BETRAYER of KINGS: An explosive spy thriller full of action and suspense (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 1) by Powers Sam

Author:Powers, Sam [Powers, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: J.I. Loome
Published: 2015-04-17T04:00:00+00:00

Sept. 8, 2015, PARIS, FRANCE

Under a cool-but-sunny sky, the gray Rolls Royce Phantom sedan pulled up to the curb outside the squat, brown glass building housing La Banque de Commerce Francais on Rue Chabon, just a few blocks away from the Champs Elysees. The driver wore a matching gray uniform with a peaked hat. He got out quickly, his patent leather boots glinting as he avoided the oncoming traffic and moved around the back of the car to open the rear door.

Yoshi Funomora stepped gingerly out onto the near-vacant sidewalk, looking both ways as he did. The shooting two days earlier had made them all nervous, he supposed. Any one of them could have been in Montpellier giving that speech.

Funomora was a heavy man with typically thick, dark hair. The Japanese representative wore a three-piece suit and bowler hat with spat-style brogue shoes, and even though it was sunny, he carried an umbrella with him at all times, just in case. He covered the few feet to the bank’s entrance without incident, scanning the street behind him one more time before heading inside.

The public portion of the business was immense. Along one wall were a dozen teller windows, all staffed and busy and with waiting lines. Along the other were a series of offices used to conduct loan business and interviews. Customers milled around the center of the room, waiting for a turn on either side. At the very back, under a porcelain wall-hanging depicting Charlemagne on horseback and adjacent to the vault, was the double-sized entrance to a large conference room. The doors were usually locked, as only one group was authorized to use it, a group that, as far as most of the world was concerned, did not exist.

The chamber was functional, a semi-circular table taking up most of the room. It faced a series of screens hosting newscasts and political channels from around the globe. The five others had already arrived, each with the table ahead of them lit, a small card featuring the name of their home nation in small black print but their faces shrouded in the adjacent shadow. The chairman turned in his seat slightly and watched Funomora as he made his way to the last seat, next to La Pierre’s empty chair.

“Now that Japan has graced us with his presence,” the chairman said, “he can perhaps fulfill his obligation as the ACF’s security adviser and explain what happened to France.”

Funomora understood the implication in the chairman’s tone, that somehow he was responsible for what had taken place. Personally, he blamed La Pierre. She was continually inflaming domestic politics in her home country, paying more attention to her supporter base than her responsibilities. The ACF had become accustomed to her absence, despite her stated loyalty. She had spent increasing amounts of time working on environmental issues. Now, her life was under a microscope, which meant outside attention. Outside attention was never particularly welcome.

“I would have thought it obvious,” Funomora said. “France was shot dead by an assassin.

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