It had to be Gilley’s people, but how had they found her? Had she made a mistake? Lowered her guard? Whatever the case, thank God for Claire. She slowed her pace. Walking faster than everyone else was a sure way to draw attention. Deep breath. Think. Don’t look over your shoulder. She glanced into a storefront window, but the reflection was a wavering riot of colors with a bus, children, their moms. A shriek of laughter to her right startled her, but was harmless.
Fortunately, she was in the very block where she had plotted her course of escape and evasion that morning, seemingly ages ago. She put her plan into motion, heading into a corner dress shop she’d already scouted. Two changing rooms were in the back, obscured from view by a long rack of clothes. She ducked into one and got to work, pulling off her jeans and slipping on a beige skirt from the tote bag. She took out a handbag. Then she put on the sunglasses, discarded the jeans, folded the tote bag, and tucked it under her arm as she exited the store from a side door and then walked down the cross street.
Rounding the next corner, and still walking at a normal pace, she made a beeline for another shop at the end of the block. This time she accomplished her quick-change on the move behind a rack of clothing, pulling up her hair under a green scarf that she tied beneath her chin. She pulled out the red cardigan from her purse and slipped it on as she exited by a rear door.
Two blocks later she reached the tree-lined Rue de Crimée, which also had plenty of shops and pedestrians. She walked against the flow of the one-way traffic until she spotted a bus rolling to a halt just ahead. She hopped aboard, using the transit pass she’d bought earlier. Only two other persons boarded with her, both of them women who had already been waiting at the stop. She sat in an aisle seat, away from the window, where she pulled off the scarf and sunglasses, lowered her head, and slipped on the auburn wig. Then she took off the red cardigan. She stayed aboard until the bus had crossed the canal that ran near her hotel. Only then did she feel secure enough to check the message in her bag.
Helen unfolded the tote bag and dug out the sheet of paper. The first line was typed: 18:00, the vista, Parc de Belleville, the bench.
Below, in handwriting that must have been Claire’s: Do not return to hotel! Call our first number at 4 tomorrow.
So, then. Marina had been in touch, and a rendezvous was set for an hour from now. Helen got out her tourist map and found the park, a few miles to the south of where she was now, in the upper reaches of the 20th arrondissement. But there was no marking for anything called “the vista.” She took out the Fodor’s guidebook, looked up the park, and read about its “spectacular view from the end of Rue Piat.”
Helen began moving toward the meeting point, via bus and Metro. She changed her appearance one more time as she gradually closed in on her destination. Finally, with seven minutes to spare, she reached the northeast side of the park, strolling down the narrow, one-way Rue Piat and then entering the park at the upper end of a sloping series of wooded hill and dale, with lush arbors and even a few waterways tucked into the creases of the park. Spreading out below was the grandeur of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower spiking the horizon to the southwest. It was only a few minutes after sunset, and everything was bathed in amber and russet, a beauty that calmed her as she stepped deeper into the park.
She looked for the nearest bench, but there wasn’t one in view. A group of tourists had gathered earlier to photograph the sunset, but they were all standing. She headed down a walkway to her left. Ahead were espaliered grape vines, but no bench. To her right, a set of steps led downhill to a parallel path, maybe fifteen yards below, where she now saw a single bench.
She took a seat. No one was in sight except the tourists, who all had their cameras out. She was watching them when she sensed someone approaching on the path to her left, an older woman, shuffling heavily, in a worn gray overcoat. Carrying a shopping bag, she heaved herself onto the other end of the bench and sighed, as if in exhaustion. Her coat smelled like mothballs.
Helen looked straight ahead. She waited through a few tense moments of silence and, finally, the woman spoke under her breath in heavily accented English.
“Take the taxi that stops on the street behind us, Rue Piat. Ask the driver for number four. In a moment I will walk there, and you will follow.”
Helen nodded.
The woman took a few more seconds to catch her breath and then stood, scattering a few pigeons that had assembled on the path. Helen fell in behind her, a few yards back. They ascended the sidewalk toward the tourists. Right on cue, a taxi glided to the curb as Helen reached the street. The rear door opened. As she climbed in she saw a man was hunched down on the other side of the backseat, staying out of sight. He nodded as if to reassure her.
“Number four,” she told the driver, who pulled away from the curb.
There was a sudden commotion to their rear, and Helen looked out the back window to see that the older women had fallen to the ground on the narrow street. At first she was alarmed, but then realized what was happening. A second taxi had wheeled into view but was now blocked on the narrow street as several of the tourists rushed to the aid of the fallen woman.
The rear door of the other taxi opened. Was that Claire getting out? If so, then Helen had just lost her escort, her backup, her safety valve.
“Here,” the man to her left said. He was sitting up straight now and he handed her a black piece of cloth. She took it, not knowing what she was supposed to do next. He mimed pulling it over his head. A hood, then, to keep her from seeing where they were going. When she hesitated, he sighed and snatched it back, and roughly pulled it down over her face. It smelled of sweat and cigarettes.
“Down!” he ordered.
“It is down,” she said.
“No, you. You down!”
She lowered herself out of sight.
“Yes. Good,” he said, although she could no longer see him. She no longer saw anything—not the city nor the streets, and certainly not Claire.
49
Claire hopped out of the cab as the driver fumed. She tossed a wad of francs onto the seat, which still didn’t shut him up because that’s how Parisian hacks were born to behave, so she leaned into his window and silenced him with an insult that covered half his ancestry, and then she stepped away to the curb.
She looked up the street, but Helen’s taxi was out of sight. Hopeless.
“You must be Claire,” a male voice said from behind.
She turned abruptly.
Everyone else in the vicinity was still gathered around the fallen woman, except for this fellow, an American who had materialized at her shoulder. He was older but fit, even a little dashing, and wore an outdated wardrobe—trench coat and fedora, the standard spy uniform of the 1960s.
“Who are you?”
“I’m not with Robert, so you can set your mind at ease on that score. Where have they taken her?”
“Somewhere safer than where she was a few hours ago.”
“Nice to know.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
“Not here.”
He looked around. The older woman in the street was showing signs of a miraculous recovery, and was loudly declining offers of help as she tried to disengage from the crowd.
“That one should get an Oscar,” he said.
“Who are you working for?”
“As I said, not here. But we should compare notes. How ’bout a drink?”
His manner was oddly reassuring, even though she supposed that he, too, might represent some sort of threat. An Agency fixer, perhaps, summoned to round up all the miscreants and put a stop to this whole escapade. The end to her career, to their entire operation.
But that wasn’t his vibe. In any event, there was little to be gained by running now that Helen was safely on her way, so Claire nodded and said, “Lead the way.”
Th
ey found a café on the Rue des Envierges. Claire tried out some French on him as they walked through the door, just to show him he was out of his league, only to have him reply with an impeccable Parisian accent. As if to rub it in, he got out a pack of Gitanes, offered one, and then, without even consulting a menu, ordered something that made the waiter nod approvingly before disappearing into the cellar. A moment later she discovered that the man certainly knew his brandies.
“I’m guessing you’re from Berlin station.”
“Yes. But I’m not here in any official capacity, and I’m certainly not here to do either of you harm. If at all possible, I was hoping to lend a hand. Clark Baucom.”
He extended a hand in greeting, but Claire was too surprised to take it.
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Not from Helen, I hope?”
“No, no. From the station Old Boys, the ones who tell all the tales. I wasn’t even sure you were still active.”
Baucom smiled ruefully.
“Well, that’s quite the tribute. My chief of station often feels the same way.”
“My God, are you Helen’s…?” She let the words hang.
“Not anymore. On that front, at least, she’s come to her senses. Well earned by me, alas.”
Claire shook her head, less in wonder at Helen’s choice of men as in admiration of how she had instinctively chosen the one fellow who could be invaluable at a moment like this.
“You supplied her with the passport, didn’t you? The false identity?”
His sheepish smile told her all she needed to know.
“How in the hell did you find her?”
“By finding you.”
“I thought only Gilley’s people knew that connection.” Her suspicion was aroused anew. Had she been lulled into a premature surrender?
“I knew because I cheated. I stole one of your messages from the mailbox she’d set up. She made it too damn easy for me, and so did you. Did you really think a code name like CDG would baffle a mossy old frequent flier like me?”
“Clumsy, I agree, but that wasn’t my idea.”
“And it didn’t take much of a review of Paris station’s lineup to settle on the likeliest suspect. Female, field person, roughly the same age and training class as Helen. That narrowed it to one. Then when I saw you checking your own bolt-hole in that cemetery, well…”
“I can’t believe I didn’t shake you before then.”
“You lost that other crowd easily enough. How did they find the hotel?”
She told him about the tracking beacon. He frowned.
“Women and their goddamn handbags.”
Claire laughed in spite of herself.
“So you saw the whole fiasco outside the hotel, then.”
“Where I lost her again. I decided to put all my remaining money on the other horse still in the race.”
“Are you sure no one knows her whereabouts at any official level?”
“As of this morning that was certainly the case, and I can’t imagine it would have changed. They’re slow-playing it, and secretly hoping she’s gone off on some kind of drunken vacation. It also hasn’t hurt that everyone in Langley is preoccupied with Tehran.”
“That’s good news.”
“Yes. But it’s also good news for Robert. Gives him a clear field for hunting. And from the look of things outside that hotel, I’d say he’s well reinforced.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Depends on where you think she’s gone, and what that means.”
Claire told him about Marina, and what Helen hoped to accomplish.
Baucom nodded, seemingly impressed, but then he leaned across the table and lowered his voice.
“You won’t bring him down, you know, no matter how much ammunition you gather.”
“That’s smug of you. How can you be so sure?”
“His work. They’ll be too determined to protect it. Or to protect everyone he’s ever reported to.”
“Then why are you here? Why are you helping us?”
“To save our girl, Helen. That’s the one thing all your findings might be useful for, to keep those bastards from burning her at the stake.”
“That’s not enough. For me or for Helen.”
“I understand, but right now our biggest priority should be to get her safely home.”
“Agreed.”
“Did you make any contingencies for contact later?”
Claire mentioned the designated phone call, due at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
“That’s a lot of hours to be hanging fire.”
“Yes. I should have set it for sooner, but I was in a hurry.”
“Seeing as how you’ve both been flying by the seat of your pants, I’d say it’s all gone pretty admirably up to now.”
“The problem is that she may decide it’s too long to wait. I’m worried that if things work out for her this evening she might try to make a run back to Berlin.”
“Tonight?”
She nodded. He grimaced.
“That would be a mistake. Maybe a fatal one.”
“I agree. He knows he’s spooked her. He’ll have all the stations covered.”
“You have any other ideas?”
To her surprise, she realized that she did.
“Just one. But it might work. We’ve only just met, Helen and I, but if I’ve read her correctly…”
“Lead the way.”
50
Helen hunched low in the taxi. The hood was making her nose itch as she tried to follow their progress by sound and by feel. For the first few minutes they bumped along cobbled lanes and swerved violently, the driver cursing under his breath. Then, sudden smoothness and a climbing sensation that ended on a level slab where they were moving at high speed with the noise of traffic all around them. The grinding of gears of large trucks—the blast of streaking motorcycles. She guessed that they must either be on the Périphérique, the city’s ring road, or the A-3, the motorway that stretched out toward the banlieue of Bondy, Marina’s home territory.
She tried to get comfortable, which wasn’t easy when her minder kept shoving her lower whenever she straightened her spine. They continued on smooth roads for another fifteen minutes, slowing at times in congestion marked by car horns and with more cursing by the driver. Finally, they exited onto a smaller street with potholes. There was a mumbled consultation, and someone opened a window. She heard people on the sidewalk, a blast of bouncy Arabic music. Cool air poured into the car. They passed in and out of the glare of street lamps.
A few moments later, her minder yanked her into an upright position and pulled off the hood, snagging her hair enough to bring tears to her eyes, which she blinked back lest they see it as weakness. The car stopped in an alley. Massive concrete high-rises rose to the front and left.
“Go there,” her minder said, pointing to a battered steel door dimly visible across a sidewalk to their left. “Up three stairs.” She nodded, assuming that he meant she should climb three flights of stairs. “Then, number eight. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“After, you will come back here. If not?” He shook his head and drew a finger across his neck. “Yes?”
“If you say so.”
He didn’t seem to like that answer, or maybe he didn’t understand it, so he took her by the shoulders and again said, “Yes?”
“Yes. I understand.”
He released her, and she climbed out. The steel door was unlocked but jammed shut, and she had to pull with all her strength to wrench it free. The stairwell was dark and stank of urine, although it brightened a bit as she climbed, and by the end of the second flight of stairs she could hear voices and smell cooking—peppers, caraway seed, and cumin, the spices of Algeria. But as she made the final climb the noises disappeared, a
nd she emerged into an empty hallway that had either been gutted or was being prepped for renovation. She found number eight on a wooden door with a peephole, and knocked.
“Entrez,” a woman called out.
Helen entered a large room with a scuffed linoleum floor and bare walls. A dim ceiling light offered the only illumination. Heavy curtains were pulled shut across the only window. There were two chairs. One, a blue wing armchair by the door, was empty. Facing it from about twenty feet away was a wooden folding chair, occupied by a younger, smaller woman with olive skin and drawn features, and black hair cut in a choppy bob. She wore a white, baggy peasant blouse, canvas painter’s pants, and sandals. She was smoking. Next to her was a small table with a smudged glass of water. The woman’s pose somehow communicated that she was not to be approached without permission. Helen spoke first.
“Marina?”
“You are Elizabeth Hart?”
“Yes.”
“You will sit, please.”
Helen pulled the Japanese cassette recorder out of her handbag and showed it to Marina.
“Bring it here. I will operate.”
Helen crossed the room as carefully as if she were auditioning for the ballet. Marina took it without a word, switched it on, and placed it on the table.
“Where would you like to begin?” Helen asked after returning to the wing chair.
“With Robert,” Marina said, her voice a monotone. “There will be no questions. I know what is needed, and I have no fault of memory.”
She began her story in Marseille, where her case officer had come to her a year ago and said she would be participating in a special operation that would be directed by another operative, Robert, who she would soon meet. The first two meetings were businesslike. Marina, still being the careful employee, did not tell Helen what the operation’s objective was.
The third time she met Robert, at a safe house of his choosing, he offered her a drink, backed her into a corner of the kitchen, and then overpowered her and raped her. The description was similar to what Helen and Claire had witnessed. The main difference was that Marina fought back more fiercely than the other two victims, although Robert eventually subdued her with several blows to the head.
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