.
"I must say, sir, that it is an honor being here with you…sir. But I just – I can't understand why you have to see me so urgently."
The Boss drew in a deep breath before he spoke in a thick, British accent. "It's a matter of the Organization's security, or rather a specific member of the Organization's security."
Marisa's mind spun with possibilities, the Boss answered for her: "Jackson Rippner. He's requested you. I believe his exact words were…" His hand came up to rub his chin thoughtfully. "Tell her I love her."
Tell her I love her. Tell her I love her. Tell her I – Oh shit!
"Seriously?" She breathed, the meaning of the words finally sinking in, she seemed to forget her manners in front of her superior.
The Boss didn't move. "Yes," he replied in a tone that suggested it was not in his best interest to lie. "Do you accept?"
Her pale hands twisted in her lap. "How?"
"We were thinking kidnap, but if you have any other ideas…"
"He's in jail?"
Even in the dim lighting of the overnight flight, Marisa clearly saw the small twinkle in her Boss' eyes and the smile playing on his lips. "Hasn't stopped us before."
Sometimes I think I forget who I'm dealing with here. "Why me? I don't do kidnappings."
"Because you're our top manager," the Boss said simply. "After Rippner, of course."
There was a long pause, the only sound being the distant hums of the powerful jet engines.
"No," said Marisa finally.
Now it was the Boss' turn to be surprised. He leaned backward in his seat, his eyebrows lifting in the slightest manner.
"I'm not going to be the one to hand Rippner's job back to him on a silver platter."
"Who said anything about Rippner getting his job back?" The Boss interrupted Marisa, who found herself staring once again into his steel gray eyes.
"Rippner is the perfect role model of a washout. Because he is being brought under investigation, so is the Organization. His clients were not happy with his –err," he coughed nervously, "…negligence, and the Organization can only protect him for so long. As of now we are flying under the radar. We had to override thirteen security codes just to find where you were in hiding and have Greg contact you all in less than twenty-four hours. This has been no easy task, believe me."
For just a split second, the dark circles under his eyes and the sudden dullness behind those gray eyes were visible. Though in a blink of an eye, the Boss snapped back to his authoritative demeanor.
"But if you really don't want to take the job (even though you've been specially requested), I understand you and Rippner go back a long way."
"In no way is my refusal because of a personal vendetta, sir. I just –" she stopped, catching his stoic eyes again. She found herself doing that a lot.
They were empty. His calm expression did nothing to help her choice of words either. She was – after all – face to face with a former sharpshooter, these kinds of people were good with hiding emotions.
"You have until the end of the flight to make a decision."