He didn’t say anything.
“Because I’m not doing it again unless you pay me a lot of money.”
“I will try to remember your words, Miss Houston.”
She got back to it. Five minutes later the opening page of Intelink C came onto the screen.
Sarah rose. “You owe us ten thousand dollars.”
Arnaud sat playing with the scroll buttons as he read. After a moment he turned, nodded at the security man, who was still standing over by the door, and said to us, “Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”
He was still staring at the screen when I went through the door and glanced back.
Sarah Houston stayed in character when we were out on the street. “Do you think the bastard will buy the whole package?” she asked.
I grinned at her. It’s a pleasure to work with a pro, and she certainly was one. “Hard to say,” I replied. To give the unseen watchers material for their report, I put my arm around her shoulder as we walked. She felt mighty good as we strolled across the bridge over the Seine and the wind whipped at us.
At the embassy I went into the men’s room. Sitting in a stall, I used a penknife to pry the transmitter out of my belt. I twisted it loose from the antenna and dropped it into the trash when I left.
Pink Maillard and Grafton were huddled in the admiral’s office. I looked in, gave Grafton the Hi sign, and stepped back outside. Pink looked worried. I didn’t blame him; I’d be on tranquilizers if I were responsible for keeping the president alive in this day and age.
Gator Zantz was there, too. He looked properly humble, having been summoned from his London sinecure to help fill the hole created by Al and Rich’s sudden departure.
“Hey, Tommy,” he said when he saw me sitting beside Sarah, holding her hand. He merely nodded at her; I wondered if he remembered her name. “What in hell have you guys got going around here?”
“G-8 meeting, spies all over, assassins… another day in the CIA. That’s going to be the title of my memoirs.”
“Always the clown.”
“How’s every little thing in merry ol’ England?”
“Still there. Wanna make a little bet on the Monday night game?”
“Man, I don’t know who’s playing, and I don’t want to take your money. Don’t you have a car payment or rent or something like that?”
“Very funny,” he said, and went away. Which was fine. Personally, I never liked the guy, but then, there are a lot of guys I don’t like. Dozens, scattered all over the world.
Grafton wanted to see me before I left, someone said. I winked at Sarah and went to see if he was alone. He was.
The admiral wanted to know every word and detail of our performance at the Conciergerie. After fifty questions, he asked my opinion. I rubbed my chin while I considered. “I think he bought it, but maybe not.”
Grafton grunted. His parting comment didn’t give me much comfort. “Be careful, Tommy. Watch yourself out there.”
“Yeah.” That’s what I told him. Yeah. Sure. Always. I’m going to live forever.
Sarah and I had dinner, just to keep up appearances, at an intimate little place George Goldberg recommended. He certainly knew his restaurants.
Sarah was — but I don’t need to bore you with that.
I dropped her at her hotel and took a cab to the Rue Paradis. Riding through the streets I remembered Rich and Al, and how I felt when my car blew up. Now wasn’t the time to start coasting. I sensed that matters were coming to a head; this thing was going to be over pretty soon, one way or the other, and I was going to be a free man. What was I going to do without the CIA — and the green paycheck?
I thought about that as I checked the traffic and scanned the pedestrians. Where were the local sons of Islam? I’d thrown one through a clock, and two had crashed. Maybe they bombed the car, maybe they didn’t, but I was blaming them for it until a better candidate showed up. Then there was Al and Rich — somebody iced them.
I had the cabbie drop me two blocks from my place. I stood there on the sidewalk watching the cab drive away, breathing deeply and soaking up some Paris. No other cars whipped up and let people out. It was nearly eleven o’clock. At that hour on the sidewalk in that neighborhood, it was just me and a few stray Johns dying to meet some of the neighborhood cuties.
I paused at the top of my street and looked over the scene. I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary.
Man, I’ve been doing this too long.
So where am I going to go and what am I going to do when I get back to the States?
The stairwell was narrow and dark, as usual. I paused by Elizabeth Conner’s door and listened — could faintly hear television audio. I kept going, unlocked the door to my palace, stepped inside and took off my shoes.
After I got out of my clothes and brushed the fangs, I pulled out my infrared goggles and put them on. I looked downward and fiddled with the gain and contrast controls.
It took me several seconds to realize what I was looking at. Elizabeth Conner was lying motionless on the floor, and she was difficult to see. I changed positions while I adjusted the gain control. No help there. Contrast didn’t seem to make any difference. The battery?
I looked at the hot-water pipes. About as usual. Back at Conner, her legs akimbo…
I tore off the goggles. Grabbed my lock picks. Left my door standing open, charged down the stairs three at a time. Pounded on her door. No answer, of course.
The television ran a series of ads for something or other as I worked with the pick and torsion wrench. I was all thumbs. God damn it all to hell!
The lock gave and I threw open the door.
She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were open and she was staring at nothing at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Elizabeth Conner was very dead and had been for hours. How many I don’t know, but her body was cool to the touch. Of course. That was why her body was just a ghostly shadow on the infrared.
Ah, me. She was wearing her bra and panties, nothing else. A towel lay under her.
She had been strangled. Her neck was a mass of bruises. I tried not to look at her face.
The contents of the room had not been touched, as far as I could tell. Whoever murdered her had apparently come for that purpose. Someone knocked, she wrapped a towel around herself, then opened the door. Whoever was standing there advanced, seized her by the neck and began to squeeze violently. Maybe she took a couple of steps backward. When his victim was dead, the strangler left, pulling the door closed behind him.
You’ve probably read the mysteries and seen the CSI shows where the victim has big gobs of the killer’s DNA under her fingernails. I have, too, so I looked. Well, I didn’t see any obvious wads of skin and hair, although she did have two broken fingernails. The broken nails looked jagged, as if they were fresh breaks.
I forced myself to look at her face. Whoever did that…
Suddenly I felt embarrassed, as if I were shaming the dead. I was in the presence of sudden, unexpected violent death, and I was wearing only shorts and a T-shirt.
I pulled the door shut and smeared my palms around over the back of the knob. The killer wouldn’t have left any prints, and I certainly didn’t want to decorate the knob with mine. Nor did I want it wiped clean, just covered with useless smeared prints.
Back upstairs I sat down for a think.
After a few minutes, I called Jake Grafton on his cell phone. “Elizabeth Conner’s dead. Strangled in her flat. I just found the body.”
He groaned. “Damnation.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “Go get her cell phone. Bring it with you tomorrow.”
I was losing my patience with Jake Grafton and this whole spy gig. “You know whose number is on it, don’t you?” I said roughly.
