It was now the admiral’s turn. All he had to say was that Lemke was working on another approach to the fertilizer and gravel problem.
“He agrees that the way his inventions are at the moment is not suitable for our purposes,” the admiral concluded. “I hope we’ll have results from him soon.”
“Please follow that up, admiral,” Anne said. “Now, what about our computer whiz?”
Sir Cedric shook his head. Martin shrugged.
“I have a grandson,” the admiral said slowly. “He is seventeen years old, and has some knowledge of computers. As far as his parents—my son and his wife—are concerned, he spends all of his time by the computer. That alone, in their book, qualifies him as a freak. I cannot vouch for any of his capabilities, however. I’ll try to see what he can contribute on hacker information.”
“Good luck, admiral,” Anne said, smiling.
The same departure ritual was now repeated. Anne reiterated that she was not to be contacted, and that all communications were to be delivered through the admiral. Again, she left first after instructing them to leave one by one.
And again, Martin couldn’t find her when he got to the hotel’s main doors. He wanted to see her, hold her, embrace and kiss her, give her the present he bought for her in Shiraz—and she was deliberately avoiding him. Why? Yes, he could very easily answer this question by breaking the rule she had imposed on them. He could just call her, and to hell with the ramifications. But military discipline overcame this urge, and with an effort, he restrained himself.
He decided to catch the next plane to London.
It couldn’t be just the Allier investigation, Martin thought in the taxi on the way to the Brussels-Zaventem Airport. That’s a dead end, and she knows it. And the association’s progress is smooth enough—no worries there. So that leaves the Tanya murder case …
My god!
She’s going to do something on her own. She doesn’t want me to interfere—perhaps even to stop her! But what is she planning? The only lead she had was …
MY GOD!!
She’s going to rue Saint-Denis again! Alone!
“Driver!” he shouted. “Forget the airport. Take me to the train station. Hurry!”
Philip Brown was busy in London making the final preparations for Martin’s next trip to Seoul. He had already registered a fictitious import-export business, Ascromex International Trade Ltd., in London, giving the ‘cowshed’s’ address as its location. He opened a bank account for the new firm, and ordered stationery with a fancy letterhead. Now Martin would be able to instruct Charlie or Sing in Seoul to send orders for products to this company. The shipments would, therefore, be perfectly legitimate—even though their contents were legally questionable. From Seoul, however, it would be up to Sing to complete the delivery to North Korea.
Martin’s left the Gare du Nord railway station in Paris and took the metro to rue Saint-Denis. He sauntered down the brightly lit street with the dim doorways, trying to look like a potential customer. There were many other men doing exactly the same, so Martin did not feel so conspicuous.
“Why don’t you come with me, chéri?”
A woman in her early thirties, in black netting stockings, short skirt, and heavy makeup had just linked her arm into his.
“Thank you, not tonight, mademoiselle. I am actually looking for Ninette.” Martin was surprised at how easily he managed the conversation.
“Would that be la grande Ninette?”
“No. She’s the blonde with the ponytail.”
The woman pointed across the street.
“Perhaps in there,” she said noncommittally, disengaged herself and walked away.
“Thank you,” Martin murmured to her back, and approached the building. Three girls leaned against the doorway. None of them matched the description he had given. One of the girls detached herself from the group and walked toward him, smiling.
“Where’s Ninette?” he asked her.
“She has a guest right now,” she said. “But I’m available. How about it?”
Martin smiled back at her.
“Maybe some other time,” he said. He made a note of the hotel’s address and made his way back to the metro station.
This is no place for Anne to come alone, he thought. Under any circumstances! I must find a way to prevent her.
Back at the London gym, Martin and Spencer Partridge began preparing for their third visit to South Korea. At the same time, Martin wanted to start the ball rolling concerning Iranian underground groups.
He had given the idea much thought. A couple roaming the Iranian restaurants of London would probably be the easiest way to begin. And Patricia would be just the girl to be half of that couple. He called her on her cellphone and set up a luncheon meeting at a London café.
There was still one thing to do before meeting Patricia. Martin called Bernard Webb and George Graham into his office.
“Lads,” he said, “I need to find a computer hacker.”
Bernard and George looked at each other. Another ‘mysterious’ assignment.
“Look,” George said, “I’m pretty good with computers. Perhaps I could help. I once programmed—”
“Can you infiltrate into other computer systems?” Martin interrupted.
“Well, if they’re protected, it would take some time.”
“Thanks, George, but that’s not good enough. I need someone who does this on a daily basis. Someone who can get through the toughest firewalls and security systems. Know anyone like that? Bernard?” They shook their heads. “Then find me someone. And soon.”
Martin took the subway into central London, where he was to meet Patricia. She was waiting for him, all smiles. Muffins and coffee were on the table.
“Good of you to come on such short notice,” Martin said.
“Your offers always sound so enticing.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t find our last trip too tiring.”
“Quite the contrary. Shiraz and Persepolis were somewhat grueling, but that didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself.”
“I’d like you to do another task for us. Here in London.”
“Oh, dear.” Patricia acted out the disappointed schoolchild. “You’re not sending me to bring penguins from the South Pole? Or a genuine Inca skull from Peru? I am truly devastated.” She grinned.
Martin grinned back and took a bite of a muffin. He started to get up.
“Well, I’ll just have to find someone else, then …”
They both burst out laughing.
“Tell me about this London caper,” Patricia said when they had calmed down.
“After our trip to Iran, we arrived at the conclusion that we could not do the job there ourselves. The risks involved in bringing our stuff into the country, distributing it and operating it, are just too high. We’ll need local people to do these things.”
“I thought you didn’t know anyone there. Otherwise, we would have met them on our trip, wouldn’t we?”
“You’re right, we don’t. But there are many Iranian émigrés in Europe—even here in London. Most of them oppose the current regime in Iran. And some of these opposers may actually be doing something about it.”
“Like organizing underground movements?”
“Clever girl. And these organizations would probably have associates back in Iran.”
“Makes sense,” Patricia said.
“We want to make contact with these expatriates. Through them, we want to get the local Iranian underground—and believe me, it’s there—to cooperate with us. As we do not employ warlike measures, there’s a good chance we’ll succeed.”
“That’s a tall order. How do you think I should go about it?”
“You won’t be alone. We think it best if a couple visits places where Iranians tend to congregate. We cannot very well enter their mosques, but they do have restaurants open to the public, which are frequented by the Iranian populace. The couple would try to make friends, sympathize, strike up relati
onships—in short, build a stable contact.”
“And then?”
“We’ll play it by ear. You’ll be gathering a lot of information, which we’ll use to plan our next steps.”
“Sounds all right. Who is to be my partner?”
Martin smiled.
“John Carmichael,” he said, looking at her intently.
For the first time, Patricia looked startled, and she squirmed uncomfortably. She was not used to feeling awkward.
Patricia and John had been an item several years ago, before Malcolm Welles came into the picture and swept her off her feet. She had met John through her brother, George. They had a short, but torrid, affair, which was cut short by Malcolm’s arrival and his dazzling charm. Malcolm was a mistake, of course, and her divorce soon after their marriage was an attempt to rectify this. But ever since then, she had avoided all contact with John, and George respected her embarrassment by not mentioning him. Martin must have known, she thought. Nothing escapes him. Is he deliberately trying to get us together again?
She made up her mind.
“All right,” she said.
Commissaire Duval could not track Sir Cedric Norton in London. He had already used up all the hospitality that his friendship with Assistant Commissioner MacLeod would allow. Furthermore, he could not know when Sir Cedric arrived in Paris—dedicating huge resources to check all arrivals by air or by train would draw attention, something he wished to avoid at all costs.
But tracking Professeur Anne Dupré was another story. He had Inspecteur Marnier stake out her house and report where she went and whom she met. Thus, he discovered that she had made two train trips—one northbound and the other southbound, with her children.
To the south was a dead end—her late husband’s parents lived there, and it was perfectly natural for her children to visit their grandparents. The northbound train, however, was an enigma. It passed through Belgium and the Netherlands, and she could have disembarked anywhere. Naturally, he could not order Marnier to follow her out of the country and find out her destination.
Back to the good old days, Duval thought. I’ll just have to follow her myself.
He instructed Marnier to keep watch on the Professeur’s house, to follow her to the train station, and to inform him the minute she did so. Duval’s intention was to wait until she took a northbound train, then board it himself and note where she got off. If this occurred while still within France, there would be no problem in having her followed. And if she alighted in Brussels, for example, he would request immediate assistance of his Belgian colleagues in picking up a pursuit begun earlier in Paris.
Now all he had to do was wait for the opportunity.
Once again, Anne located an empty office at the university and used the phone on the desk to call Alfred Boulanger.
“My dear Anne! I thought you had forgotten me.”
“Please forgive me, Alfred. I’ve been terribly busy. In fact, some of my busy time was discussing with my colleagues the possibilities your satellite affords.”
“Yes. I was wondering what became of your plans.”
“I’d like to talk about them with you.”
“Could it wait for a few days, Anne? I have a three-day conference in Lyon starting tomorrow. After that, I’d be happy to—”
“You know what, Alfred? I’d be happy for a change in atmosphere. How about we meet in Lyon tomorrow, during you lunch break?”
Boulanger was delighted. They set up the location and the hour, and Anne left the office without being seen.
FIFTY-FIVE
Martin Cooper and Spencer Partridge arrived in Seoul for the third time. During the flight, Spencer kept thinking of his good fortune in hooking up with Martin after being discharged from the army. Not only did he have a job with a decent income, he now also had these unexpected opportunities to visit far-off places and carry out exciting missions.
Martin thought of Anne. It had been weeks since they had been alone together. On two occasions, they had spent hours in conference with the board, and he had avoided looking her in the eyes because he felt she preferred not to meet his gaze. He thought of various excuses—the Allier investigation and Duval’s audacity must surely have had an effect on the behavior of a woman as sensitive and fragile as Anne. But then, if that were the case, wouldn’t finding solace in Martin’s arms be the first option to take? But the decision had been made, and he felt sure it was the right one—he wouldn’t call Anne until those issues had blown over. That’s it, then, he thought. Quit moping. You have a job to do.
Inspecteur Marnier was fed up with the odd assignments delegated to him by Commissaire Duval. True, Duval was his superior, but Marnier had this growing suspicion that not all was as it appeared, and that the commissaire had ulterior motives behind his actions.
He had just followed Anne Dupré to the Gare de Lyon. He called Duval and reported.
“She’s going south again,” he said. “Probably meeting with her in-laws….”
The commissaire didn’t like this at all. She was there with her children just a short while ago. It could certainly be that one of the elder Duprés had taken ill, but Duval was not one to dawdle when a quick decision needed to be made.
“Get on that train, Marnier,” he ordered. “Make sure of where she goes. If you notice the slightest variation in her behavior, call me at once!”
The Inspecteur just barely managed to catch the train. He found a seat in the carriage behind the one carrying Anne, and at every stop he had to open the carriage door, lean out and make sure she hadn’t got off.
To his surprise, she alighted at Lyon.
Marnier took care not to be seen by Anne as he followed her off the pier. Outside the station, he saw her get into a taxi. By the time he caught another one, Anne was out of sight. Frustrated, he called the commissaire.
Duval was furious by Marnier’s report. He summoned the inspecteur back to the office in Paris. When he calmed down, the commissaire tried to work things out rationally. He still came up with no results. I have nothing on her, he thought. In fact, I am probably doing her a great disservice. And yet … I cannot quit now after investing so much effort. No, not yet. Something unexpected, extraordinary, should happen. Another murder, maybe, or an anonymous letter with a lead. Just a little bit more….
Anne asked the taxi driver to drop her off at the Lyon City Hall. She walked directly to the ladies’ rest room and waited inside a stall for three minutes. On exiting, no suspicious persons were in view. She left the building, got into a taxi, and requested to go to the Lyon Cathedral. Halfway there she informed the driver that she had forgotten something at City Hall and would he please take her back.
From within City Hall she looked out onto the street. No suspicious followers. If Inspecteur Marnier had followed her to Lyon, she would have seen him following her taxi to the cathedral. She then went to keep her appointment with Boulanger at the Place Bellecour.
The square was an immense rectangle, and Café Bellecour was neatly tucked onto one of its sides. It was relatively quiet despite being located in the center of the city. Alfred Boulanger rose to greet her with an outstretched hand and a smile. He had on a business suit, and a large conference badge—with his name emblazoned on it—was hanging from his neck. A briefcase was on the floor beside his chair.
“How are you, my dear? You look a bit tired. I know, train rides do that to me, too.”
“I’m fine, Alfred, really. But you’re right about the train ride. And how are you doing?”
“Fine, fine.” He signaled the waitress and they ordered lunch.
“How is our satellite doing?” Anne asked.
“Better than you after a train ride,” Boulanger joked. “It’s up there in the sky, doing its commercial tasks to perfection. And it has its little extra something on board just waiting to be tested. A dry run, of course. We must be sure that the laser beam can be accurately aimed at any target. You realize, don’t you, that our aiming apparatus is unique?”<
br />
“I was hoping you would explain that to me,” Anne said with a smile.
“This is not a case of marking a target for a guided missile. We are not concerned with rockets and trajectories. We have our laser-beam generator in the satellite that, because of its distance, needs an extremely precise aiming mechanism.”
“How precise is that?”
“You know, of course, that coordinates on the globe are measured in degrees, minutes and seconds. Well, one second of latitude is approximately equal to thirty meters. If the coordinates you provide me are accurate within a tenth of a second, I can guarantee a laser hit within five to ten meters, provided the target is within the hundred kilometer square view port of the satellite.”
“That’s ten thousand square kilometers. Very impressive, indeed. How do you aim the laser?”
“Through the control panel in my office. All the commands to the satellite, and laser beam, originate there.”
“And how portable is this console of yours? I mean, could we have one and operate it ourselves from London or New York?”
Boulanger laughed.
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