Terror Ballot by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-09-11T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Outside Paris, France

The Citroën C4 Aircross carried Bolan and Inspector Bayard across the countryside in reasonable comfort. It was silver in color, fairly nondescript as modern sport-utility vehicles went and roomy enough that Bolan’s big frame didn’t feel compressed. The soldier had verified the name and then the address of the digital media expert Gerard Levesque had given him. They were on their way there now.

The plan was to engage Edouard Tessier and see what he knew. If he had evidence that would validate the videos of Deparmond—videos now in the hands of both the press and the authorities, thanks to whatever arrangements Levesque had made before his death—so much the better. If Tessier could determine them to be fakes, that would complicate things, but it would at least confirm Bolan’s suspicion that something was amiss.

Tessier’s home was some distance outside Paris. The inspector and the soldier had by now left behind what passed for suburbs and the sprawling semiurban areas around Paris proper. The drive gave Bolan time to collect his thoughts, which was to say, it gave him time to sleep on and off as Bayard drove.

“It amazes me,” Bayard said, “that you sleep so readily. Tell me, Cooper, how many men have you killed today?”

“Every time you ask questions like that,” Bolan replied, without opening his eyes, “you sound less and less irritated.”

“I told you. The results you have achieved have earned you a certain amount of respect in my eyes. But that does not explain how a man who has just destroyed a small army with his own hands can sleep as if he has not a care in the world.”

“Easy,” Bolan said. “Fighting small armies makes you tired.”

“I suppose it makes you hungry, as well.”

“I could eat.” Bolan honestly hadn’t considered it, but, at the mention of food, he realized he was indeed very hungry.

Bayard reached across the soldier and removed a package from the glove compartment. He handed it to Bolan. “Save one for me,” Bayard said. “I will have something to eat later, perhaps.”

Inside the foil package were several roast beef sandwiches. Bolan took two gratefully. There was already a bottle of water in the cup holder on Bolan’s side. After checking the bottle for needle marks, he opened it and drank. Bolan’s ingrained habit wouldn’t stop a truly determined act of poisoning or drugging, of course; there were ways to seal a water bottle again after opening it to tamper with its contents. But he was not actually concerned about Bayard.

“That is odd,” Bayard said, after they had driven in silence for some time.

“What?” Bolan asked. He was finishing his second sandwich.

“Men on motorcycles,” the inspector replied. “Waiting by the roadside. If I did not know better, I would have thought they were wearing—”

“Woodland camouflage and black ski masks?” Bolan asked, sitting forward to check the rearview mirror on his side. “Trademark garb of ES.”

Bayard, also looking in the rearview mirror, sighed. “Yes. That was it exactly.”

“Maybe that wasn’t it.

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