you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll amuse him.”
“So you already think this is a dead end?”
“No, I don’t. If Fisher was here, and he knows this guy, then what can you do to get him talking?”
Hansen considered the question. His first thought was to shove a gun in the man’s head or threaten to chop off his fingers, as he’d done with Boutin.
But if this were a gentleman’s game, as Moreau had suggested, then Hansen needed something far more sophisticated and tactful.
“If they’re friends,” Hansen thought aloud, “then Chenevier wants what’s best for Fisher.”
“Now, that sounds like a good place to start.”
“But, then again, if they’re friends, he won’t give us anything.”
“You never know.”
As Hansen stepped away from the man’s door, he checked his watch: 9:17 A.M.
How long were they supposed to wait?
20
Hansen and the others waited most of the day for the old man to come home. During that time, they shifted positions, rotated in and out of locations, even changed jackets and maintained their surveillance as deftly and discreetly as possible. They might as well get some on-the-job training and practice, Hansen had told them.
They’d gone off in pairs for lunch, while the others kept watch. When Hansen and Valentina had been sharing a sandwich and some tea, Moreau had called to say the two men in the Range Rover had fin ally grown wise to the team’s misdirection and had abandoned the Rover. Trouble was, Moreau lost them since they returned to another parking garage, and with many cars coming in and out, he couldn’t be sure which vehicle they might have used or if they’d even left in the first place. He and the geeks back home would attempt to pick them up again.
Hansen was sitting on a bench across the street from Chenevier’s apartment when he spotted the man’s approach. It was about three fifteen. Imposing at more than six feet tall, and with a thick shock of white hair, Chenevier was the epitome of a distinguished gentleman and as leonine as they came. Of course, he was impeccably groomed and dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat. He carried an ornate cane that he used more for show or for security than to help him walk. His gait seemed true, if not a little slow.
“Monsieur Chenevier?” Hansen called.
Chenevier turned back and paused near the redwood lounger as Hansen hurried toward him. “May I have a word?”
“You’re an American. And my English is pretty good. So let’s dispense with that.”
“How do you know I’m an American?”
The old man grinned, and a twinkle came into his blue eyes. “You’ve been waiting around all day for me. I went to see my grandchildren. They’re getting so big.”
“I just have a few questions.”
“Of course, you do. Come inside, and I’ll make us some tea.”
“Just a few questions. It won’t take long.”
Chenevier lifted his cane, pointed at the door, and eyed Hansen. You don’t turn down an offer for tea.
With a nod, Hansen followed the old man into the apartment and was led into a small living room. The sofa, bookcase, end tables, and even the TV stand were beautiful antiques, nothing short of elegant. The artwork on the walls appeared to be original and notably expensive, not that Hansen knew much about art, but he could tell the difference between a print and real canvas. This was class, hardly small-town Texas.
“Please.” Chenevier gestured to the sofa.
Hansen took a seat, and the pillows felt hard, as though they’d barely been used.
While the old man prepared the teapot in the adjoining kitchen, he called out, “I suppose you’re wondering why no one saw me leave.”
“That had crossed my mind.”
“Any man who lives in a place with only one door is a fool.”
“There’s a basement? Tunnels?”
“Of course. I suspect that on any given day there are a half dozen governments keeping an eye on me. A man needs his privacy once in a while.”
“I see.”
“Don’t be coy. You know who I am. And you’ve come here looking for him.”
“Will you help us?”
Chenevier returned to the living room and sat in a chair opposite Hansen. “Why do you need my help? Haven’t they turned you into expert bloodhounds?”
Hansen smiled wanly. “He came to you after Boutin. We thought you might know where he’s headed.”
“And if I knew, why would I tell you?”
“Because we’re all on the same side. He’s in trouble. And we’re here to help.”
Chenevier chuckled under his breath. “Our friend is always in trouble… or he’s taking a day off.”
“Can you give us anything? Any indication of where he might be?”
“There is a mutual understanding between men like us. I would hope that someday you would make such a friend and reach such an understanding.”
Hansen took a deep breath and stood. “Thank you for you time, monsieur.”
“But I’ve just put on the water for the tea.”
“I’m sorry.”
Chenevier stepped up to Hansen. “He’s just a man who’s tired and wants to go home. And so he shook a tree, and you fell out. So young. Just be careful. He casts no shadow, and you won’t see him until it is too late.”
Hansen was about to tell the team they had wasted an entire day, and then go on to lash out at Moreau, when the operations manager called to say they were getting on a private charter bound for a small town called Errouville, about seventy-five miles northeast of Verdun. Moreau wanted them on that plane immediately, since there wasn’t time to lose. “Fisher was at a Sixt car-rental office in Villerupt. He used Louis Royer’s driver’s license to rent a car. You need to fly to Errouville, and then get up to Villerupt ASAP.”
Louis Royer was one of Doucet’s thugs, and Hansen was dubious as to why Fisher would take the chance of using that license when he must’ve known it’d tip off Third Echelon. No, Fisher wouldn’t make that mistake. This was part of the game, and the more Hansen played, the more frustrated he became.
It was already late afternoon as they took the highway designated D903 down to the small executive airport southeast of Verdun and boarded a single-prop Cessna 207. The pilot was a terse Frenchman with a sun-weathered face and permanent scowl. He barely said ten words to them as they boarded.
“French hospitality,” said Ames. “Can’t wait to bring the entire family back here so we can all be treated like dogs.”
“Shut up, Ames.” Gillespie groaned.
As they took off, Valentina, who was seated beside him, leaned over and said, “Nice vacation.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I actually found some shoes while we were waiting for Chenevier.”
“Are you kidding me? Shopping while on the job?”
“If you call this work. I feel like an actor.”
“Something has to give. Something…”
They both leaned back and settled in for the short hop. The engine volume rose, so there’d be little talking inside the cabin. Hansen glanced up at Ames, two chairs ahead of him. The team’s favorite operative was rolling a
