by some miracle wasn’t too far from the train station. The building was about six stories high, stuck in the middle of a block, one of a string of them. The street was narrow. Apparently the baron didn’t do this one.
I got my stuff out of the trunk, paid off the hackie, and spent fifteen seconds looking around. As usual, I kept my eyes moving. I didn’t see anyone paying any attention to me, which I hoped was indeed the case. If the French already had a tail on me, I might as well head back to the States right now.
Inside the building I dusted off my French and tried it out on the concierge. Terry G. Shannon. My company arranged for an apartment? After listening to my French, she wanted to see my passport. She made a note of the number and returned it.
The building had no elevator. Yep, I had the top apartment. I took a look at the steep, narrow staircase and left my suitcase for the second load. The concierge didn’t offer to climb up and show me the place — she simply gave me a key. Two keys, actually. One was to a mailbox in a bank of similar ones in the small lobby.
The flat was right under the roof. The space had probably been the attic; at some time in the geologic past it had been finished out and rented. About six feet in from the door, the ceiling began slanting toward the street, except for the dormer for the one window. The place was large enough for a double bed, a chair, dresser and desk, a closet and a bathroom. No shower in the bathroom, just an ancient tub with four feet. I’m a shower man myself, but in Iraq I bathed from a bucket. I told myself that the tub was very French.
And the window opened. I pulled back the sashes, leaned forward and looked out. The sounds of Paris assaulted me. I took a deep breath. I fancied I could smell the butter.
Well, heck. This wasn’t bad.
I took my time unpacking. When I had my duds stored in the ramshackle dresser and closet, I sat in the chair and played with my cell phone. I turned it on and it seemed to find a cell tower. Back in the bad old days spies had to sneak around looking for chalk marks on walls and upside-down flowerpots; now they just call you. Progress is wonderful.
I stowed the phone in my pocket, yawned — I had had another two hours’ sleep after my pub visit — and decided to go for a run. Maybe before dinner I could get a nap.
Paris. Any way you cut it, the place beat the hell out of Baghdad.
Jake Grafton and Sarah Houston checked into a hotel on a side street just off the Champs-Elysees. Grafton telephoned the embassy from his room, and thirty minutes later a car picked him up in front of the hotel.
The embassy was situated immediately beside the grandiose Hotel de Crillon, the royal palace of Louis XV, which faced the Place de la Concorde. Jake Grafton remembered some of his college history, so he looked with interest at the Egyptian obelisk in the center of the huge square. Napoleon stole it from Egypt before his North African adventures were terminated by the Royal Navy. The stone pillar had replaced the guillotine that Louis XVI lost his head upon. Twenty thousand people were executed during the most intense period of the Revolution, the Reign of Terror.
As one commentator noted, the French married mechanization to political death to create industrial decapitation. Oh, people had been murdered in droves before, that was nothing new — whole cities-full of inhabitants hacked and stabbed and slashed, and heretics tortured and burned — but it was piecework, each killing a personal, unique work of mayhem. For the first time in European history whole classes of people were condemned and mechanically slaughtered, not because of their deeds but because of their status. Eventually Stalin and Hitler, the heirs of Robespierre, took the process a step further and bureaucratized industrial murder, thereby raising it to a whole new level. Instead of tens of thousands, millions of people were declared enemies of the state by the dictators and institutionally terminated. And it all started right here in the heart of Paris, in what is now the Place de la Concorde.
The admiral cooled his heels in a reception room for twenty minutes before he was ushered in to see the U.S. ambassador, who had a huge office with a view of the plaza and the Paris skyline. The person who did the ushering was a woman, a career diplomat. “Mizz Agatha Hempstead,” she said, emphasizing the “Ms.” in case Grafton had forgotten.
He hadn’t. “A few years back, in Russia, wasn’t it?”
Her lips compressed into a thin line as she nodded her head half an inch.
The ambassador, Owen Lancaster, wasn’t a career diplomat. He might as well have been, though. He was one of those establishment members who are routinely appointed to key ambassadorships by presidents of both parties. If he had a political affiliation, he never let it show.
Uwen Lancaster seemed the incarnation of capitalist success, Jake doubted that he had ever dirtied his hands earning money.
He had come by it the tried-and-true traditional way: He inherited it. He was tall and lean and had a head of immaculately barbered gray hair. Today he was impeccably togged out in a tailor-made wool suit and hand-painted silk tie. A red one. On his lapel was a small red flower. Jake thought the suit looked Italian, but how would one know?
Grafton unconsciously adjusted his new suit and straightened his tie. Last week he and Callie had picked out four new suits at a department store in a Washington mall. To the relief of both, the suits had been on sale for 30 percent off.
“Admiral Grafton,” Lancaster said with a frown. “The last time our paths crossed was in Russia.” So much for the social pleasantries.
“I remember, sir.”
“I was not happy to see your name again,” Lancaster said baldly. “You made a hell of a mess in Russia.”
“Just doing my job,” Jake said mildly. He checked the shine on his new shoes. They hadn’t been on sale.
“I confess, I was surprised when CIA brought you in as their European Operations chief. You’re a retired naval officer. Do you have any experience in intelligence?”
“A little,” Jake replied curtly. He had no intention of discussing his qualifications for his job, or lack thereof, with someone outside the agency. The ambassador should know better, he thought.
When it became obvious that Grafton was not going to say more, the ambassador said sharply, “I know your reputation, sir. Russia, Hong Kong, Cuba, New York — oh, yes, I know who you are. You’ve been in the middle of some of the biggest crises of the last ten years. And if I know, don’t you think the French will?”
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t do their homework,” Jake responded.
“This G-8 summit in two weeks — the president has made normalization of our relationship with France his number one foreign policy objective. He’s coming to Paris to see to it personally. France is the key to Europe, and we need Europe on our side.”
“They said much the same to me in Washington,” Jake said mildly- “We’ll try to keep the terrorists and spies out of your way.”
“This summit had better not be torpedoed by anyone. You understand about torpedoes, don’t you, Admiral?” Lancaster was of an age and station in life that meant he didn’t have to be polite. These days he rarely bothered.
“I do.”
“I want a promise, sir. In Russia you charged off to tilt windmills without informing me of your activities. Fortunately it worked out, but that was just shit-house luck.”
Jake was shocked — he didn’t know that Lancaster had that kind of language in him. Ms. Hempstead didn’t turn a hair. Lancaster steamed on. “I don’t want to be blindsided by any shenanigans this time. I’m not a babe in the woods — I’ve been in the middle of more international crises than you’ve ever read about. Talk to me before you kick over anyone’s applecart.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I need more assurance than that,” Lancaster snapped.
Jake Grafton had had enough. “That’s the best I can do. Take it up with Washington.”
On that note the interview ended. Clad in his new shoes, department-store suit and made-in-China tie, the admiral was ushered out of the ambassador’s office.
When Agatha Hempstead returned from escort duty, Lancaster was standing at the window with his arms folded across his chest, looking out.
“You knew CIA was going to replace their European chief,” she said. “What is so remarkable about Admiral Grafton?”
“He isn’t a career man — he’s a shooter. With the G-8 summit just around the corner…” Lancaster sighed.
