Exhaling, Helen again committed the number to memory, repeating it to herself three times to make sure. Her lifeline was still intact. She decided then that she would hop another train in Wolfsburg, on a route that, with one more switch, would take her to Paris.
Contemplating all the contingencies made her think of NASA, and all those space missions she’d followed so raptly as a young girl, hanging on every word from Walter Cronkite, whose grandfatherly tone had always reassured her in moments of peril. Don’t worry, he’d say, NASA had backups for backups.
But what if, once she got to Paris, CDG recoiled in horror? Or cut her off? Or, worse, turned her in? Alas, Helen was not NASA. There was no backup for her backup. All hopes rested on CDG.
At the very least, she would finally see the City of Light. If her plans never got off the ground, then she would try to take in a few sights as a final consolation prize before turning herself in. The Louvre, a café, the Eiffel Tower. Then she would throw herself on the ramparts at the Agency’s Paris station and be done with it. She ordered a coffee from a passing cart. Bitter and lukewarm. With renewed alertness she again grew cautious and watchful, her sense of well-being cursed by everything she’d ever learned in her training.
A curly-haired young man wearing a backpack and dressed like a hippie in a tie-dye shirt and jeans wandered by her compartment, glancing inside as he passed. It was the third time she’d noticed him in the past fifteen minutes. He looked either lost or stoned, but maybe that was an act. He might also be someone’s scout—Gilley’s, or Herrington’s, or Edward Stone’s. Helen memorized his features.
The woman seated across from her was also beginning to get on Helen’s nerves. She had seemed almost preternaturally alert throughout the journey, eyes flicking in all directions. No book or newspaper to distract her. No aimless gazing out the window. Watchful and still, like a heron waiting to spear a fish.
A gray concrete monolith passed on their left, followed by a watchtower and then a long line of razor wire. The train began slowing, brakes squealing. Outside, police whistles sounded on the platform. She almost couldn’t bear to look, but when she finally did she saw there was no commotion, no uproar. Just the usual collection of VoPos, loitering and smoking and looking officious. They had reached the crossing for West Germany. Wolfsburg would be next, and then, another nine hours beyond it, Paris. She took out her Canadian passport, smoothed her wig, and prepared her smile for the authorities.
* * *
* * *
On the third stop after Wolfsburg, a trim young man in a light gray suit boarded the train and seated himself on the opposite side of her compartment. He was fresh-faced and smiling, as American as Johnny Appleseed.
“Hi!” he said cheerily. “Are you American?”
“Canadian,” she said, after nearly answering in the affirmative. He’d almost tripped her up. Was that his job? Her radar began to beep.
“Where are you headed?” Why was he so curious?
“Here and there. I’ll know when I’m there.”
“Must be nice having that kind of freedom. I’ve been on a schedule for two weeks running. Between that and the food I’m about to have a coronary. Where do you live in Canada?”
“Montreal.”
“How lucky. Your French must be great.”
Shit. She’d meant to say Toronto, a place she’d actually been. Her French consisted of a few dozen words left over from high school, most of which had to do with food. He smiled again, as if coaxing her to do the same. Was he trying to get a read on her, or trying to pick her up?
“I’m Hal, by the way. Hal Douglas.” He offered a handshake.
“Nice to meet you.” Helen offered neither her hand nor her name. She pointedly turned to face the window, although she kept an eye on his reflection. Hal opened his mouth to say more, seemed to think better of it, and then waited a while longer for her to turn back around and give him a second chance.
Should she change compartments, or would that arouse further suspicion? He was probably a harmless Chamber of Commerce type from the Midwest, peddling widgets or office supplies, a lonely sales rep looking for an easy lay, or maybe just a sympathetic ear. So this was life on your own in the secret world, then, a heightened existence in which you always assumed the worst.
Hal picked up an attaché case from the floor and placed it on his lap. He popped the latches, raised the lid and reached inside for something. Helen’s view was blocked by the lid, but she braced herself for action. If he pulled out a gun she would kick his shins and slap the barrel to the side. All the while she kept her face averted and watched the reflection.
He shut the case and she saw he was holding a copy of the Financial Times, which he shook open and began to read. Her brain sounded the All Clear while her heart beat time to the clacking of the train on the tracks. She wiped her damp palms on her slacks, and recalled something Baucom had told her on a fine summer night in a beer garden about the demands of staying safe in hostile territory.
It gets easier after a while. You get used to the whole idea that you need to notice everything, and I mean everything. But of course then you start to get comfortable, because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re covering all the bases. And that’s when you’re the most vulnerable. That’s when you’re the most likely to make a mistake and get somebody killed.
Somebody like yourself, for example.
The man flipped a page of his newspaper, the sudden movement making her flinch. She checked her watch. Seven more hours until 8 p.m., and she was already a wreck. Helen sagged against the wall. But she kept her eyes open, and continued to watch the reflection.
35
At ten minutes before 20:00 hours, Helen sat on a stone wall near a phone booth in a suburb east of Paris, waiting to place her call. As a security measure she’d left the train a stop early. She’d then spent the next half hour strolling residential streets as she wound her way toward the city’s outskirts. Her role was that of a happy-go-lucky Canadian tourist—from Toronto, not Montreal—keeping to herself and annoying the occasional passerby with questions in English. Now she would finally learn if she still had an ally in Paris.
A teenage girl darted into the phone booth five minutes before the hour, but the girl finished her call with two minutes to spare. Helen practically ran over to secure her spot. At precisely 20:00, she dropped in a few coins and dialed. CDG picked up on the first ring. No static this time.
“I had a feeling I’d hear from you tonight. I’m also guessing that your first name is Helen.”
“I guess they’ve sounded the alarm.”
“Full alert to all stations, I’m afraid. A matter of greatest urgency is how my COS put it. Apparently they’re even worried you might be one of them. I’m guessing you’re not or you wouldn’t have called. So in that sense I suppose I should be relieved to be hearing from you.”
“Is that your way of saying you shouldn’t even be talking me?”
“It’s a risk. I won’t deny it.”
Helen wondered if this would be their last contact. CDG didn’t sound nearly as friendly, or as eager to help, as she had during their first call. Understandable, given the nature of their profession. And if the woman’s wariness extended to letting someone from the Agency listen in on their call, then she was finished.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have expected you to even answer.”
“I guess I had too many questions not to.”
“That’s only fair. Ask away.”
“If you’re not one of them, then what are you, exactly?”
“The same thing I’ve been all along. A girl in over her head. They canned me this morning for my curiosity about you know who. Sent me home to pack my bag for a flight to the States. I slipped out the fire escape while my handler was watching TV. And now here I am, a glorified clerk who decided to go it alone. My operational debut and
swan song, rolled into one, with only one target in mind. Which is why I called. For help and advice. And, yes, I know I’m being indiscreet, but frankly right now you’re all I’ve got left. Oh, and I’m in France, by the way.”
She expected a reaction of shock, or even horror. Or, worse, a quick recalibration in which her would-be savior would cagily lure Helen into a trap. The good employee protecting her career. Instead, Helen heard laughter.
“I have to say, none of what I’ve ever done before could have prepared me for that answer. You ditched your handler out the fire escape?”
“He thought I was in the shower.”
“Splendid!”
“Yes. But now I’m completely at your mercy. If you’re planning on turning me in, at least let me know now so we can do this as gracefully as possible.”
“It crossed my mind. But if you’re still truly interested in taking down that certain someone, then I can hardly say no. That is still your main interest?”
“Yes. I just don’t know if I’m up to it.”
“Look, you’ve had the same training I did, and now that you’re here it will be that much easier for me to help. Makes it far less likely this call will be screened, for starters. Although I still won’t utter your last name, or his, because God knows what sort of filter this conversation might be passing through before the night is over, especially if French intelligence has decided to cooperate.”
“That hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“Sometimes you luck into things, even in this business, and it sounds like so far you’ve been fairly lucky. But from here on out we’d better start banking on a little more skill, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I’m going to need some time to figure out what we should do next. Do you think you’ll be able to keep moving and call me back in two hours?”
“Yes. Same number?”
“God, no. Let me give you another one.”
“For another phone box?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d have you calling the office, I hope?”
“No. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. In your shoes, I’d be thinking the same thing. It’s a wonder you can trust anyone at this point.”
“The bigger question is why you’re trusting me.”
“Who says I am? Maybe you’re a mental case, the office malcontent.”
“Oh, I’m definitely the latter.”
“Same here. But I also know your motivation. Ever since I saw what I saw, I’ve been wanting to hang his scalp on my saddle. So let’s make the most of this while we can. Ready for the number?”
“Yes.”
Helen wrote it down, even though she knew she should have committed it to memory.
“Oh, and I’m Claire. Claire Saylor. So when they flutter you later with the lie detector, I suppose that’ll be the first thing that pops out. But if we’re smart it won’t come to that, because I’m going to arm you with the information you need and send you on your way for more. For a day or two, at least, we’re going to beat him and all the rest of them at their own game. How does that sound?”
“Better than anything I’ve heard all day.”
“Splendid. Talk to you in two.”
Helen hung up and looked around. No one was watching. She strolled a few blocks, already feeling calmer. Then she caught another bus and crept closer to Paris. The sky on the horizon shined with the glow of the city.
She didn’t fret as much about picking a phone box for the second call. Stay alert, but stay loose. She dropped in more coins and punched in the number.
“Hello there,” Claire answered. “How about lunch tomorrow, and a little shopping?”
“Shopping?” For cover, of course, which Helen should have realized right away. “Sounds great. Where would you like to meet?”
“Le Bon Marché. Rue de Sèvres, on the Left Bank. A grand old department store, and for your purposes what could be better?”
Helen knew exactly what she meant. During their counter-surveillance training on the streets of Baltimore and Washington, department stores had always been the toughest places to maintain contact with a target. Too many mirrors. Too many racks of clothing, nooks and crannies, exits and entrances. Then there were the dressing rooms and all of that easy-to-grab apparel for disguising yourself on the fly, if necessary.
“The store’s name means ‘the great deal.’ The prices are anything but, although it’s definitely worth the trip. The cosmetics counter alone is a floor show. You’ll be wishing you were French within half an hour. After you’ve had a nice look around, go next door to the food hall, La Grande Épicerie. I’ll be on the second floor in the main café. Is noon all right?”
“Perfect. How will I know you?”
“You won’t. But I’ll know you. Just look over at the tables and I’ll wave.”
“See you at noon.”
“In the meantime, bon chance.”
Oui, Helen thought. Bon chance, indeed.
36
By 11 p.m. Helen was seated in a café near the Gare de Lyon with a Michelin map spread on the table and a Fodor’s guidebook in her lap. In her purse was a box of hair dye that she’d bought at a drugstore. She couldn’t wait to ditch the wig.
A young man sidled up to flirt and Helen shooed him away by telling him she was Canadian, as if that was supposed to make her totally undesirable. She traced a forefinger down the streets on the map, marveling at the names she’d been hearing since she was a girl. A line from an old storybook popped into her head: In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines. Perhaps she would bump into Madeline.
A waiter brusquely cleared away her cup and saucer and cleared his throat, eager to close, so Helen got down to business with her map. First she found the location of the department store where she would meet Claire. Then she scanned the neighborhoods just across the Seine from where she sat now for a likely place to hole up. She settled on the Latin Quarter, partly because she’d heard of it, partly because its bohemian reputation made her feel more like a writer or artist than a disgraced spy. She also liked the look of its streets on the map—crooked and squeezed together, offering the illusion of a maze where she’d be harder to find. Plus, the guidebook said it was a good place for finding rooms after hours. She noted the location for a small hotel that the guidebook included in its “Rock Bottom” section, saying that it offered “snug rooms for the young in legs and spirit (no elevator).” Then she folded up the map, paid the waiter—who responded with a disdainful flip of his towel, no Lehmann for sure—and was on her way.
She caught the Metro and promptly nodded off, missing her stop and having to double back after awakening with a start. At first she thought someone had stolen her suitcase, but it had only slid forward from the motion of the train. Her purse lay on the seat next to her, where it easily could have been snatched, and she thought of how idiotic it would have been to be foiled by a common thief.
The sullen innkeeper refused to speak a word of English even though she seemed to understand everything Helen said. Helen took a key heavy enough to weight her to the bottom of the ocean and climbed to the fourth floor. Gloomy. A window shade the color of stretched skin filtered the light from the streets, and the bed smelled like an ashtray.
She took a lukewarm shower, and then made herself spend the next hour dyeing her hair blond at the tiny sink. Then she covered her head with a plastic bathing cap and rolled into the valley in the middle of the sagging mattress, where she immediately sank into a dreamless sleep.
In the middle of the night she awakened suddenly and inexplicably, and sat up in bed. A couple of jolly young drunks were passing in the street below, chattering loudly. The room was stuffy. She considered opening the window, but was reluctant to raise the shade lest someone spot her silhouette and drop her w
ith a single shot. Voices rumbled from the room next door—a man and a woman who seemed to have just returned. There was laughter, the woman’s like a bell and the man’s husky with mischief. The headboard of their bed banged the thin wall as one of them collapsed onto the mattress, and then a second time as the other one followed. For the next few minutes they talked, the sound of confidences being shared. Fortunately they were soon silent. Helen found herself missing their company and hoping they were merely asleep, and not dead. A silly idea, but there it was.
Maybe she should give up. Not by turning herself in, but by flying away. Travel back across the Atlantic. Become a Canadian. Live a tranquil life in the ’burbs of Toronto. Marry a bland businessman who drank Molson and followed the Maple Leafs.
Then she imagined Claire, alone at a table at La Grand Épicerie, checking her watch as she worried on Helen’s behalf. Duty called, and Helen could not afford to be a no-show when Claire was risking so much for their cause. For Anneliese’s cause, too. It was this thought that finally emboldened her to climb out of bed, raise the shade, and throw open the sash.
Cool air, the sound of distant music. The two drunks were still talking loudly but were nearly a block away. For a moment it almost felt like freedom. Then she saw the glow of a cigarette in a doorway across the street. Probably nothing, or they would have come roaring up the stairs by now. The figure was in shadow, but it had a man’s size and posture. Why would anyone keeping an eye on her make himself so easy to spot?
The cigarette glowed again. Helen lowered the shade and returned to bed just as the headboard in the next room again banged the wall, followed by a cry of pleasure and a succession of further thumps, which soon fell into a rhythm as frantic as that of a screen door banging in a gale.
So this was Paris by night. Noisy lovers and silent men in the shadows, biding their time.
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