by Fritz Galt
“And the other pilot?” May asked hopefully.
“His parachute was discovered, but no pilot.” The woman gestured to a tiny television set with an announcer jabbering away at lightning speed. Meanwhile, the mother laid out dinner for three.
“I am a-sorry. I am interrupt.”
“Pas du tout,” the young woman said dismissively. “Not at all.”
May took a last look outside. Men in yellow slickers scrambled across the rooftop opposite her. They used the oddly spaced chimney pots for balance and looked about in a searching manner.
“I must telephone,” she announced.
“As you please.” The young woman showed her a portable phone on a writing table.
“I am not long.” She was ashamed of her intrusion and conscious of the man’s hostile stare. She picked up the phone and punched in Jade’s cell phone number.
“Wei?” Jade answered.
May reverted to Mandarin with a strong accent. “It’s me. Are you safe?”
Jade gasped. “Yes. I’m back at the airport. Where are you?”
“Downtown somewhere. What happened to Liang?”
“I shot him down. That’s all I know.”
Jade didn’t know any more than she did, perhaps less. Her thoughts returned to the shoot-down. Difficult as it was to admit, May had been unable to shake Liang off her tail, and she had had to rely on Jade’s help to survive. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said, more grudging than grateful.
“Don’t mention it. I’m with Brad. He wants to talk to you.”
“Okay. Put him on,” she said with a tinge of impatience. What could he offer under the circumstances? The poor guy didn’t even speak French. She rolled her eyes at the young woman who was trying unsuccessfully to appear aloof.
Brad’s baritone voice came over the phone. He sounded unexpectedly somber. “May?”
“Hi, Brad. I survived.”
“I’m glad.” His normally cheery voice had undertones of dread.
“What is your problem?” she asked.
“We have to hide you. This call may be monitored.”
“I think Liang is living,” she said. “They found his nylons.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. I’m heading to the embassy where I’ll make some calls. You and your father need to work your way safely to a place where we can meet up.”
She watched the men pointing at the building she was in. She turned her back.
“What is Liang wanting?” she whispered into the phone.
But Brad had already hung up. Ever the suspicious son of a spy, Brad wouldn’t let a phone call last longer than thirty seconds in such circumstances. And his directions were purposefully vague. Admirable as far as tradecraft went, but so imprecise as to be useless.
She had to assume that he was going to the American Embassy. But he could have meant the Chinese Embassy. Which did he mean? Before heading for any embassy, she had other things to attend to.
Her father, for one. The prominent anthropologist Dr. Yu Zhaoguo was waiting for her at the Hôtel George V. First they had to check out. Then they had to find a safe place to hide.
Twice in the past few years, Liang had abducted her father. Both times had led to near disaster for the world. She had to prevent Liang from using her father’s knowledge yet again.
“May I punch your phone again?” she requested of the young woman.
Policemen collected on the opposite rooftop. The young man scowled and glowered at the daughter. The mother made an abnormally loud clatter in the kitchen.
“Just one more call,” May insisted, and rapidly dialed the number of the hotel where her father was staying. “Room 328,” she requested.
“Wei?” Her father sounded groggy.
“Are you okay?” she asked in Chinese, instantly alert for signs that he was in trouble.
“Just sleepy,” he said with a yawn.
“Listen closely, baba. I need you to check out of the hotel and go down avenue George V to the Chinese Embassy. Do not ask questions. Just go there immediately.”
She clicked the phone off and handed it to the young man, who stood inches from her face.
“I am a-sorry.” She bowed to her reluctant saviors. “Enjoy your dinner.”
She had to hop on a subway train and take it to the Saint Lazare station near the Chinese Embassy.
The young man snatched the phone out of her hand. The last thing she heard as she left was his punching three numbers into the phone. It sounded like the pan-European emergency number “112.”
Chapter 11
The moment May stepped out of the apartment building, she knew that the police had located her. Footsteps pounded her way. A two-way radio crackled through the downpour.
She turned back into the courtyard.
Why was she running? She had done nothing wrong. Maybe the police were looking after her welfare.
On the other hand, her plane had caused damage, perhaps even fatalities. She might be wanted for manslaughter. After all, a dogfight over the city would seem reckless to most observers.
But she had a more pressing reason to avoid the authorities, a deeper concern. If she ended up in jail, Liang would find her or get to her father. She simply could not allow either to happen.
She headed for her only means of escape: the church. Its doors were open wide to the courtyard and she could see wedding guests waiting for the storm to pass. Nobody seemed concerned that a strange Chinese woman was entering the sanctuary. Their subdued demeanor indicated that the festivities were on hold.
A quick glance around the vestibule revealed that the principle players were preparing to leave. Men distributed umbrellas and snapped them open. The groom was looking about anxiously. His bride was nowhere to be seen.
May walked past the group and headed for a side door. Perhaps that led to an alley through which she could escape. She was wrong. It led downstairs. The air grew chillier as she descended. Increasingly, she picked up female voices urging someone to do something. Then she heard rapping on a heavy wooden door.
When she reached the last step, she paused to look around. Women from the bridal party had gathered around a door and were speaking through it in desperate tones.
May continued across the room that extended the full width of the church, and found a second door. Unfortunately, it led to further underground chambers. She passed a library, turned a few corners and found a canteen, then a janitor’s closet. The last door had a crucifix on it. She had no qualms entering sacred places. So she went in.
But it was no sacred place. It was a women’s restroom. And the bride crouched sobbing by the sink.
What in the name of the Middle Kingdom?
The bride looked up, startled.
May’s heart went out to her. “What is your problem?” she whispered in English. She took in the dingy room, the dirty sink and the toilets with their industrial cleaner smell.
The young woman, who had been inconsolable just seconds before, ceased sobbing and tried to fathom who the stranger was and how she had stumbled upon her. “There is no problem,” she said unconvincingly. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” May said. “And I am helpful. Tell me your problem.”
At that point, the woman launched into a tirade. Unfortunately, it was in French.
Nonetheless, May nodded understandingly, forgivingly, and waited for the bride to get hold of her emotions. While the woman talked, May helped her to her feet and removed her veil in order to wash the tears from her cheeks.
With a flash of inspiration, she realized that she had a solution for both their problems. She could wear the veil. The bride was petite like her, and May could easily fit into her dress. And if she read the woman’s feelings correctly, she didn’t want to go through with the marriage, starting with the wedding night.
She had a solution for both their problems.
“Calm down,” she told the young bride. “I can help you. Look.” She held the veil over her face.
In the mirror, she could see that it obscured her features and even the dark color of her hair. “You can escape that way.” She pointed to the back door that she had used to enter the restroom.
“You will do this for me?” the bride asked, surprised, but not offended by the offer.
“Naturellement,” May said, borrowing the phrase that she had heard in the apartment.
An ironic smile formed on the woman’s lips. She reached behind her neck and began to undress. “Please help me with this.”
Within minutes, May was wearing the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. The bodice hugged her gently, the lace caressed her skin, and the taffeta floated just above the floor.
May took a last look in the mirror and tears welled up in her eyes. She would make such a beautiful bride.
Then the real bride lowered the veil over May’s face. “Voila!” She handed her a bouquet of lilacs, moved to the back door and blew a kiss. “Merci!”
May felt a moment of panic. How in the world was she going to pull this off? She squeezed her eyes tight to remove the tears. Then, with a determined jerk, she unfastened the bolt to the bathroom door.
Several women spilled into the room. While they recovered themselves, May began to waft swiftly in the general direction of the staircase. How could brides see through those veils?
“Brava!” a woman exclaimed, likely moved by her show of resolve.
Before she reached the first step, she heard the women give a rousing cheer, mixed with sighs of relief. The bride would rejoin her man, and the festivities would resume. The story would have a happy ending.
She lifted the front of her dress and climbed upward. The pumps were too big for her, so she had to concentrate not to stumble. At last she detected a glow of light from the vestibule. She took a deep breath and stepped out.
She heard a chorus of “Ahh’s” and muffled applause from gloved hands. Rice began to shower upon her.
A man’s hand tucked under her elbow, and she shuffled straight out of the church.
Raindrops drummed on an umbrella, then a car door opened. When the footsteps beside her halted, she stopped. A man whispered in her ear. “Je m’excuse, mon amour.”
Whatever that meant.
She climbed into the car as gracefully as a bride could. The door closed on the cheers.
Just then the courtyard was filled with the undulating wail of a police siren.
The opposite door opened. May held her breath.
“Je suis un bête, je sais.” It was only the groom, eager to make amends.
Let him confess all he wanted. She wasn’t going to respond until they were safely out of the neighborhood.
The sedan lurched forward and apparently the police let them pass. Soon they had left the courtyard behind and joined a steady flow of traffic on a major street.
The groom’s hands were all over her. His voice was low and insinuating in her ear. She lifted his hands off her and set them in his lap.
The rebuke worked for only a minute, and he went back to slipping his fingers between the buttons of her dress and massaging her legs. So that was why brides needed so many layers. But the guy was working hard, from the marriage bouquet and chauffeur-driven car to the persistent whispered pleas. At first, she thought she might enjoy the charade, but it got old fast.
If the bride liked the groom and the groom liked the bride, then why all the effort and expense of a wedding? If a girl and a guy liked each other, why not just get on with it?
Which led to thoughts of Brad.
She slapped the man’s hand as it probed deeper.
Now, Brad was an uncomplicated sort of guy, unencumbered by the normal traditions of society. He was a guy who could pick up and move to China to live with her without it bruising his ego. He could do without the pretense of a wedding. The two were natural lovers, and what more did one need?
The rainfall began to let up. But that was drowned out by the groom’s sucking on her ear.
She jerked away and he laughed. It was a loathsome, unsympathetic kind of laugh.
All right. One more traffic light, and poof! she was going to bolt. Their union had lasted long enough. Why would anyone marry such a creep?
The car sloshed down the street, without a hint of slowing down. She had to find the right moment to jilt her lover. But when the time came to make her move, how could she escape him? Her shoes were oversized, and her gown was too bulky. She needed an edge.
There was always…
She slipped a gloved hand from under the bouquet and began to probe the man’s lap. He squirmed with delight. She found his belt buckle and swiftly unfastened it. He sighed and slid lower in the seat, letting her take control. Next came the zipper, which was difficult to open due to the enormous pressure behind it.
The traffic slowed down.
She worked her hand under his pants and found silk boxers. He helped by arching upward and lowering his shorts. All the while, he was muttering under his breath.
She picked up the sound of cross traffic accelerating into the intersection.
“Enbrasse-moi.” Her groom was turning to throw a leg over her. His white buttocks gleamed in the dark interior of the car.
It was time. They hadn’t even come to a complete halt when she threw the door open. She squeezed out and stepped onto the pavement.
“Marie?”
She slammed the door in his face. The guy was so obsessed, he didn’t even realize who he was making love to.
She turned and charged through puddles and a line of cars. She bounced off people’s umbrellas.
She lifted her veil for a better look. The decapitated Eiffel Tower stood out before her. She chose a different direction and shuffled amid hoots and whistles toward a taxi stand.
“Marie!”
Loping footsteps sounded behind her. It must be hard to pull up pants while running.
The first taxi in line had its engine running. She climbed in headfirst, then swung around to draw in her train and close the door.
“Chinese Embassy, please!”
The driver paused to study his passenger.
“Quick.”
“Ambassade chinoise,” he acknowledged, and put the car in gear.
May glanced out the back window. Her would-be groom turned the corner and looked everywhere for her. How could she have simply disappeared?
She pulled the veil off and threw it out the window. Then she tossed out the flowers.
What a busy day it had been. She had managed to crash a plane, evade the police, and ruin a wedding all before dinner.
Soon the red flag of the People’s Republic of China appeared through the windshield. She admired the ring of yellow stars and the large yellow star that stood for the Communist Party.
She was safe at last.
Chapter 12
At Le Bourget Airport, Brad watched Jade being taken away by the Chinese delegation. Only one of their four planes had returned, and they wanted answers.
He found a public phone and called ahead to the American Embassy. He asked for the station chief, who turned out to be at home that Sunday. Patched through, Brad asked if he could use a secure phone to reach Igor Sullivan, the alias his father used at the CIA.
The chief spymaster repeated the name with awe and recommended that they meet at the consulate that evening, where he would be attending a formal gathering. Brad could make his phone call then.
“Time to go into your smooth, debonair mode,” Earl said. “You know how fancy those receptions are.”
Brad shrugged off the flattery, but did see the need for a shower and fresh clothes.
At their pension, he cleaned up and changed into a sweater and the best pair of slacks he owned. Then he waited to hear from May, but she never called. He turned the television on. There was plenty of coverage of the Eiffel Tower disaster and the ongoing manhunt. But he didn’t understand a word of it. CNN International had a brief story about authorities searching for two missing pilots, but gave no details.
Eventually, he muted the volume and spent a moment perusing a tourist brochure about historic buildings, including the American Embassy, before leaving with Earl by cab.
The American Consulate building was in a fabulous location, just north of the Seine River. He thought he knew what to expect as they pulled up, but the building’s grandeur took his breath away.
“The spy prepares for cocktail hour,” Earl narrated.
“Give me a break.”
He paid the cabbie and stepped out.
He was about to enter a piece of history, a building that had survived a revolution, Napoleon, two world wars and the State Department’s Office of Overseas Buildings.
The U.S. Consulate in Paris was located at the edge of the Jardin des Tuilleries, on the northeast corner of the grandiose Place de la Concorde, with the American Embassy chancery located nearby on the northwest corner of the square.
According to the brochure, the consulate was the former personal residence of some of France’s most famous statesmen. In fact, the entire street was named after the building’s first occupant, the Count of Saint-Florentin, Minister of Foreign Affairs and personal friend of King Louis XV. The King’s official architect had designed the hôtel particulier in 1770. A team of the best sculptors and painters of the period created the interior.
The building had passed hands from marquises to dukes to princesses until it became the personal residence of Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Prince of Bénévent in 1812. A central figure in European history, he entertained czars, lords, kings and emperors there.
Upon Talleyrand’s death in 1838, the Rothschild family acquired the residence. It remained in the family until after the Second World War when the U.S. Government purchased the building. It became the headquarters of the Marshall Plan, which restored war-ravaged Europe and set the continent on the path to economic prosperity.
Earl let out a low whistle. “Sure could use a paint job.”
They gave their names to the Marine guard, who checked his list and let her enter. They passed into the state apartments of what still looked like a residence.
The ceilings were high. The walls had sculpted wood panels of a light gray tone with gold leaf gilding.