The Paris Option - Страница 69

"You think Emile Chambord is behind everything?"

"Maybe, or maybe not. It could be Captain Bonnard, and he's holding Chambord and using the daughter as a lever," Jon said, worrying about Thérèse. He stared out at the street, watching for Abu Auda and his men. "Have you heard anything about Peter Howell and Marty?"

"According to my friends at Langley, they're all in Paris. Marty's awake."

Jon smiled. What a relief to know Marty was back. "Did he say anything useful about Emile Chambord?"

"Unfortunately, nothing we didn't already know. I'll have Randi sent to pick you up."

"Tell her I'll be waiting at the Fort de la Bastille at the top of the cable car lift."

Klein was silent again. "You know, Colonel, there could be someone we don't know about yet behind Chambord and Bonnard. It could even be the daughter."

Jon considered the idea. Not Thérèse, no. He did not believe that, but the rest of what Klein had said struck a chord. An idea began to form in his mind. An idea he had to chase down fast.

"Get me out of here, Fred."

Chapter Thirty-two

Paris, France

In naval headquarters on the place de la Concorde, Senior Captain Liberal Tassini toyed with the fine Mont Blanc pen on his desk as his steady gaze took in Peter Howell. "Odd you should be here asking that, Peter. May I inquire exactly what caused your interest?"

"Let's just say MI6 requested I look into the matter. I believe it may have something to do with a small problem involving one of our junior officers."

"And what would that small problem be?"

"Between you and me, Libby, I told them to just go through regular channels, but it appears it involves the son of someone important." Peter ducked his head, pretending embarrassment. "I'm only a messenger boy. One of the reasons I did a bunk from the service, eh? Temperament and all that. Just do me the favor of a simple answer, and I'll be off the hook and out of your sight."

"Can't be done, bon ami. Your question touches on a somewhat delicate and complicated situation of our own."

"You don't say. Well, puts my little query in its place, doesn't it. Sorry, I"

Captain Tassini twirled the pen again on his desk. "On the contrary.

I would actually like to know exactly how this, ah, junior officer came to be concerned with whether a recent meeting on the De Gaulle was authorized or unauthorized."

"Well" Peter chuckled conspiratorially. "All right, Libby. Seems the lad has put in a chit for expenses incurred for having attended such a meeting as a replacement pilot for one of our generals. His paymaster simply wants to know if the claim's legitimate."

Captain Tassini laughed aloud. "Does he, by heaven? What does the general say?"

"Touchy, that. Seems he died. Only a few days ago."

Tassini's eyes narrowed. "Really?"

"Afraid so. Not unusual with generals. Old, you know."

"Quite," Tassini said in English. "All right. At the moment, all I can tell you is that no such meeting was authorized on the De Gaulle, although one may actually have taken place. We're looking into it, too."

"Hmmm." Peter stood up. "Very well, I'll simply give the buggers the old 'can neither confirm nor deny' answer. The paymaster can reimburse the boy, or not. Up to him. But he'll get no official response."

"Hard on the boy," Tassini sympathized.

Peter headed for the door. "What was the De Gaulle doing out there anyway? What does her captain say about the meeting?"

Tassini leaned back and studied Peter again. At last he said, "He claims there was no meeting. Says he was out there to practice single-ship tactics in hostile waters at night, and that the order came from NATO. Rather a large problem for us, since no one at NATO appears to have issued it."

"Ouch. Well, glad it's not my kettle of fish, old man." Peter could feel Tassini's questioning gaze on his back as he left. He doubted that he had fooled his friend, but both of them had preserved face and, even more important, deniability.

Berlin, Germany

The Kurfurstendamm the Ku'damm, as locals called it was a bustling boulevard at the heart of new Berlin. Lined with crowded stores and high-rent offices, it was famous around the world. People in the know swore that the Ku'damm never slept. In one of its elegant restaurants, Pieke Exner wound her way among the white tablecloths and polished silverware toward her lunch date. It was their second in twelve hours, and she knew the young lieutenant was more than ready, he was eager.

That was obvious in the leap to his feet and the Prussian click of his heels that would have gotten him a dry reprimand from his boss, General Otto Bittrich. It was also obvious in his loosened tunic, showing the relaxed familiarity she had worked to produce in him all last evening before going home and leaving him if not panting, then breathing hard. These were the signs she had wanted to see. Still, she had more work to do. It was not his tunic she wanted loosened; it was his tongue.

She smiled and settled down into her chair. With a flourish, he helped her slide to the table. As he sat next to her, she notched her smile up to one of genuine warmth, as if she had been thinking about him ever since they had parted at her door. After he had gallantly ordered an expensive bottle of the best wine from the Rheingau, she resumed her chatter where they had left off, about her dreams of travel and love of all good things foreign.

As it turned out, she quickly saw that she had done her job too well, and the lieutenant was too busy thinking about her to take the bait. Lunch proceeded in that fashion through a schnitzel, a second bottle of the Rheingau, and an excellent strudel to the coffee and brandy. But as much as she plied him with smiles and warm hand holding, he never spoke about his work.

Running out of patience, she looked long and deeply into his eyes, managing to convey an intriguing range of emotions — shy, nervous, slightly frightened, adoring, brazenly eager, and in sexual heat, all at the same time. It was a gift, and older and wiser men than Lieutenant Joachim Bierhof had fallen for it.

He responded by quickly paying for the check, and they left. By the time they reached her apartment beyond the Brandenburg Gate and across the Spree River in the bohemian Prenzlauer Berg section of the former East Berlin, he was in no condition to think of anything but her, her glorious apartment, and her bed.

Once inside, he quickly pulled the shades against the afternoon sun and was soon naked and nuzzling Pieke's breasts, when she sighed and complained of how cold it was. A very cold May in Germany. How she would love to be with him in sunny Italy or Spain, or better yet the glorious South of France.

Too busy with her breasts and pulling off her green thong bikini panties, Joachim muttered, "I was just there, the South of France. God, how I wish you'd been with me."

She laughed playfully. "But you had your general."

"He was out on that French carrier most of the night. Just him and our pilot. I walked on the quays alone. By myself. Had to eat alone. What a great bottle of wine I found. You would have liked it. God, how I wish but we're here now, and"

It was at this point that Pieke Exner fell off the bed, badly twisting her knee and back. She was unable to stand up without the lieutenant's reluctant and rather testy help. As he put her back into bed, she asked prettily to be covered to keep away the chills. She shivered. He turned up the heat and put another blanket over her. She held out her hand sadly.

She was, of course, devastated, and terribly disappointed as well as tearfully guilty: "You poor man. It must be terrible for you. I'm so sorry. Will you be all right? I mean, you were so"

Joachim Bierhof was, after all, an officer and a gentleman. He was forced to soothe her fears, declare he would be fine. She was much more to him than that.

She squeezed his hand and promised to meet him early tomorrow, if she felt up to it, right here in her apartment. "I'll call you tomorrow!" And promptly fell asleep.

There was nothing the lieutenant could do but dress and leave quietly, careful not to awaken her.

The moment the door closed and locked, she jumped out of bed, dressed, and dialed the telephone. She reported, "General Bittrich was in the South of France, just as you suspected. He spent half the night on a French aircraft carrier. Was that all you wanted to know, Peter?"

"You're a wonder, child," Peter Howell pronounced from Paris.

"You remember that."

Peter chuckled. "Hope the price wasn't too high, Angie, old girl."

"Jealous, Peter?"

"At my age, my dear, I'm remarkably flattered."

"At any age. Besides, you're ageless."

Peter laughed. "Not all of me seems to know that all the time. But we must talk further."

"A proposition, Mr. Howell?"

"Angie, you could entice the dead. And thanks again."

Angela Chadwick hung up, remade the bed, picked up her handbag, and left the apartment to return to her own place on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate.

Paris, France

Marty had a new laptop computer, which Peter had used Marty's credit card to buy. Left alone and on his meds, Marty was curled around it in his room in the clinic, sitting cross-legged on top of his bed's patchwork comforter. He had checked the OASIS Web site Online Asperger's Syndrome Information and Support fifteen times in the last two hours with no results.