“Back to the train station. We catch the first high-speed train heading southeast-ish. That will give us breathing space. Then I can give you the explanation I promised.”
She closed the duffel bag and they vacated the room. One of the café staff, wearing a little apron, glanced at them in surprise as the two of them stepped out together.
Agata stared back at her, willing her to make a fuss. Agata was in just the right mood to argue.
Warren smiled at the woman, a dazzling expression. “The honeymoon can’t get here fast enough.” He winked.
The woman giggled, her fingers over her mouth, and hurried away.
“For fuck’s sake!” Agata told Warren, disgusted.
He slid his hand under the wide strap of the duffel bag. “Here, honey, let me take that for you.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Agata shrugged the strap off. Let him carry the bag. It left her gun hand free.
They moved back through the café and out onto the street. Night had fallen while they were inside. Yellow, warm light spilled out upon the old stones and paving, lighting their way as they moved down the sidewalk. The number of pedestrians had thinned. The temperature had plunged.
It would be warm in the station, and she could buy Warren a meal he wouldn’t turn his nose up at. She couldn’t plan much beyond getting onto the train, until she knew where the train was heading.
“You know, the world would cooperate with you more often, if you stopped snarling at it all the time,” Warren said.
“I don’t snarl,” she snapped.
“I rest my case.”
“I’ve got shit on my mind, okay?”
“So do most people.”
“Pot and kettle,” she said. “You’re the most unpleasant loner I’ve ever come across. You took a woman’s head off the first day I met you, just because she wanted to sit at your table.”
“That has nothing to do with being antisocial,” he replied, his tone serene.
Agata gave a short laugh of disbelief.
“People are better off keeping their distance from me,” Warren added.
She shot him a startled look. His eyes, beneath the cap, were hidden by shadow. She probed, instead. “You think that overbearing charm you showered all over the woman at the café…that’s what you think I should be doing to…to what, exactly?”
“Well, for a start, to cut down on the friction burns you must collect each day.”
“I don’t see you being charming.”
“I don’t have to be charming to you. You’re paid to linger in my vicinity.”
“Because I can’t be reminded enough about that,” she added dryly.
He glanced at her and looked away.
They rounded the corner. Ahead, Gare de Lyon was brightly lit, with floodlights at the front entrance, illuminating the expanse of pavement between the road and the doors. Commuter traffic from central Paris streamed out through the doors, going home for the evening.
They threaded their way through the pedestrians, heading for the entrance doors. Inside, Agata glanced at the time on the digital clock hanging from the roof of the station. “Six-thirty,” she said. “More or less.”
Warren pulled her to one side. “You’re blocking people,” he told her.
She rolled her eyes.
He lifted his chin toward the train scheduled displayed on the overhead boards. “There’s a TGV to Valence at seven oh-five.”
Agata considered. Valence was in the middle of nowhere—not quite part of the coastal resorts like Nice and Monte Carlo, and not quite a mountain resort, either. It was a nexus of train lines and other transports, heading to the four corners of the compass.
It would give her options.
She dug in the bag for the currency, and withdrew a thick wad, looking around for the ticket counter.
“Let me get the tickets,” Warren said.
“Why?”
He reached for the money. “Come with me, but let me do the talking. Let me show you how to avoid friction burns.”
“Because it’s a woman behind the counter and you will ooze all over her?”
“Because she’s a human being who is at the end of a long shift, and doesn’t need your snark.” He plucked the money from her hand and resettled the bag on his shoulder. “Come, wife.” He held out his hand.
Agata gave a hiss of annoyance and took his hand. It was better to appear to be a harmless married couple, than a pair of relative strangers traveling together.
His fingers were warm. She could feel the tendons and muscled flesh. He had little body fat to smooth out the flex and stretch of muscles beneath the skin.
They moved to the counter.
“Smile at me, then her,” Warren instructed in a low voice.
Agata summoned up her warmest, happiest smile. If he could dissemble, so could she. She showered him with joyful sunshine.
For a fraction of a second, Warren’s eyes narrowed. Then he returned the smile, almost laughing, as if they were sharing an intimate, wordless joke. Agata turned her head and let her smile fall upon the woman behind the glass.
“Good evening, madam,” Warren told the woman, in French. “Is it not a fine evening?”
Agata nearly rolled her eyes at the syrupy friendliness in his voice. Did people really let themselves fall for such obvious manipulation?
The woman behind the counter melted. She touched her hair, and smoothed it back over her shoulder and gave Warren a full smile. “It is, isn’t it?” she agreed breathlessly. “Destination, monsieur?”
“Two for Valence, please.” He leaned closer to the glass. “It’s our honeymoon,” he told her, his voice dropping into the lower registers so it caressed and beguiled.
Agata’s smile slipped a little, as a shiver ran through her, originating from deep in her belly. She wasn’t really responding to his outrageous flirting? He wasn’t even directing it at her.
The woman, a matron of at least forty years of age, gave a little simper and giggle as she punched in the ticket information and studied the computer screen. Her cheeks colored.
Warren kept his gaze pinned upon her and brought Agata’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips against the back of her hand.
Heat. Softness.
“I am a lucky man,” he breathed, over the top of Agata’s hand, his gaze locked on the woman. “Do you not agree?”
“Oh, ah, well, yes of course. Marriage is always a good thing.”
“I know a woman like you must be married, too. Some man with great sense and good taste, who knows how to value a lady, yes?”
Her cheeks bloomed even brighter red.
Agata stared at the woman, not sure whether to laugh or snort in disbelief. Really? She was buying this?
The woman touched her hair and pushed it back into place again, as the ticket printer chattered and spat out two tickets. She pushed them toward the slot at the base of the glass. “Euros or credit, monsieur?”
“Oh, cash. Are they good seats, madam?” He pushed the notes under the slot.
“Very good.” She leaned a little closer. “First class, at economy class prices. After all, it is your honeymoon.” Her smile was sweet and warm, too.
Her gaze flickered toward Agata. Agata realized she must play her part if the illusion was to hold. She made herself smile in the same syrupy the-world-is-filled-with-flowers way Warren had, bathing the woman with warmth and heat. “Oh, you are too kind!” she said breathlessly. “Thank you so much! Such a lovely way to start the honeymoon.”
Warren dropped his arm over Agata’s shoulders as the woman pushed the tickets through the slot, along with their change. “You have made our day, madam. Thank you!”
“Everyone has been so sweet,” Agata gushed. “It’s been such a wonderful day, so far, hasn’t it?” She turned her smile upon Warren.
He took the tickets. “Thank you, madam.”
The woman gave them a tremulous smile. “I hope you have a very happy life together, my dears.
God bless!”
Warren turned Agata around and moved her away from the counter, his arm still around her shoulders. He was no longer smiling.
Agata let out a gusty sigh. “That was…” She shook her head.
“Now you see what I mean?” He glanced at the tickets in his hand. “Platform E. This way.”
Agata shook her head. “I see what you mean. I don’t like it. We weren’t truthful. We manipulated her.”
“Isn’t that part of your job description, Kelsey?” He dropped his arm from her shoulders and hefted the bag back into place. “Here.” He gave her one ticket, as they approached the tickets-only barriers.
Agata frowned. She pushed her ticket through the turnstile dash, and pushed through the barrier, making it turn. “Field officers manipulate. I’m just an analyst.”
“Not with your skill set,” Warren shot back, as he pushed through the stile next to her. He lifted the bag over behind him.
“You’ve seen maybe five percent of my skill set,” she assured him. “You’re making assumptions.”
“Like you did, Kelsey?” he asked coolly.
“I did not.”
“Oh?” He turned to walk backward for three paces. “Tell me you weren’t shocked out of your shoes when you followed me to the temple the first time.” His gaze locked with hers.
Agata bit her lip and stayed silent.
“Ha!” Warren said and whirled back around once more. He held his ticket out to the live attendant doing a manual check, beyond the turnstiles. As the man examined Warren’s ticket, Warren rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “Our first husband and wife fight,” he said, his tone low.
The attendant gave a soft guffaw, then made his expression sober as he glanced at Agata’s ticket and waved them both on.
Agata grimaced at the attendant, who gave her a sympathetic smile back.
She caught up with Warren, who was already three paces ahead. “That was all for show?” she breathed.
“No, but it came in useful. He’ll remember a couple fighting and forget a lot of details.”
“You know, they did train me for this,” she pointed out dryly.
“I thought you said you were just an analyst?”
“I am. I took all the training, though.”
“Everything?” he asked.
“Everything they would let me take. Including a Treasury unit on personal security detailing. That’s why I got sent to Paris.”
“Lucky me,” he said dryly. “There’s Platform E.”
The train was long and sleek, the nose of the engine shaped like a narrow bullet. The train averaged three hundred kilometers an hour, and would make the journey to Valence in four hours instead of the more sedate nine hours a traditional train would take.
Four hours was a luxury. It would give Agata time to think, to plan.
They boarded the first-class carriage and looked for seats.
“What about there?” Agata asked, pointing to a pair of reclining seats beside the compact bar.
Warren’s gaze flickered toward the seats, then shifted to the bar. “No,” he said flatly.
Agata grimaced. “Of course. Let’s move up to the far end and see what is there.”
They found a pair of wide, soft seats facing each other across a small folding table, close by the refreshments bar. Warren dumped the duffel bag on the empty seat beside him, as Agata folded herself with some relief into the comfortable chair. Warren pulled the change from the tickets from his pocket. “I hope they have something which isn’t fried or full of preservatives,” he said, eyeing the bar, where the attendant was just setting up display stands.
“You eat. I will freshen up,” Agata said. She hauled herself to her feet and picked up the duffle bag and took it to the washroom at the end of the carriage. Train washrooms were nearly as cramped as airplane closets, although there was enough room for her to strip and rinse off with the water in the tiny basin. She brushed out her hair and braided it, so it was out of the way, then dressed in the dark jeans and sweater she had stashed in the duffel bag. She’d never expected to use the clothes. They were nondescript, while the fur vest and white snow pants might be remembered.
Feeling more anonymous, she took out the laptop, repacked the duffle bag and went back to the table.
Warren was already eating. Salad, of course, with a croissant and tea.
“Where did you get the real fork from?” she asked, for he wasn’t using one of the pokey plastic things which came wrapped in cellophane.
He rolled his eyes. “I asked for it.”
Of course.
She opened the laptop.
“You changed clothes. You had a change of clothes in there, too?”
“You want a complete inventory list, Warren? I’ll email it to you, if you want.”
He gave a soft, dry laugh. “Of course you have an inventory,” he said softly. “That, I get. What I don’t get is that you took the time and trouble to set up all this fall back stuff at all.”
“I’ve been in Paris seven months, Warren,” she pointed out. “Lots of time,” she added, as she logged in to the secondary server in the UK.
“Exactly. This is Paris.” He dug through the lettuce and speared a piece of chicken. “Most people get here and go crazy with the tourist stuff. Cruises down the Seine, the Louvre, the Iron Lady—”
“You want me to visit a gate?” she asked.
“A gate?”
“The Eiffel Tower was built as the gateway for the Exposition Universelle in 1889.” She looked up. “Most Parisians hate the damn thing. I’m supposed to be passing, here. Gawping at a rusty iron structure isn’t part of my brief.”
“Instead, you build and stash go-bags in case everything hits the fan. Did you have reason to think it might, Kelsey?” His gaze speared her.
Agata dropped her gaze back to the screen.
“Okay. If you’re trying to pass as a native, then why didn’t you get yourself a lover? Spend your off hours in coital bliss like any self-respecting Frenchwoman?”
“I didn’t have the time.”
“Eight hours of it, every day,” he replied.
Agata shook her head. “I have plans, Warren. Not all of us want to hide away in history. A lover would get in my way.”
He pushed the plastic bowl to one side and tore the curved end off the croissant. “What are you typing?”
She stilled her fingers on the keys and drew in a breath. Then another. She met his gaze. “What do you care?”
“It’s why do you care, not ‘what’,” he said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “In case it hasn’t registered upon your anal geek antisocial brain, Kelsey, my life is completely in your hands right now. To be frank, I care about every fucking thought going through your mind, because despite being the sorriest human being on the planet, I have a bizarre wish to keep breathing. Breathing hinges upon whatever plan or strategy or idea you come up with.”
She jumped a little at the curse. Warren never swore. She’d never even heard him give out a pathetic “damn” until now.
With a soft curse of her own, she shut down the laptop. “To be frank, I was giving you a moment to eat your meal,” she said truthfully, “as I can’t sit at another table and let you have this one to yourself.”
His gaze swung to the window, which showed the blank side of the train beside this one. He cleared his throat. Then he tore a second piece off the croissant. “Sorry,” he said roughly, and ate the bread.
An apology. Another first.
Agata stared at the screen, not really seeing the email at all. “There’s a guy I know from when I was at NASA. He was going to get back to me about maybe getting my old job back. I’m just following up with him again.”
Warren stopped chewing. He swallowed quickly. “You’re job-hunting?” His tone was amazed. “In the middle of this?”
She kept her gaze steady. “I’m multi-tasking.”
His black eyes searched her face. “You’re getting o
ut of the business,” he said softly. “The first day, you said you’d made a mistake.”
“I said I had fucked up,” Agata amended. “And I did.”
“You used to work for NASA?”
“Engineer. Hello.”
“They rent physicists and computer techs.”
“And engineers. Who do you think gets to fix a Mars rover by remote control whenever it gets a wheel stuck in a rut?”
The departure warnings chimed outside the carriage and people hurried.
Warren sat back. Agata wasn’t certain, but she thought he was smiling. “You worked on Explorer…”
“It wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds,” she assured him.
“But it’s work which helps people,” he finished.
Agata’s middle gave another little jump. “I’ve said that too often, haven’t I?”
“If you’re so gung-ho to help people, Kelsey, why did you join the CIA?” Warren kept his voice down, so the rapidly filling carriage of travelers couldn’t listen in. They were speaking English, although most French people knew enough English to pick out the broad sense of a sentence, and “CIA” was “CIA” in any language.
Agata hovered on the edge of telling him it was none of his fucking business, which it wasn’t. Only, he had made a good point about being reliant upon her right now. It would help him relax a little, if she hid nothing.
So she shrugged instead, and tried to make her tone sound indifferent. “I was already being forced out of NASA for…some stuff. The recruiter from the CIA was a friend of a friend, and an analyst, he said—although now I know he was nothing of the sort. He explained how analysts, working in the field to support field agents up the sharp end…how it helped make a huge difference, and that I had the perfect resume and mindset to make a superior analyst.”
“You bought it.”
Agata sighed. “I did,” she admitted. “And right up until April this year, I saw nothing to change my mind. I was helping, in a big way.”
“Until you made a mistake,” he said. He rubbed his chin, his dark whiskers rasping. “Did people die on your watch, Kelsey?” His tone was gentle.
She swallowed. Her eyes were aching. “They died for nothing. We got nothing out of Austria at all.” Her voice came out strained.
Inside Man Page 9