by Allan Topol
“Bien, bien,” she screamed, looking at him with blazing wide eyes. Finally he let himself go. As she felt his release, her whole body shook. “Tres bien,” she cried. “Tres bien.”
* * *
They made love twice more—each time with a passion that startled them both. At the end, she dropped off to sleep, and he stroked her hair gently and watched her sleep.
A wild thought popped into his mind. Maybe Gina will hide me in Nice. We’ll make love day and night, and all of this business with Kourosh and the Dental Affair will pass.
The word “Nice” stuck in his brain. She’s probably not even from there, he told himself. But what if she is? What if she’s the real thing? What if just by coincidence, he had met this fantastic woman on the plane on the very same day that someone called his hotel room and said they knew he was Greg Nielsen.
Don’t be an idiot, he told himself. If two incredible long shots hit on the same day, it’s not coincidence. The game’s fixed. He eyed her large Chanel black bag resting on the desk. Maybe he’d find an answer in there. He had started to climb out of bed when she woke up.
“You are some kind of lover,” she said. “Hold me tight.”
“Nope, it’s time for champagne. You close your eyes and stay right where you are. I’ll pour you a glass.”
Telling her he had to rinse the glasses in the bathroom, he poured a little of the chloral deftly into hers, just the minimum amount to do the job, hating himself all the while. Maybe I’m wrong, he thought. Maybe you are really Gina, and you’ve got nothing to do with any of this, but I can’t take a chance. It’s my life at stake. If you’re for real, honey, when this is over, I’ll come and find you in Nice.
They clicked their glasses together, and she sipped the champagne contentedly.
* * *
They went to dinner at Amphycles, a small but wonderful restaurant in the 17th Arrondissement. He asked for and was given the table near the garden, just off the entrance. From there he could watch the door without being seen immediately by anyone who entered.
He figured she would never last half an hour into dinner. He had to admire her constitution. Even with a glass of red burgundy she managed to make it through the luscious crab first course, the chef’s signature dish. Midway into a squab entree, the chloral hit her, and it hit her hard.
“I’m so tired,” she said lethargically. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Maybe it’s the long day. The champagne and wine.”
“This never happens to me. It just...” Her eyes closed. Her head dropped onto the table.
He apologized for his wife who had been on a long flight from China today, paid the bill and led her out of the restaurant.
* * *
Back at the Bristol, he tucked her into bed. Then he began a meticulous search of her things. Her clothes, including the underwear, were all French. None of them had the names of retail outlets—only the designer or producer. Her shoes were Ferragamo from Italy. Her suitcase contained nothing except for clothes, a couple of junky French novels, and copies of the French editions of Vogue, Bazaar and Marie Clair. Her bathroom and cosmetic kits were equally prosaic.
He reached into her Chanel purse and pulled out her French passport. The name on the passport was Gina Martin. It had been issued in Nice two years ago. The date stamps in the back showed trips to Israel, Spain and Portugal, and that was all. He pulled out her wallet. There was nothing in it except for a little money—some French and some Israeli—a driver’s license and two credit cards, but nothing personal. No notes. No scraps of paper.
He shook his head, thinking about what he had found. It was all too neat and clean. He was now convinced that his first instinct had been right. Gina Martin wasn’t a real person. She was phony, created to trick him. But why? Who sent her?
He reached back into the Chanel bag and his hand encountered a good-size metal object, which he pulled out carefully, holding his breath.
When he saw what it was, he breathed a sign of relief. It was only a Nikon camera with a roll of film partially shot. That at least made sense. On the plane she had told him she was a serious photographer. He rewound the film, extracted it from the camera and tucked it into his pocket, before checking the Chanel bag again. There was nothing left inside.
The red numbers on the digital clock next to the bed showed 11:37 p.m. If he were on the other side arranging the hit, he would move now. The best time was always between midnight and four A.M., when police and witnesses were at a minimum. This was the time he had to be most careful.
He replaced her things, as he had found them, sat down at the desk and wrote a short note on hotel stationery.
It was great. Thank you.
I have a business emergency to deal with. Hope to see you again soon.
D
He placed the note on the pillow next to her, where his head had been. Then he packed his suitcase. Before slipping out of the room, he paused and took a deep breath, wanting to retain her scent and the aroma of their sex as long as possible.
* * *
When he had been on the run, he had learned of an underground network in Western Europe that helped former CIA people. As the Cold War ended, the Company had made no provision for those foreign nationals whom it had employed over the years. They had been left high and dry—often at risk in their own countries. Many feared an attack by former Soviet, East German or even Western agents who had personal scores to settle.
David hadn’t used this underground for more than four years. Now he would find out whether it still existed.
He refused the cab waiting in front of the Bristol, walked down to the Champs Elysées and caught one there. He directed the driver to the Hotel Gironde on the Left Bank. It was a seedy-looking dump. The lobby was deserted except for a man in his late thirties with a shaved head and a large gold earring in his right ear, who sat behind the desk reading The Stranger by Camus. Off to his right, below wooden slots for room keys, a small New York Yankees pennant had been tacked to the wood. That was the sign David had been looking for.
The man looked up from his book. “Something I can help you with?”
“I need a room for the night.”
“Four hundred Francs. Cash payment in advance.”
David gave him the money. Then he said, “Glad to see you’re a Yankee fan. I was a good friend of Mickey Mantle’s. A drinking buddy, to be precise.”
“Don’t get many of those in here anymore. What can I do for you?”
“How about a room on the second floor facing the street and let me know if anyone’s looking for me.”
“Will do. What else?”
“I could use a little self-defense.”
The man looked around nervously. “Will a Glock do?” he whispered.
“Perfect.”
“I’ll send it up in an hour.”
“Call me. I’ll come down.”
David reached into his pocket, pulled out the roll of film from Gina’s camera and put it on the desk. “Can you have it developed for me by noon tomorrow?”
“Consider it done.”
An hour later, David had a loaded gun in his hand. He settled into a desk chair across the room from the closed and chained door, which was blocked by a heavy, filthy red upholstered chair he had moved into position.
It had been a long time since he had had a sleepless night, but the adrenaline and his nerves would keep him awake. He was certain of it.
And if they didn’t come for him tonight, he would deal with them at six a.m.
* * *
A black Mercedes was waiting in front of the Bristol when David crossed the rue St. Honore and approached the hotel at five minutes past six, still before sunrise. He had been standing across the street in a small open enclosure, his eyes continually moving from the car to the street. He could feel the Glock in a shoulder holster tight against his chest. His hand was at his side, ready to go for the gun.
Finally satisfied that the driver standing next
to the car was alone, he approached and said, “I’m David Ben Aaron. I went for a morning walk.”
“My name is Rolland. Are you ready to go, sir?” the driver asked.
“Where are we going?”
Acting as if he hadn’t heard the question, Rolland opened the rear door. Relieved that the long night of waiting was over, and he might now get the answers to his questions, David took one more look up and down the deserted street, and climbed into the back of the car.
He expected the door lock buttons to snap down, locking him in, but nothing like that happened. It was still dark, and the Rue St. Honore was deserted. They passed the Palace de Elysées, turned left at rue de Catiglione, and headed toward the Place Vendome. After a couple of turns, the car pulled up in front of a gray stone five-story building. The driver raced around to open the door for David.
Silently, Rolland pointed toward the entrance, to the side of which was a small bronze plaque, containing the words Victor Foch and Company. Advocates.
Tightening his jacket to conceal the gun, David climbed the stone steps and walked into an entrance hall. Two large, rough-looking men, one nearly bald and the other with thick black hair, were standing on either side of a wooden table.
“David Ben Aaron,” he announced. “I’m here for a meeting.”
“Mr. Foch is expecting you,” the bald man said. “He’d appreciate it if you’d leave the gun in your shoulder holster with us until your meeting is over.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There was an Xray camera in the Mercedes.”
“And if I don’t give it to you?” David said belligerently.
“Then you won’t be able to meet with Mr. Foch,” he said calmly.
He wasn’t going to win. He pulled the gun out of the holster and tossed it to the man. “What kind of lawyer has two security guards in the lobby and Xray cameras in his car?”
The bald-headed man shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “A lawyer who has visitors show up for meetings as if they’re ready to launch a terrorist attack.”
The dark-haired man led David over to a small elevator, rode with him to the top floor and then pointed at a set of wooden double doors. Inside, David saw an attractive young blond typing at a computer. She rose quickly showing lots of beautiful leg beneath a black miniskirt.
“Right this way, sir,” she said efficiently, and then proceeded to lead him into the inner sanctum—a huge high-ceilinged office with a large oriental carpet in the center of a brightly polished wooden floor. In front of floor-to-ceiling windows was a red leather-topped antique desk. Standing behind it, looking out of the window, was a distinguished-looking man, his chestnut hair showing a little gray at the temples. He turned around when he heard David enter. He was around fifty, David guessed. He was dressed in a smartly tailored three-piece charcoal gray suit, blue-striped shirt with a white collar and Hermes tie. He was tall and thin, with a long, pointed nose. His appearance exuded wealth, success and self-confidence. As David looked closer, he became convinced that Victor Foch wore a toupee—an expensive custom-made hairpiece that seemed natural on his head.
“Thanks for coming,” the lawyer said politely in a businesslike tone.
“I have no idea why I’m here.”
“It’s early. I need some coffee. You want some?”
“Look, Monsieur Foch, there’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I want to clear it up as soon as possible. I have important business in Paris.”
“You don’t have to worry. I know that you’re due at Renault at nine o’clock. I promise you won’t be late for your meeting.”
David wasn’t surprised by the response. This Victor Foch undoubtedly had a contact at Renault whom he had used to lure David to Paris. David was also wary. Everything about the man told him that Victor Foch couldn’t be underestimated.
“Okay, coffee then.”
The lawyer hit a button on his desk. Seconds later, the blond in the short black skirt appeared with two cups of espresso, deposited them and quickly retreated.
Victor took a sip and began nonchalantly. “I have a client who has a problem, Mr. Nielsen...”
“There must be a mistake. My name is David Ben Aaron. I’m an Israeli citizen.” For emphasis, he pulled his passport from his pocket and held it up. “I hate playing games, Mr. Nielsen. It’s so tiresome, and it wastes a great deal of time, which neither of us have. Let me show you something first so we can bring this dumb show to an end.”
The lawyer pressed a button on his desk, and bright lights came on directly behind David, who wheeled around to look. He saw two rectangular screens he hadn’t noticed before. Each held a set of full-mouth dental Xrays.
“On the left we have dental Xrays of Gregory Nielsen taken by Dr. Frederick Walter in Alexandria, Virginia about seven years ago, and on the right we have dental Xrays of David Ben Aaron from kibbutz Bet Mordechai, taken about a year ago by a Dr. Elon in Haifa. I’ve had three different dental experts look at the two sets, and they’re all prepared to swear it’s the same person. Why don’t you take a look and see what you think?”
Stalling for time, David walked to the back of the room. He didn’t look long or hard. He knew what he’d find. They were identical.
He walked slowly back to his seat and swallowed the rest of his coffee in a single gulp. “How did you get these?” he asked.
“A client made them available. I have no idea how the client happened to gain access to the Xrays.”
“Who’s the client?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential. After doing a little research into Greg Nielsen’s activities in Saudi Arabia on August 15, five years ago, before his hasty departure from that country, my client thought it might be a good idea to send the Xrays to Washington. You know, in the spirit of encouraging Franco-American relations, which are too often strained these days, but then...”
“Cut the crap, Victor. As you said, the time for games is over. How did your people find me?”
Victor wasn’t surprised by the directness of the response. From everything in the dossier on Greg Nielsen, he had expected the American to react in precisely that way. “Quite by chance. You obviously spent so much on plastic surgery, on your face, on the color of your eyes, and you even dyed and curled your hair, but you didn’t do a thing about your walk, that distinctive walk of yours. When you were in Paris for your first Renault meeting, someone you used to know spotted you from the back, walking along a street, and observed you returning to the hotel Normandy. We did our homework after that.”
David was furious at himself. When he had made all of the effort to change his appearance, he never focused on his walk. How could have been such an idiot? But what could he have done about it? “Who saw me?”
“Sorry, that’s confidential.”
“And what do you people want from me?”
“Well, as I began to say several minutes ago, a client of mine needs your help, and the client was hopeful that you might want to help if we agreed to destroy all of the dental Xrays and forget we ever saw them. You know, a quid pro quo, as we lawyers say.”
“And why should I trust you to do that?”
Victor sighed, annoyed that he was being required to spell out the obvious. “I’m afraid you have no choice. If the Xrays go to Washington, the Israelis will have to extradite you when Washington demands it. You know what will happen then,” he said pausing, “The Americans will charge and convict you of being an accessory to the deaths of a hundred and ten Americans in the Dhahran bombing, not to mention an assault on an American general. You’ll spend the rest of your life in an American prison. Not a pleasant prospect.”
“What kind of help do you want?”
“When you were in Saudi Arabia, you developed a security system for the king’s palace with sophisticated computer programs. My client would like your help understanding that system. In other words, we’d like to retain you as a consultant.”
The puzzle was clicking into place for David. T
he French gambler at the casino the other night must have gotten wind of what was happening. With what David had already heard, a long-term contract for Saudi crude would indeed be a sure bet.
David said, “So, your client’s supporting a coup to take over that country?”
Victor pulled back in his chair. “Heavens, no. We’re merely trying to understand how this type of system operates for an installation elsewhere.”
David thought about Kourosh. “That’s why you’ve already killed at least one person?” he asked skeptically.
“I resent the accusation. We didn’t kill anyone.”
David tapped his fingers nervously on the end of Victor’s desk, trying to evaluate his options. “I need time to think about it,” he said.
“You can give me your decision in a week, when you return for your next Renault meeting.”
“I don’t have another meeting scheduled with Renault in a week.”
“You will when you leave at the end of the day. They’re another client of mine, and they’ll put you up at the Bristol again. Rolland will pick you up in front of the hotel at ten in the morning a week from today. I assume that you enjoyed the hotel last night.”
David wanted to ask Victor if he had arranged for Gina as well, but he decided not to mention it just in case she wasn’t part of their operation.
As David got up and started to leave, Victor said, “I trust that you wouldn’t do anything so foolish as miss our next meeting.”
“What are you talking about?”
Victor gave a sinister smile. “I just want you to know that we’re aware of your stepdaughter, Daphna, a student at the Sorbonne. A very attractive young woman. We have twenty-four-hour surveillance on her. Unfortunately, suicide is the largest cause of death in that age group of women in France. You wouldn’t believe how many students jump from the top of a building. We wouldn’t want anything like that to happen to her, would we?”
David could barely restrain his anger. He wanted to run across the room and strangle the lawyer. “You bastard,” he snapped. “Even the Mafia doesn’t use people’s families that way.”
“You obviously misunderstood me. We’re trying to protect her for you.”