Evan Fournier relaxed in his recamier, the thoughtful and provocative sounds of Maurice Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé echoing off the damasked walls. The architect had laughed when Evan had expressed a desire to recreate a French villa in the middle of an Orlando subdivision, but who was laughing now? Evan’s dinner parties were a hit among the city’s upper crust, and no woman could resist the ornate furnishings and romantic environs of his bedroom.
So deep was his relaxation that, when his phone rang, he had half a mind to ignore it completely, to continue his contemplation of Ravel’s impressionistic masterwork. However, when he saw the incoming caller, his peace was shattered, and the deep maroon of the wallpaper abruptly seemed to be more of a blood-red color. He answered the call hesitantly. “Sir, I was not expecting-”
“Shut up Evan! Just shut up!” commanded François Hollande, president of France. “You have failed me. You have failed your country.”
“Sir, I don’t know of what you speak.”
The rage on the other end of the line audibly intensified. “Do not play stupid with me, you tragic excuse for an international operative! The target has fled. The target. Has. Fled.”
Evan knew this, of course, When the explosive-rigged gift basket had failed to eliminate a certain Jan Vesely, the French president’s thirst for the Czech’s death had only grown more acute. But Evan, referred to in all official communications as unit #211-BX, had been traded away from the Nuggets, and then Jan had escaped to Turkey. There was no way for Evan to follow the plan to completion.
“I sincerely apologize, sir, but there was nothing to be done about it,” Evan responded. However, this also was a lie; Evan could have pursued his target over the off-season, but had hoped that, with domestic problems drawing Hollande’s attentions elsewhere, that the relatively minor goal of killing Jan Vesely would be given lowest priority.
“Never mind,” Hollande barked. “I am giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”
Evan’s heart dropped as he anticipated the President’s next words.
“This Hezonja fellow. Take him down.” Before Evan could respond, the call was ended. Letting his phone drop noiselessly into the downy pile of the carpet, he covered his face in his hands. He had never wanted to be a murderer. But a murderer he had to be.