by Tom Savage
Ma Maison was crowded at this lunchtime hour, but there were a few empty tables here and there. Nora kept her gaze on Amanda Morris while straining her peripheral vision to note that Chuck was at a sidewalk table, ordering from a waiter, and the young woman from the hotel was being seated at a small table across the room. The woman chose the chair at her table that faced Nora, but she never once so much as glanced in Nora’s direction.
A waiter arrived, and Amanda ordered salades Césars au poulet grillé and white wine for both of them. She smiled at Nora, making a study of her face, and waited until the waiter had departed before leaning forward.
“ ‘Julie Campbell’ is the cover name for Chris Waverly, and she’s been in Paris several times in the last few years. Her luggage and personal items are moved in and out of hotels—she favors the George Cinq, but she’s also stayed at smaller places like the one you chose. She’s booked on appropriate flights to and from the country, but nobody ever sees her. I’ve completed her assignments here in Western Europe, but I’ve been instructed not to tell you about them. There’s a woman in Moscow and a man in Damascus; you don’t need to know anything about them, either. They complete Rose’s missions in those places, with airline tickets and hotels and luggage.”
“North by Northwest,” Nora said. “You know, the Hitchcock film. Chris Waverly is a real-life version of ‘George Kaplan’ in the story.”
“Exactly! You’re an actress; I’m not surprised you made that connection. That’s one of my favorite movies.”
The wine arrived, so Nora waited until the waiter had poured and left. Now she leaned forward; the two women’s heads were close together above the little table. “Are you the agent who was nearly compromised in January?”
Amanda glanced around the room before replying. “No, that was the woman in Moscow; she had a close encounter with Russian feds. She got out of it without being exposed. But we all heard about it immediately, and Langley suspended the cover until further notice.” She smiled at Nora. “You’re the further notice. Our new assignment is to make all interested parties believe that you’re Chris Waverly. We’ve already spotted the man at the airport. Have you seen anyone else taking an interest in you?”
“No,” Nora said, careful not to glance over at the young woman across the room. “Tell me, Amanda, do you have any ideas about the identity of TSB? Could it be WikiLeaks?”
The agent shook her head. “No, those people would never blackmail anyone; that goes against everything they claim to believe in. Their professed goal is transparency, the polar opposite of blackmail. If WikiLeaks had this information, it would already be on every front page in the world. TSB is just a thief, I should imagine, looking for a payday. What bothers me is the fact that he—or she, or they—got the information in the first place. I’m having awful thoughts about it.”
“Why do you say that?” Nora asked.
“Encryption.” Amanda waved an arm as though this one word explained everything. When she saw Nora’s confused expression, she continued. “Sorry, I guess you’re not a techie. Neither am I, but I understand the general theory. The information in the Company’s computer programs and databases is deeply encrypted, most of it under several layers of decoy—that’s exactly what it sounds like, phony codes and alphabets, even downright nonsense. And it’s all changed at regular intervals, like the passwords are changed, some of it daily or even hourly. Any information about Chris Waverly would be the highest priority, which means the heaviest encryption.” She leaned forward to whisper. “So how the hell did anyone—I mean, anyone—get through all that smoke screen and find out about Rose? It would be a challenge to NASA, let alone some amateur hacker, or even a professional one. These blackmailers must be Einsteins, or else…”
She trailed off, but Nora saw where she’d been going.
“Or else it was an inside job,” Nora whispered. “Is that a possibility?”
Amanda shrugged. “I’ve been in this business for ten years now, and I’ve heard just about everything. I doubt anyone in the Company would—well, I mean, I sure hope not. But who knows? Ed Cole has a few enemies at Langley. He’s perceived as a privileged character, and I suppose he is. He didn’t start at the bottom like most of us; he was recruited out of Harvard Law thirty years ago, right into a top-floor office. He was twenty-five, and there were plenty of men twice his age who’d given their lives to the game, still slogging from paycheck to paycheck in less important positions. I can think of at least three who’d be delighted if Ed Cole ever had to eat crow.”
Through Jeff’s experiences, Nora knew a lot about how the Company worked, but she’d never heard anything like this before. It surprised her to think of trained professionals behaving like children. Then again, she was from the theater world, where petty jealousy was a major-league sport. Old King Cole, indeed. Still, she wondered why ruining Edgar Cole’s long-range op and endangering the lives of three field agents would amuse anyone in the CIA. She was about to say this aloud when she noticed movement beyond Amanda’s shoulder.
The young woman across the room was answering her phone. She raised it to her ear and spoke, then listened, and she looked directly at Nora. As Nora briefly met her gaze, the woman brought up her free hand and discreetly pointed toward the far back corner of the restaurant. Then she ended her phone call, picked up her purse, stood, and made her way in that direction. She disappeared through an archway beside the swinging door to the kitchen. Restrooms, Nora supposed, but the message had been clear.
Their food arrived at that moment, bowls of fresh greens topped with grilled chicken and a basket of freshly baked bread. The waiter served them, refilled their wineglasses, and left. As Amanda picked up her fork, Nora said, “Excuse me a moment; I’m not used to wine with lunch. Um, which way is the…?”
Amanda inclined her head toward the archway.
“Ah, yes,” Nora said. “Please start—I’ll be right back.” She moved quickly through the archway and down the hall to the ladies’ room. The dark-haired young woman was waiting by the sink.
Nora smiled. She’d met the woman only once, two years ago, at the end of her first adventure with the CIA. Nora’s friend Jacques Lanier, the French agent who’d saved her life during that mission, was watching out for her again, and he’d sent this emissary today. Nora grasped the hands of Jacques Lanier’s pretty daughter-in-law.
“Cecile! How lovely to see you again!”
Cecile Lanier glanced nervously over at the door, then back at Nora.
“Hello, Mrs. Baron,” she whispered in carefully studied English. “We don’t have much time, and I have a message for you.”
Chapter 8
Nora regarded the young woman, deciding that now wasn’t the moment to ask after her husband, Pierre, and their three little boys. She glanced around the ladies’ room, making sure they were alone. Of course they were: Cecile Lanier and her husband worked for Jacques’s French security outfit, the Sous Direction Anti-Terroriste, commonly known as the SDAT. Cecile would have checked the entire room the moment she entered it.
“He wants to see you,” Cecile said, “as soon as possible. This afternoon, if you can.”
Nora didn’t have to ask who “he” was. She nodded. “I’m dining with some people this evening, but I have the afternoon free. Where should we meet?”
“In the place where you had lunch the last time you were in Paris, Chez Felicia. Go back to your hotel, then go to the basement and knock on the red door close to the elevator. You are looking for Michel—he is an old friend of Jacques’s. Michel will be expecting you…”
Nora listened carefully as Cecile talked her through the evasion plan. She asked no questions—there wasn’t time—but she was curious. She wondered what Jacques could possibly have learned that made him send his daughter-in-law out to follow and make contact with her under the noses of her CIA handlers. Trouble—the word arrived in Nora’s mind as Cecile spoke. Something’s wrong, Nora thought; I’ll have to ditch Amanda Morris as soon as
possible and get to Jacques…
“Be careful,” Cecile concluded. “He says to avoid the man from the airport. He’ll explain. Now go, get back to Ms. Morris, and don’t let her know anything. I hope to see you again soon.”
“Thank you, Cecile,” Nora said. She didn’t ask how Jacques already knew about the man at the airport. She left the room and returned to the table, where Amanda was already halfway through her lunch.
Nora made short work of the salad, smiling at her host and keeping half an eye on the activity in the room beyond Amanda’s shoulders. Cecile Lanier waited rather a long time before slipping unobtrusively back into the dining room, paying her bill, and leaving. Nora didn’t watch the young woman as she crossed the crowded space and exited; instead, she noted the young CIA agent at his table outside. Chuck was eating a sandwich as he constantly monitored the restaurant and the sidewalk around him, but he paid no attention to Cecile Lanier other than the usual appreciative glance of a male at a pretty woman as she passed by him on the sidewalk. Good.
Amanda insisted that Nora try Ma Maison’s famous dessert, which Nora didn’t really want, so they compromised with one order and two forks. Nora loudly praised the justifiably renowned raspberry tart with dark chocolate and freshly whipped cream, but all the while she was thinking about the urgent message from Jacques.
These people trusted her. Amanda Morris, Ben Dysart, and Chuck clearly assumed that Nora was following their scenario blindly. They evidently hadn’t considered the possibility that she might be duplicitous with them, and she knew why. She’d noticed a sense of complacency in the people who made up America’s special bureaus and agencies; she’d even seen it in her husband. Professional agents knew their jobs, and they thought that no one outside their charmed circle possessed the imagination to do what they did. Now, Nora could use their arrogant blind spot to her advantage.
“Thank you,” she said as Amanda paid the bill. “That was delicious.”
Amanda smiled. “I have to get back to the office, but I’ll see you tonight. Ben will pick you up at seven. I’ll call him now, and he can take you back to your hotel.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” Nora said. “All this rich food—I’d like to work it off. The hotel is a nice walk from here. I was cooped up in my room all morning, as instructed, with breakfast from room service and a mystery novel. I need exercise.” She leaned forward to whisper. “Besides, it’ll give our friends a good opportunity to follow me around.”
Amanda nodded and picked up her phone. “Okay, but you won’t be alone. Please, don’t ever go anywhere alone while you’re here. Call me anytime, and I’ll get you covered.” She texted a message and sent it. Nora watched the young man at the outdoor table pick up his phone and read the screen. So, Chuck would discreetly follow her as she walked. Fine.
The two women parted on the sidewalk in front of Ma Maison. Amanda walked west toward Place de la Concorde, and Nora set out in the opposite direction. She glanced back to see Chuck rise from his table and ever-so-casually amble toward her. She faced forward and continued on her way.
The hotel was two blocks north and eight blocks east of where she was now, and it was a beautiful day for a stroll in Paris. Still, Nora walked at an accelerated pace; she wanted to get to Jacques and find out what was going on. She was glad for her decision three days ago in New York. Jeff’s worries about her mission had alarmed her, and she’d wanted to even the odds. She didn’t know Mr. Cole or the CIA people here in Paris, but she knew Jacques Lanier, and she trusted him with her life.
Three days ago, Nora had decided to get in touch with Jacques and ask for his assistance. The old man had been delighted to hear from her. He’d loved being an active agent for France, and he’d hated being sidelined by a recent injury—an injury he’d incurred while protecting Nora. He was retired from France’s secret services, but Nora had suspected that it would take little coaxing to reactivate him. She’d been right in that assumption. Jacques had immediately volunteered to help her while she was in France. He’d even told her where to stay, and why.
Hotel Lisette was mere blocks from Jacques’s home, and he’d used it more than once in old operations. He’d explained to her about the corner room on the second floor with its convenient fire escape. He hadn’t told her about his friend Michel in the basement, but it didn’t surprise her. This man—apparently a custodian or superintendent for the hotel—was most likely a retired federal agent as well. Nora had told Mr. Cole that she’d prefer this small guesthouse to the big place he’d originally reserved for her, and Mr. Cole had gone along with her request.
She turned left at the next corner and walked two blocks north, gazing in shop windows and smiling at the people she passed along the way. The brilliant sun warmed her face. April in Paris—she remarked to herself that there was actually a song with that title, as well there should be. Another turn, and now she was heading east toward the hotel. She didn’t bother to look behind her; Chuck knew what to do. He was presumably an old hand at tailing people for his employers, who were also her employers. Nora nearly laughed aloud at this thought.
She crossed the intersection and entered the next block. This stretch of street was not lined with shops and restaurants; now Nora saw office buildings and big apartment houses. Not a lot of foot traffic, she noticed—she was alone on the sidewalk, alone with her babysitter, who walked some twenty yards behind her. She was in one of her favorite cities on a fine spring afternoon, and she was currently embodying a famously elusive secret agent. She was Julie Campbell, aka Chris Waverly, aka Rose, the spy who never—
Nora was too deep in her thoughts to notice the figure that suddenly materialized at her side. Her right arm was seized in a powerful grasp, and she was yanked sideways into an alley and flung backward against the side of the building she’d just passed. The back of her head struck the stone wall. She slid down the rough surface to her knees and crumpled to the ground.
Chapter 9
It was a small alley, a service space for deliveries and trash bins between two big buildings, perhaps fifteen feet wide. The far end opened into the next street. The mid-afternoon sun didn’t penetrate here; she was in darkness. She lay on her side, the cold stone wall pressing into her back and the cold pavement chilling her legs, the sharp odor of garbage everywhere around her. Her head throbbed and her ears were ringing. The hand that had snatched her from the sidewalk reached down to grasp her arm again, pulling her violently up to a sitting position.
Nora leaned back against the freezing stone, blinking in the gloom. She raised her head, her gaze rising up the length of a pair of brown trousers and a brown jacket to a large, round head. Nora saw two images of a face swimming before her, then she blinked and it came into focus. A man—big, Caucasian, husky, late forties, dark hair, ruddy complexion, clean-shaven, his eyes ablaze with what looked to be pure hatred. He knelt down over her, muttering something in a low, furious voice, and she had to strain to hear him.
“Ma femme!” the big man hissed. “C’est pour ma Carla, espèce de monstre! Allez au diable!” His right arm came up, clutching a gleaming silver dagger.
Nora stared at the knife above her, and her body reacted. Without even thinking about it, she pulled her legs up under her, placed her palms flat against the wall behind her, and pushed, launching herself up and forward. She aimed the top of her head at the center mass of the squatting man.
The impact was considerable. She felt the jarring result in her neck and shoulders. She heard a cry of surprise as the big man toppled over backward, falling heavily against a row of plastic garbage bins and landing in a sitting position, his legs splayed. The containers went down in all directions, lids flying, spilling trash out into the cramped space. His scream continued, and beyond it she heard other sounds, the metallic clatter as the dagger flew from his hand and landed on the pavement several feet away.
She was on her feet now, rearing back her right leg. Her ballet and jazz training supplied the rest—a swift, vicious kick to th
e underside of his fleshy chin. His head snapped up and he fell back, flat on the ground. Nora stepped forward and kicked him again as hard as she could with the pointed toe of her shoe, this time on the right side of his rib cage. Moving away from the moaning man, she reached down to retrieve her fallen shoulder bag and scooped up the knife from the clutter of trash. She dropped the weapon into her bag and grabbed her phone from it, quickly aiming and snapping two photos of the fallen man. Then she ran out onto the sidewalk, into the bright sunlight, filling her lungs to call for help. She was just beginning to wonder why her young point guard hadn’t rushed into the alley to save her from the man when she saw the reason for it. Nora froze, staring, her shout dying on her lips.
Chuck lay facedown some twenty yards away on the sidewalk, and he wasn’t moving. An elderly man in a blue suit was kneeling beside him, and a young woman with a poodle stood near them, staring. The dog was yapping and straining at its leash, upset by all the excitement. The old man said something to the woman, who reached into a coat pocket. Two teenage boys arrived from across the street to join them, gawking. The woman spoke urgently into her phone.
Nora heard more clattering from the alley behind her. She turned her head just in time to see the big man rise unsteadily to his feet and lope off in the opposite direction, knocking over more trash receptacles as he staggered away. He reached the far end of the alley at the next street and disappeared.
She wasn’t about to follow the man and confront him; there was a limit to her courage, and to her foolhardiness. She’d been lucky in the alley, but their next encounter could go quite differently. And now she was more concerned about Chuck than the stranger.
She stood on the sidewalk by the alley, watching the scene before her. To her immense relief, Chuck stirred and rolled over onto his back, then struggled to rise. A thin line of blood trickled down the side of his face and neck, and Nora guessed that her attacker had hit him on the head from behind before stealing up on her. The old man grasped Chuck’s arms and tried to keep him still, speaking to him in French. Nora heard the man say “ambulance.” The crowd around them grew as more pedestrians stopped to see what was going on.