Cold War

out through the halls into the courtyard and park, helplessly propelled by his surging adrenaline.

* * *

“Deux,” said the voice in her ear. Then it repeated itself in English for her benefit. “Two in position.”

Nessa Lear watched from across the street, her vision partly obscured by wandering crowds, as their subject continued through the Tuileries garden toward Avenue du Gl. Lemonier. The American was tall, and the dark, well- cut jacket he habitually wore over a gray T-shirt and acid-washed jeans made him easy to keep track of. The fact that he seemed not to know he was being followed or even suspect it made things even easier.

Of course, it was also possible he was not planning on doing anything worth being followed for. “Doigts,” the French teammates on her Interpol task force called him. “Fingers.” They had given the name to Monsieur Elata for the incredible adroitness and adaptability of his painting strokes, for they believed he was responsible for forgeries ranging from a Rembrandt sketch to an early Matisse study. But the American had never been positively linked to the works — many of which were not even positively identified as forgeries. Elata had arrived in Paris yesterday afternoon, and had so far done nothing any other tourist would have done. He had sped through D’Orsay in the day yesterday, and Notre Dame in the evening, just as he had rushed through the Louvre today. Assuming the French had no law demanding that museum visits be of a certain duration (they might), he had done nothing wrong.

“Un moment. Merde,” cursed one of the team members. Nessa leaned around a stopped truck and peered toward the park. Elata had stopped at a vendor and was buying a sandwich. The tail had to continue past. Nessa would have to take over.

She moved forward. She’d been on the job officially less than a week, not counting the skimpy orientation period, and so didn’t know much of Paris yet, but that made her seem like the perfect tourist; acting lost would not be difficult, and she wouldn’t have to work hard at mispronouncing her French.

* * *

Elata wolfed the jambon—actually, a ham with cheese on a small French roll — then walked down in the direction of the Jardin du Luxembourg. He still had more than two hours to kill. He thought of going up to Montmartre, but had been warned by Morgan, absolutely warned, not to go near the Feu Gallery, where he had deposited several works during his last visit some months before.

So what was he to do? He stopped for a moment in the park, rubbing the heel of his boot against the yellow pebbles. He gave his eye over to the forms and colors passing by him — thick weaves of wool and puffed nylons, blue wedges, and green tweed. It was warm for March, but still it was March; if it had been May perhaps, he might have feasted on the figures. But late winter dulled the forms; there was nothing to divert him.

After this was over — after Zurich, where there were sure to be more delays — he’d reward himself with a trip to Florence and perhaps Rome. He might take a few weeks and do some of his own work, play with a few sketches, before taking up the other projects he’d agreed to.

But how to kill these two hours?

He saw the Metro entrance ahead, and reached into his pocket for the carnet of tickets he had purchased upon arriving yesterday. Nothing like the subway for wasting time.

* * *

“Buggers,” Nessa muttered to herself. Then she raised her voice to read the name of the Metro station, making sure the microphone tacked below her collar could pick it up and broadcast it to her companions.

Plunging down the stairway, she broke into a trot trying to find her subject. Jairdain should be coming down the other side somewhere — she looked for him as she jostled the contents of her purse for a Metro ticket.

They’d foreseen this, talked about it, planned for it, and yet here she was, nearly falling to pieces.

Inside, the place was a maze. Left or right at the tunnel intersection? There were different lines traveling in cross directions.

Jairdain would take one, but which?

“Go right,” he said in her ear.

“Oui. Thank you.” Nessa turned and trotted onward, craning her neck upward, ducking around a small pack of Korean tourists. A man with a suit was walking about twenty meters ahead. Music filtered in from the platform beyond the access, then the soft rush of the rubber-wheeled train arriving.

“Damn,” she said, throwing herself into a run.

Too late. The rush had been of the train leaving, not arriving.

Nessa was so busy cursing herself she almost bumped into the tall, thin American standing in front of the advertisement for the Louvre at the end of the platform. He held his elbows in his palms like an X across his chest, and frowned at her severely as she recovered her balance.

* * *

Crisscrossing aimlessly on the subway lines, Elata arrived finally at Sully-Morland with only a half hour more to kill. He came up from the Metro and walked down the Rue de Birague, turning toward the Maison de Victor Hugo, the home of the famous author, which had been turned into a museum.

He glanced at his watch. Though less than five minutes had passed since he had emerged from the subway, fear paralyzed him — he was going to be late. He turned and began running, streaking across the Place des Vosges, dodging the strollers like a madman. He ran up Rue de Turenne, bolting through traffic. Elata ran every day at home, but rarely this hard; he reached the Musee Picasso with fifteen minutes to spare.

He was at the far end of the ground floor, studying the greens of Woman Reading when the fire alarm sounded. By then he had caught his breath. He walked down the steps deliberately, went straight as directed by the guards, down another flight, moved back, turned left, and found the steps.

A woman in her thirties pushed into him. Her strong perfume caressed his nose. He felt her push the envelope into his pocket; he slipped it into his breast pocket and continued to walk, once more following the guards’ directions.

There were sirens outside, police and fire trucks arriving, someone yelling that they had seen smoke in the basement, someone else swearing there was smoke in the back gallery of the first floor — both were correct, as it happened, though in neither case would the small devices emit enough agent to damage the museum or its treasures.

Elata ignored the rushing firemen and the crowd gathering on the sidewalk. A taxi was just reaching the curb. He pushed past two tourists who had queued for it, ignoring their protests as he threw open the door and jumped in. The taxi lurched away without pause; its driver knew already where he was to take his passenger.

* * *

Jairdain slammed his hands on the trunk of the car as Nessa reached the curb.

“J’suis dans la merde,” said the French Interpol agent.

Pierre ran up to him, immediately joining in the coarse denouncing of their fate.

“Calm down,” Nessa told them when she arrived.

“To have lost him here,” said Jairdain before cursing again.

“Easy now, lads,” she said. “Someone in the museum passed him something when the alarm sounded. We’ve just got to track it down.”

“Oui?” said Pierre. “Who?”

“There was a woman on the steps, two guards, and someone who looked like a tourist,” she told them. “We’ll hunt down the tourist first. She’s the only one likely to get away.”

Zurich, Switzerland

Gabriel Morgan had seen both great opportunities and great trials in his life, but the torture he faced presently must surely rank among the most acute. For here he was, in one of Zurich’s newest and finest restaurants — A, which might stand for America, or the beginning of the alphabet, or anything else one wished — and he could not, or should not, choose from any of the excellent entrees. Not American wild duck in a blueberry-tarragon sauce, which carried with it unadvertised hints of mustard and sherry. Not the exotic but somehow pleasing foie gras soup peppered with ostrich bits in sake with white bean coulis and red pepper tortillas. Not even the deceptively simple sole in vermouth, which was built from a beurre blanc that would have left Escoffier speechless.

Morgan could have none of these dishes. Or rather, he could have any of them, if he was prepared to pay the