Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  “I had to tell her if we were going to get any help at all from higher up.”

  “I suppose so. It’s just that…”

  “I know. The fewer the better, now that you’re on the run. But we will need help, because Gilley and his people outnumber us, and if he suspects you’re still on his trail, this will be the first place he looks for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he also knows about me, and Marina, and both those reports came out of Paris. So where else would you go if you were intent on assembling all the pieces? That’s why I spent a full hour using counter-surveillance techniques on my way here. Speaking of which, don’t look now but our man in the suit is back. I think it might be a good idea if you didn’t finish your omelet.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “He’s not from our talent pool, I know that. Probably just an overly attentive floor manager. Better safe than sorry, though. Do you see that hallway over my left shoulder, the one by the kitchen doors?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a ladies’ room toward the end. Just past it is an emergency exit. As long as you open and shut the door within three seconds, no alarm will sound. If he follows you, I’ll cut him off at the pass.”

  “And do what?”

  “Charm the socks off him, of course.” She smiled. “Let’s meet again this evening. By then I should have worked out some further arrangements. Eight o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “A safe house on the Rue Burq. Number five. Across the river in Montmartre, near the Place des Abbesses Metro station.”

  “One of ours?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “Some place Audra picked out for us.”

  “Eight o’clock, then. And thank you.”

  “Thank me later, when we’ve beaten them.”

  Helen picked up her handbag and stood to go. Without even a glance over her shoulder, she weaved through the tables toward the back and headed down the hallway, where she opened the emergency door, quickly shut it behind her, and ran down the echoing stairwell.

  By the time she reached the ground floor it was all she could do to hold down her lunch. Once again she was on her own, with more than seven hours to kill.

  38

  The safe house was on a steep, picturesque street in Montmartre—a third-floor apartment far swankier than any location Helen had ever come up with in Berlin. Pretty as a postcard, in fact, near a patisserie and a bookstore, and with a beautiful terrace that overlooked a narrow cobbled lane. Yet, from the moment Helen entered something didn’t feel quite right, and it must have showed on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” said Claire, who’d arrived earlier. She sat with legs crossed, right arm stretched across the back of a couch with a cigarette going—the very image of style and self-assurance, posed as if for a photo by Cartier-Bresson. Helen still wore her outfit from that morning, which was beginning to droop as much as she was. She had arrived hoping for rest and refuge. Instead, her radar was sending out small, wary beeps.

  “Hard to say,” Helen said, continuing to inspect the room from the foyer.

  Maybe it bothered her that the rent here must be through the roof, or that the furnishings looked downright lavish, a Langley bean counter’s nightmare. She was also taken aback by the sight of a well-stocked liquor cart stationed next to the umbrella stand by the entrance, like part of a welcoming committee.

  “That’s certainly an innovation I never thought of, putting the fun right up front,” she said. “Is this how they do it in all your safe houses?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before, either. Like I said, Audra procured this place. This is my first time here.”

  “Have you checked to see if the equipment’s on?”

  “No, and now you’ve made me feel like a fool, because that’s an excellent point.”

  Helen followed Claire down the hallway. Plush carpet runners and embossed wallpaper, king beds, everything spotless, luxurious, and beautifully maintained. Except for the equipment, which they found easily enough in a hall closet. Helen frowned again.

  “Something wrong?” Claire asked.

  “Just a little outdated.”

  “All I know about recorders are those sleek little body models they give you for clandestine work. Nagra SNs. Swiss, I think. Supposedly the East Germans like them even better than our people.”

  “Well, this one’s Dutch. A Philips.”

  “They’re no good?”

  “Oh, it’s probably fine. But I’ve never seen this brand on our requisition list. Probably bought before I came on board. Still, a little strange they wouldn’t have updated, given what they must be paying for this place. You said this house isn’t on the usual list of locations?”

  “Not one I’ve ever come across, and the locale is certainly a bit touristy for my taste—too many foreigners with cameras walking around—but keeping these places running isn’t my department. I figured maybe it was reserved for a separate group of case officers.”

  “That would be one way of doing it, I suppose.”

  “You don’t do it that way in Berlin?”

  “I wasn’t aware that any station did. But I’ve put in some of my own rules for our houses, so maybe whoever runs the show in Paris has done the same.”

  “Audra might know.”

  “No sense troubling her over it. Housekeeping trivia. Just shows what I’ve been reduced to. The only part of our business I really know.”

  “Pretty valuable info, I’d say, so don’t sell yourself short. How ’bout a drink?”

  “Perfect. But if I have any of the hard stuff I’m liable to curl up on the couch and fall asleep.”

  “I was thinking wine. Let’s check the kitchen.”

  They headed for the back. The fridge was well stocked. Prepared foods from a specialty shop, filet steaks in butcher’s paper. The wine was of the best vintages. Helen wondered who the tenant must be. A fairly prosperous male, judging from the clothes and other items she’d seen in the bedrooms. Her preference was always for tenants of more modest means, plain-living types who weren’t likely to draw attention to themselves or their dwellings.

  “Cheers,” said Claire, after pouring each of them a glass. A white Bordeaux, exactly what she needed. The first swallow pooled in her stomach with a sensation of spreading coolness. Helen sighed and leaned back against the counter.

  “Well, I’ve learned one thing already,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I wasn’t cut out for this. All along I’ve thought I deserved to be in the field, but I doubt I’d last a month, much less a year or more.”

  “You’re blown and on the run, so of course you’re overwhelmed. Most operational work is entirely different. With my assignments, the biggest challenge is boredom. I’ve never truly gone undercover like you. Or not since I was twelve.”

  “Twelve?”

  Claire smiled.

  “Our church needed a minister, and my dad was on the search committee. For the better part of a summer he piled us into the station wagon every Sunday to scout prospects all over Georgia. Augusta, Waycross, Tifton. We’d arrive just in time for the eleven o’clock service. Dull sermons followed by covered dish suppers on church lawns.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “The good part was that Dad swore us to secrecy. If anyone asked why we were there, we were supposed to say we were just visiting from out of town. We even used fake names—the Martin family from Atlanta. Sanctioned to lie in your Sunday best, fibbing to all those nosy little church ladies while we ate their fried chicken and congealed salads. I enjoyed it way too much. I think it’s half the reason I fell for the CIA. That, and maybe because the recruiter who came to campus looked like Robert Redford.”

  “They got me with the same setup.”

 
Claire drained the last of her wine and set the glass in the sink.

  “Shall we do business?”

  They went into the living room. Claire took the couch, Helen an easy chair. She noticed then that Claire had brought a large tote bag, which appeared to be full.

  “Marina, you said. She’s my next contact?”

  “Yes.”

  Just before Helen could speak again, a small but distinct click sounded from across the room. Claire must have heard it, too, because she frowned and looked in that direction.

  “What was that?”

  It happened again. It seemed to be coming from a cabinet just below the television. They went over for a look, opening the cabinet door to find another tape recorder.

  “Testing, testing,” Helen said, and the reels sprang into motion. After a few seconds they clicked to a stop.

  “Voice-activated,” Helen said. The machine confirmed her conclusion by again slowly spinning into motion. She reached down and shut it off.

  “Not the usual location for that kind of thing, is it?” Claire asked.

  “No. Or not under the guidelines that the Property and Personnel Branch sends out to all stations. The hardware’s a bit clumsy, too. We never should have been able to hear it, and it’s even older than the one upstairs. Another Philips.”

  “This place is starting to give me the heebie-jeebies. I’m not sure I feel comfortable telling you what you need to know here.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “There’s a little café, not far from here. Quiet and usually uncrowded.”

  She gestured toward the door.

  “First things first.”

  “The tape?”

  “You did say Marina’s name.”

  Helen removed the take-up reel, snapped the tape with her teeth, and unspooled the recorded portion. She carried the spaghetti pile to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. They watched as it swirled out of sight toward the sewers of Paris.

  39

  The waiter set down their demitasse cups of espresso. They were the only two customers in a small nook in the back. The big tote bag was underneath the table. A rear door was open onto a small garden where a caged parakeet cheeped.

  “Marina was one of our agents,” Claire said. She paused, glancing toward the open door as the parakeet went silent. “She moved back and forth between here and Marseille. Now she’s working across the border.”

  “Germany?”

  “Spain. Our records in Paris officially list her as inactive.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since five months ago, when she filed a complaint against Gilley. Something similar to what we both witnessed, or so I was told. That’s the problem. I never saw it, and now it no longer exists. Expunged.”

  “By your COS?”

  “Yes. She then went into deep cover and disappeared, apparently with the help of her old case officer. It was only through Audra that I was able to track her down. She’s in San Sebastián.”

  “Spain?”

  “The Basque country, where she’s keeping an eye on ETA, the separatist terror group, through an off-the-books arrangement with Madrid station. ETA would kill her in a heartbeat if they found out, which tells you all you need to know about how much she fears Kevin Gilley. Fortunately she’s a natural for the posting. Paris-born, but to a Basque mother, a Harki father.”

  “Harki?”

  “Algerian, but fought for the French in the war. When the rebels won, he immigrated here. Their families haven’t exactly been accepted with open arms, which is one reason Marina is such a good agent. Grew up never knowing who she could trust. Audra sent word this afternoon that she’s needed here, to meet with you.”

  “But if Audra could find her, couldn’t Gilley?”

  “Probably. But two of his people took out an ETA bomb maker a few years back, and ETA does tend to hold a grudge. Marina found a way to betray both Gilley operatives to the Spanish. You might say that she and Gilley are now blood enemies for life. Given the choice, he’d kill her before you. But he’s certainly not foolish enough to go after her there. It’s why she feels safe, relatively speaking.”

  “Why don’t I go to her?”

  “At this point, the fewer borders you cross, the better. We can’t be sure that Canadian identity is still secure. Besides, ETA would be every bit as brutal with you, and once you were down there I’d have no way of helping you. The more isolated you become, the more likely you’ll be found.”

  “Right. Either by our people, or by Gilley’s.”

  “Aren’t those one and the same?”

  “I think now he may be recruiting people off the books completely,” Helen said.

  Claire raised her eyebrows. Helen explained what she’d learned about Delacroix and the way Gilley operated in Berlin.

  Claire set down her cup with an agitated rattle in the saucer.

  “That makes our job even tougher. And if Marina knows this, it would explain why she’s playing hard to get.”

  “She’s refusing to come?”

  “Not refusing, but she has asked for logistical help, more than Audra is equipped to give her. More than I can give her, too, but I’m working on it.”

  “Why not just make another statement, or even a tape, and send it through a courier?”

  “After all she’s been through, she no longer trusts the usual channels, not for this. In person or nothing, that’s what she’s saying.”

  “Even if it means risking a trip here?”

  “Irrational fear and mistrust. An occupational disease, I’m afraid. What all this means is that you may have to sit tight for a day or two.”

  “I can think of worse places for waiting around.” She smiled, but Claire was all business.

  “Even if she comes, she’ll only meet you on her terms, and through her arrangements. I won’t be able to vouch for either. If Gilley has set up any trip wires to alert him to her return, then you’ll be just as compromised. All I’ll be able to do is make sure she knows how to find you. With Audra doing what she can from afar.”

  “Audra again. Our Oracle at Delphi.”

  “Yes. The word ‘records’ in her job title apparently covers just about everything we’d never have the clearance to see.”

  “Our records officer in Berlin seems to be in awe of her. Claims she knows a little bit about everything.”

  “That would explain how she got wind of Gilley’s extracurriculars. I know it’s how she saw my report, back before my COS incinerated it. But Marina’s account never made it to Langley, in any way, shape, or form, which is why you have to collect her story firsthand. And this time it won’t just be something on a piece of paper.”

  Claire reached into the tote bag and withdrew a small but clunky cassette recorder and placed it on the table. A cheap Japanese model, like the kind you might buy in any electronics store.

  “Voice-activated, but not as clumsy or as loud as that one in the safe house.”

  “But not one of those sweet little Swiss numbers, either.”

  “It’s for the sake of cover. Get caught with a Nagra and they’ll know your profession right away, even here. This way, if you’re searched by any authorities, you’re a bird-watcher who likes to record their songs. You’re in Paris to take a little break from your jaunts into the countryside. Two birdsong cassettes are already in this bag with the rest of your things, along with a field guide for the birds of Europe.”

  “I didn’t exactly bring outdoorsy-looking clothes.”

  “But I did.”

  She pulled a blue canvas overnight bag out of the big tote and unzipped the top. It was packed full.

  “There are some traveling clothes in here as well. Also a few scarves, a light cardigan, an extra pair of sunglasses, even another wig—quick-change items to keep with you at
all times in case you’re trying to lose someone. I had to work fast, so I hope you don’t mind the selection.”

  Helen checked one of the labels.

  “How’d you know my size?”

  “I guessed. I’m pretty good at that. In the bird book, one of the pages is bent at the corner. The page number is the address for a small hotel on Passage de Flandre, where there’s a room reserved under your cover name for a late arrival tonight, so I hope you didn’t leave much back at your hotel.”

  “Only a toothbrush, a few clothes. You think I shouldn’t go back?”

  “It’s best if you don’t. And you definitely should avoid the Latin Quarter. If Gilley’s hiring college boys, that’s the perfect place for them to blend in. Your hotel tonight is up in the 19th arrondissement, where the streets are a little calmer, more plebeian, with fewer snap-happy tourists. Although if we’re still not ready to pull this off tomorrow, then we may need to move you again, preferably a little farther northeast.”

  “Why northeast?”

  “Because I’m guessing that’s where Marina will end up. She grew up in Bondy, one of the banlieues.”

  “Banlieue?”

  “Means suburb, but to any Parisian it says slum. With high-rise concrete cités, pockets of Algerians who’ve never quite fit in. Gang graffiti on the walls, mosques in trailers. You still see plenty of old-fart Maurice Chevaliers in berets, but it doesn’t feel at all like Paris. It’s Marina’s old stomping ground, one of the places she can be assured of having a surer footing than Gilley. The good part of all of this is that Marina’s story should be the last piece of the puzzle. Then you’ll have enough ammunition to come in from the cold, and we can put you on the first train back to Berlin.”

  “And then?”

  “If they have any brains, at the very least they’ll be impressed by what you were able to accomplish right under their noses. Not to mention their immense relief that you didn’t go over to the other side. And this way you’ll have some leverage for cutting yourself a deal before they send you home. Or at least more leverage than you had before.”

  “Except then I wasn’t a wanted fugitive.”