Spy Dance
Page 45
She had fallen back asleep, so he stopped talking. Putting the bikini back into the bag, he noticed for the first time the handwritten note she had left inside. It read: “If I don’t make it, here’s something to remember me by. Love Sagit.”
He tore the note into tiny pieces and dropped them into the wastebasket. Then he pulled up a chair next to the bed and caressed the back of her hand while she slept.
The End
Excerpt from
The China Gambit
by
Allan Topol
National Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2012, Allan J. Topol
Before Craig had a chance to answer, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Craig Page here.”
“Mr. Page, this is James Anderson, Deputy Police Chief in Calgary Canada.”
Craig’s heart was pounding. Two day ago Francesca had sent him an e-mail, telling him she was in Calgary, working on a big story.
“Are you Francesca Page’s father?”
“I am.”
Craig held his breath.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Page, I have to inform you that your daughter died in an auto accident this evening. Her car collided with a truck on an icy road.”
“No,” he gave a bloodcurdling cry. “No. It can’t be.”
Not Francesca. I love her more than anything in the world.
“You’re mistaken. It’s not Francesca.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Page. She had a passport and other ID in her jacket pocket.”
The fool was lying. “You’re no Calgary cop.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Page. She had a Tiffany’s wristwatch. Engraved on the back ‘To Francesca With Love...’”
He’d given her that when she graduated from Northwestern.
“And a scar on her left ankle.”
He vividly recalled the ski injury she suffered during their trip to Megeve two years ago at Christmas.
The man’s accent and inflections were from Calgary. As the reality drove home like a spike through his body, in agony, a rash of grief covered his face, distorting his mouth, turning his grey eyes black. Francesca was dead.
“I’m so sorry,” Giuseppe said.
But Craig barely heard his words.
“Leave me alone,” Craig said, rising abruptly. “I am alone.”
He left Sabbitini and wandered the streets of Trastevere. Crossing the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, he recalled his father, four years old, so alone after the carnage on the farm, his whole family murdered.
Now, I too, am no longer connected to a single living soul.
Aimlessly, in a daze, he crossed streets, disregarding traffic signals, ignoring honking horns and the curses of motorists. He passed churches, but didn’t go inside. He wouldn’t find solace there.
He walked for two more hours. Then drifted into a Trattoria. He ordered a bottle of Chianti. The waitress poured a glass, but he didn’t touch it. He placed his head into his hands and lowered it to the coarse wooden table. He cried, the tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into his mouth. “Francesca,” he muttered in a barely audible plaintive lament.
He had no idea how long he remained with his head on the table. He heard, “Craig.” A powerful set of arms pulled his head up, then raised him to his feet. It was Giuseppe.
“C’mon Craig, we’re going to the airport. I’m taking you to Washington.”
Excerpt from
Enemy of My Enemy
A Novel
by
Allan Topol
National Bestselling Author
He was usually good at compartmentalizing different issues in his mind and shifting gears mentally. But the conversation with Sam had thrown him. It took several minutes for Jack to begin thinking clearly about Daniel Moreau.
The Frenchman might come back again and search the office. He thought of the materials he kept in there. Was there anything he should ask Monique to destroy? Anything troublesome that could tie Jack to his Mossad activities?
He closed his eyes and visualized every file, every drawer in his office. There was nothing, he decided. He had been meticulous about confining what he maintained in the office on Avenue de Messine to the wine business.
Monique didn't know a thing about his other life. He had never involved her in his work for Moshe. Travel arrangements and logistics for those trips were handled by a contact in the Israeli embassy in Paris. Still, Monique was in the line of fire with Daniel Moreau. He had to get her out of there.
Allan Topol is the national bestselling author of novels of international intrigue, including Spy Dance, recently translated into Chinese. He is a graduate of Carnegie Institute of Technology, who majored in chemistry, abandoned science, and obtained a law degree from Yale University. A partner in a major Washington law firm, and an avid wine collector, he has traveled extensively, researching dramatic locations for his novels. You can visit him at www.AllanTopol.com. Please let him know if you would like to receive his free newsletter.