He touched the bandage lightly.
“You have a key? He didn’t tell me.”
“Yes, I’m Steve. And you are…?”
“Oh, I’m Benjamin. I’m the cook. I’m actually a student at the Cordon Bleu school. In return for doing the cooking, I get room and board. It’s a win-win for everybody, isn’t it? Well, it was until last night. Look what they did to me.”
He took off his beret to reveal a white pad being held in place by the bandage over the shaved right side of his head.
“They? What happened to you? Where is Dr. Coogan?”
Benjamin went up the stairs past Steve, who followed him to an archway that led to office.
“Look.”
A tornado seemed to have hit. There were papers, books and files all over the floor.
“Look at this mess. Somebody came in during the night. I had just come back. My apartment is downstairs next to the garage. I was at my girlfriend’s apartment since Dr. Coogan left but we had an argument.”
He shrugged, raised his hands palm up and rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, I woke up, came upstairs and they knocked me out, but not before I saw this holy mess.”
“Are you okay? What did they steal?”
“I bet Achoura let them in. She’s the Moroccan maid—comes in at least once a week. We have cops out front twenty-four/seven. Only someone with a key could have come in. And she had a key. I called the police but they haven’t shown up. The cops outside said it wasn’t their job,” he rambled. He blinked rapidly; he licked his lips.
“And where is Dr. Coogan?” Steve tried again.
“Didn’t I tell you? He’s on a business trip. He left pretty suddenly. Hard to remember now. Two days ago?”
Steve tried to calm Benjamin but decided that only time could help. He wanted to go for a run and take a shower. Benjamin was too agitated to answer questions, but Benjamin kept talking.
“What did they take? I wouldn’t know about missing stuff. Achoura is the one who has the run of the house. We won’t see her again, I’m sure. Look at this.”
He led Steve from the office into the dining room. Destroyed paintings and broken glass on the floor.
“Well, with the police outside, nothing big could have been stolen.” Steve grinned. “I just hope the beds are still here. I’ll be ready to crash pretty soon. If they didn’t steal anything, why did they come? Do you think they could come back?”
“Come back? The hell you say!”
Benjamin’s eyes suddenly got bigger.
“I guess you can take any bedroom on the top floor.”
He left Steve to fend for himself and went downstairs.
The house had a narrow front on the street and was designed vertically. The garage and servants’ quarters at street level; kitchen, living, dining room and a den up one flight; the master bedroom and a sitting room on the next level; and several bedrooms on the top floor.
As soon as he could, Steve changed and went out for a run, leaving Benjamin to deal with the police, if and when they came. After being strapped in a flying box across the Atlantic, he needed to get out and breathe, to clear his mind. He was mystified by the break-in. If no valuables were stolen, what was the purpose of the intrusion? Had they found whatever they were looking for?
Steve wondered what his absent host was involved in, and where he was. Steve was on a business trip to Morocco. Success in Morocco would give him a step up on the promotion ladder. And, hopefully, Morocco would open the door to other projects in the Arab world. He would show his father that there were careers outside of the CIA. He wanted to carve his own path. More practically, he needed to pay off longstanding student and credit card debts and he feared that a government salary guaranteed that he would be in debt forever.
But he had gone along with his father’s suggestion to stop in Paris and meet his former CIA colleague Ted Coogan, who had left the Agency and, based on his fluent Arabic and Ph.D. in Middle Eastern studies, had gained respectability in European academic circles. He would be an excellent resource on the Arab world and on Morocco in particular, Marshall had told Steve who had grudgingly admitted that it couldn’t hurt. His father has suggestions for everything.
Coogan and Church had served together in Morocco under diplomatic cover. Steve wondered if Coogan was still with the CIA.
The Bois de Boulogne was less than fifty yards south of the Coogan house and his legs were soon propelling him on a path that took him past the Jardin d’Acclimatation and to the Allée de Longchamps, where he turned right. A mile and a quarter farther he made another right to complete a triangle. He looked at his watch: twenty-five minutes, or about three miles, he calculated. It was still fairly early but not too early for other runners and equestrians. On the way from the airport, Steve’s taxi had driven by butchers and fish markets raising their metal shutters. Delivery trucks monopolized the streets. The city was waking up—a great time to run. It made him excited to be in Paris.
Steve stopped in the kitchen on his way upstairs and found a note from Ted Coogan that he hadn’t seen before.
Welcome Steve, make yourself at home. Sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the airport. I had to go out of town but will be back before you
