He dropped his hands to his sides, then slumped at her feet. “M’aidez,” he whispered, not in Prime but in French.

As she looked down at this filthy, groveling, helpless creature, she stuffed her fist in her mouth. But he was not deceived. He knew that he revolted her. Because he laughed, bitterly, angrily, laughed to cover her screams.

FIVE: The Skylights of Paris

FIVE

The Skylights of Paris

Paul had missed the traveler by ten seconds. He’d glimpsed the creature—tall, wearing normal clothes (an old-fashioned-looking woman’s suit), a blond spray of hair, that was all he’d seen.

Rain roared against the skylight; thunder echoed across the roofs of Paris. He shouted into the phone, “Your people lost her. You and the French.”

He listened to Sam Mazur’s whining, complicated reply. He was CIA station chief at the U.S. embassy. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, Paul whispered to Becky Driver, “That’s a paper cup. I said bucket.”

“A paper cup is what we have.”

Sam continued whining away about how the French had not cooperated and were not going to cooperate, that unless they knew chapter and verse exactly what the operation was about, it would absolutely not unfold on French soil.

“Tell me this, Sam. I’m curious. Why the hardening of the heart? I mean, the French don’t like U.S. intelligence. But we aren’t the enemy. They’ve always recognized that in the past.”

“Cold War’s over, my friend. Europe is sick of us, and France is sickest of all. They hate the way we and the Brits use the Echelon system to spy on them electronically. U.S. intelligence has had it here, man. Time to pack up our silencers and go home.”

The paper cup into which the entire thunderstorm appeared to be dripping had filled up. “Becky, do you think you could empty this? These are Burmese shoes. I can’t risk getting them wet.”

She cast her big brown eyes down toward his feet. “You got those in Myanmar?”

“Had them made. I’m suspicious that there’s cardboard involved.”

“They look like funeral shoes.”

“What the hell are ‘funeral shoes’?”

“The kind guys wear to funerals. Shiny, black, and from about 1974.”

Charlie Frater snickered. Paul glared at them both. He’d brought dumpy, bespeckled Charlie and lithe, lovely Becky because they were the most ferocious close-in workers he had. Charlie was one of those people who just did not stop, not ever. He walked into danger like a priest walking into his church. The wonder of it was he looked like a guy who lived behind a desk deep in some civil service nowhere.

Becky, on the other hand, fancied herself a lady spy from the movies. She cultivated the effect with her dark, flowing hair and her long coats. She was only twenty-three, but she was the most cheerful and fearless warrior he had. And quick. So breathtakingly quick.