tiptoed through to his room, leaving the door open, took off his jacket and shoes and lay on the bed, suddenly conscious that he’d never been so happy in his life, smiled, and fell asleep.
DILLON SPENT the night with Monica at Dorset Street and they drove out to Farley Field together in his Mini. Ten o’clock was the departure time for the flight to Paris, and Ferguson had come to see them off, as Harry had with Billy. Lacey and Parry wore the kind of navy blue uniforms that pilots did the world over, with a little gold braid to sharpen it up. It wasn’t a good morning, bad March weather, and they stood under the golfing umbrellas that Lacey had produced and chatted.
“What can I say?” Ferguson smiled. “It should be an easy one. You’ll be back before you know it. That’s when the really important part of the job starts, the transformation of Alexander Kurbsky.”
Lacey led the way to the Chieftain, where Parry was already at the controls, and Ferguson and Harry walked with him. Monica went first, then Billy. Ferguson said to Dillon, “Paul Bleriot is waiting at Charles de Gaulle. He’ll put you up, provide everything you need. A good man. You can depend on him.”
Dillon ducked in and sat on the other side of the aisle from Monica opposite Billy, and Lacey closed the airstair door and joined Parry in the cockpit.
“Who is Bleriot?” Monica asked.
“Very old chum of Ferguson ’s. He’s his man in Paris when you need a helping hand.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll see.” He grinned at Billy. “Check that bar box, Billy, and see if they’ve slipped half a bottle of champagne in.”
Which they had, and Billy opened it and poured it into plastic cups. “So elegant,” Monica said.
“Just like a picnic.” Billy opened half a bottle of water.
“Well, let’s hope it stays a picnic.” Dillon toasted them: “To us.”
TH E FLIGHT was uneventful. The Chieftain landed and taxied to the private section of the airport, where they were off-loaded. Parry stayed at the controls and Lacey saw them out.
“ Saint-Denis tomorrow,” he said, and heaved up the airstair door.
They had light luggage only, but a porter insisted on earning his tip by carrying it on a trolley to security and then out to the pleasant-looking man in his sixties wearing a tweed cap and an old leather coat. His eyes were very blue and he smiled a lot.
“Lady Starling, a sincere pleasure. I’ve always been enchanted by beauty and brains.”
“Good heavens, you are a charmer.” He took her hand and kissed it.
“I feel as if I know you all, having had your pictures thoughtfully faxed to me by my friend Charles. You already seem like old friends. I have a suitable vehicle waiting.” He nodded to the porter and led the way out to a Renault station wagon in the car park. The porter loaded the luggage, took his tip, and went off.
“Where to now?” Dillon asked.
“I have a club restaurant on the Seine. I thought you could spend the day with me. I’ve no idea why you’re here and I don’t want to know. Let’s keep it that way.”
LA BELLE AURORE, his place was called, quite charming and close to the Quai St. Bernard, with a fine view of Notre Dame. There was a basin for moorings close at hand, quite a few motor cruisers with winter covers on them, and a row of barges in which people lived.
“The red one is mine.” Bleriot led the way along a narrow gangway, and they boarded and followed him below. It looked like it had everything that was needed for a comfortable life, an enormous stateroom running into an open kitchen area at one end, a shower room and two bedrooms at the other.
“Yours for the day, my friends. Freshen up and then we’ll have a lunch in the restaurant, but first, a present for you from Charles Ferguson.” He unlocked a cupboard, took out a travel bag, and put it down on the large coffee table in the center of the stateroom and said to Dillon, “Yours, I believe?”
Dillon opened it and discovered two Walthers with silencers and a Colt.25, also with silencer, which he handed to Monica. “How thoughtful of Ferguson. No good-looking woman should be without one, that’s what I always say. I hope it’s not too heavy for your handbag.”
“If you’re being a male chauvinist pig, Sean Dillon, it doesn’t suit you. I would remind you that I’ve used a Colt.25, and quite effectively, as you well know.”
“Don’t let him get to you, Monica,” Billy said as he checked a Walther. “I don’t think we’re into a shooting war this time.”
“Nothing, my friends, is ever certain in this life,” Paul Bleriot said. “So let’s go and have a drink at La Belle Aurore, and you can decide how you would like to fill your day.”
AT THE RITZ HOTEL, Kurbsky was still having his breakfast in the suite with Ivanov when he received a request for an audience from the duty manager.
“May I ask why?” Kurbsky said.
“I deeply regret to inform you, Monsieur Kurbsky, it concerns irregularities in the behavior of your companions.”
“Indeed,” Kurbsky said. “Well, we can’t have that. Come on up.” He turned to Ivanov. “Trouble with the management about my companions? What’s been going on?”
“Two of them were so drunk they had to be put to bed by porters. One vomited in his bathroom.”
“How delightful,” Kurbsky said. “I’ve always said, put a peasant in uniform and he’s still a peasant. It hardly covers the Russian Federation with glory.” The doorbell rang. “Answer it.”
The manager was so apologetic that it irritated Kurbsky immensely. “Of course their behavior doesn’t meet the standards the Ritz expects. It doesn’t meet the standards I expect. They will be dealt with appropriately when we return to Moscow. As I’m due at the Elysee Palace this evening, I must request your indulgence. We are leaving in the morning, as you know.”
“I apologize for having to bring this to your attention, Monsieur, as I know you are to receive the Legion of Honor from our President this evening.”
Kurbsky felt like saying, “So what?” but contented himself with “Your consideration has been all that I would have expected from the Ritz.” The manager bowed himself out, and Kurbsky said to Ivanov, “In here now, both of them, and don’t bother to dress. Bath-robes will do.”
“WALKING DEAD MEN” was an apt description. They both looked dreadful and were experiencing the most appalling hangovers. They stood there in their robes, obviously very ill indeed.
Kurbsky said, “You are officers in the GRU, on assignment abroad, in one of the world’s greatest cities. You are representing your country. You are supposed to be showing some pride in the Motherland, and what do you do? Disgrace yourselves, disgrace Russia. You might as well have stood there and urinated against a wall in the Champs-Elysees, and, frankly, you are not fit to accompany me to the Palace this evening.”
“Please, sir, I don’t know what happened,” Burlaka croaked. “I think there was something in my drink.”
“The oldest excuse in the world. Get out of my sight, get yourselves downstairs to the Sports Club. See what the saunas and steam room can achieve.”
They backed out. Ivanov said, “What happens for the rest of the day?”
“Well, I’ve no intention of sitting here on my backside, and according to the rules, you’ve got to accompany me, which will probably bore you to death. I like art, great art, so the Louvre is a must. I might just allow you a cruise on the Seine or a trip up the Eiffel Tower, but that’s it.”
“FOUR FIRST-CLASS TICKETS on the midnight train for Brest from the Gare du Nord. They are private compartments linked by a door. Each compartment takes two in the sense that you can pull two bunk beds down, but with the connecting door, it will suffice for a party of four. Here are the tickets.”
Bleriot put them on the table and Monica examined them. “Excellent. We’ll travel in style. There is a restaurant car, I presume?”
“Yes. I know the train well. It has a kind of faded splendor, and the rolling stock is charming, but old. For example, there is a toilet at each end of the corridor, nothing private.”
