it flashed through my mind: Good thing this guy is my friend, you sure wouldn’t want him as your enemy.
“Nothing yet,” I said. “But you know how the fucking bureaucracy works. Give them time.” I hadn’t yet heard what my new CIA boss would have to say about cooperating with the Mossad. He might not be exactly thrilled about it.
Two days later, on a breezy morning with cloudy skies, I drove to Ben Gurion Airport just outside Tel Aviv, returned my rented car, and boarded flight LY 324 to Charles de Gaulle International Airport in France, twenty miles north of Paris. We landed at five thirty in the afternoon. A boyish, athletic-looking man in his early thirties approached me at the gate.
“Mr. Gordon?” I nodded. “I’m Matt Kilburn.”
“Please show me an ID,” I asked cordially, but firmly. He showed me his U.S. passport.
“OK,” I said. “Where do we go?”
“First, please give me your passports.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You’re getting a new one. I’m sending your old passport back to your office in New York by diplomatic pouch.” He handed me a sealed envelope with a new U.S. passport and an Arizona driver’s license. Both carried my picture, with my new name, Anthony P. Blackthorn. I gave him my official government employee’s passport and my personal passport, and walked with him through immigration and customs. Within twenty minutes we were outside the terminal building in a Peugeot 607 driven by a young blonde woman who couldn’t have been a day older than twenty-six.
“Hi,” she said as I sat in the back seat. “Welcome to Paris.”
“Glad to be here. Where are we going?”
“To a nice place, I can assure you.”
There was no point in asking any further questions. Having been a frequent visitor to France, I couldn’t help but notice that we weren’t going to Paris. As we entered the A13 highway, the car turned north toward Rouen, instead of south.
Twenty minutes passed in complete silence while I looked at green fields and busy rush-hour traffic. I saw an Exit 14 sign to Vernon and Giverny, and the car took the exit. I remembered the name Giverny. This village, in the gateway to Normandy, was for many years the home of Claude Monet, the French Impressionist. We passed a bridge over the Seine and three miles later we entered the village. Many tourists were walking in the streets, particularly on rue Claude Monet, where a simple sign directed the visitors to Fondation Claude Monet, his home and garden. Approximately one hundred yards down the road, I saw the Musee d’Art Americain Giverny.
I could no longer hold back. “Is that where we are going?” I asked. “To these museums?”
“I wish,” said the blonde female at the wheel. “But I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to visit these places. They are nothing short of magnificent.” She pointed to the Musee d’Art Americain as we passed it. “This museum presents American Impressionist paint ers influenced by Claude Monet. I think they are affiliated with the Terra Museum, near Chicago.”
“So where are we going?” I asked again.
“To a small, nearby chateau.”
The car turned into a small village road, and ten minutes later I saw the castle. It was spectacular.
“This is it,” said the woman. “An eighteenth-century chateau.” The castle was surrounded by many acres of park, with a pond and trees. The landscape seemed taken out of the paintings of Watteau, the French rococo artist.
She stopped our car at the circular driveway. I got out and entered the chateau. On the right, connected to a spacious foyer on the ground floor, was a huge dining room with an ancient parquet floor and big windows looking out on the extensive gardens. An adjacent room was a winter garden, full of flower-pots and soft-colored couches.
“Hello, Mr. Blackthorn,” said a prim, very proper sort of man in his early seventies. His white mustache was impeccably trimmed, and his black jacket beautifully tailored. “I’m M. Bellamy, and I’ll be your host during the convention. Please let me show you to your room.”
I followed him up the marble stairs to what Europeans call the first floor and into a large room that had an elegant mahogany bed, night table, easy chair, and small desk. Another door led to a small bathroom. There were no telephones or television in my room.
“If you need anything, please let me know,” he said in French-accented English. “Dinner will be served at eight o’clock.”
Nothing but envy crossed my mind when I saw the accommodations. That’s what happens when your agency has a generous, nonpublic bud get. Compared to my office’s bud get that is cut every year, while the workload increases…David never stopped reminding me of that.
I went downstairs dressed casually for dinner. I opened the dining room door and was stunned. There were ten or twelve people seated, all dressed up-jackets, ties, the works. I stood shameful in my jeans and sneakers. I quickly turned around and returned to my room to change into my only blazer and white shirt, but I didn’t even have a presentable tie. During a dinner in Tel Aviv I had stained the only one I’d packed. When I’d left the U.S. three weeks before for Pakistan, I’d brought nothing but light and casual clothes suitable for a hot climate. However, they were obviously inappropriate for a fancy chateau in Europe in October.
I seated myself at a table with a place card saying anthony p. blackthorn. Next to me, in a black evening dress, sat my blonde female driver. Her place card said NICOLE A. BLAIR.
“Hi, Ms. Blair,” I said smiling. “Am I late for anything?”
“No. Call me Nicole. We’re just having dinner.” The setting was perfect.
A waiter came to our table and served us with terrine maison, a molded dish with smoothly ground meat and mushrooms. He poured Merlot into our crystal goblets.
A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man in his mid-fifties rose from his chair, holding his wine goblet, while the waiters were clearing the table. The staff that served us in the dining room and later on in the winter garden could never have guessed that the attendees weren’t gathered to hear lectures about art, but rather were (most of them) agents of the world’s largest spy agency.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Arnold Kyle, and I’m the chairman of this convention. Welcome to the annual meeting of the Arizona Chapter of the American Association of Impressionist Art Lovers. Cheers!” The men and women around the beautifully set tables raised their glasses and “cheered.”
“One house keeping notice before dinner. We start our day tomorrow at nine a.m. with a lecture on post- Monet French Impressionists given by Dr. Louise Guillaume, a lecturer at the Institut Francais. At ten thirty, after a short coffee break, we’ll have a general meeting of our chapter to elect a new board and president. I know you consider these matters boring, but we must go ahead with our agenda and approve a new bud get, so I ask all of you to attend. After lunch we will continue with our deliberations concerning the future of our chapter. In the late afternoon we will tour the Fondation Monet and the Musee d’Art Americain and return here for dinner. After dinner we will have a closed meeting to discuss the proposed merger of our chapter with the California chapter.”
I was appreciative of the idea-a disguised meeting in the heartland of Impressionism. The legend was perfect. It effectively masked the identities of a bunch of clean-shaven Americans in Europe. Bring one or two lecturers from town to talk about Monet, display a welcome banner, and we were in business. The rest of the time spent behind closed doors would be dedicated to far craftier, but less artistic, matters.
The main course was gigot d’agneau roti aux herbes gratindauphinois, a roasted leg of lamb with herbs. For dessert we had plateau de fromages -a plate of French cheeses-and coffee. I skipped both.
I made small talk with Nicole. She was as much “Nicole” as I was “Anthony.” She was rather attractive and friendly, but I had other things on my mind than getting friendlier, and I knew that the same went for her. So after a few drinks and non-revealing conversations, we retired to our respective rooms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The following morning we had an illuminating lecture about Monet, to satisfy the appearance of a convention. Immediately after the lecturer left, two young men went and sat outside the closed doors, while two
