Spy Dance

by Allan Topol

  His spirits were quickly deflated when Victor, with a surly expression on his face, handed David a fax of a Polaroid photo showing Daphna being led into a helicopter. “You thought you were clever to involve the Mossad,” Victor said. “Well, you’ve just made everything much more difficult for yourself and for the girl.”

  Stunned, David asked, “How did you get her?”

  “I have no intention of telling you what happened.”

  Horrified, David studied the picture. “Bastard,” he said. “Don’t you have any honor at all?”

  Victor’s face was bright red. He shook his fist at David. “Don’t worry about my honor. You’d better worry about the possibility that you and your stepdaughter will both end up like Kourosh.”

  David shook his head. “Not much chance of that, counselor. Your people want me too badly to kill me. Look at all the trouble you’ve gone to already, and you still haven’t gotten a yes answer from me.”

  “You’re pushing me to the limit.”

  David brushed aside Victor’s words. The man was a mere messenger. He had no authority. “Then let me push a little more. I’m finished talking to you. I don’t deal with lackeys or agents. Only principals.”

  “My principal can’t be disclosed to you. It’s out of the question.”

  David decided to press ahead. Since they had compiled a dossier on him, they had to know that Daphna was valuable to them as a guarantee that he would complete his assignment. Killing her now would never get him to acquiesce. What worried him was that they could torture her. He had to get to Victor’s principal before events spiraled in that direction. The time had come to play his long shot.

  “I already know who your principal is.”

  He was watching Victor now, looking for the involuntary twitch that would tell him he was right. “That’s very funny.”

  “Actually, she’s not a funny person at all. Madame Jacqueline Blanc is a damn serious woman.”

  Victor showed no visible reaction. For an instant David thought his gamble had failed, and he was in quicksand up to his shoulders. But the lawyer’s next words gave it all away. “I never even heard of a Madame Blanc,” Victor replied.

  David reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a copy of the Le Monde article that showed Foch representing Madame Blanc’s company, and handed it to the lawyer. “This time you did underestimate me,” he said boldly. “While you were sitting in a law library, cracking books, some real players at Langley taught me how to do my work. They knew how to deal with Russians and East Germans. Dealing with you and Madame Blanc is like nursery school.”

  Now on the defensive, Victor protested, “But Madame Blanc has no involvement with—”

  “Cut the crap, Victor, or to use your favorite expression, ‘the time for playing games is over.’ You’re right. I did involve the Mossad in the escape plan for Daphna, but that’s all so far. They don’t know about you or Madame Blanc. However, I left a letter to be delivered to the director of the Mossad if I don’t come back from this trip on schedule. It lays out your involvement and names Madame Blanc as the mastermind. I don’t think either of you would like that letter to be delivered, because even if the French government didn’t act, you can be sure the Mossad would. Am I getting through to you? Wouldn’t that be enough to make your hair stand up—if you in fact had real hair?”

  Instinctively, Victor touched his head to make sure his toupee was in place. Totally off guard now, he didn’t know what to say. He was too worried about Madame Blanc’s reaction to this development.

  “It’s very simple,” David added. “I’ll be waiting in front of the Bristol tomorrow morning at ten. Have your driver take me to a meeting with Madame Blanc.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I go home, and you don’t get the help you need from me.”

  Victor had recovered. He and Madame Blanc were still in command. He shook a finger menacingly at David. “You might go home in a wooden box. Not to mention what will happen to Daphna.”

  “That’s certainly possible, but I’ll take my chances,” David replied with bravado. “When the letter gets delivered, you and Madame Blanc will pay for everything you’ve done to us.”

  Victor looked at him enigmatically. “Don’t forget what happens when you wish for something,” the French lawyer said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You just might get what you want, and it may not be so great.”

  He said it in a way that troubled David.

  “And if I have to reach you this afternoon?” Victor asked.

  “I’ll be at Renault for my meeting, as you well know. Which reminds me. I want to leave Paris this time with a signed contract from Renault for the kibbutz High-Tech Center. I want you to make it happen.”

  Before the lawyer could respond, David turned around and stalked out of the office.

  * * *

  At six the next morning, David went jogging in the Bois de Boulogne, and when he caught up with Sagit, also jogging at their predetermined location, they turned off into a deserted clump of trees.

  “What the hell happened with Daphna?” he demanded.

  “They grabbed her somewhere between the El Al ticket counter and the gate for the plane.”

  “Oh, shit.” Furious at himself for having changed her plan, he shook his head. “You can say, ‘I told you so.”

  She sighed and ran her hand through her hair in frustration over the situation. “That’s not my style. Besides, it wouldn’t help. Our ambassador in Paris called the French foreign office, demanding that they locate her and turn her over, and—”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. The French said that they’re investigating, but so far they haven’t been able to find out anything about her.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

  “Unfortunately, this Madame Blanc is well connected in the upper levels of the French government, as I found out last night at dinner with a Renault executive. Meeting her should be a real treat.”

  Sagit reached into the pocket of her warm up suit and extracted a tiny microphone at the end of a wire. “We want you to wear this when you meet with Madame Blanc,” she said.

  “No way. Forget it. It’s too risky with them holding Daphna. I won’t endanger the girl by doing that.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides, losing patience with him and preparing to read him the riot act. Then she thought about what he had said. He did have a point. So she backed off. “Then how will we be able to keep track of you?”

  “You won’t. I’m a big boy. I’ll take my chances.”

  “A loose tail, then. We insist.”

  Behind Sagit, the sun was starting to break through the eastern sky. David studied her carefully. She would probably do what she wanted, regardless of what he said. “Very loose, then.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But if you want to do something constructive, have someone in the embassy’s legal office check, without disclosing their identity, French land records to locate any property owned by Madame Blanc or PDF near Grasse in the south.”

  “Why Grasse?”

  “Just a hunch, from something I heard last night.

  Three hours later, David stood in front of the Bristol, waiting for Victor’s driver. The black leather briefcase he clutched in his hand contained an executed contract between Renault and kibbutz Bet Mordechai for computer services to be supplied over the next year at a cost of three million francs. David had closed the deal with a handshake with Jean-Pierre Borchard, a Renault executive, at dinner last night at L’Ambroisie in Place de Vosges. The written contract was signed at breakfast this morning at the Bristol. Whether Victor was responsible, or whether Renault perceived the deal to be in its own interests, David didn’t know.

  He reviewed in his mind the information about Madame Blanc he had gotten from Jean-Pierre last night at midnight, when the two of them were finishing up dinner. After a round of champagne, two bottles of wine and a second Montral Armagnac, the executive was re
laxed and loquacious. Always a believer in the maxim “You don’t get apples if you don’t throw rocks into a tree,” David waded in slowly, asking Jean-Pierre if PDF might be a possible customer for Bet Mordechai’s computer services.

  After looking around the by now almost deserted restaurant, Jean-Pierre leaned forward, and said in a half conspiratorial, half locker room tone, “Not much chance of doing business there unless you’ve got an in with Madame Blanc. She’s got gonads the size of melons, and she runs a tight ship.”

  “Then how do I get an in with this Madame Blanc?”

  “Not with your cock. That’s for sure.”

  “She doesn’t like men?”

  “Only young men. Twenty-five’s Jacqueline’s limit. She keeps them about six months and then tosses them aside. The current one’s name is Michel. She figures that if we can keep twenty-something girls on the side, she can do the same. She’s always trying to equal, or go one step better than, her male counterparts in this country’s industrial complex.”

  Jean-Pierre paused to relight his cigar. “Even with these,” he continued, smiling. “She smokes those long Cohibas. They put my little weenie Partagas here to shame. That’s Jacqueline. She always has to have the biggest dick.” Jean-Pierre laughed raucously, impressed with his own cleverness.

  “She can also be brutal and cruel. Literally, a killer, if she doesn’t like someone, or if they cross her.”

  David paused to sip some Armagnac. “She sounds like a charming person.”

  “Charming she’s not, but never underestimate Jacqueline’s brains and her moxie. She’s always one step ahead of the rest of the world. Early on, she decided that De Gaulle would sell us out in Algeria. People told her she was crazy, but she cashed out all of her substantial business interests in Algeria, while the rest of us were shouting ‘Vive la France,’ waving the tricolor with one hand, and with the other hand up our ass, to put it crudely.”

  “So is she part of the establishment now?”

  “Oh we finally let her join the Economic Club, all right,” he said slurring his words. “She was the first woman we took. In fact, she’s the only one. She earned it,” he admitted grudgingly. “Besides, we figured we might pick up some useful information, but that hasn’t happened. She plays her cards too close to the chest.”

  “She ever been married?”

  “Nope. Although there are rumors that she has a daughter somewhere down in Provence, near Grasse. That’s where she’s from, but nobody knows for sure.”

  “So you think I should find someone other than PDF to do business with in France?”

  Jean-Pierre laughed. “It depends on how much you enjoy pain.”

  Less than ten hours later, David, his head throbbing from too much alcohol and too little sleep, thought about Victor’s words that he might not be so thrilled to get his wish. If indeed Madame Blanc was the monster Jean-Pierre had described, that must have been what Victor meant.

  David glanced at the office building on the corner of rue St. Honore and avenue Matignon. Sagit was somewhere in that building, with binoculars trained on him. The Israeli embassy was only about three blocks away, and they had friends in the neighborhood. He had no doubt that she would keep the tail on him loose. She was damn smart, that woman, and she knew her business. He was just sorry he hadn’t agreed to her escape plan for Daphna.

  Waiting for the car, David was tense, and he squeezed the handle of his briefcase tightly. Stuffed inside was a box of the longest Cohibas he could find this morning at a shop on avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt. Suddenly, the familiar Mercedes with Rolland at the wheel, ground to a halt in front of the Bristol. Without waiting for the driver to open the door, David climbed into the backseat.

  Rolland eased the car into the heavy mid-morning traffic along rue St. Honore.

  “Where are we going?” David asked.

  Rolland didn’t respond. Instead, he activated the automatic door lock, and the locks snapped down.

  As the car moved, David kept his eyes riveted on the side window, trying to recall their route, in case he had to recreate it. They were heading north and west across Paris. Soon crowded streets gave way to suburbs and then open fields. David glanced quickly through the back window of the car. He imagined that Sagit’s loose tail was somewhere on the highway back there. He just hoped that Rolland hadn’t picked it up.

  A few miles ahead, Rolland turned abruptly into the driveway of a small private landing field. A sleek Gulfstream jet, was parked next to brick building. The landing stairs were out and down.

  David knew now he was on his own. Whatever he might have thought about Sagit’s tail was irrelevant.

  When David climbed the stairs, he was greeted by a good-looking flight attendant with long, flaming red hair, wearing a powder blue uniform with a miniskirt, “Where are we going?” he asked. She simply shrugged and replied, “We’ll do our best to make you comfortable, monsieur.”

  They took off quickly to the north, into heavy clouds. David tried to keep his eyes off the redhead and on the scenery below, attempting to figure out where they were headed, but that wasn’t easy. The two of them were alone in the cabin, and she sat provocatively in a seat facing him, her legs spread and the tiny skirt riding well up on her thighs; she wasn’t wearing any panties. Well, she’s a natural redhead, that’s for sure, he thought. The pilot banked the plane to the left and finally straightened out.

  When the redhead asked what she could get him, rolling her tongue over her lips, he refused to play Madame Blanc’s game, whatever it was. “Black coffee, please.”

  Before heading off to the galley, she glared at him as if to suggest that he wasn’t man enough for her. But he was busy studying the scene below. They were headed south, David decided. Soon clouds gave way to bright sunshine. After another half hour, David could see the deep blue Mediterranean. Somewhere in this area was Grasse, where they might be holding Daphna.

  The plane landed at a small airstrip outside of St. Tropez, where a car was waiting. The day was crisp and clear, and as they drove down the hill toward the city and the sea, David lowered the car window hoping that the fresh air would revitalize his tired body. When he was with the CIA, he had been accustomed to heavy drinking sessions like last night, which went with the job; but they weren’t a part of Israeli life. After five years he was out of practice, or at least his liver and the rest of his body was. By the time the car threaded its way along the narrow streets filled with boutiques and small outdoor cafés, and reached the main harbor area, David was feeling better. They parked in front of the Predator, the largest yacht David had ever seen—complete with a helicopter on the upper deck.

  On the sundeck in the rear, a woman dressed in a gray suit and striped silk blouse lounged on a stiff wooden chair, talking intently on a cell phone. Undoubtedly Madame Blanc, David decided. A pair of sunglasses were resting on her forehead. She was around sixty, he guessed. In her youth she must have been striking. Now her features were elegant, but she had hard edges. Her skin was tanned and leathery. Her hair was dyed black and tied up severely in the back. She had a self-confident air about her, as if she were the center of the universe. Her facial expressions, her hand movements, suggested posturing. She was an actress on stage, as if the world were watching her.

  On a deck chair beside her, a handsome young man with sandy brown hair and wrap around sunglasses, wearing white slacks and a loose-fitting maroon shirt, sipped champagne and leafed through a glossy magazine. On the upper deck, four huge black men, dressed in khaki military uniforms, tightly gripped sub-machine guns and surveyed the scene around the boat in every direction.

  David started walking toward the boat, but the driver from the car gripped his arm and stopped him. “We wait until we’re called,” he said. Beneath the man’s jacket, the bulge of a gun was visible.

  Squinting in the bright sunlight that sparkled off the water, David studied Madame Blanc again. She had rolled her right hand into a fist, obviously angry with whoever was on the ph
one. He couldn’t tell whether she was aware of his presence.

  A minute later, she finished the call and looked up. Then she pointed a finger at the driver, the sign that David had been summoned. With a nudge from the driver, he started forward.

  As he climbed onto the boat, she got up from her seat, walked forward and shook his hand firmly. “The bold and energetic David Ben Aaron,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  He smiled broadly, exuding self-confidence, feigning strength. “Compliments, I hope.”

  She smiled back. She would play his silly game for a minute or two. “As you might imagine, Victor had nothing but good words.”

  “I hope you’ll form your own opinion.”

  “But I already have.”

  “And?”

  All trace of her smile was gone. Her eyes had narrowed. He’d better understand this was serious business. “You’re here, aren’t you? Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, David saw the young man eyeing him suspiciously. Suddenly, Madame Blanc turned to her young friend and said, “Do be a good boy, Michel, and go back to the house. I have to take a ride with my visitor.” When Michel pouted, she added, “You know how boring business talk can be.”

  Not trying to hide his displeasure, Michel got up and left the boat. In a matter of minutes they were underway.

  The table below, in a formal dark wood paneled dining salon was set for lunch for two. It was quite a setting for a boat: Limoges china, Christoffe silver and Baccarat glass. Two olive skinned women, Algerians, David guessed, in starched white uniforms stood by the table prepared to serve. In one corner of the room a West African guard stood at attention, gripping his machine gun. Before sitting down, David reached into his briefcase and handed her the box of cigars wrapped in brown paper.

  As she unwrapped the gift, she smiled. “I presume the Cohibas weren’t a lucky guess. You’re sending me a message. You’re thorough, and you do your homework. Such men aren’t to be trifled with.”