by Allan Topol
"I don't know where to find Cole," Nadim said.
Moreau sputtered. "You're lying again."
"Actually, this time I'm not lying. But I can offer you a suggestion."
"What?" Moreau asked anxiously. From Moreau's tone and demeanor, Nadim could tell how much Moreau wanted Cole.
"It's possible," Nadim said slowly, watching Moreau hang on each word, "that those two men who were beaten up the other night near Place de l'Alma may have encountered Cole in the area." Nadim shrugged before continuing.
"Maybe he lives near there or has a friend close by. If I were in your shoes, I would station police or my men on that street with Jack Cole's picture."
Moreau narrowed his eyes. "You know something you're not telling me."
Nadim ducked the implied question. "I've just helped you out a great deal. Patience, my friend. Jack Cole will return to that location." Damn right he will, as long as he continues to see Layla, Nadim thought. "You can nab him then."
* * *
"I just heard from Stefan," Perikov said to Michael in a grim voice.
Michael pressed the cell phone to his ear. "Who's Stefan?"
"Remember when we finished our visit to the warehouse, you asked me to send one of the people on my staff down to Volgograd to pretend to be a tourist to keep his eye on those weapons?"
"Of course I remember that."
"Well, Stefan's the man."
"Sorry, I didn't know the name. What's he say?"
"Grab on to something and hold it tight."
God, this must be awful, Michael thought. Perikov wasn't prone to dramatic gestures.
"As of an hour ago," Perikov said in a rapid staccato manner, "nuclear weapons are moving out of Volgograd. At the warehouse they were loaded in the backs of four tractor-trailer trucks, buried under fruits and vegetables."
He wasn't exaggerating, Michael thought: This was terrible. "How reliable is Stefan's information?"
Perikov was offended. "He was hiding in another building on the abandoned plant side watching the operation through binoculars."
"Does he have any idea of their destination?"
"They began moving in a southerly direction. That's all he knows. The roads have been closed to other traffic. Detour and Road Construction signs have been posted. He can't follow them. It's now up to you and your government."
Michael thanked him, then clicked off. He had to call Joyner ASAP. He thought of doing it on the special so-called secure cell phone the Company had given him, but worried about it. The Russians had gotten better at picking up communications coming in and out, especially from the United States. An hour wouldn't matter. He decided it would be safer to make the call to Joyner from the embassy.
* * *
Margaret Joyner's secretary pulled her out of a meeting in her office with the head of the FBI about homeland security to take the call from Michael. Her face turned pale as she listened to the report of his conversation with Perikov.
"Are you certain of this information?"
"Perikov has never been wrong yet."
Joyner should have been happy with Michael's information. After all, the reason she had set up his operation was to catch Suslov in the act of doing precisely what he was doing now. The difficulty was that the idea of nuclear arms on their way to renegades in Iran, Turkey, or Syria, or some combination of the three, was too horrible to contemplate. Those shipments had to be stopped, regardless of the cost.
"We need to know where those weapons are going, when the exchange is scheduled to take place, and what the rest of the deal is."
"Absolutely. I couldn't agree more. But Russia's a large country. They could be going anywhere."
It was a stupid comment. Michael had been thinking aloud. He wanted to take it back. It was too late.
"I know it's a big country," she snapped. "I need answers from you any way you can get them. Meantime, I'm on my way to the White House to brief the president."
Michael put the phone down and stared at the metal walls of the tiny cubicle of an office he was in, devoid of furniture except for a table, two chairs, and this magic phone. He felt as if he were in a prison cell.
Joyner wanted answers. Michael had only one way to get them. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight thirty in the evening. Irina was probably out at one of the trendy clubs with Natasha or some other girlfriend, or on a date with Suslov.
He called her home. No answer. The same on her cell. He wasn't surprised. She rarely kept it on when she was out for the evening. Said it spoiled her fun. He didn't leave a message. He'd keep trying. Eventually she had to go home.
* * *
"I don't think you should do this," Jack said to Layla.
The two of them were back at last night's brasserie in the neighborhood of Jack's apartment.
Her eyes were blazing with hatred. "I want to do it. More than ever," she insisted. "You should have heard the arrogance in the bastard's voice. I could imagine the smirk on his face. The great lover thinks he's about to score one more conquest that's eluded him." She could see the reluctance on Jack's face. "It's ironic that you suggested it to me. And you're the one who's getting cold feet." She reached over and put her hand on his.
"He's too dangerous. I'm afraid you'll get hurt. Call it off now before it's too late."
She smiled. "You're a smart man, Jack, but I've been in greater danger before. Do you know what it was like living in Beirut during the civil war? We knew that the Muslims saw each of us as a potential target. I've never used the knowledge, but I learned how to fire a gun."
She paused and patted her leather Gucci purse. "Since Nadim had those men attack you, I've kept one with me at all times."
"I'm not surprised. I would never underestimate you."
"Now let's talk about logistics."
He couldn't believe the discussion. She wasn't at all hesitant. She was a very unusual person. He reached into his pocket and slipped out a small plastic bag. Inside were two tiny round objects resembling black buttons. He held the bag under the table. She took it from him and stuffed it in her purse.
"Each one's a powerful electronic transmitter," he said softly.
"Bugs."
"Precisely. They'll transmit to a receiver we've installed in a sound lab not far from the Syrian embassy and Nadim's apartment on the Left Bank. Peel the paper off the bottom of the button and there's a sticky base."
"Where do you want me to plant them?"
He shrugged. "It's your call. See how the evening goes. If he has a briefcase with him, that's a good possibility if the button blends in. If you end up in his apartment..." He hesitated.
"And hopefully I will," she said.
"Then under a desk in a study or some other piece of furniture would be good. Remember, we're looking for places where it'll pick up his voice on the phone or in a meeting."
She nodded.
He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a wrist-watch with a burgundy leather strap and handed it to her. There was a tiny diamond in the center of the small gold face under the word Piaget.
"A Lady Protocol. Jack, I've always wanted one of those. It particularly means a great deal coming from you right now. I take it as a vote of confidence."
He couldn't decide if she was putting him on. "It's not what it seems, although it does keep time. Pushing the stem activates a two-way panic button. I'll be following you around... outside whatever building you're in. It'll set off a buzzer on a receiver in my pocket. I'll come running."
She looked concerned. "If Nadim spots you, that'll blow the whole thing."
"Don't worry. He won't."
"I can really do this myself," she insisted. "I don't need you shadowing me around like some schoolgirl who—" He cut her off. "We're doing this my way."
Chapter 29
Layla became frightened. The minutes of the afternoon passed slowly. The movement of the Piaget watch advanced grimly, as if heading toward the hour of her execution. The bravado she had expressed with
Jack faded. Nadim was a horrible, cruel man. A killer. By doing this she was putting her life on the line.
She took her time getting dressed for her date with Nadim. Wearing a pale pink silk bra and panties, she eyed longingly a bottle of scotch that was standing on the bar. She would have dearly liked one stiff drink to steel her courage. A bad idea, she decided. She'd have to drink enough tonight as it was. She needed to keep her wits as best she could.
One floor below, Daniel Moreau was knocking on the door of the owner of the apartment just beneath Layla's. Moreau had taken Nadim's advice and put several men on the street in the area where the two Syrians had been attacked. He and another one of his people were going door to door in the several closest buildings with Jack Cole's picture, trying to find out whom Jack had been with that evening. In this building it was easy. There were only two apartments to the floor.
Moreau rang the bell to 5B and waited several minutes. When he rang it again and there was still no answer, he slipped a note under the door for the occupant to call him. Then he trudged up the stairs to the top floor.
The owner of 6A, Oliver, was a screenwriter. He resented the intrusion, which came just as he was drafting a critical section of a police action thriller. Besides, Oliver had no desire to cooperate with the police or the SDECE. He made a very good living writing about them, but he had come to despise their brutality in real life.
"I've never seen the man," Oliver said tersely when Moreau showed him Jack Cole's picture.
Moreau wasn't convinced. "I could take you to the center for questioning."
"Not unless you'd like to see yourself on the front page of Figaro," Oliver said.
"Who are you?"
"Go see Cops on the Loose. I wrote it."
Moreau stepped back and Oliver slammed the door.
Across the hall was 6B. On the mailbox downstairs, the occupant was identified as L. G. Moreau rang the bell.
"Who's there?" a woman called from behind the door.
"Police. SDECE," he said.
Not many people knew about the counterespionage agency, but Layla did. Between her fund-raising work for Christians in Lebanon and her involvement with Jack, Layla was apprehensive. She had Jack's cell phone number. For a moment she considered calling him. No, she decided. There was no need to panic. Play it cool and you can get rid of this guy.
"I'll open the door a crack with the chain on," she said, sounding like a careful woman who lived alone. "Show me your ID."
Moreau took it out of his pocket and held it up to the crack in the door. At the same time she was looking at it, he was sizing her up. Foxy woman, he concluded. Wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe, makeup partially on her face. Must be getting ready to go out for the evening.
She opened the door and gave Daniel Moreau a warm smile with a hint of mystery. "What can I do for you, Monsieur Moreau?"
He took out Jack Cole's picture and handed it to her.
As she studied the photograph, her robe loosened a little on top. Moreau found his eyes being drawn to the cleavage between her shapely breasts. Sexy woman. After this was over, maybe he'd come back and get acquainted.
"I'm sorry, Daniel," she said politely. "I've never seen the man before. Did he do something wrong?"
"He killed someone in the neighborhood."
Layla looked astonished, which was genuine. She knew that Jack had been attacked by some of Nadim's thugs. She didn't know how it had ended. Moreau's words made her feel better about the protection Jack would be providing this evening.
"Do you think he'll come back this way?" She was sorry that she kept talking. Don't say too much, she chided herself. Break it off with him.
He handed her his card. "If you see him on the street, please call me." He wanted to add, or if you want company, but he didn't.
"I'll do that, Daniel."
"Good, well, thanks for your time," he said, and was gone.
She was ready to leave the apartment when the doorbell rang again. Oh, hell, she thought. Moreau must have gotten new information and decided to come back. She looked through the peephole and held her breath. No, it was only Oliver, her neighbor. They had developed a friendly relationship over the years—not romantic, as he was interested in men, but they got together for drinks or coffee every month or so.
When she opened the door, Oliver saw she was dressed to go out. "Sorry to bother you," he said. "Did that asshole Moreau from the SDECE grill you too?"
"Yeah," she said, trying to sound irate.
"Why the hell's he looking for this Jack Cole?"
She shrugged and Oliver left.
* * *
Michael dialed Irina at home and on her cell phone every half hour, getting only an answering machine. Finally, at eleven-thirty, she picked up, sounding groggy.
"You woke me," she said. "I just got in a few minutes ago. I went right to sleep."
"Well, where were you? With Suslov? I've been calling all evening."
That annoyed her. "You're not my boss, you know."
Though he wasn't in love with her, Michael still didn't like the idea of her being with Suslov, but he brushed all of that aside. Those four trucks with nuclear weapons were moving south from Volgograd. Michael desperately needed her help to stop them from falling into the hands of lunatics. Right now that was all that counted. He tried a conciliatory approach. "I'm sorry, my little bird, it's just that last night with you was so great."
She laughed. "I know. Poor Micki. So jealous. I wasn't out with Dmitri. You don't have to worry. For me, last night was great, too. This evening I was with Natasha at the Territoria. A boring scene. Nobody was there."
"But lots of men hit on you, I'll bet."
"All babies. I've got my Micki, and he's taking me to Beverly Hills to live."
"I was making plans for us today."
Her face was flushed with excitement. "Wow, really? When are we going?"
"Once this project of mine is finished. If you can help me out, I'll get done faster."
Michael rationalized that what he was telling her was mostly true. When he didn't need her for information on this exchange any longer, he intended to take her to safety in the United States. He'd help her resettle in California before he left her and went back to the Company. Okay, she wouldn't be living in Beverly Hills at first. Maybe she'd start out in Venice or Santa Monica, but he'd help her get a job modeling. Those rich Hollywood guys would eat her up. In a year, two at the most, he was confident that she'd be ensconced in a house in Beverly Hills as some hotshot producer's trophy wife or mistress.
"Tell me what I can do," she said.
"Tomorrow try to find out what you can about the deal Suslov is working on with the Arab who visited him a couple of days ago."
"The one they had all the secrecy about?"
"Yeah. That one. Anything at all."
"I'll do my best. I promise." She sounded sincere and determined.
"That's all I ask, my little bird. I'll keep my cell phone on. Call me anytime."
* * *
As she exited her apartment and climbed into the waiting Jaguar, Layla noticed the two men in suits and ties standing at either end of the block trying to blend in with the scenery. Frenchmen. Not Arabs. Chances were they didn't belong to Nadim. Daniel Moreau must have set a trap for Jack. She'd have to warn him not to come back here.
The restaurant, Carre des Feuillants, was in an old section of Paris, on Rue Castiglione, close to the Ritz Hotel and the Opera. When they were two blocks away, the skies opened with a sudden spring downpour.
Climbing out of the car and under Jean Claude's waiting umbrella, Layla thought about what Jack had told her on their first date: I love how you get in and out of a car. You show lots of gorgeous leg. Where was Jack now? she wondered. Already in the area of the restaurant, or would he come later? She looked around quickly. No sign of Jack. That didn't surprise her. She expected him to be concealed.
"I won't need you any more this evening," she said to Jean Claude.
<
br /> He knew her well enough to sense the tension in her voice and in her movements. "Are you certain? It's not a problem."
"No, I'll be okay," she said, displaying a confidence she didn't feel.
He was reluctant to leave her, but she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Really. I'll be fine."
Her knees were knocking as she proceeded down the small covered path that led to the entrance to the restaurant. Get hold of yourself; you have a chance for revenge. Don't mess it up.
By the time she passed through the door held by the maitre d's assistant, she was walking gracefully and calmly, carrying the black bag with her loaded gun inside. Dressed in a simple mauve sheath, which was a little provocative, she turned men's heads in the small restaurant when she followed the proprietor to a corner table. Nadim was waiting with a glass of champagne in front of him.
He smiled as she approached, then rose smartly. He was wearing a freshly pressed double-breasted pin-striped Armani suit.
He leaned forward to kiss each of her cheeks. She let him, swallowing hard the whole time.
"You look fabulous, my dear," he said.
"And for you, no military uniform this evening."
"I'm decidedly off duty... trying to make a fresh start with you. I figure a different image might help. Try to think of me as a fellow banker."
But you still have the blood of my people on your hands, she thought.
"Champagne?" Nadim asked.
"But of course."
He nodded to a waiter, who hustled over to pour another glass from the bottle of Grande Dame that Nadim had selected.
After they had ordered, Nadim said, "I know I have been a bit persistent in chasing you."
"That's an understatement. You've been horrible."
"But if something's worth having, I'll do everything humanly possible to get it. You should take my behavior as a compliment."
She forced a smile. "Let's ignore all of that. I agreed to one dinner. In return, you promised to stop harassing me. That was our deal."
"Fair enough. We'll also forget our respective politics for this evening. Who knows? You may not even think I'm so bad."
"I doubt it," she said, gritting her teeth. "But promise me one thing."