Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  Everett jotted that down for the ambassador’s benefit. “You guessed the French did it, but do you know?”

  “We know the French killed him.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because the assassin’s name is Alexandre LaFleur. He’s a known French operative.”

  “And how do you know it was LaFleur who killed the terrorist?”

  “It was in the transcript. As the terrorist died, he told the doctors his story. He was killed by Alexandre LaFleur.”

  “Fascinating,” Everett said. If only he had allowed Mick to read the transcript over the phone, he would have known all this. “But how did you find the transcript?”

  “Once the coroner was killed, we went back to his files. Standard procedure.”

  “And what was the dead man’s name, the terrorist who was also an engineer at CERN?”

  “Khalid Slimane.”

  Everett’s head spun. The story seemed absolutely straight to Tobias, but for him, there were enough angles to throw off a geometry class.

  “Would it ruin your day if I told you that your corpse, Mr. Khalid Slimane, just walked out of his office five minutes ago on a date?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I’m also calling you for a background check on a certain employee at CERN.” He repeated the CERN phone number that he had just called. “A colleague answered the phone and told me that the person whose number I called had just left on a date. Wearing cologne, as a matter of fact. Not formaldehyde. The man’s name is Khalid Slimane.”

  “And how did you obtain his number?” Tobias asked, returning to his policeman’s tone of voice.

  Everett could tell he was upset, but he wasn’t ready to divulge anything about Mick, Natalie and Alec being missing. “A man telephoned the embassy this morning saying he was a mortician in Montreux, the mortician for the young man you just mentioned. I tried calling him back, and the number came up CERN in Geneva.”

  “Khalid Slimane isn’t a mortician in Montreux. He’s the French terrorist killed in Montreux by Alexandre LaFleur.”

  “Then who’s this Mr. Khalid Slimane who just left on a date from CERN?”

  Tobias’s voice came back less confident than before. “I think somebody’s playing games with us.”

  “Well, I suggest you find out more about this Mr. Khalid Slimane at CERN before you go kicking diplomats out of your country.”

  Chapter 20

  Natalie’s date with Khalid was proceeding smoothly.

  After parking in the Quartier Saint-Gervais, they entered the spacious lobby of an office building. The restaurant named Jean-Jacques was just off the revolving front door.

  The Parisian-style bistro was a cheeky tribute to the eighteenth century Geneva-born philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who wrote his tracts in Paris. He fled back to Switzerland after angering the French monarchy with his Le Contrat Social, in which he declared that “Man is born free yet is everywhere in chains.”

  Natalie found many of his sayings peppered throughout the leather-bound menu.

  The dessert panel of the menu began with “Let them eat cake.” A footnote explained that Rousseau ascribed that remark to a young princess. Eight years later, Marie Antoinette would become queen of France, only to be beheaded for that cavalier remark.

  Natalie snapped the menu shut.

  Khalid peered over his menu with a twinkle in his dark eyes. “It’s a funny menu.”

  “Twisted,” she said. “I’ll let you order.” Instead of dwelling on Mr. Rousseau’s morsels of thought, she had to direct their discourse at her immediate concern, finding her husband and Alec.

  “Can we talk about Alec?” she suggested.

  He seemed hurt that she was brushing aside the romantic atmosphere that he had so carefully arranged.

  “Listen,” she said, and touched his hand. “I really appreciate this dinner. I just have so much on my mind.”

  Still looking injured, he was unable to meet her eyes, but nodded anyway.

  “Thank you, Khalid.”

  She tilted her head sideways to grab his attention. That prompted a sheepish smile.

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  That softened his look. It helped to make the dinner about his generosity.

  The waiter came by and Khalid ordered a bottle of wine and the restaurant’s best chicken for both of them.

  With that business over, Natalie got down to her own business. “When did you last see Alec?”

  “I saw him the Friday before he left on the yacht.”

  “Who sailed with him?”

  “I can’t say. Since I’m not a sailor, I never asked him, and he never told me.”

  “What was his emotional state before he left?”

  “He looked cheerful,” Khalid said. “I can assure you, he did not take his own life.”

  She sat back and tried to strike a look of relief. “Tell me about his work. Did you work with him at CERN?”

  “We are assigned to the same project, the Large Hadron Collider. However, he works as a liaison with an American firm that designs the magnets. I work on the cooling system for the overall project. It’s related work, but not the same thing.”

  “Do you have any idea where to look for Alec?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve been contemplating his actions all day long, and I thought of this: I believe he’s involved with more than the magnets.”

  She raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. She prayed that he hadn’t stumbled upon Alec’s real role at CERN.

  “For example, if he were really interested in this American firm, he would surely talk about them with me. After all, my department’s cooling systems are crucial to the operation of his dipole and quadrupole magnets. They use super-cooled helium, which we provide.”

  “What is he really working on?”

  “I can only guess based on who he associates with, the people who hung around his office. And they are definitely not engineers.”

  “How would you describe them?”

  He scanned the other diners cautiously. “Military.”

  Again, she expressed surprise. “Were they American?”

  “Some were, of course. Some weren’t.”

  “I hope Alec isn’t in serious trouble,” she said. “You’re talking about top secret research conducted on foreign soil.”

  “Not entirely foreign. Did you hear that the Americans just became members of CERN?”

  “They did?” It was news to her, the culmination of all her work. She could scarcely conceal her delight.

  He looked pleased to be the bearer of good news. She needed to reinforce his pride.

  “They tell me you’re a great engineer.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me. I’m a poor engineer. I can barely rewire a light switch.”

  “But CERN is one of the most important laboratories in the world. Just to say you have worked there—”

  “Don’t remind me.” He hung his head.

  Rather than build him up, she had managed to remind him of his inadequacies. She had only one weapon left to rekindle his interest in her. And she wasn’t willing to use it, condoms not withstanding.

  Just then, a waiter brought their suprême de volaille with its rich sauce of chicken broth, cream and egg yolk.

  Then there was always food.

  “Let’s talk about this after dinner,” she said.

  He looked even more disconcerted than before and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I was hoping for more than that after dinner.”

  Twenty minutes elapsed in the workout room without a word passing between Mick and Zafina.

  He added heat and a whiff of sweat to the atmosphere, but no more so than she. With seven miles behind him, he stepped off the stationary bicycle and stretched again.

  Then he broke the silence. “Mind if I use the bench?”

  She stepped aside.

  He circled behind her and slid a key under the hundred and ninety-pound
weight. He liked to lift his body weight. Then he lay back on his shoulders and rear, his feet flat on the carpet.

  He separated his hands the same width as his shoulders and grasped the bar above him. Trying not to lose form or gasp for breath, he squeezed out a few repetitions and sat up.

  Zafina drifted through perfunctory arm curls.

  “You’re strong,” he said. “Time to cut out the easy stuff and break your routine.”

  She stopped her curls. “You are breaking my routine.” Her tone was not as exasperated as he would have expected. Rather, it almost sounded confidential.

  He would encourage that.

  “How much of your life is routine?” he asked. “Do you kidnap people every day? Do you assassinate presidents on a regular basis?”

  Beside him, her oiled legs flexed into a squat. The deep cuts in her muscles looked jagged like crevasses in a glacier.

  “Keep your trapeziums contracted,” he said.

  The triangle of muscles from the base of her skull to each shoulder stiffened. “I can do this myself,” she said, dismissing him with a sideways glance.

  “Sorry.” She hadn’t asked for his advice, so he shut up. What he wanted to say was, I know what you need. Get out of this life.

  He lay back, closed his eyes and punched out a few more reps.

  When he looked up, she had set her weights down and lifted a knee to straddle him.

  “Try it this way,” she said. She sat on his abdomen, bending his spine unnaturally to the bench. Her gluteus maximus, wet and firm, gripped the sides of his torso.

  “That’s a new one on me,” he said.

  “It’s good for your pelvis,” she said.

  He gave a crooked smile. He had never heard that one before.

  He took a few deep breaths to fill his body with oxygen, and then attacked the weights. Five times in quick succession, the bar exploded from his hands with his spine still crushed to the bench. Each time, her behind wiggled closer to his pelvis. Each time her hands glided over his hardworking chest muscles.

  “That’s enough,” he said, sitting up. He continued driving forward, picking her up by the waist and setting her on her feet against the mirror.

  She remained there drenched, but defiant, her body lit up at every joint. Maybe he could push her around, but she had her pride.

  At that instant, staring eye to eye with her, he noticed the reflected image of himself, a trapped gym rat straining to be free.

  “I’ll give you one last piece of advice, then I’ll shut up,” he said. “Bulk up on complex carbohydrates and leave this goddamned pit.”

  “Just what are you offering here?” she asked, her fingers sliding down his chest.

  “I’m not offering you anything,” he said. “I’m merely suggesting.”

  “Don’t you want to get out?” she asked, her fingertips sliding into his shorts.

  “Of course I want to get out, but I’m not willing to pay the price you’re asking.”

  “What makes you think I’m asking?”

  He grabbed her wrists. “Just a guess.”

  She pulled her hands from his shorts. “Freedom always comes at a price,” she murmured. Suddenly the entire conversation had taken a 180-degree turn and she was the hostage.

  “You can break free any time you wish,” he said, seeing in her eyes a yearning for her own life. “O’Smythe should be no problem.”

  “If I break away from him,” she said, still under her breath, her eyes avoiding his, “I need someone to go to.” She looked up at him with a potent and doomed blend of willingness, fondness and hope.

  “I’m not sure I can offer that,” he said carefully.

  “Then the price is too high.” Her eyes turned hard and small. He was looking at a caged animal.

  He let her go and turned away. He whipped the towel off the cycle. “You can lock me up now.”

  Whatever thoughts went through her mind when he said this, he didn’t want to know.

  “The door’s open,” she said coldly. “Go back to your room.”

  He left her surrounded by cardiovascular equipment, Olympic bars and a room full of weights. All of her former intensity had evaporated into the damp air.

  Everett said good-bye to Tobias and hung up the phone.

  So there were two Khalid Slimanes in Switzerland. One dead and the other alive and on a date.

  His intercom light flashed.

  “Everett?” It was his secretary.

  “You still here, Suzy?”

  “If you don’t mind, I don’t want to keep my date waiting.”

  “Your date?”

  He probably sounded incredulous, but suddenly his defenses were on high alert.

  “What’s so surprising about that?”

  “Nothing’s surprising. I meant to say congratulations.” That didn’t sound right, either. He needed to just shut up, but couldn’t hold back a few questions. After all, Bern was a short hour’s drive from Geneva, and Khalid Slimane had long since left the lab. “I mean, who’s the lucky man?”

  “For your information, he’s an Arab gentleman.”

  Everything from alarm bells to cuckoo clocks went off in his head.

  “Don’t leave this office.”

  “What?”

  “Is he cleared?” he asked.

  “This isn’t Moscow. And I’ll thank you to stay out of my private life.”

  “Suzy, I can’t let you go on that date tonight.”

  “Listen, Mr. Hoyle. You can make me work late. You can deny me home leave. And you can be as prejudiced as you please. But in this case I’m going to slap an EEO grievance on you so fast, it’ll leave your head spinning.”

  He heard her purse snap shut.

  He was about to respond when a burst of static signaled that she had hung up.

  An EEO, short for Equal Employment Opportunity, grievance was the government’s vehicle for reporting sexual harassment.

  Having such a complaint on file, even if it were never proven, would cast a long shadow over his career.

  He had to let her go.

  Sitting back in his leather seat, he closed his eyes. He had a lot to think about. The first of which was, why would a terrorist claim to be Alec Pierce and die bearing his identity?

  When he finally opened his eyes, they fell on his wife’s photo.

  Oh God. He was late for his own date.

  He shoved the clipboard into his desk drawer, shut and locked it, and slipped the key in his pocket.

  Once again, he had to put his most important questions aside.

  One empty bottle of wine and one huge bill later, Natalie allowed Khalid his wish.

  One look in a mirror of the Noga Hilton lobby confirmed that she was no longer herself. She saw a striking, but lush playmate hanging all over the handsome, young cad.

  And his hotel was something, too.

  “You live here?”

  “Do you like it?”

  She barely dared to look at the gallery of shops. She counted seven jewelry stores in the octagonal lobby.

  At that late hour, Arab women sat in the richly furnished center under a low, dim chandelier. They waited and talked and looked at each other while sleepy children leaned against their knees.

  The night manager stood behind a huge registration book.

  “Good evening, Mr. Slimane,” he said.

  Khalid nodded and escorted Natalie onto the elevator, which glided smoothly to the sixth floor.

  “I don’t see how you can live like this,” she said. “This is a hotel.”

  “We have a coiffeur, spa, several restaurants. We can order wine and drinks, have our clothes cleaned, take a private bus to the airport. You don’t call that living?”

  They entered his room. It was a plush suite with lots of floor space and a huge bed in the center. Groggy from the wine, Natalie sat down heavily on the bed.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Here’s my wet bar. The hotel stocks my refrigerator. Have any
thing you like.”

  “Thanks. I’ve had too much already.”

  “The television plays the hotel’s own selection of movies. Hard core, soft core. You name it.”

  He was moving at her with all the speed and directness of a locomotive, and the subtlety to match.

  “Maybe I’ll just listen to the radio.”

  “Fine.” He paused to turn it on.

  Jazzy music floated lightly from wall-mounted speakers. Geneva picked up French stations in addition to the standard fare of folk music on Swiss radio.

  He was standing over her. “It feels warm in here.”

  He stretched his frame over her.

  “Wait.”

  One of his hands was already on the mattress. She tried to roll away, but couldn’t.

  He reached for the wall behind her and adjusted the thermostat.

  “I’d like to take a shower,” he announced.

  “Fine,” she said, and tried to fix her hair.

  He pulled away with a grin, which she tried to ignore.

  How would he react if he didn’t get his way with her?

  She would lose her link to Mick.

  So she returned the smile. Perhaps not mirroring his lascivious sneer, but giving as intimate a smile as she could give to someone who terrified her.

  Then she curled around a double-length pillow to hide her petrified reaction. In the process, her dress slid most of the way up her thigh.

  The evening was rapidly spiraling out of control.

  Footsteps pattered away on the carpet. The refrigerator clinked open and shut, and a bottle of mineral water fizzed.

  Before the bathroom door closed, a closet slid open. A second later she heard a faint whir behind the mirrored closet door.

  She lay back, bathed in the glow of a reading lamp.

  When the bathroom door reopened, she caught the fresh scent of shampoo. She partially opened her eyes.

  His youthful silhouette leaned against the doorway. His hand reached for a dimmer switch. The reading light cast a brighter halo over her sequined dress.

  “Is that you?” she asked.

  “It’s me.” He stepped out of the shadows. His bronzed naked buttocks reflected in the floor-length mirror.

  She righted herself on the bed and froze. It was her moment of truth. She was prepared to do anything for her husband, but some inspiration might be helpful.