Debut for a Spy (13 page)

Using the Eiffel Tower as a beacon, I threaded my way to the greatest street in the world,
l'Avenue
des
Champs
-
Elysees
. Before us was the breathtaking sight of
l'Arc
de
Triomphe
. We gazed silently at its splendor. Marijke was the first to speak.

“
I cannot believe how majestic it is. The photographs are not good for it, I think.”

“
You mean they don't do it justice,” I responded. “I agree. At night, with the floodlights on, it'll be even more impressive.”

We parked the car with some difficulty, then walked along toward the arch, finally settling for a sidewalk cafe which gave us a good view. We ate while we planned our afternoon's tour. I telephoned
l'Hotel
St
.
James
et
d'Albany
to tell them we would be there about 5:00pm, then we were off on our whirlwind to the sights of Paris.

*

Rue
St
.
Laurent
,
Paris
–
the
same
time

He stood by the bed. The smell was overpowering. He placed a surgical mask over his mouth and nose, donning a gown which he tied behind him, and pulling on latex gloves. Finally, he picked up the scalpel. He looked down at the helpless man.

“
Now, my friend, we will see how brave you really are.”

*

Near
Gare
de
l'Est
,
Paris
–
the
same
time

We had only scheduled two stops, one for Marijke to see the
Sainte
-
Chapelle
with its breathtaking stained-glass, and the other for Nicki to see the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo at the Louvre. Even so we were running late. It was nearing 4:00pm, and my nerves were on edge. We weren't far from
Gare
de
l'Est
, and I was anxious to get this over with. On the way I explained.

“
I have to meet a man near the station and pick up something for a friend in England. Then we'll head for the hotel.”

“
Anyone I know?” asked House matter-of-factly.”

No, I don't think so,
” I replied, avoiding his gaze.

We pulled in to the parking area in front of
Gare
de
l'Est
, called
Place
du
11
Novembre
1918
. I got out. It was five minutes to four. I retrieved my Financial Times from the boot, checked that I had the Union Jack pin in my pocket, and reached in to grab the Fodor's guide from the dash.

“
I'll be as quick as I can. Keep the keys in case you have to move the car.”

“
Speed it up, old son.”

“
Hurry back.”

“
We'll be waiting.”

I walked to the corner of
Rue
d'Alsace
and
Rue
de
Strasbourg
, crossing the street to the sidewalk cafe. Sitting, I ordered a coffee from the waiter, laid out the paper with the guide on top of it, and waited. By five past four no one had approached me, and I was beginning to wonder how long I should stay. The fringe on the Cinzano umbrella flapped lazily over my head as I looked around at the other patrons, but none seemed interested in me. In fact, they were all in pairs or groups except for one elderly man who was reading a book.

I had almost decided to leave when I noticed a man hurrying across the street. He wasn't very tall, but his immense breadth made him seem shorter than he actually was. He was dressed in a dark suit and carried a raincoat. As he approached I could see that he was sweating profusely. He had dark hair, and cold eyes covered by horn-rimmed glasses.

Speaking to a waiter, he glanced around until he spotted me, then headed toward my table. Observing my paper and the Fodor's, he came closer.

“
Pardon, m'sieu. Est-ce que je peux m'asseoir avec vous?”

“
Certainement.”

He sat down. I looked away. I figured that if he was the right contact he would have to make the moves. I certainly wasn't going to set it up. He laid his folded raincoat on the table. When his coffee came, so did the small talk.

“
Il
fait
chaud
,
aujourd'hui
.”

“
Oui
,
mais
aussi
il
fait
beau
.”

“
I belief you are Eenglish,
m'sieu
?”

His accent wasn't French. I decided to play it out.

“Yes, I am.”

“
Is thet new Fodor's guide you hef?”

“
Yes, I got it yesterday.”

“
May I pliz hef it for looking?”

“
Certainly.” I handed it over.

He leafed through it for a couple of minutes, then pulled something from his pocket.

“I gif you gift. Now you hef something for marking your plez in book.”

“
Thank you, that's most kind. And I have something for you.”

I fished out the pin, placing it before him on the table.

“Just a small souvenir from England.”

“
Thenk you. You very generous.”

“
Well, I must be running along. Nice to have met you.”

I started to rise, holding out my hand. He ignored me, putting his right hand inside the folded raincoat.

“I theenk, Mestair English, you hed bettair sitting down.”

I froze.
“I beg your pardon?”

“
Before you moof, looking at coat.”

I looked. There was something metallic and round with a hole in it pointed at me. I sat down, my heart pounding.

“You know what ees thees?”

“
Yes, I think so. I don't understand. What do you want?”

I was trembling and sweating, all at once.

“You and I, Meestair Eenglish, we takink walk. You weel holt my left arm. Eef you let go, I fire gon. I haf suppressor. Nobody hear. They theenk you dronk on strit. I deesappear. Pouf!”

He picked up my Fodor's, slipping it into his left pocket, and the Union Jack followed. He stood up.

“We go now. Pliz.”

I stood, moved around the table and took his arm. We walked to the corner, waited for a green light, and stepped across. My terror had lessened, but my heart was pumping hard and the blood was racing through my veins. The adrenalin was running wild. This was not good. I had to get control. I remembered the words of Sergeant Kobayashi, our hand-to-hand combat instructor.

“You must clear your mind,” he would admonish. “You must have only focus.”

That was it. Focus. I tried, but everything was coming at me like a kaleidoscope. I had to concentrate. Focus.

I began to look for an opening. I thought I might get away from him on the street, but if his shots went wild, then innocent people might be wounded or even killed. I ruled this out. I looked up at the street sign. At least I would memorize where I was going. Come on, focus.

South on
Boulevard
de
Strasbourg
. It was a wide, tree-lined street with a boulevard down the center strip. Lots of shops, and, unfortunately, lots of people on this beautiful day. Forget it. Not now. Wait for the right opportunity. Focus. My heart slowed.

The corner. We turned left, crossed
Strasbourg
, and walked down
Rue
St
.
Laurent
. Much narrower, fewer people, but the parked cars restricted movement. I wouldn't make it. Focus.

Half-way down the block we crossed the street toward large, black double doors. On either side, at the curb, were slender, cast iron rods, with round balls at the top, imbedded in the pavement. They were about 30 inches high. Some sort of sidewalk or curb protector. I considered pushing my captor into one as we passed. Perhaps he would be knocked to the ground, but again, if he weren't, I was finished. No. Not yet. Focus.

“You stan' close to door.”

As I did this he held the coat toward me with his right hand while he fished out keys with his left.

“You unlock right door, step back. Not try anything.”

He knew what he was doing. He went partially in, backwards, and motioned me to follow. The coat was pointing toward me all the way. Indicating that I should start up the stairs, he kicked the door shut and followed four steps behind me.

“All way to top.”

We went up two floors. He motioned me to a corner, unlocked a door, threw it wide, and directed I should enter. He was right behind me. Something hard in my back. The door slammed. Be calm. Look around. Focus.

The room was quite bare. A heavy oak refectory table, very similar to my own, ran parallel to the two windows. There was a wooden chair on the side opposite the windows, and another to the right of the table by the wall. On a small shelf by this chair was a telephone.

“
Sit. Put hands flet on table. Not moof.”

I did as I was told. Time was running out. I had to do something. Could I talk him out of it? Try. Focus.

“Look, I'm not the person who was supposed to meet you today. He's a friend of mine in England, and just asked me to take his place because he's sick. I don't even know what this is all about, so I can't tell you anything. I was just doing him a favour.”

“
You theenk I belief you? You crazy. Now not spik.”

He picked up the phone, dialing with his left hand. The gun was plainly visible. An automatic pistol, it looked
to be about 9mm caliber. The suppressor was crude and home-made.

He began speaking rapidly. In Russian. I couldn't follow it, but he did mention the street,
St
.
Laurent
, and some numbers. He hung up. Obviously, they were coming for me.

Walking to the door to the adjoining room, he threw it open.

“You not suppose meet me? Is joke! I not who you suppose to meet. You want see courier? Come. You come!”

He beckoned me to the door, indicating I should enter.

“You go. Haf good look so you don' forget.”

I walked in. The stench made me gag. I hesitated, but I was prodded in the back. There was a bed and a dresser in the room. The curtains were drawn, so the light was dim. I realized there was a man on the bed. He was naked, and his arms and legs were tied to the bedposts. He wasn't moving, and as my eyes became accustomed to the light I realized that there was a hole in the middle of his forehead.

“He is hard man to make talk. Is why I late. But I conveence heem, yes?”

I looked more closely. My stomach heaved, but I wanted to see what this son-of-a-bitch had done. I wanted to hate him. The Frenchman, or so I believed him to be, was a small man, and in the ruin of his face there was a thin moustache. This poor bastard was the one Hammond had described.

There were welts, burns, and cuts all over his body. His face was slashed and bruised, and his nose had been pulped. One eye, out of the socket, dangled on his cheek. Three fingers were gone from his right hand. Through an incision in his lower abdomen intestines had been pulled. There was a bloody hunk of tissue hanging from his mouth. I didn't know what it was 'til I saw the pool of coagulating blood between his legs. His testicles. I turned away, retching. Now – now I could hate. Easy. Focus.

“
You come back, sit. They not long.”

Slowly, I walked to the outer room and sat down. He had taken his jacket off, hanging it over the other chair. It was very hot. I was sweating, but he was bathed in perspiration
– and he smelled. Tugging on the windows, he opened both sets in turn. They were floor to ceiling casement windows, and they opened inward, lying flat to the inner wall. Outside, there were two iron bars as safety guards, the upper one not much above the knee.

I took stock. If I didn't make an attempt before the others got here, I was finished. Once the Russians had me, there was no way of knowing what would happen. It was possible I might never be heard of again. At best, I would be accused, tried publicly, and used as propaganda. Perhaps I would be exchanged, perhaps not. I could probably expect intimidation and torture, and after what I had seen in the next room, I would rather be dead. Easy, now. Concentrate. Focus.

What about the pistol? I got a better look at it. I guessed it was an old Czechoslovakian gun, a CZ Model 39. In my shooting days I had taken an interest in small arms of the world. The CZ Model 39 had distinctive finger grips at the rear of the slide. If this was the right gun the cartridge was underpowered. It also had a heavy trigger pull, making it inaccurate.