Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

“My orders are straight to Langley, no stops. You’ll be met.” He made a cell call. “One hour,” he said, then hung up.

  Spencer was met in the big entrance hall to headquarters, walked past the wall of stars, representing CIA officers killed in the line of duty, and taken down to a sub-basement, to a small, bare room with a large mirror covering most of one wall. He had no doubt that this was going to be an interrogation, and that observers sat on the other side of the one-way mirror.

  He was kept waiting there for a long time, no coffee, no chat, no toilet. He checked, and the door was locked. Forty minutes later a tall, gray-haired mustached man in an ill-fitting suit walked into the room, dropped a thick file—his, he assumed—on the steel table with a thump, and started talking before he was in the opposite chair.

  “Who the fuck is John, no middle initial, Simpson, and why the fuck did you hire him?”

  “Who are you?” Spencer demanded.

  “None of your goddamned business. Answer the question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “Don’t annoy me, son, or you’ll spend the next week in this room.”

  “I didn’t hire Simpson. He turned up on the list of station employees I was given on my third day as chief.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “I’ve no idea. He was assigned—I assumed from Langley.”

  “Assumed? Is that how you ran the station? Assuming?”

  Spencer noticed that he had spoken in the past tense. “Did you ever run a station?”

  “Three of them, and I’ll ask the questions here.”

  “Did you interview every man and woman on the station staff?”

  “I did, and I said I’ll ask the questions. Why didn’t you interview him?”

  “Because he was a handyman, and I was a station chief. It was my deputy’s job.”

  “What did your deputy tell you about Simpson?”

  “That he was good at doing what he was told.”

  “Did you ever send Simpson to Paris for any reason?”

  Spencer opened his mouth to say no, then reconsidered. “I sent a four-man team to Paris once—a handyman was among them, and it could have been Simpson.”

  “Who was the team leader?”

  “A Frenchman named Jean-Noël Ragot.”

  “Why was a Frenchman working Berlin?”

  “He was raised in the States since childhood: French father, German mother. He was trilingual and good at his work. I relied on him.”

  “And he took Simpson to Paris?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t ask. Why don’t you ask him? He’s still in Berlin.”

  —

  ON THE OTHER SIDE of the mirror, Lance Cabot picked up a phone. “Get me the Berlin station,” he said. “I don’t care what time it is, I want to speak to an officer named Jean-Noël Ragot, wherever he is.”

  —

  “WHAT WAS the purpose of sending a team to Paris?” the interrogator asked.

  “I don’t know that you’re cleared to know,” Spencer replied.

  “I’m cleared to know whatever you know.”

  “I worked in the Paris station for fifteen months, ten years ago. While I was there I got friendly with a source in the Paris police.”

  “Friendly? Did you recruit him?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “He was never on the books. I never wrote down his name, we exchanged information when it was good for both of us.”

  “Did you record or make notes on your meetings with him?”

  “I made notes, but without mentioning his name. He was too smart to let himself be recorded.”

  “What was his rank and name?”

  “He was a capitaine, and I promised him never to reveal his name to anyone.”

  “Don’t hand me that horseshit! Don’t you know where you are and how much trouble you’re in?”

  Spencer slammed a palm down on the table. “I know exactly where I am, who I am, and what I’m going to tell you, if I feel like it. What I don’t know is who you are and on what authority you’re asking me to blow a man I gave my word to.”

  The man opened his mouth to speak, but a buzzer went off, and he stopped. He got up, took the file on the table, and, without another word, walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Spencer leaned back in his chair and yelled at the mirror: “I want to see the director now, and I want some coffee, black!”

  Nothing happened for five minutes, then Lance Cabot walked into the room with a coffee mug in his hand, set it on the table, and arranged himself in the chair opposite. “Good morning, Ron,” he said pleasantly. “Did you have a good flight?”

  Spencer picked up the mug and sipped the coffee before he replied. “Good morning, Director. No, I did not have a good flight.”

  “Let’s talk a little about your old job in Paris,” Lance said.

  —

  HALF AN HOUR later Lance said, “There’s a car waiting for you downstairs that will take you to the Four Seasons Hotel, in Georgetown. Get some sleep, have something to eat, get laid, if you can. You have a business-class seat to Berlin on the ten A.M. Lufthansa flight from Dulles tomorrow morning. Go back to work, and tell everyone in the station I said hello.” Lance got up and left the room; a moment later, the escort took Ron Spencer downstairs and put him in the rear seat of a Lincoln Town Car.

  Spencer was shaking as he got into the car. He did deep breathing exercises all the way to the hotel.

  25

  Stone awoke to the sound of the shower running, then he dozed off again. When he came to, Holly was bending over him, and she was, disappointingly, dressed. “You were just what a girl needed last night,” she said.

  “Always glad to be of service,” he replied. “Why are you dressed so early? Are my services no longer desired?”

  “They are, but Rick LaRose called, and I’ve got to run over to the embassy for a while,” she said. “I’ll be sure and be back for dinner. Book us somewhere special.”

  “Done,” he said, then went back to sleep.

  —

  HOLLY TOOK a cab to the embassy and let herself in through the side door with her ID card. She identified herself to a guard in a glassed-in cage, then entered the Paris station of the Central Intelligence Agency and walked briskly to the station chief’s office. “He’s with someone,” Rick’s secretary said, then Rick opened his office door and waved her inside.

  “Good morning.” he said. “Thanks for coming over. Holly Barker, meet Jean-Noël Ragot of the Berlin station.” A tall, heavily built man in his forties stood. “Hi, Holly,” he said.

  “Jean-Noël is the man I told you about,” Rick said. “We served together in this station some years ago.”

  “Hello, Jean-Noël,” Holly said. “What brings you to Paris?”

  “I don’t know,” Ragot replied.

  Rick spoke up. “Jean-Noël got a call from Lance Cabot yesterday, ordering him here.”

  “He didn’t say why,” Ragot added.

  “Do I detect an accent?” Holly asked.

  “Probably more than one,” Ragot replied. “I have a French father and a German mother, but I was raised in the States.”

  Holly didn’t know what else to ask him. “So, what are we doing here, Rick?”

  “Waiting for Lance to phone from Langley,” Rick said. “We assume he will, soon.”

  Rick’s intercom buzzed and he picked up the phone. “Yes? Send him in.”

  Lance Cabot walked into the room and dropped a leather duffel and his briefcase on the carpet. “Morning, all.” He flopped onto the sofa. “Now that we’re all assembled, let’s get down to it.”

  They waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

  “Get down to what?” Holly asked, final
ly.

  “This business with John, no middle initial, Simpson. Jean-Noël knew him—in fact, he brought him to Paris a while back.”

  “This is so,” Ragot said.

  “Tell us why,” Lance said.

  “Ron Spencer sent me and three others here to . . .” He stopped, looking doubtful.

  “We’re all family here,” Lance said. “Tell us.”

  “To interrogate a Russian,” Ragot said.

  “At whose request?” Lance asked.

  “Ron had a contact in the French national police who wanted the man spoken to.”

  “Don’t the French police know how to conduct an interrogation?” Holly asked.

  Ragot looked uncomfortable. “Of course, but our host didn’t want this Russian to be known to his colleagues.”

  “Why did you choose Simpson to accompany you?” Lance asked.

  “Simpson was something of an expert,” Ragot said.

  “In interrogation?” Rick asked.

  “In . . . persuasion,” Ragot replied. “Another of the team did the interrogation. Simpson was to persuade the subject to reply.”

  Everyone was silent for a moment before Lance spoke. “What was the identity of the Russian?”

  “We never knew his name,” Ragot asked.

  “What was the name of Ron’s friend in the police?”

  “We never knew his name, either. Our instructions came from a man on the telephone. We never met him.”

  “What was the subject of the . . . conversation with the Russian gentleman?”

  “The man apparently knew the identity of a spy for the Russians inside the Paris police.”

  “A spy for Russian intelligence?”

  “I think not,” Ragot said. “I formed the opinion that the spy was working not for Russian intelligence, but for other Russians, I know not who they were.”

  “Were you able to learn the name of the person who made the request from inside the Paris police?” Lance asked impatiently.

  “No, we were not.”

  “I thought you said Simpson was expert at . . . persuasion.”

  “Oh, yes, Simpson did his job, all too well.”

  “I’m sorry?” Lance asked.

  “The Russian expired before Simpson could persuade him to tell us the name—apparently of some preexisting condition of which we were not told.”

  “How long were Simpson’s . . . attentions applied to the subject?”

  “For about three hours. We came and went from time to time to check on his progress.”

  “If not the name of the informant, what else did you learn from the Russian gentleman?”

  “Nothing, not even his name. He would not speak.”

  Nobody said anything for about a minute.

  Holly broke the silence, and she was incredulous. “Simpson . . . persuaded the man for three hours and he revealed nothing?”

  “I’m afraid that is correct.”

  “What happened after the interrogation ended?” Lance asked.

  “I telephoned the number we had, the man answered, and we told him the subject had unexpectedly died. He asked if we had learned anything at all, and when I told him we had not he said that we should remove the body from Paris and dispose of it carefully. Then he hung up.”

  “That was it?” Lance asked.

  “I telephoned the number again, and it was out of service.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Two of my colleagues and I returned to our hotel, Simpson having said that he would deal with the body. He returned late that night, and we all flew back to Berlin the following morning.”

  “And what did Simpson have to say about his efforts? Did he tell you where and how he disposed of the body?”

  “Nothing. We never spoke of the incident again.”

  “Where did the interrogation take place?” Lance asked.

  “In a garage in the twentieth arrondissement, near the Père-Lachaise cemetery. We arrived there to find the subject alone, bound and gagged. We never learned who brought him there or how.”

  “Well, it’s all very neat, isn’t it?” Lance said. He stood and picked up his bags. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll be at the Plaza Athénée.” Then he left.

  “Well,” Holly said, “that was bizarre.”

  26

  Stone had just finished a room-service lunch when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Ann,” she said.

  “How are you? How’s the campaign?”

  “I’m not sure about either of those.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure about that, either. Everything seems fine, except Kate is dropping in the polls.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know for sure, but we suspect some sort of surreptitious campaign of lies. We just can’t get a handle on it. Kate was up seven points in the polls and gained two more after the first debate, then the balloon started leaking air with each successive poll. We’re down to a one-point lead, and with the margin of error at six percent, we’re not even sure we’re ahead.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  “We don’t know what to do, except maintain a steady offense. I wish you were here.”

  “You don’t need a lawyer, you need an operative who’s just as sneaky as the opposition to figure this out.”

  “We’re working on that. It’s driving the press crazy, too, so they’re working overtime to find out what’s happening. The only good thing was the interview with the French deputy prime minister.”

  “The elegant Frenchwoman with the red hair?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What was the interview?”

  “She was being interviewed on Bloomberg TV, and she was asked what she thought of the economic policies of the Republican candidate, Hank Carson. When she answered the question, she referred to Carson as ‘Honk.’ Nobody heard anything after that, because we were all laughing so hard. Since then, everybody here, and some of the press, has been calling him ‘Honk.’ It’s lifted our spirits a bit.”

  Stone laughed, too. “Somehow, it seems to fit him.”

  “Carson has tried so hard to get people to call him ‘Hank,’ to loosen his image, but hardly anybody has. Now everybody calls him ‘Honk.’”

  “And still, you’re down in the polls?”

  “We are. I wish I were in Paris with you. The press are at me every minute, wanting to know what’s wrong with our campaign, and I’m running out of brave faces to put on for them.”

  “Most races seem to tighten a bit in the last weeks, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but not this much. I mean, Kate is so clearly the superior candidate, I don’t know why everybody hasn’t gotten on her bandwagon. Hang on a minute.” She covered the phone, and he could hear her voice, muffled. She seemed to be expressing consternation. Then she came back. “Mystery solved,” she said, sounding dejected.

  “Tell me.”

  “Some blogger named Howard Axelrod has concocted a story that a DNA test exists, proving that you are the father of Kate’s baby.”

  Stone was immediately furious. “They tried that earlier, didn’t they? It didn’t hold water.”

  “He’s saying that you’ve left the country because you don’t want to be questioned about it. It’s the rumor of the DNA test that’s lending weight to the story.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I haven’t donated any bodily tissues or fluids for purposes of DNA testing.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ann said. “Have you had any sort of medical testing done in the past three months?”

  “I had my biyearly flight physical, the one required by the FAA and my insurance company to keep me flying. That was about three weeks ago.”

  “
Did they do blood work or take a urine sample?”

  “Just the urine sample.”

  “That’s enough for a DNA test, I think. Who’s your doctor?”

  “Samuel Somethingorother. I can’t remember the last name. He’s not my regular doctor, he’s an AME—an Aviation Medical Examiner—appointed by the FAA. Actually, he’s an ob-gyn who happens to be a pilot and thus has an interest in flying.”

  “I’ll check him out. Let’s hope to God he’s not Kate’s ob-gyn. What’s his address?”

  “He’s in the East Seventies, up near the Carlyle Hotel.”

  “Oh, God, near Will and Kate’s apartment.”

  Stone dug his FAA medical certificate from his wallet. “Wharton,” he said. “Samuel C. Wharton, M.D.”

  “How were you referred to him?”

  “There’s a list of AMEs on an aviation website. I chose him because he was the closest to my house.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Ann said, and covered the phone again.

  Stone waited patiently.

  Three minutes later, Ann came back on the line. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

  “Try me.”

  “We looked him up on the Internet: Dr. Wharton and Kate were undergraduate classmates at Harvard.”

  “Is he her doctor?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if they knew each other in college, and I’m afraid to ask her.”

  “Well, somebody is going to have to ask her. There are too many coincidences here not to excite the interest of reporters.”

  “Stone, I hate to ask you this, but did you and Kate ever—”

  “No! I’ve told you this before: Kate and I have never had any kind of physical relationship.”

  “I mean, I could understand it if you did—you’re both such attractive people.”

  “Ann, stop it!”

  “I’m so sorry, I’m just so worried.”

  “How about this: Kate and I take DNA tests on national television, from a doctor appointed by the Republican National Committee—”

  “All right, all right! I’ll stop it. I’ll even ask Kate who her ob-gyn is!”

  “I think you have to do that. Please let me know how this all turns out.”

  “You may start getting calls from reporters.”