He'd heard of these places, reclaimed beneath the streets of Paris, reusing spaces that had been abandoned.
“Tell me about him.”
“He's a businessman,” Anthony replied, his voice echoing off the stone and concrete walls as the tunnel loomed like a black hole in front of them. He suddenly stopped and climbed several steps in a recessed area in the wall and a door.
Over the doorway was that same number, 417. Anthony seized a handle and opened the door.
“He's a gamer. He won three hundred thousand at our last tournament. He has a lot of business enterprises all over thecity, and no love for your gallery owner. When I mentioned the gallery, he was most interested to meet you.”
They walked down a well-lit hallway. He saw the glow of other lights before they ever reached the entrance to the club, then through an arched opening where they were met by two men dressed in black turtlenecks, black suit jackets, and jeans. Every nerve went on alert at the slight bulge beneath both men's jacket fronts. Anthony briefly spoke with one and they were allowed to move ahead.
He had been in caves in Afghanistan, from the simple hollowed-out spaces to intricate webs of tunnels carved deep into the mountainsides, but it didn't prepare him for the huge space that opened up before them.
Paris was well-known for its underground catacombs, areas that had been carved out underground over the centuries. There were chambers that had been used to hide from the Nazis during the occupation of World War II. But this was no crudely carved hiding place from a couple of centuries earlier.
It was not quite midnight, but the nightlife of Paris had slipped underground, tables that lined both sides of the club filling up, couples of every mix and description out on the dance floor, while a disc jockey put out a stream of rap, funk, and dance pieces that pumped into the cool air blended with the scent of marijuana and a vague undercurrent of incense and perfumes of choice.
The glow of strobes and under-floor lighting was a blend of hot pink, bright blue, and purple, a rainbow that changed to the beat of the latest piece from giant speakers, while waiters in tight, ball-hugging shorts delivered fruit-embellished drinks, shots, and other alcohol of choice. Club 417 was open for business.
As soon as they entered the club, he looked for more guards, and other exits. Beneath the glitz and glitter, the booze andentertainment, the club was no different than any off-the-map night spot.
A slow scan of the club and he knew the locations of several guards, no doubt with the polite, disguised titles of ‘hosts,’ strategically positioned throughout the club. Whoever Anthony's contact was, he was a careful man. He also saw the women, some of them no more than girls, who worked the tables and the customers. The younger the girl, the higher the price. When she got older, she would disappear, probably out on the streets to survive in the oldest trade. And that was if she was lucky.
The raised platform was in the far corner of the club with a view of everything, an arched doorway in the back wall behind the platform—an exit, no doubt in case the crowed got out of control, the club was raided by some rival, or there was a surprise guest that made an unexpected appearance. He thought of the club in Paris that had been the target of terrorists, along with another in Florida. The unexpected had become all too common.
The platform was tucked back behind a wrought-iron half wall, the man behind it unlike the other guests or the guards posted at either side, an empty shot glass before him, dark eyes watchful in the way of someone who is always looking over his shoulder and always has bodyguards. Just your usual underground businessman.
One of the guards came forward. The tension tightened along every nerve ending at the anticipated pat-down, the knife extricated from his back pocket and laid on the table. The smile from across the table was unexpected as James exchanged a warning glance with the guard. Anthony made the introductions.
“This is the man I spoke to you about. Captain Jack, this is Captain Morgan.”
James angled a glance at Anthony. He was a friend of Innis's but James had learned a long time ago not to trust a friend of a friend. There was an old saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. He preferred his own version, the enemy of my enemy might also be my enemy.
“Captain Morgan,” their host replied. “A fellow pirate, perhaps.” He chuckled. “And I see that you came armed. I expected no less, of course. It is the nature of business.” He ran a finger along the blade of the knife.
“A fine weapon and it has seen some use.” That dark gaze met his.
“Some,” James replied.
“It will be returned when you leave.”
It was almost comical, James thought. The man across from him could have been that iconic pirate from several recent films, an alter-ego and undoubtedly not his real name, right down to the dreadlocks and braided goatee. The only thing missing was a gold tooth.
“Please,” their host indicated the chairs across from him. “Be seated, a drink, and you must tell me about your interest in le Noir.”
It was subtle, but there was a definite undercurrent, an edge in the way he said it. Rules learned long ago—meet the other's gaze directly, allow him to speak first, and never trust a man who stands at your back. He gave the guard a steady look. At a nod from his employer, he stepped to the side and seemed to melt into the wall.
“Yes, I think we understand each other very well,” their host commented.
“A drink, then.” Their host raised a hand and one of those scantily clad servers appeared.
James shook his head. “I don't drink.” Not in strange places, he thought, but didn't say it, where any beverage might contain a few extra drops that worked in just a few seconds.
Captain Jack smiled, revealing not one but several gold teeth. “You are a careful man. And you come for information. What are you willing to provide in return?”
Quid pro quo, whether it was several million US, stolen weapons, or a solution. There was always an exchange.
But what did he have?
