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Jim -
I was in a meeting with several old friends and one new one, in a hotel room in Paris.
Yet another 5 star hotel and yet again Grayson and his entourage - and my wife - were in a palatial suite several floors above my own more modest room.
My new friend was Jean-Marc Rousseau and I think he worked for DGSE. The French equivalent to our CIA. All I know is that Elaine vouched for him and had set this all up.
Jennifer was also with me - so much for her "light duty" and "no undercover" restrictions - but in fact, she was NOT going undercover in this assignment. At least that was the plan. And we DID have a plan, finally - beyond merely killing Grayson, by shooting his plane out from under him or otherwise - like me personally strangling him.
I went a little crazy when I found out about that F-22 stalking mission over the Atlantic. We were all brainstorming with "Cowboy" Rob when he casually mentioned it. That it was going on RIGHT NOW - and so all these discussions might be pointless.... I'm not sure the obvious storm clouds that appeared over my head influenced that final decision, but maybe it did. Maybe the tentative plan we were thrashing around was more influential. Anyway, Rob picked up the phone and spoke briefly with someone - and that was that.
For the first time in my whole professional career, I now had a goal of equal or maybe even greater import than just "completing the mission." That goal was now getting Rachel out of this mess alive. Physically harmed as little as possible, but especially keeping her alive.
Well, she made it to Paris alive and here I was also.
Our fourth teammate was our old pal, Adel, from our little Iranian venture. He brought some interesting technical props to the party. Jennifer hugged Adel in a way that almost made me jealous. But then I hugged Adel almost as enthusiastically myself. He was a good guy to have on your side.
By the way, he mentioned, our dear Colonel Jafar Mandani HAD apparently turned - and was still working diligently to find Farah's children - only now to get them out of Iran safely. Yasmin had been answering Darius's cellphone calls and the Colonel was using the Russian supplied Stingray equipment to locate Yasmin's exact physical location. The Stingray worked by mimicking a cellphone tower and hijacking the target cellphone's call connections, a separate antennae attachment then helped pinpoint the physical location of the phone, if the Stingray's own internal hacking S/W failed to merely query the target phone's internal GPS and read it's exact location that way.
Yasmin WAS somewhere in southern Tehran and Jafar was closing in on her exact location. Probably the next call would pinpoint her. Darius could only call her about every other day without raising Yasmin's suspicions. When she was located, her and her lover, would be escorted out by Jafar personally. Darius would be sent to Mecca on the next Hajj and then turned over to Saudi clerics who were in league with Saudi General Intelligence Directorate (Mukhabarat) agents - in this case friends of "the Agency" - and then escorted personally by one such agent all the way to Los Angeles and delivery to his mother.
"So, you've given Jafar the antidote?"
"Of course," Adel grinned slyly. "But each antidote shot has it's own mixed in new poison - which requires another shot in about a month, or..." Adel made the throat cutting gesture. "Evil," I couldn't help thinking.
"Ok, what's the takedown plan for Grayson?"
"It's simple. He's ordering a lot of room service. I'll simply be his next hotel waiter," said Jean-Marc.
"I'd like to be the one," I said.
"How's your French? Or at least your French accent speaking English?"
"Say something in French." I replied.
"Comprenez-vous ce connard?"
Basically, "do you understand this, asshole?" Even French cussin' sounds so sophisticated.
But I wanted to hear him to try and actually mimic his own accent. Part of my language talent was this mimicking ability.
"Oui. Va te faire foutre." Basically, yes - go fuck yourself.
"Not bad, not bad. And your accent is just a little off. These assholes upstairs won't notice - but for in the future when/if you have to fool real Frenchmen - or women - try it with just a bit of Irish brogue."
"Ah, you mean as if I'm from Brittany?"
"Exactly. There are still quite a few bilingual Celtic heritage people in that region of France. You'll just seem like a "hick" from that region - but still French."
I did try that and he was quite pleased, as was I. Nice to learn some new tradecraft. One never knows...
"OK, how are you going to do this, Mr. James Franco Bondurant?" Yes, THAT was my nom deplume complete with documentation for this little caper. James F. (fucking?) Bond(urant).
"Got a Walther PPK .380 with silencer for me? And Jennifer?
"Of course! Mr. Bond's favorite gun! What else?" and he really grinned. He had that Gallic joie de vivre charm going and even I could feel Jennifer's panties getting wet. Jean-Marc just might be what Jenn needed as part of her own PTSD therapy. Good for her!
It went down almost as planned. I wheeled the dinner cart in. Two large and alert, quite competent looking, bodyguards were in the room and spread out. I started unloading everything onto the table but Grayson waved me off.
"I've got a woman to do that, In fact, what a woman. In lieu of a monetary tip, just feast your eyes!" Grayson said, then yelled more loudly, "Rachel, come out here dressed - undressed! - just as you are!"
Rachel walked out of the bedroom and I said "Mon dieu!" in my new Celtic-French accent. Rachel saw me and went beet red in the face and shoulders and even down to the tops of her breasts - pretty much totally visible in her see through cut-out bra, with her nips proudly erect. She was also wearing very scanty panties, thigh high stockings and five inch heels she rocked very, very well. I could hardly stop staring at her, but I remembered my role.
