Chapter 12
Frank Hardy was frowning as he trudged along after Henri Berot. They hadn't gone two blocks, and already things were weird.
If Berot did work at the embassy, he was heading in the wrong direction. For another, Berot was using all the classic tactics to spot and lose a tail - hardly the actions of an innocent man.
The tail-spotting maneuvers began as soon as Berot reached a corner with a red light. The Frenchman darted across in front of the traffic. Not the kind of behavior you'd expect from him, Frank told himself. He refused to give himself away by darting across, too.
Frank did, however, cut the distance between himself and his quarry as they walked for several blocks. That wasn't difficult, since the morning crowds had become thicker and thicker, giving Frank lots of cover. Berot walked on and on, seemingly with no destination in mind. He headed north, then east, then south, wasting more than an hour in aimless wandering.
At long last the Frenchman checked his watch and nodded to himself. Then he started walking at a serious pace - south, and then west. They entered a shopping district, full of hurrying commuters. Frank used the mass of people to shield himself from Elementary Tailing Trick Number Two - using the plate-glass store display windows as mirrors to check behind you. Berot kept on stopping to "window-shop" at store after store.
Once, Frank let the crowd carry him past Berot. Sheltered behind two guys and a young woman, all of them carrying briefcases, he wasn't noticed. Then he just moved with the crowd, keeping Berot in sight with the same window-shopping trick the Frenchman was using.
As they moved through the neighborhood, the crowd of commuters grew. Then, finally, everyone swirled underground - into the local Metro station. Standing by a newsstand, Frank let Berot go down ahead of him.
As he followed on the escalator, Frank frantically dug through his pockets. He sighed happily when he came up with the fare card Joe had bought for him. At least he wouldn't lose Berot at the machines.
Frank slipped his fare card through the turnstile three gates over and six people behind Henri Berot. He crouched a little, hiding his height in the crowd. He let the moving mass of people take him over to the escalators and down to the train platforms. Now was not the time to call attention to himself by pushing closer to his quarry.
He kept a sharp eye on where Berot was heading, however. The Frenchman got on a blue line Metro train, heading downtown. Frank got on the same train, one car away. He had a bit of a struggle keeping a position near the doors against the press of the other commuters. But he had to stay there. At each stop he had to make sure Berot didn't get off.
Two stops after boarding the train, Berot got off at Metro Center. So did Frank, but Berot didn't leave the platform. Then Frank remembered that this was a transfer point. They were stuck on the platform together. If Berot glanced over and recognized Frank, the whole gig would be ruined. Frank was lucky. The French diplomat seemed more interested in checking his watch and looking down the tunnel where the train was expected. He didn't have any time to spare for his fellow commuters.
A red line train pulled in, and Berot got aboard. Then Berot pulled his antitail trick. He stepped onto the train, waited for a moment, then stepped off.
The tactic wasn't a new one for Frank. He was actually stepping off himself when a late commuter came racing through the doors, crashing into Frank and pushing him back inside.
Frank leaped for the doorway, throwing himself halfway through the closing doors. Then he struggled just as hard to pull himself back in. He'd just caught sight of Berot leaping into the next car. Apparently, after seeing nobody suspicious jumping onto the platform, the Frenchman had decided the train was safe and boarded it again.
Frank smiled for a moment in triumph, then frowned. There was a red line station much nearer to the Berots' building than the blue line station Berot had walked to. Every step of this journey had been designed to detect and discourage tails.
Two stops later, at Judiciary Square, Berot got off the train and stayed off. Frank followed the man up the escalator and onto the street, blinking for a moment as the morning sun reflected off an enormous building of brick and cream-colored stone ahead of him. For a second he nearly lost Berot in the rush-hour crowd.
Berot headed directly for the huge brick building, which had to be at least a hundred years old. Frank thought it might be some recently renovated office building. Instead, it turned out to be a museum of architecture - and the place was just opening.
Standing by the sign that identified the place, Frank hung back as Berot stepped briskly into the museum. Frank stood for a moment, trying to come to a decision. If he went charging in he could be spotted, and what if Berot was only using the place to shake anyone on his trail? He could be out a side door and lost forever in a couple of minutes.
Finally, taking a deep breath, Frank stepped into the dimly lit entry way. At the other end, he took a deeper breath, confronted with an enormous hall. The place was long enough to accommodate a couple of football fields and amazingly high. Enormous pillars supported the ceiling.
The worst thing from Frank's point of view, however, was that this vast place was empty of people. No way could he get near Berot. He did spot him off in the distance, glancing impatiently at his watch and gazing off at another entrance to the building.
He's waiting for someone, Frank realized. I need a better observation post.
That's when he noticed the series of arcades rising toward the ceiling. The place was built like the nineteenth-century version of a shopping mall, with a huge skylight and three floors of what - offices? - looking down on the central hall.
Frank decided if he could get up to the next floor, he'd be in the perfect place to observe Berot, without being seen.
He found his way to an elevator, which chugged its way slowly. As soon as he got off, Frank headed for the railing overlooking the vast hall below. A cement column even gave him cover.
Scanning the area below, Frank caught his breath. Someone was coming from the far end of the building, heading directly for Berot. The man wore a loud, European-cut sport coat and tight pants, and his head looked too small for his bull-like body. His skin was sallow, and even from his observation post, Frank could make out the pockmarks on the man's face. This was the guy who'd tried to knife Callie - and then tried to shoot her and Frank.
The two men surveyed the empty floor, then walked over to talk together.
Okay, Frank told himself. There is only one gang behind all of Callie's troubles.
As Berot and the ugly man spoke, however, Frank watched their gestures become shorter and more violent. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but from their expressions, they were having a disagreement. A serious disagreement.
Berot shook his head frantically. The big ugly guy frowned, thumping Berot in the chest with a finger the size of a small cucumber. Frank had to admire Henri Berot for guts. He would hate to argue with a guy who could loom over him like that.
One gang, Frank decided. But if I'm not mistaken, there are two factions.
In spite of the way Berot argued, the other man apparently won the argument.
Berot seemed to deflate, then finally he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Even from his vantage point, Frank could see him saying, "Do what you want."
That was apparently all the big man had to hear. He abruptly turned and headed out of the museum.
Frank was caught off guard. Which one of them should he follow?
He decided on the big guy. Maybe he could find out where this man and his small army were heading out.
Frank dashed to the far end of the arcade and located a flight of stairs. He clattered down. With luck, he still might be able to catch up with the guy.
Hoping Berot wouldn't turn to see him, Frank ran for the far entrance. Just as he made it, the entranceway filled up with a mob of people. By the time Frank got through, the man was gone.
"First tour group of the day,' a museum staffer told Frank.
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Frank nodded grimly. His chance to link the attackers and the Berots had just disappeared into the city outside.
Chapter 13
It's my last chance, Joe Hardy thought as he struggled against his attackers. Twisting violently, he got one foot free and planted it in the chest of the man holding his legs. He kicked as hard as he could, and the pimply-faced thug went flying backward and fell flat across the sidewalk of the Buffalo Bridge.
Even without their friend's help, though, the two guys gripping his arms manhandled him so his feet were heaved over the concrete guardrail of the bridge. Joe grabbed frantically for the protruding lip of the concrete rail and held tight when the two strong arms let go of his arms. Rough concrete scraped against his fingers as the thugs kept pushing at him to make him fall.
Joe managed to pull himself up and lift one leg over the rail to aim a glancing kick at the short, unshaven guy on his left. He flung his body up, trying to kick the other leg over, but in the process one hand lost its grip. The guy on his right tossed Joe's legs back over the rail. Now Joe was dangling by one hand fifty feet above an expressway and the rock-clogged waterway of a creek another ten feet below that and to the left.
"Ecoutez!" a high, shrill voice screamed. The arm pounding on Joe turned at the sound and forgot Joe. The voice now yelled, "Les flics!"
Joe didn't speak French, but he'd heard that phrase before. He also recognized the voice doing the screaming. It was Madeleine Berot!
The thugs looked at each other uncertainly for a moment, then dashed for their car, collecting the guy Joe had kicked.
Joe got a grip with his other hand and swung himself up and onto the bridge.
In seconds the thugs were all in the car, revving the motor and pulling away. Shorty, the guy with the unshaven face, leaned out a window. "Nadine," he yelled to Maddy, "viens avec nous!"
That sounded like, "Come with us!"
French words flew back and forth at lightning speed, a complete mystery to Joe.
As the siren came closer, Maddy frantically waved her arms. "Allez! Allez!"
Her gorilla friends pulled into a tight U-turn, doubling back into Georgetown. Madeleine ran along the bridge back into Washington proper.
Joe scrambled to his feet and took off after Maddy. Before he'd gotten ten feet, however, he saw the source of the siren - it was an ambulance, blasting along on the expressway below him.
She'd have seen the ambulance from where she was standing, Joe thought as he started running again. She knew the cops weren't coming. That was a lie - a lie to save my life!
Maddy was far ahead of him now, tearing down the sidewalk as fast as she could. But Joe was the better runner, and he had strong motivation - curiosity. He had a lot of questions for this girl.
As he came up behind her, he called, "Hey, Nadine, why don't you just tell me the whole story?"
Maddy whirled, her eyes wide, bracing herself against the wall of a building. "I didn't know they were going to do that," she gasped out. "I called them when I realized you were following me, and they said for me to lead you to the bridge. I thought they would only try to scare you off - I didn't think they would try to kill you."
The flow of words slowed as the girl realized she had answered to the name Nadine. Her shoulders sagged and she slumped against the brick wall behind her.
"Come on," Joe said, taking her by the arm. "I'll introduce you to a new American custom."
He led Maddy back into Georgetown, to an ice-cream store they had passed. Sitting in a booth with ice-cream sodas in front of them, he suggested again that she talk. "And the whole truth this time, no stories. Let's start with your real name."
The girl took a deep breath. "It's Nadine - Nadine Rodier."
Joe nodded. "Cute. You used your own name for the girl who taught Madeleine Berot how to pick pockets." He studied her for a long moment. "I guess that's what you do for a living. So where's the real Maddy Berot?"
Nadine shook her head. "I don't know. We came over on the same plane. After her family left customs, they got into a car - driven by one of us. A few minutes later we came out and got into another car - one with their papers and luggage."
"I think I'm still missing a few steps," Joe said, shaking his head. "Maddy - I mean, Nadine - what's the whole idea?"
"You're right - I do pick pockets for a living." Nadine shrugged a little helplessly. "My parents left me with a gang when I was a little kid. The Old Man - that's what we called our boss - taught us to pick the pockets of the tourists. He got the money. If we didn't share, we got punished." She shivered a little. "About two months ago a man came to visit the Old Man. He showed him a picture. The Old Man looked at it, then called me over."
Nadine took a sip of her soda, then continued. "I was scared that I'd done something wrong, but the Old Man said it would be all right. The man was renting me, to play a part in a scam. I was supposed to pretend to be his daughter."
"So Henri Berot is a phony, too," Joe said.
"The whole family. The real Berots were picked up at the airport, and I haven't seen them since. Paul and Sylvie - those are their real names - just slipped into their identities. The real Monsieur Berot worked in Paris, and it seems no one in the embassy here knew him. Paul looked enough like Henri Berot to pass - just as I looked enough like the real Madeleine."
"A whole family of fakes," Joe finally said. "Unbelievable. So what's the scam?"
Nadine shrugged again. "I don't know. I'm only here as window dressing. Paul - you met him as Monsieur Berot - is a professional thief, and he's supposed to steal something to do with the French embassy. I think Sylvie, the woman who's pretending to be my mother, is his assistant. I'm only here because they needed a teenage girl who looked like Madeleine."
"What about the rest of the gang?" Joe asked.
"A strong-arm squad was sent to Washington ahead of us," Nadine said. "They kidnapped the real Berots. The leader is a man called La Béte - the Beast." She shuddered. "He's a very ugly man."
"I think I've met him," Joe said grimly.
"He's been arguing with Paul, trying to take over the operation," Nadine explained. "When we found letters from a pen pal in Madeleine's things, and then learned that Callie was coming to Washington, La Béte wanted to kill her."
"He's certainly been trying hard enough."
Nadine nodded. "Paul wanted to try scaring her away with the purse snatching." She looked down. "Then I was supposed to be so obnoxious, she'd want to leave."
"I'd say you did a pretty good job of that," Joe told her.
"I thought it would be sort of fun," Nadine said in a small voice. "Madeleine had such nice things - things I never had. But I was stuck in the apartment all day. I didn't have a chance to enjoy anything. So when you turned up, I argued with Paul to let me go out with you. Then I'd be able to go shopping, and dancing - "
"And make fun of us and get us into trouble," Joe added.
"I can't expect you to believe me, but I do feel bad about what happened in the store and the club," Nadine said. "I was doing my job. But" - she looked up at Joe almost shyly - "I found myself liking you all, even if you are - how do you say it? Straight-arrows?"
Joe had to smile at that.
"I hated watching Callie cry as we went to the police station," Nadine said. "And then we found out that La Béte wasn't following Paul's orders - his people were trying to kill Callie. They tried to push her, then you, under a train, and you mentioned something that happened in the Capitol - "
"I think that was La Béte himself, trying to knife Callie," Joe said. "He was the one with the gun in the car last night, you know, when you warned us."
Nadine nodded. "He's like a mad bull. Me - I don't mind stealing. But killing ... " She shook her head.
Joe decided to press his advantage. "Come on, Nadine. Tell me about the theft Paul's going to pull."
She threw out her arms. "I really don't know."
"Okay. I won't ask you to help me find out, but I want you to le
t me find out," Joe told her. "Take me back to your apartment. If I find something that gives me a clue, fine. If not, you're off the hook." He gave her a sidelong look. "It's the least you can do. You almost got us killed, too, you know. Remember Ansel and his car."
"All right, all right," Nadine said. "I'll let you in - but only for a fast look."
Time seemed to crawl on the half-mile walk from the ice-cream shop to the building where Nadine and the others were living. At last, however, they were entering the Berots' apartment. "Sylvie?" Nadine called into the hallway. "Paul?"
She glanced back at Joe, standing in the doorway. "They're not here," she said. "Go on - look around. Don't expect me to help you."
They reached the far end of the living room, Nadine following Joe. Then they heard the sound of a key in the lock of the door.
Her eyes wide with terror, Nadine grabbed Joe's arm and threw open a closet door. Together, they jumped inside and swung the door shut just as the outside door opened.
They heard footsteps - probably a man's - on the polished wood floor. Moving toward them. Then the phone rang.
The man stepped into the kitchen to answer it, and Joe heard superfast French. Nadine whispered a translation in his ear, almost inaudible over the arguing voice in the next room.
"It's Paul - he's talking with La Béte - getting a report on how they failed with you."
Paul had now reached the shouting stage.
"Paul says La Béte is getting us too much attention. I think La Béte is saying too many people are suspicious already. Paul's telling him to stop the attempts on you three - "
She suddenly drew in her breath. "Now La Béte wants to get rid of the real Berots!" she whispered.
More French followed, and Nadine's fingers gripped Joe's arm so tight, it hurt him. "Paul says no - not until he finishes the job."
Joe relaxed as the phony Mr. Berot finished his conversation, but Nadine maintained her painful grip on Joe's arm. Her voice was tight and strained when she spoke.
"The job," she whispered in a scared voice. "It's tomorrow night - after that, they're dead."
Diplomatic Deceit Page 7