by Tom Savage
Nora smiled as she ended the call, feeling a bit better about her situation. As long as Jacques Lanier was around—not to mention his family and friends—she wouldn’t feel isolated; she could get through this. She was lowering the phone when it buzzed again. She glanced at the screen: a phone number was displayed, followed by the words APPELLANT INCONNU. Jacques had entered all the appropriate numbers, so this caller could only be Ben Dysart—or so she hoped.
“Hello?” she said.
Nora could hear breathing, and she held her own breath, waiting. After a moment, Ben Dysart spoke.
“I shouldn’t be calling you,” he said. “I’ll lose my job if they find out. Is this phone safe?”
“Yes,” Nora said, exhaling in relief. “Mr. Cole doesn’t know about it. We can speak freely.”
“Where’s your purse?” he asked. “Your shoulder bag.”
“My—” Nora blinked, then looked around her. “On the chair in the corner. Why?”
“As long as you have that shoulder bag with you, they’ll know where you are. There’s another tracker in that little beaded black purse in your suitcase. They said it was for your safety, but I’m not sure.”
Nora stared at her bag on the chair. “Who are ‘they’?”
“Amanda, Chuck—I don’t know, maybe more. Listen, I don’t have much time. I’m in my next-door neighbor’s apartment; I’m using his phone—I can’t call from my phone. I need to talk to you, but not now. My neighbor’s being very nice about this, but he wants to go back to bed. Can you meet me tomorrow? I’m working all morning, but anytime after that is good.”
Nora thought quickly. “I’m supposed to be with Amanda all afternoon. Will you be driving us?”
“Not in the daytime. I’m driving you to the theater.”
“Okay, I can be back here by four o’clock—I’ll have to get ready for the theater. How’s that?”
“Four o’clock, your hotel. The lobby?”
“No, come to my room.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
“Wait!” Nora said. “Before you go, tell me, how did you know about the trackers?”
There was a pause. Then he said, “I put them there.”
Nora looked over at her bag again. “You put trackers in my purses? When?”
“The night you arrived. You were in the shower.”
“That was you? Wow. Did you do anything else? Is my room bugged?”
“No, but be careful with the phone they gave you.”
“I already figured that,” Nora said. “But how did you get back into my—”
“Tomorrow,” he said. Another pause, then Nora heard a brief sigh. “This isn’t what I signed up for. I’ll tell you what I know; you can decide what to do about it. Four o’clock.” And he was gone.
Nora put down the phone. She was grateful that she hadn’t taken her shoulder bag to Chez Felicia today; she’d decided she wouldn’t need it for the short trip to a brief meeting and back, so she’d left it here in the room. They hadn’t traced her to Jacques.
They.
If Amanda was deep-cover, the other two agents were as well, the woman in Moscow and the man in Damascus. The Russian and Syrian stations wouldn’t have any record of them.
Them.
Wherever Chuck was recuperating, it wasn’t in a hospital. Nora was working for phantoms, agents who were every bit as insubstantial as the paper woman they represented: the spies who never were.
Nora looked over at her Coach bag again. The beaded evening purse was for dressy occasions; she’d taken it to Rêve tonight, and she’d be using it when she went to the theater tomorrow night. Her CIA-issue phone had GPS, and it was probably bugged; these people were nothing if not thorough. But, why? What were they really doing? Was Nora here only to keep three agents safe from TSB? Was there even a TSB? Was there really a blackmail scheme?
And why the hell were two men trying to kill her?
She thought about calling Jeff, but she wouldn’t know what to tell him at this point. She’d call him tomorrow, just as soon as she found a few answers to a few questions, had a girls’ day out with the mysterious Amanda Morris, spoken with Ben Dysart, located Yuri Kerensky and the crazy man from the alley, discovered the identity of TSB, and enjoyed an authentic French production of a classic French play.
She switched off the lights and settled down into the comfortable bed, thinking that this op was not unlike a typical day of classes at the university. She smiled at this thought, refusing to linger on her misgivings as she fell into a restless sleep.
Chapter 15
After giving it some serious thought, Nora opted for the boat ride on the Seine. She decided this over her room service breakfast of fruit salad, croissants, and coffee. By the time Amanda called her, she was fully awake and dressed.
“Let’s do the cruise,” she said. “I’ve been here umpteen times, and I’ve seen everything—Notre Dame, Sainte-Chapelle, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower. Père Lachaise Cemetery was one of the first places I went on my honeymoon; I made the usual actor’s pilgrimage to the graves of Sarah Bernhardt and Oscar Wilde. And Molière, of course—I can’t wait to see the play tonight! Musée Rodin is my favorite place in Paris, and I’ve been to Versailles, but I’ve never done the lunch cruise.” She knew that she was babbling, and she hoped Amanda didn’t notice.
Apparently she didn’t. Amanda merely laughed and said, “Believe it or not, neither have I. Okay, let’s be true touristes Américaines. I’ll get the tickets. I’ll pick you up at your hotel at noon. Bye.”
Nora had nearly answered the wrong phone. The two instruments made similar buzzing sounds, and she’d placed them side by side to recharge on the night table. She’d have to remember that the CIA phone was gray, of course—everything about the CIA was gray—and the one Jacques had given her was black. She’d take both of them with her today, but she’d turn the black one off. She didn’t want her colleague to learn of her backup team; that could lead to serious complications.
At this point, Nora was having trouble thinking of Amanda Morris as her colleague. People on the same team didn’t hide things from each other. They didn’t mislead their teammates, and they certainly didn’t plant GPS devices in their purses without their consent.
She’d found the tracker Ben Dysart had pinned in the lining of her shoulder bag, and it was a new style for her. The only one she’d seen before now had been a black disk the size of a quarter; it had been pinned to the bottom of this very bag. Fool me once, she thought. This device was a thin needle with a black plastic knob at the head, about two inches long. The one pinned inside the beaded black clutch purse was identical. She left both of them in place for the time being.
Nora didn’t want to stay in her room all morning, even though she knew it was the logical thing to do. She hadn’t slept well, waking twice for trips to the bathroom to rinse her hot face and dry mouth with cool water. She woke from a bad dream at one point; she couldn’t remember the details, but she had the distinct impression that someone had been chasing her through the empty streets of a dark city. Now she felt an overwhelming need to get out into fresh air and sunlight.
Her babysitters weren’t available—one of them was out of action—and she didn’t want to chance an encounter alone with The Falcon or the man from the alley. But she simply had to go outside, just for a while. On an impulse, she called Michel Brisson.
“I am correcting the dripping of a spigot in the hotel’s kitchen,” he said in his charmingly stilted English, “but I will joyously accompany you out in the neighborhood in twenty minutes of the clock. Is this acceptable to you, Nora?”
It was, and twenty minutes later Nora took the elevator to the basement. She had her wallet, but she’d left her CIA phone and both purses in the room. Michel was wearing immaculate blue overalls over a bright pink-and-white checked shirt today. But for his imposing face, bald dome, and ugly scars—and the holstered gun strapped to his left side—he could have been the dancing handyman in a Broa
dway musical. Nora remembered her first impression of him and his wife, that they’d be perfect for a TV comedy show. This former cop or agent was a gentle giant, and she was developing a genuine affection for him.
He slipped a jacket on over the weapon before leading her out the back way. She was aware that any number of people were likely watching the front entrance, waiting for her to emerge; she was glad that he’d thought of that possibility as well.
“What did you do before you worked at the hotel?” she asked him as they came out of the alley and headed east.
Michel thought a moment before replying. “I have been the soldier as a young man, and I have joined the Police National after that. I am from a family of soldiers and agents, as is my wife. My grand-père et grand-mère were in the Resistance during the war—this is how I have met Michelle. She has also lost all of the parents of her parents in the Resistance; they have died saving France from Hitler and the Vichy, yes? We met at a ceremony honoring them, a parade in the Champs-Élysées, and soon we were married. We have been working with Jacques Lanier for many years, until we stopped the work—what is that word?”
“Retired,” Nora supplied. “You come from a fine family, a family of heroes. I’m honored to know you. And thank you for helping me, Michel.”
“De rien, Nora. I am thinking that you are the hero, too. Jacques says you are here to help le monde entier, and the world is in need of help now, so I am happy to help you help the world. Is this not a fine morning for a walk?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” Nora said. She was so moved by his assessment of her that she felt a need to change the subject. “Is there a shop near here to buy tea? I mean, tea bags—les sachets de thé?”
There were two, according to Michel. She had her choice of le supermarché, which was straight ahead down the avenue, or a coffee and tea store at the next corner. Nora chose the latter, and Michel led her into a beautiful shop with a pink awning called—she loved this—Rose. It must be fate, she decided, breathing in the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee. She’d had enough of the hotel’s strong black tea and blister packs of honey, so she purchased a box of Rose’s chamomile and a squeezable bottle of honey shaped like a bear.
They emerged from the heavenly scented shop into bright morning sunlight, and Nora paused under the awning, blinking around at the pedestrians in the intersection before her. A trio of laughing young women with colorful lacquered bags from dress shops sailed by her, their fashionable high heels clicking on the pavement. A man across the street was wrestling with the leashes of two enthusiastic Dobermans; from where Nora stood, it seemed that the dogs were walking him. A woman crossing the street with a little girl, a young man and woman holding hands, three businessmen deep in conversation…Nora suddenly froze when she noticed two people in particular.
The man from the alley yesterday stood on the opposite corner from Nora, watching her. She looked over at him, recognizing him immediately, and he stared right back at her with his malevolent eyes. She blinked and looked away, preparing to look again to be sure he was real, and her gaze settled on another man on the corner across from him, diagonally across from Nora. The man named Yuri Kerensky, whom the French police had suspected of being the assassin known as The Falcon fifteen years ago, stood alone on the other side of the avenue, but he wasn’t looking at Nora. He was watching the man from the alley.
A sharp thrill of fear suffused Nora; she stepped backward in the shadows under the awning, grasping Michel’s arm. She studied the tableau before her as she would a scene on a stage: the two men on opposite corners, standing perfectly still, one watching the other and the other watching her.
Michel glanced sharply over at her, then followed her gaze. He must have recognized both men from the photos Jacques would have sent him; his massive shoulders immediately tensed. He stepped forward, shielding Nora’s body with his own as he reached inside his jacket, but Nora clutched his arm even more firmly, stopping him.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Something’s going on…”
As they watched, the two men across the avenue moved. The man from the alley swiveled his head to see what Nora had been looking at on the opposite corner, and he spotted Yuri Kerensky watching him. He turned around and walked swiftly away down the sidewalk, heading east. Kerensky strode forward, off of the curb into moving traffic. Two cars came to a screeching halt as he ran across the intersection to the corner where the other man had been standing just seconds before. With a swift glance over at Nora and Michel, he took off after the man, all but running away down the sidewalk. The man from the alley reached the next corner, turned, and vanished from their view. A moment later, Yuri Kerensky followed him.
Michel removed his hand from inside his jacket and placed it on Nora’s arm.
“Come, Nora,” he said. “It is time for us to go back to the hotel.”
Chapter 16
The Bateaux Parisiens company has been hosting lunch and dinner cruises on the Seine for many years; it is the most popular competitor of the original Paris sightseeing boat line, the Bateaux Mouches. Every afternoon, sleek glass barges embark from the wharf near the Eiffel Tower and travel east along the Left Bank, then turn around and come back along the Right Bank, ending the two-hour excursion where it began. Along the way, they offer stunning river views of the major attractions of Paris. Lunch is served in three tiers of service, which are basically the same as in airliners.
Amanda had chosen the Premier service, of course, so they were seated at a railside table for two in the bow of the Cristal II with a panoramic view of the river before them. Glasses of Dom Pérignon arrived, followed by a four-course meal. Nora opted for chilled asparagus soup, lamb with polenta, the cheese plate, and ice cream with chocolate sauce. Amanda ordered a shrimp main course that also looked delicious.
Throughout the tour, Nora maintained her performance as the delighted tourist. She chatted with Amanda Morris about the landmarks on the river as they arrived before them, about the most recent Paris fashions, about Nora’s New York City and Amanda’s Washington, D.C. Nora hadn’t mentioned this morning’s sighting of the two men who had plagued her short stay here; she was waiting until she’d spoken with Ben Dysart and knew more about this op and Amanda’s role in it.
Nora justified withholding the new information from Amanda by reminding herself of everything Amanda had withheld from her: the tracking devices in Nora’s purses, the fact that Chuck wasn’t really in a hospital, the fact that Amanda and her team were not working in full view of the CIA. She spent the better part of the afternoon cruise studying Amanda and wondering what she was thinking.
They weren’t alone here. Nora had become aware of that fact the moment they’d been seated in the first-class section. Two pleasant-looking men in their thirties were seated two tables away from them at the railing, enjoying a leisurely lunch. Even the most casual observer would have noticed that these two men were brothers; the family resemblance was remarkable. Nora thought they resembled their father, Jacques Lanier. The dark-haired man was Pierre, Cecile’s husband, so the fair-haired one would be Jean. Nora hadn’t formally met Jacques’s younger son, and she wouldn’t meet him this afternoon; the two men never so much as glanced over at Nora and her companion. But they were here, watching without appearing to watch.
Nora and Amanda had finished the meal, sipping coffee as they passed under Pont Neuf with Ile de la Cité on their left and the Louvre coming up on their right, when Nora finally brought up the subject foremost in her mind.
“How much longer are we going to do this?” she asked, watching the woman’s face for her reaction.
Amanda’s eyes widened, then she blinked. She was clearly disconcerted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how much longer are we supposed to swan around Paris, displaying ourselves to people who don’t seem to be getting close enough to catch? The man at the airport, the man in the alley, maybe others. Your team was small to begin with, and now you’re down a man. What would you
do, even if you got these people in your sights?” She smiled, attempting to seem less accusatory. “I mean, does Mr. Cole have a plan for detaining TSB?”
Amanda smiled. “Of course he has a plan. In fact—well, I was waiting to tell you in the taxi back to your hotel; I didn’t want to talk about it while we were enjoying that wonderful lunch. But since you’ve brought up the subject, I might as well tell you now. We’ve identified both men, the airport guy and the one in the alley. But that isn’t the big news. The big news is, we think we’ve found TSB!”
Now it was Nora’s turn to be disconcerted. Whatever she’d thought Amanda might tell her, it wasn’t this. She gazed off across the water at the majestic buildings on their right. The world’s largest museum stood proudly beyond the quay at the riverbank. What had Amanda just said…?
“Okay,” she finally managed to say as they passed under the Pont des Arts, the first of the three bridges that fronted the Louvre. “One thing at a time. First, who are the two men?”
Amanda’s smile became a laugh. “You should see your face! I guess I shouldn’t have sprung it all on you like that, but I think it’s good news. The man from the airport is a Russian assassin named Kerensky; we think he was retained by some Russian mobsters three years ago to track down Chris Waverly—or, rather, our woman in Moscow—after she broke up their lucrative export business. Women; poor, desperate young Russian women, taken to other countries and forced into—well, you can figure it out. We stopped them, and ‘Chris Waverly’ got the credit. Kerensky’s been looking for her ever since.”
“And now he’s found her,” Nora said. “He’s found me. Terrific. What about the other man?”
Amanda frowned and shook her head. “Another charmer, a Frenchman named Bernard Clement. He and his late wife, Carla, were in the same business as the Russian mobsters, only they were bringing people to France from Africa. The young women were groomed for the sex trade while the men and older women were sold as indentured servants, paying off their passage to freedom as domestic workers.
