by Joseph Flynn
Maybe Sir Robert would get a pass from the English public. After all, he had graduated from the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. Had served a dozen years in the royal army. The interesting thing about his military service was that its nature was classified. Kept so tightly secret that even the American intelligence community didn’t know what he’d been up to. Galia’s assumption was that he’d been seconded to the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6.
She could have learned the available details of Sir Robert’s life without having to travel to London, but Captain Yates had suggested she read the report in a secure location. Meaning where there was no chance it would fall into British hands.
Yates was a real find, Galia thought, a diamond in the rough fast gaining polish. Some of that refinement was due to the personal tutelage of James J. McGill. An irksome fact, but tolerable because it was not necessary to acknowledge publicly.
Sir Robert’s foreign birth wasn’t the only interesting tidbit the captain had unearthed. The man had a connection to another famous Canadian who’d served the British Empire. Sir Robert’s mother had worked for William Stephenson during World War II. Stephenson, code named Intrepid, had been London’s chief spymaster and propagandist in the Americas — and according to Ian Fleming the real life model for James Bond.
If that wasn’t a dashing enough family history, Sir Robert’s father, whose actual identity had never been determined, at least in any database that Captain Yates had been able to access, was thought to have been a clandestine operative trained at Camp X in Whitby, Ontario, the first training facility for spies in North America, and the finishing school for five future directors of the CIA.
The likelihood of Sir Robert carrying on the family trade — snooping on others — fit neatly with the fact that shortly after President Grant’s inauguration, Galia’s government file had been probed by computer hackers working out of Hong Kong. That prying could have come from the Chinese, of course. But Captain Yates’s research had picked up on the eavesdropping on Galia’s file and he’d diligently noted in his report that Hong Kong had been a British colony for 155 years. So London might have done the probe, using an Asian facade so as not to disrupt its special relationship with Washington. Or it could have been a cooperative venture between the British and the Chinese, giving each party deniability by allowing one to point the finger at the other.
Galia, who had studied both Niccolo Machiavelli and Lavrenti Beria, had anticipated such an attack, and had larded the cyberfiles of all senior White House personnel with disinformation, and thus wasn’t upset when she learned of the probe. On the contrary, she would be pleased if the information gleaned were taken at face value.
On the other side of the coin, she had to consider the possibility that the information she’d obtained on Sir Robert Reed was also a concoction of … well, someone who liked to read James Bond novels.
If it was accurate, though, it raised an intriguing question.
What was Her Majesty doing with a spy for a private secretary?
Chapter 7
Friday, June 5 — Paris
1
McGill was having an excellent croissant with the best raspberry preserves he’d ever tasted — not bad for an Irish pub’s kitchen — when he heard two men start to shout downstairs. Possessing a keen and well-tuned ear, he recognized both voices: Harbin the chiseled doorman of The Hideaway and … Jesus, could it really be Celsus Crogher?
The chance that it was scared him silly. He jumped up from the breakfast table, flung the door to the flat open and descended the staircase in three bounds, yelling at the top of his best cop voice: “Knock it off!”
Not that the two men confronting each other had actually started to exchange blows, but McGill was sure violence would have ensued if he hadn’t intervened. Both men — and Celsus was one of them — looked his way, and each of them took a step back, allowing McGill to interpose himself between them.
“This man…” Harbin began. But that was all the English his temper would allow for at the moment. He had both of his escrima sticks held tightly in his right hand.
A glance at the Secret Service SAC showed McGill that Celsus had a hand inside his suit coat. A gun would beat sticks, but only if it could be drawn, pointed, and fired. McGill wasn’t sure Celsus would have had time for all that before Harbin started breaking bones. And wouldn’t that be a fine mess?
McGill put up the palm of a hand to each man, a traffic cop preventing a collision. It was only then he heard in his ears how hard his own heart was beating. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he was able to speak again.
“M’sieur Harbin,” he began, “may I introduce Mr. Celsus Crogher. Celsus, M’sieur Harbin. Each of you is in the same line of work: protecting others. So cut each other some slack.”
McGill looked at the doorman, who, after a beat, nodded his agreement.
The president’s henchman had to glare at Crogher before he did the same.
Then McGill took the SAC by the arm, and led him outside, saying, “Let’s take a walk.”
Crogher yanked his arm free but went along with McGill. They weren’t ten paces down the sidewalk, heading toward the Seine, when McGill said to Crogher, “Please tell me it isn’t Patti or one of my kids.”
The moment McGill had heard the SAC’s voice, the first thing that had leaped to mind was last Thanksgiving night. Celsus summoning him from the dinner table to tell him that Deke had been shot. He couldn’t imagine Celsus coming to see him in Paris unless something terrible had happened. But to whom?
Far from the most sensitive of people, the SAC nevertheless intuited McGill’s apprehension. This time, he was the one who held up a hand, putting the brakes on McGill’s fears.
“It’s not like that,” Crogher said. “Nobody’s been hurt.”
McGill sagged in relief, his heart sliding down his throat and back into his chest.
On the rebound now, he had to wonder what the hell the SAC was doing in Paris.
Crogher saw that, too, and said, “Give me a minute, okay?”
McGill nodded. The two of them continued walking toward the Seine. The morning was sunny and pleasantly warm; the sky was delft blue, fronted by a few puffy white clouds. The light was a painter’s dream. But Crogher saw none of that. He’d slipped into professional mode. James J. McGill was the package, and Crogher was the bullet-catcher. As such, the SAC was busy checking out pedestrians, automotive traffic; watching doorways, windows and rooftops.
A former cop, McGill also surveyed his surroundings, though he was somewhat more subtle in his watchfulness.
“We’re okay for the moment, Celsus.”
The SAC was unwilling to make that concession.
The two of them walked along the row of book and magazine stalls lining the river wall. McGill noticed that most of the publications were in French, but several were in English, and many were in a variety of other languages, not only from Europe but around the world.
The U.N. of the printed word, McGill thought. It gave him hope for civilization.
“We see things,” Crogher began. “That’s the basis of our jobs.”
The Secret Service, McGill understood. He nodded.
“A lot of the time, we see things we’d just as soon not,” Crogher continued. “But you can’t know that in advance, so you have to watch for everything. Most things go into reports, into the data banks. But some we keep to ourselves, and we try to forget them.”
Again, there were similarities with cops, but McGill remained silent. This was Celsus’s story.
“We’re not really supposed to have feelings about the people we protect. Mostly, that’s so we don’t wind up hating them, which would make us hesitate to … well, you know.”
Catch the bullet, McGill knew.
“But there are others, a precious few, we have to be careful we don’t like them too much, because then you spend your time watching them instead of the perimeter.”
Celsus wasn’t having a bit of t
rouble not looking at McGill.
“The president is someone who’s very easy to like,” her henchman said.
The SAC nodded. Still avoiding eye contact with McGill.
McGill continued, “So where you and your people would normally be the souls of discretion and would never mention a straying spouse to an offended spouse, now you feel there’s something I should know.”
For the first time since he’d known the man, McGill saw a blush of color appear on Crogher’s chalk white cheeks. He wasn’t sure if the cause was embarrassment or anger. If he had to bet, though, he’d go with anger at McGill anticipating his spiel.
“Celsus, forget the threat horizon for just a second and look at me.”
The SAC uneasily gave him a moment’s attention.
McGill told him, “I trust the president completely. If you saw something between her and, say, the president of France, I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation. I thank you for your extraordinary concern and the thought that I should know about whatever you saw, but I don’t want to hear it. I’d feel much better if you got back to England as fast as possible and watched over the real threats to my wife.”
Crogher nodded, and went back to looking for threats to McGill.
He said to his package, “You know, you won’t always be able to walk around like this. You’re a target, too.”
“You think I should have a gun?”
“I think you should have a full detail of my people. I think you should follow procedure. But I was wondering if you’d ask me for a weapon when you saw me.”
“Did you bring one for me?”
Crogher gave McGill a brief look, but didn’t answer. He did see McGill smile, though.
“Sonofabitch,” the SAC said. “You’ve already got one.”
McGill didn’t respond. Except to say, “Tell the president not to worry about me.”
“Yeah. I’ll be getting back now.”
“That favor I asked of you?” McGill said.
“Still working on it.”
“I figured out who was behind the call from Frederick, Maryland to Paris. Bob Merriman, Senator Roger Michaelson’s chief of staff. He used a middleman, no doubt, but he’s the big fish.”
Crogher couldn’t help himself; he had to look at McGill again.
“How’d you—” The SAC bit his tongue. He wouldn’t tell McGill his methods, and the president’s henchman wasn’t about to reveal his secrets either.
McGill stopped abruptly, putting Crogher on alert. But McGill didn’t duck for cover. He strode over to a stall. He picked up a magazine. On the cover, two fighters were beating each other bloody. Looming over them in the background, arms folded over his chest, was a brutal looking hulk who had to be at least seven feet tall. A banner above the giant said: Le Champion Tacit.
The stall owner approached. McGill held up the magazine and asked, “Combien?”
An essential word to know when visiting France: How much?
“Quatre euros, m’sieur.”
McGill gave him a fiver and got a single euro coin in return.
The merchant said, “Merci.”
Crogher glanced at the magazine cover as they resumed walking.
“Something special about those guys?”
“I think the big lug might be someone I’m looking for.”
“Sonofabitch,” Crogher said.
“Me or him?” McGill asked.
“Take your pick.”
McGill smiled. It was good to be back on a familiar footing with the SAC.
Arlington, VA
2
At three a.m., Deke Ky sat up straight in bed. He thought he’d been dreaming, that his mother had come to his bedside, kissed his cheek, and said something to him in Vietnamese. After arriving in the United States, Deke had never wanted to be anything less than 100% American, and he’d let his Vietnamese erode in favor of learning English. But he still remembered: Tù biét ai cùa toi con trai ca. Goodbye, my son.
Actually, Goodbye, my son and heir.
His mother had twice left him with his Aunt Sylvie, Francis’s late mother, when he was a toddler and each time he’d been terrified he would never see her again. He remembered the instances clearly because he’d been inconsolable despite his aunt’s gentle ministrations. The only things that had gotten him to stop crying were pleas not to wake baby Francis.
His mother had come back for him each time, and he’d clung to her until he had to be fed or put to bed for the night. Now, all these years later, and having been awake for a minute, he knew she was gone again. And just as when he’d been little she’d come to him and said goodbye.
Tù biét ai cùa toi con trai ca.
He placed his fingertips to his cheek, where he’d felt his mother kiss him. Turning on the bed table lamp and bringing his hand in front of his face, he could see traces of red on his fingers. Lipstick.
Musette Ky was the daughter of a master spy. She had left Vietnam with her son ahead of the North’s victorious push into Saigon. She had later told Deke it would have been dangerous to stay at the time. She had learned secrets from her father that remaining in Saigon would have been embarrassing to many people who would soon be taking power in the South. To spare themselves the embarrassment, these people would have been only too happy to do away with Musette and her son.
But times and circumstances changed. Washington and Hanoi had made peace with each other. Those who had assumed power in the aftermath of the war had been displaced by age and the ambitions of others. Nike had set up factories for Vietnamese workers to make running shoes for the masses. And Musette Ky had renewed and nurtured contacts with old friends and had made new ones in the land of her birth.
Deke got out of bed and walked naked through his mother’s house, something he never would have done if he had any doubt she hadn’t gone. Room after room was empty. His mother’s closet was bare, and with all the clothes she had, she must have been packing, shipping, and making other preparations for some time.
In her home office, on her desk, he found the deed to her house. Ownership had been transferred to him. A card for a lawyer whose name he didn’t recognize lay next to the deed. On the back of the card, in his mother’s hand were the words: If you ever need money…
Deke returned to his bed and lay staring at the ceiling, trying to decide what he should do. He was able to think of only one thing. He called his cousin Francis.
The two of them now having lost their mothers.
Chateau Rouge, Paris
3
The kidnapping went off without a hitch. The stripper, stage name Honi Moon, real name Diana Martel, thought she’d hit the jackpot. A sleek black Mercedes limousine pulled up outside the fleabag hotel on the Rue des Poisonniers where she’d been hiding. The rear door opened and she came scurrying out. She all but dived into the back seat. The door closed and the Mercedes departed at the legally mandated 50 kph.
The hour was half past nine, the sky was bright, and the sidewalks were filled with pedestrians. Any number of people saw the stripper’s departure, but in Chateau Rouge people knew better than to pry into the affairs of others. The person who took the greatest interest was an immigrant sitting in front of a nearby second-story window. He’d been in the country for years but was endlessly fascinated by watching the great city come to life each morning.
That morning, the presence of the gleaming limousine on his shabby street was like a visit from some passing nobleman, a dark prince perhaps. And then the white woman appeared. She ran clumsily to the car, but how could anyone run properly in such ridiculous spike-heeled shoes? He wasn’t quite sure if she jumped into the car or fell into it. What was obvious, though, as her short skirt flew up, was that she had a fine bare derriere. Oh so white and round. The sight was as brief as it was memorable.
The long, black car departed immediately
The immigrant made note of its license plate number.
He knew there was a Nigerian fellow, a most unpleasant individual,
running whores out of the hotel from which the woman had fled. But he’d never seen a white whore in the neighborhood before. While he didn’t know the white woman was with the procurer, who but a putain would enter a fine automobile in such an undignified fashion? Sans lingerie.
The immigrant, Bertrand Kalou, didn’t want to let go of the fleeting image.
He picked up a ceramic tile, and a brush. He dabbed the brush in black acrylic paint. He’d start with the car and the woman. Work while his memory was still fresh. The background of the painting was available to him any time he cared to look out the window.
At the top right corner of his art table he noticed the business card the investigating magistrate had left with him. Yves Pruet. And his phone number.
He wondered if such an important man, one with the murder of Thierry Duchamp to occupy his time, would be interested in a trifle such as he had seen. He doubted it.
He outlined the shape of the car and cleaned his brush.
Now he’d start on the woman.
Organize her figure around that fine derriere.
4
The backside that Bertrand Kalou was immortalizing in paint sat astride the lap of the literate Rom known as Bela, the fellow who had led Bunica Anisa and the other members of his tribe to know that the man who wanted the putain sticking her tongue into his ear was none other than the husband of the President of the United States of America, James J. McGill.
The fellow known as the president’s henchman.
How much he would pay for this creature remained to be seen.
But someone in his position doubtless had a fortune at his command.
Bela, by tribal prejudice, did not like gadje women. To know one was to pollute one’s manhood. Still, he was human, and the way this one was grinding herself against him, the predictable result was being produced. Soon he would foul himself and the car. The latter point was important to avoid. Bela was aware of what flics could do with DNA these days. He often tried to explain American television crime shows to his kinsmen but they rarely bothered to listen.
