moment. He began to recover his composure. He said: “Why would you want to visit a war zone with a wimp?”
“It’s not a joking matter!” she said fiercely. “I’m talking about my
He shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t go to Afghanistan.”
“Why not?”
“Because you love me.”
“That doesn’t put me at your disposal.”
At least she had not said
“I won’t wait forever,” she said.
“I’m not asking you to wait forever. I’m asking you to wait a few hours.” He touched her cheek. “Let’s not fight about a few hours.”
She stood up and kissed his mouth hard.
He said: “You won’t go to Afghanistan, will you?”
“I don’t know,” she said levelly.
He tried a grin. “At least, not before lunch.”
She smiled back and nodded. “Not before lunch.”
He looked at her for a moment longer; then he went out.
The broad boulevards of the Champs-Elysees were thronged with tourists and Parisians out for a morning stroll, milling about like sheep in a fold under the warm spring sun, and all the pavement cafes were full. Ellis stood near the appointed place, carrying a backpack he had bought in a cheap luggage store. He looked like an American on a hitchhiking tour of Europe.
He wished Jane had not chosen this morning for a confrontation: she would be brooding now, and would be in a jagged mood by the time he arrived.
Well, he would just have to smooth her ruffled feathers for a while.
He put Jane out of his mind and concentrated on the task ahead of him.
There were two possibilities as to the identity of Rahmi’s “friend,” the one who financed the little terrorist group. The first was that he was a wealthy freedom-loving Turk who had decided, for political or personal reasons, that violence was justified against the military dictatorship and its supporters. If this was the case then Ellis would be disappointed.
The second possibility was that he was Boris.
“Boris” was a legendary figure in the circles within which Ellis moved—among the revolutionary students, the exiled Palestinians, the part-time politics lecturers, the editors of badly printed extremist newspapers, the anarchists and the Maoists and the Armenians and the militant vegetarians. He was said to be a Russian, a KGB man willing to fund any leftist act of violence in the West. Many people doubted his existence, especially those who had tried and failed to get funds out of the Russians. But Ellis had noticed, from time to time, that a group who for months had done nothing but complain that they could not afford a duplicating machine would suddenly stop talking about money and become very security-conscious; and then, a little later, there would be a kidnapping or a shooting or a bomb.
It was certain, Ellis thought, that the Russians gave money to such groups as the Turkish dissidents: they could hardly resist such a cheap and low-risk way of causing trouble. Besides, the U.S. financed kidnappers and murderers in Central America, and he could not imagine that the Soviet Union would be more scrupulous than his own country. And since in this line of work money was not kept in bank accounts or moved around by Telex, somebody had to hand over the actual banknotes; so it followed that there had to be a Boris figure.
Ellis wanted very badly to meet him.
Rahmi walked by at exactly ten thirty, looking edgy, wearing a pink Lacoste shirt and immaculately pressed tan pants. He threw one burning glance at Ellis, then turned his head away.
Ellis followed him, staying ten or fifteen yards behind, as they had previously arranged.
At the next pavement cafe sat the muscular, overweight form of Pepe Gozzi, in a black silk suit as if he had been to Mass, which he probably had. He held a large briefcase in his lap. He got up and fell in more or less alongside Ellis, in such a way that a casual observer would have been unsure whether they were together or not.
Rahmi headed up the hill toward the Arc de Triomphe.
Ellis watched Pepe out of the corner of his eye. The Corsican had an animal’s instinct for self-preservation: unobtrusively, he checked whether he was being followed—once when he crossed the road, and could quite naturally glance back along the boulevard while he stood waiting for the light to change, and again passing a corner shop, where he could see the people behind him reflected in the diagonal window.
Ellis liked Rahmi but not Pepe. Rahmi was sincere and high-principled, and the people he killed probably deserved to die. Pepe was completely different. He did this for money, and because he was too coarse and stupid to survive in the world of legitimate business.
Three blocks east of the Arc de Triomphe, Rahmi turned onto a side street. Ellis and Pepe followed. Rahmi led them across the road and entered the Hotel Lancaster.
So this was the rendezvous. Ellis hoped the meeting was to take place in a bar or restaurant in the hotel: he would feel safer in a public room.
The marbled entrance hall was cool after the heat of the street. Ellis shivered. A waiter in a tuxedo looked askance at his jeans. Rahmi was getting into a tiny elevator at the far end of the L-shaped lobby. It was to be a hotel room, then. So be it. Ellis followed Rahmi into the elevator and Pepe squeezed in behind. Ellis’s nerves were drawn wire-tight as they went up. They got off at the fourth floor and Rahmi led them to Room 41 and knocked.
Ellis tried to make his face calm and impassive.
The door opened slowly.
It was Boris. Ellis knew it as soon as he set eyes on the man, and he felt a thrill of triumph and at the same time a cold shiver of fear. Moscow was written all over the man, from his cheap haircut to his solidly practical shoes, and there was the unmistakable style of the KGB in his hard-eyed look of appraisal and the brutal set of his mouth. This man was not like Rahmi or Pepe; he was neither a hotheaded idealist nor a swinish mafioso. Boris was a stone-hearted professional terrorist who would not hesitate to blow the head off any or all of the three men who now stood before him.
I’ve been looking for you for a long time, thought Ellis.
Boris held the door half open for a moment, partly shielding his body while he studied them; then he stepped back and said in French: “Come in.”
They walked into the sitting room of a suite. It was rather exquisitely decorated, and furnished with chairs, occasional tables and a cupboard which appeared to be eighteenth-century antiques. A carton of Marlboro cigarettes and a duty-free liter of brandy stood on a delicate bowlegged side table. In the far corner a half-open door led to a bedroom.
Rahmi’s introductions were nervously perfunctory: “Pepe. Ellis. My friend.”
Boris was a broad-shouldered man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to show meaty, hair-covered forearms. His blue serge trousers were too heavy for this weather. Over the back of a chair was slung a black-and- tan-checked jacket, which would look wrong with the blue trousers.
Ellis put his backpack on the rug and sat down.
Boris gestured at the brandy bottle. “A drink?”
Ellis did not want brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning. He said: “Yes, please—coffee.”
Boris gave him a hard, hostile look, then said: “We’ll all have coffee,” and went to the phone. He’s used to everyone being afraid of him, Ellis thought; he doesn’t like it that I treat him as an equal.
Rahmi was plainly in awe of Boris, and fidgeted anxiously, fastening and unfastening the top button of his pink polo shirt while the Russian called room service.
