Drexler continued. “I’ve spent over two years in Syria. I’ve done everything asked of me. It’s time for me to move on.”

“I don’t understand,” Meier said. “We positioned you in Syria because it was the safest place for you due to your . . . legal troubles. I am certain Interpol hasn’t lost interest in you in two years, and there aren’t many locales like Syria that offer both freedom of movement for you and a crucial business need for us.”

“Syria has simply become too dangerous an environment for me.”

“Hogwash,” said Ian Pleasance, the thick-jowled English director of bank operations. “The civil war is being won by the regime, and won handily. ISIS is on its last legs, ditto the Kurds and the FSA. Russia will protect Azzam, and by extension, it will protect you.”

Drexler acknowledged Pleasance with a nod but said, “I’m not worried about ISIS or the FSA. I’m worried about Shakira and Ahmed. My work has positioned me directly between them.”

Meier pursed his lips. “In what way?”

“It’s about the job I am here to do in Paris. If I do it correctly, and Ahmed finds out . . . I will be killed when I return to Syria.”

Stefan Meier flashed a glance to the director of operations. A look of annoyance that something so crass as murder would come up in this meeting. Stefan leaned back in his chair now, and Ian leaned forward.

“Perhaps this is something you and I should discuss in—”

“I have protected billions of dollars of assets at Meier in the past several years, and the bank knew of my, as you call them, legal troubles, the day I was hired. I only ask to be brought in from the cold, taken out of imminent danger, and set up somewhere secure. I will continue to work ceaselessly for the bank, just not in between the president and first lady of Syria.”

The oldest man in the room, Bruno Olvetti, was the vice director of finance. He was there only because he served as the older Meier brother’s eyes and ears. Bruno came to meetings like this to watch over Stefan and to report back to Rolf. He said, “This perilous position you speak of, how much of it is your own doing?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Are you having an affair with Shakira Azzam?”

Drexler could not possibly imagine how Bruno could know about that. He thought it possible, likely even, that the old man was just bluffing. Assuming a relationship because he knew Drexler worked closely with Shakira on discreet matters. Shakira was an attractive woman, and Drexler considered himself a very desirable man.

He said, “Nice try, Bruno, but there is no affair.”

To his surprise, Stefan Meier spoke up now. “You wouldn’t be calling our client’s word into question, would you?”

Drexler said nothing.

“She told my brother herself that the two of you are involved.” Stefan laughed a little. “According to Rolf, she genuinely seems fond of you. Well done. You’ve somehow melted the heart of the First Lady of Hell.”

Drexler recovered quickly. “All the more reason, gentlemen, to pull me out. There has been certain . . . pressure . . . placed on me by the first lady over the past year or so. It has put me at odds with the president and—”

Ian Pleasance took off his glasses and rubbed his drooping eyes. “Oh, come now, man. Are you here to tell us you are being sexually harassed by your client?”

Stefan and the others chuckled now.

The muscles in Sebastian Drexler’s neck flexed, but he kept his composure. “I have told you what I’ve come to tell you. If I return to Syria, it is likely I will be killed, and it is likely the president will hold my employers . . . yourselves, that is, responsible for actions taken against him and his interests. He does still hold sway over his wife, you know. He could simply coerce her into moving assets from your bank.”

Meier replied, “Shakira is free to remove her assets at any time, irrespective of what her husband knows, or suspects, or insists upon. Even if we comply with your request. If we simply recall you from Damascus, or never send you back there, then what is to keep her from getting angry with us and making other arrangements with her money?”

“That is a fair question. The bank will be safe when I don’t return, because Shakira will be convinced that I died here in France. I don’t need your help to do that; I just need your help after the fact. Shakira will learn of my demise only after learning of the success of my operation, and she will be indebted to Meier Privatbank.”

“Such subterfuge,” Stefan said with a smile. “You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you? Sleeping with the Syrian president’s wife, and devising a plan to simulate your own death.”

Drexler did not bat an eyelash. “Herr Meier, in the employ of your firm I have killed or ordered the deaths of more than two dozen men and women. There is drama here that is not of my doing, as well.”

Meier glowered at Drexler, but he made no immediate reply. Pleasance was about to speak when Drexler held up a hand.

“Gentlemen, I only ask for a way out of this posting. You need someone to do the work I do. Allow me to do it in Hong Kong, in Rio, in the Caymans. Just don’t send me back to Damascus.”

Stefan Meier continued his hard stare for several seconds, then nodded slowly. He said, “All right, Sebastian. You are a key element of the success of our bank. Accomplish your mission in France. Save Shakira’s place in the palace. Then . . . only then, we will get you out of there.”

“So I don’t have to go back to Damascus?”

Stefan said, “You don’t want to go and wish your lover adieu and bon chance?”

Drexler knew the bankers were toying with him. He was a fascinating character in their boring lives, exactly the man any one of these fat, weak men would love to be for just one day, so of course they would mock him, pretend his actions were beneath their station.

Drexler said, “I have no need to see her ever again.”

Stefan shrugged. “Very well. Your plan to fake your death in Paris is approved. We will hide you in Switzerland until such a time as we find a posting for you that is to your liking.”

Bruno Olvetti pointed a finger across the table. “Don’t ever forget, Drexler. You may be our best fixer and hatchet man, but Shakira Azzam is more important to us than you are. As long as she is happy, we are happy. And as long as we are happy, you are safe. If you don’t succeed in your mission here, or if you don’t pull off your subterfuge with your little trick in faking your death, then we send you back to Syria.”

Drexler stood, gave a courteous bow to the bankers, and headed for the door. He was motivated now like he had not been in years. A lifeline had been thrown to him, and all he had to do in order to take it and pull himself to safety was kill a fashion model being hidden by a pair of doctors and an over-the-hill ex–French intelligence official.

He thought about the American who’d caused him so much trouble, but he told himself Malik and his boys had enough men and guns to handle him.

Tonight he’d link up with Malik, the Mukhabarat assassin sent by Ahmed Azzam to help find and rescue Bianca, and the bent French police captain, and together they’d get their hands on Bianca Medina. He’d be threading a very small needle with his operation after that, but when he finally managed to kill Medina, and Shakira was both satisfied with Drexler’s work and convinced he’d died in the execution of it, then he’d be able to be rid of Syria once and for all.

But first things first. He wasn’t leaving Europe, not any time soon, at least. As soon as he climbed into his rental car, he would rip the dead flesh off his fingertips and say good-bye to poor Veeti Takala.

CHAPTER 32

Vincent Voland stood on the parking circle in front of the country estate near the village of La Brosse as the last of the day’s light faded. In front of him, just rolling up the driveway by the greenhouse, a black Lincoln Navigator flashed its headlights.

Dr. Tarek Halaby stepped outside through the side door to the property and shouldered up to Voland. He, too, watched the vehicle approach.

“I take it these are the security men you ordered up?”

Voland nodded. “The very best.”

“That money can buy,” Tarek added.

“Oui. We must face the facts. After seven years of war, many have tired of your cause. The men and women still alive who will fight for you without charge are, in large part, men and women who know little about fighting.” As the Navigator rolled to a stop, he added, “The men with the skills to fight this battle do not hold an ideological attachment to your particular fight. Nevertheless, these are men of principle. They will protect this property from anyone who threatens it.”