I'd Rather be in Paris

by Misty Evans

  Lawson spoke into his encrypted digital phone as he paced the bedroom. The room was an extension of the sunroom, marble floors, skylights, plants and eighteenth-century furniture. “Whatcha got for me, Del?"

  The younger man snorted. “What I have is The Great Conrad Flynn and The Mighty Michael Stone crawling up my ass wanting to know where you are and what the hell you're doing. You haven't checked in for thirty-six hours and someone, presumably you, is leaving a mess of dead bodies all over France."

  Del's voice was low and Lawson had a mental picture of him hunched down in his cubicle at Langley trying to hide from listening ears. “So why are you talking to me instead of patching me straight through to Flynn?"

  "I'm giving you a heads-up. Flynn is one pissed-off camper. I can tell by the way he keeps pacing through the CTC and yelling at everyone. People are dead and you're MIA. If you don't give him the answers he wants to hear when you talk to him, my guess is he's going to pull you off the assignment."

  Not if he can't find me. “Do you have the info on Vos Loo?"

  "I emailed info about his Switzerland network to you five minutes ago."

  Lawson pulled out a chair and sat at the desk in the corner of the room. “How much have the French authorities figured out about the dead bodies?"

  "Everything. Flynn's having a tough time smoothing things over with them and keeping your and Zara's mugs out of the newspapers. Especially since the bodies were found outside your rooms at the Ambassador—what the hell were you doing staying at the Ambassador anyway?"

  "Long story. Go on."

  "They have an eyewitness who claims he saw you and heard the gunshots. The hotel's security cameras have you on tape, and when the local police started trying to trace Isaac and Sara Lerner, they turned it over to French Intelligence real fast. Flynn planned to visit Paris this week to do some sightseeing. Now he's coming in an official capacity."

  Lawson tapped his fingers on the desk as his laptop received what Del was sending via satellite. “It was Flynn who established Yvette LeMans as my contact, but apparently she was buddies with Varina Scalfaro and tied to the Mafia with some kind of prostitution slash drug ring. Yvette showed up at the hotel with her Italian version of the Hulk, pulled a gun on Zara and tried to kill her. I'm not feeling the love here, Del."

  "Back up. You said Yvette LeMans was at the Ambassador last night? What did you do with her?"

  "Pay attention,” Lawson said, scanning his computer screen. “I shot her and her bodyguard Giovanni."

  "You're talking about the woman you left outside your room with a bullet in her brain?"

  "Who are you talking about?"

  Del cleared his throat and Lawson heard the faint clicks of his computer keyboard. “The woman you killed last night was not Yvette LeMans."

  "Then who was it?"

  "I'm sending you a JPEG file right now. Open it."

  A minute later, a message with an attachment appeared in Lawson's inbox. He clicked on the attachment hotkey.

  "Is that her?” Del asked.

  Lawson looked at the sloe eyes on the screen and could almost smell the woman's perfume. “Yeah, that's her."

  "My man.” Del sighed. “The woman you killed outside your room at the Ambassador last night was the infamous Varina Scalfaro."

  Lawson sank back in his chair. “Damn it.” He stared at the screen and tried to process the information. “So where's Yvette?"

  "I don't know, but if Varina was using her identity, I've got a twenty says Yvette's floating at the bottom of the Seine."

  That was one bet Lawson wasn't stupid enough to take. “All right, listen, I've got a couple more names I need you to run for me. Varina was spending time with Rogan Janvrin. He's some kind of computer geek who works for the Swiss Institute of Technology."

  "Watch your mouth. Computer geeks make the world go round."

  "I also need information about a man named Christian Bernier. Lives in Switzerland, southwest of Geneva."

  There was a pause, and then Del said, “Christian Bernier. Name's familiar."

  "He's a dance guru here in Europe. Owns an impressive estate and entertains a lot of important people, dignitaries, expatriates, movie stars. Has an extraordinary collection of art work. I'm sending you a photo of a Degas painting and a couple of other pieces in his collection. I want you to track down where they came from."

  "What does that have to do with Dmitri?"

  "Nothing.” Lawson rubbed his eyes. “Is Flynn worried about his counterintelligence spy?"

  "That would be the second reason he's stomping on people around here."

  Lawson didn't blame him. He'd do the same in Flynn's position. Zara was a unique operative and Lawson was starting to appreciate just how unique.

  From the minute he'd blown up the car until they crossed the border into Switzerland, Zara had talked in fits and starts over the roar of the bike. She'd been scared, but she hadn't given into it. Instead she'd talked. He now knew her favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz and her stint in Girl Scouts ended when they kicked her out of her troop at the ripe old age of seven for refusing to wear the ugly uniform.

  "Are you going to call Flynn and get him off my ass?” Del asked.

  "Maybe,” Lawson said, thinking it over. “But probably not."

  He cut the connection before Del could respond and turned the phone off, setting it next to his laptop. He pulled out his handy-dandy spy camera, downloaded the images of Christian's collection of fine art and emailed it to the techie.

  The next half hour he spent reading about Jon Vos Loo and trying to piece together the Plan B he'd told Zara existed. There was no Plan B, but the lie had relaxed her a little and seeing the worry line on her brow soften was worth it.

  The stakes for this mission were getting high. It wasn't a simple tracking mission anymore. He and Zara were on someone's radar now and whoever it was wasn't fooling around. Lawson's gut told him Flynn was still trustworthy—the man had nothing to gain by screwing over his hired contractor—but in this business, it never hurt to err on the side of caution. For now though, it was in his best interest to keep Flynn out of the loop and pay the hell he was earning later.

  Caution also demanded he put Zara on a plane back to Langley and finish the job on his own. She'd be safe, but after spending the last few days with her, Lawson couldn't imagine her living in the conservative Agency environment. She had too much substance and determination, too much intensity for close quarters. She'd handled the tough situations of their mission with the same style and grace as she'd handled the routine, and for that reason, Lawson would keep her with him. Along with the fact that, until he knew the identity of the people chasing them, he wasn't sending her anywhere alone.

  At least that's what he told himself. In the back of his mind, he knew the real reason he didn't want to send Zara home to the States had nothing to do with her safety. She'd grown on him, and the thought of putting her on a plane and watching her fly out of his life made his gut contract like he'd been punched.

  Shutting off his computer, he rubbed his eyes. Better not to go there, he told himself. Better not think about why his gut was reacting to her leaving so strongly. He was exhausted after the past few days with no sleep and too much adrenaline and his brain was starting to short out. That was all.

  Without stripping off his clothes, he fell face down on the bed. A few hours of shut eye and he'd be fine. He'd be able to come up with a solid Plan B and figure out what to do with Zara.

  What to do with Zara...

  Before Lawson's eyes closed, his subconscious was already at work on several tantalizing possibilities.

  * * * *

  Late afternoon sun poured through the single window in the Tower Room when Zara woke from sleep. She stretched and peeked out through the layers of sheer tulle that fell from the bed canopy to see the miniature clock on the nightstand. It was five o'clock.

  Lying back with a sigh, she snuggled further down in the pillows and closed her eyes aga
in, enjoying the fresh lavender smell of the bed linens. That smell alone could transport her back in time to her teenage years and the ballet camps she had attended at Villa Bernier. Staying at Christian's had given her a sense of peace she couldn't find at home. She'd always hated the way her parents worried about what she was going to do with her life, even though she understood their concerns were natural. She'd been a bit of a challenge, and as she grew older, she understood more and more just how much her parents had done for her over the years in the name of love.

  While Christian's love bordered on parental, he was more like a godfather, with a blind eye for her shortcomings and overindulgent with his praise. His unconditional love made her feel special.

  Opening her eyes, she rolled onto her back. The Tower Room seemed completely out of place in Christian's villa which was one of the reasons she loved it. With the exception of the four-poster bed, everything in the room was miniature. The armoire, the dressing table, the trunk at the foot of the bed, the rocking chair in the corner. All that was missing was the White Rabbit. The walls were ballerina pink with white trim, the furniture was painted in various shades of pink and white, and the floor was covered in white marble that had veins of pink quartz running through it.

  The room was part of an actual tower. It vaulted high above the rest of the villa like a castle turret. The stairs leading to the room continued their spiral up through the middle, ending at the roof and an amazing view of sky and land and water. You could see the Rhonê a few miles south. Zara could hardly wait to bring Lawson up there later. If the night were clear, a blanket of stars would reach down and envelop them.

  A light rap on the door to the stairwell below brought her out of her daydreaming. Christian's voice called softly up the stairs. “Zara, may I come up?"

  "One minute."

  Getting up, she grabbed the sundress off the bed and slid it over her head. She smoothed the material down the front and sides and ran her fingers through her hair. Then she leaned over the stair railing. “Come on up."

  Christian climbed the stairs and kissed her on one cheek. “You look refreshed. Did you snag a decent nap?"

  "Yes, I feel much better."

  "Good. Now you must tell me, are you in danger?"

  There really wasn't anyplace other than the bed big enough for both of them to sit on, so Zara pulled the top sheet and comforter up and sat on top. Christian joined her. “I can't tell you much,” she said. “I'm on assignment for the Agency as you probably guessed, and even if it wasn't confidential, I'm not sure I could explain exactly what happened last night or why. Things are rather...” she trailed off, searching for the right words, “...confusing right now."

  Christian gave her an impetuous frown. “I thought you were working at Langley instead of doing fieldwork."

  "My boss thought I was ready to return."

  "Because Vaughn's your partner?"

  "Because Alexandrov Dmitri is out of prison. I'm the expert on him."

  He patted her hands. “I don't like it, but you're safe here and welcome to stay as long as you wish."

  "You've always been here for me. How can I ever thank you?"

  He grinned. “Dance for me, Zara. Come see the studio. I remodeled it last month. C'est magnifique!"

  "I'd love to see it."

  She put on her shoes and followed Christian down the spiral stairs, through the west wing, down to the first floor and into the east wing. As they passed the formal dining room and entertainment room, her pulse picked up at the thought of standing in the middle of Christian's studio again. So many years had gone by. Who would she see when she looked in the wall-to-wall mirrors? The girl of all those years ago or the woman she was now?

  Christian opened the sliding doors with reverence. “The pièce de résistance."

  She stepped across the threshold and stopped, transfixed.

  Just as Christian promised, it was magnificent. The whole north wall had been taken out, and in its place, a wall of windows had been installed. Soft light from the setting sun bathed the room in a warm glow. The wooden floor was buffed to a perfect gloss, tempting Zara's slippered feet to glide on it. Doing a slow turn, she took in the fifteen-foot columns supporting the corners of the ceiling. On the columns, stereo speakers and spotlights looked down on the room. The east wall was mirrored and supported the long barre for warm-up exercises. A pile of ballet shoes and a box of resin sat in one corner, an upright piano in the other.

  The wall at the far end was also mirrored but free of a barre. This was where the dancers practiced their techniques and learned combinations. Zara could imagine dancers doing pirouettes, glissades and grand jetès in preparation for a dance.

  Continuing her turn, she saw giant black and white pictures of two of the greatest ballet dancers of all time, Anna Pavlova and Vaslav Nijinsky. The pictures hung on either side of the sliding doors, and Zara knew Christian had purposely placed them there to inspire each dancer who passed between them.

  At the end of a practice, whether training or rehearsal, every ballet dancer was physically and emotionally drained. As they left the studio, seeing role models such as Pavlova and Nijinsky lifted their spirits and made the aches and pains and disappointments with their performance fade. Determination to improve their technique next time bloomed in their hearts.

  The stars of fallen CIA members did the same for the men and women who worked at Langley.

  As Zara gazed up at Anna Pavlova in her The Dying Swan role, the desire to dance again rippled through her muscles. “She's so beautiful,” she whispered.

  The tendon Zara had ruptured healed after time and physical therapy, but she could never again exert the pressure on it she needed to in order to perform the aerial jumps and demanding pointe work of a professional ballerina. Even jumps done close to the ground required a softness and elasticity her calf and ankle no longer possessed. The girl who had perfected pliès, battements and ports de bras, who had danced in front of the mirrors with her heart pouring out through every move, could never become a topnotch dancer like her mother.

  Christian came to stand next to her, following her gaze to Anna's picture. “Yes. Perfection."

  Zara cut her eyes to him. “You always said there was no such thing as perfection in ballet."

  "C'est ne vrai pas. Not true at all. I told you there was no such thing as a perfectly executed dance. There is a difference.” He held out his hands in offering. “So what do you think?"

  Zara looked around again and smiled. “It's stunning."

  Christian returned her smile. “And are you tempted to dance here?"

  Leaving him, she walked the perimeter of the room, feeling the floor beneath her feet and enjoying the view of rolling hills and forest outside the windows. Her heart fluttered. “Yes,” she admitted.

  He beamed at her from across the room. “Come,” he said, walking toward her and holding out his hand. “Come to the barre."

  Zara flushed, her heart beginning to pound. “I can't. It's been too long."

  Christian took her hand and pulled her forward. “Your body will remember. Your muscles will remember. Relax and let them move."

  Zara took one of her hands and laid it gently on the barre. As if they possessed a will of their own, her legs turned out at the hips and her feet moved into first position. It wasn't the young ballerina of long ago she saw in her reflection, but the woman in the mirror looked natural á la barre nonetheless. Her posture was straight but relaxed and there was a confident, more mature set to her chin.

  Christian stepped to her side and smiled at her. “And begin,” he said, falling into teacher mode. “Demi-plié."

  Begin, Zara's brain echoed. Her knees automatically bent.

  Christian took her through the usual warm-up set of plies in all five positions. Then she went on to tendues, pointing and stretching her feet, and finally through several sets of battements. After twenty minutes, she was sweating and mentally cursing the sundress which limited her movements too much.
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  "Your muscles are strong,” Christian said, “and your Achilles tendon seems very pliant. That's good, love."

  She took the white towel he offered and patted her forehead and neck with it. “I do yoga and some ballet stretches every day and strength training several times a week."

  "While you are here, we will work on strengthening your feet and legs and begin drills. Keep you ready for that choreographer's spot."

  "Christian, stop. I do not want a job in ballet, even as a choreographer. I'm an intelligence officer for the CIA. This visit is just a pit stop while Lawson and I regroup."

  "Perhaps you should let Lawson finish the mission on his own. From what he has told me, I believe your life could be endangered if you continue."

  "I'm a field operative. I won't back out now just because things got rough yesterday. Besides, Lawson needs me."

  "I'm certain you excel at what you do, but Lawson lives and breathes this type of work every day. You do not. It would be like Lawson trying to do a grand jeté without ever learning to do smaller jumps."

  Zara laughed at the thought of Lawson in tights. “Christian, I live and breathe this type of work. Just because I've been at Langley for the past few months doesn't mean I've lost all my field skills. In fact, the opposite is true. My boss taught me a variety of essential spy tricks."

  Christian eyed her with keen interest. “I think there is something more going on here. You have a crush on Lawson, don't you?"

  She threw the towel into the corner and turned her back on him. “Of course not. We're partners, nothing more."

  "He doesn't seem like your type. You and Lucie are always attracted to the needy boys—the temperamental artists, the tree hugging environmentalists, the political reformists..."

  Zara walked in front of the northern windows, watching shadows take shape below. He'd always been able to see through her lies, and protesting was counterproductive. Admitting some of her feelings here, in the sanctuary of his studio, seemed harmless enough. “I think what I feel for Lawson is a type of transference. He rescued me from a traumatic experience, so I've turned him into someone bigger than life in my head."