Exposure Page 32

  “You really did think I was that man, didn’t you?” asked Jaeger.

  “Maybe a little,” she said, giggling.

  Jaeger shook his head in mock disbelief.

  “Kiss and make up?” she asked.

  “That sounds like a capital suggestion.”

  Jaeger knew that Angelica was a woman who closed her eyes when she kissed. He leaned toward her. As expected, her lids dropped and her lips slightly opened.

  She died waiting for a kiss.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  Graham had never thought he would willingly return to Paris. The night before, after talking with his father, he had reconsidered.

  There was a reason the gendarmes had never tied him to the Citroën. Graham always assumed the Thierrys had reported their missing car as stolen, and that somehow the concierge must have lost the paperwork that showed him signing for the keys to their apartment. That was the only explanation, he was sure, for his not being linked with the car. It was easy to tell himself that his falling through the cracks was his one stroke of good fortune, and that he shouldn’t dwell on it lest he jinx himself. But he had finally looked back, this time without a blind eye, and realized he wasn’t the only one who might be impacted by the disappearance of the Citroën. There was only one explanation for the Paris police not investigating the Thierrys’ missing Citroën: they had never reported the car as being stolen.

  He needed to somehow confirm that, and had thought to call his father. A few months before, his father had stayed with the Thierrys in Paris. After waking him up in London, Graham had steered the conversation to his father’s Paris visit, and after having to patiently endure hearing details of the trip he finally managed to ask whether the Thierrys still had their loaner car.

  “Odile would never get rid of her old Citroën,” said the senior Wells. “She calls it her baby.”

  Of course she wouldn’t get rid of it. The replacement Citroën’s paperwork might turn up some discrepancies. His father had kept talking, but Graham stopped listening. He knew he had to return to Paris.

  As Graham slipped out of Lanie’s arms into an LAX terminal, he said, “We’ll always have Paris.” Bogie’s farewell to Bergman in Casablanca.

  Now, many hours later, he disembarked from the Métro’s Line 8 at Place de l’École Militaire. Taking the subway had been one of his many precautions. He had switched lines, had gotten on and off several times to see if he was being followed. Of course it also allowed him to avoid seeing the roads he had traveled years before, even if it seemed like yesterday.

  In his nightmares, Graham had returned to Paris many times. Now he had to confront the past. Graham had never willingly dwelt on what had happened, but after unburdening himself to Lanie he realized he could no longer avoid the past. His answers were still waiting for him.

  Graham studied a map for a moment, more for something to do than out of need. He knew the lay of the land. That was one of the things he had always loved about Paris. The city was accessible, less than forty-one square miles. The Seine traveled through ten of its twenty arrondissements, or districts. It was almost impossible to get lost.

  The Métro station was crowded with people. It was morning, and Paris was coming alive. Graham was still trying to awaken from his jet lag. There was a nine-hour time difference between LA and Paris. He hadn’t slept on the long flight, had spent the time thinking of the questions he needed to ask. They were questions he should have thought about years before, but he’d been too busy running from the accident.

  His destination was the middle of the seventh arrondissement, less than a ten-minute walk from the Métro. The Thierrys’ apartment was close to the American University, in a central location between the École Militaire and the Eiffel Tower. Around him was the kind of history that gave Parisians the right to have airs: old buildings lovingly renovated, a past embraced by the present. There was tradition on every corner. Paris was a symphony, LA was Muzak. Still, Graham wished he were back in his City of Angels. He could lip-synch a top forty song; he didn’t know if he could fake classical.

  Graham walked quickly. The neighborhood where they lived should have given him pause for thought on his last visit. It was an upscale setting, an avenue of trees and quiet wealth. Their first-floor apartment had five rooms and was extremely large by Paris standards. Their building even afforded them the luxury of having two car spaces in a garage, something few Parisians had. No one, except perhaps an American, would ever ask where they had gotten the money to afford such a place. That wasn’t an acceptable inquiry. Most people probably assumed the couple had come into an inheritance. How else would they have been able to afford such an apartment?

  Just as Aldrich Ames should never have been able to afford his upscale house on his CIA salary. But no one at the Agency ever questioned his home or his fancy car.

  Graham approached the Thierrys’ art deco building. It was seven stories high, with a decorated facade trellised by gardens and greenery. The structure had old-world looks and new-world conveniences, with its own concierge, elevator, and security code.

  He hadn’t called ahead, hadn’t warned the Thierrys of his imminent arrival. Graham wanted to come at them unannounced. His father would have been aghast. A diplomat’s son should have known better. You don’t just drop in on people, especially in France.

  Graham bypassed the concierge. He pressed the buzzer to their apartment and waited. The seconds passed, and he began to think they weren’t home. He had come all this way, and now it was possible they were out of town.

  The box suddenly came alive: “Oui?”

  “Madame Thierry?”

  “Oui.”

  He knew her English was better than his French, but Graham persevered, apologizing for his intrusion.

  “Je suis désolé de ne pas telephoner en avance. Mon pere m’a dit de vous voir.”

  Graham hoped, was betting in fact, that their good manners would make it impossible to refuse him entry. He wanted that element of surprise. There was no immediate reply. Graham wondered if his French had deteriorated to the point of not being understandable. But in asking to see them, he had forgotten to offer the basic information.

  “Qui c’est?” Who is this?

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Graham. Graham Wells.”

  In the background, he heard a quick conversation between the Thierrys. The unsaid conversation was that he was an American, which to the French meant you had to take that into allowance, like anyone else would a slow child. Only an American cretin would show up in just such a manner.

  “Come in!” she said. “Come in!” He was buzzed inside.

  Graham walked down the tiled hallway. The spacious interior showcased marble arches and fixtures and ornate moldings. In Paris, room meant money.

  A door opened. The diplomatic training of the Thierrys showed itself. Pierre and Odile were doing their best to smile even as they were touching at their hair and pulling at their clothes.

  Pierre was in his mid-seventies, Odile five years younger. Both were still handsome, had somehow survived close to half a century of receptions and official dinners and parties without being bloated by drink and food. Graham kissed Odile on each cheek and grasped Pierre’s extended hand. They had known him as a boy, and then years later as a young man. His father and the Thierrys had ended up being posted to the same country at two different times.

  Graham was shown to their dining room where an antique table rested on an oversized oriental rug. Ornate Lalique lamps decorated the corner. The room was well lit without the lamps, light coming through the French windows. Outside, there was a balcony and a small table.

  The Thierrys tried to interest Graham in café and a baguette, but he declined. It would be better, he thought, if no one got too comfortable.

  “You were out of town the last time I was in Paris,” Graham said. “That was seve
ral summers back.”

  “We always go to the country in August,” said Odile.

  “Paris is a foreign country in August,” said Pierre.

  They both laughed. Graham didn’t.

  “The concierge gave me the keys to your apartment. In addition to offering your accommodations, you told my father that I could borrow your Citroën. But when I went to the garage, I found that it was missing.”

  Even now, Graham couldn’t tell the truth. He wasn’t alone. The couple didn’t look at each other. Their expressions remained frozen in a smile.

  “Information has reached me that your Citroën was in a car accident,” Graham said.

  Pierre was shaking his head. Odile copied his lead. “You are mistaken.”

  Graham said, “I am not mistaken.”

  To be a diplomat, you have to be a wonderful liar. Pierre did his profession proud. “Then how is it that we still have our Citroën?” he asked.

  “They provided you with a duplicate. I am sure they picked up the car in Italy or Spain. They would have made sure of getting an exact match of your old car.”

  Pierre raised his hands, blew out through his lips in a manner unique to the French and to horses.

  “They? Who is this they? I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “The CIA,” said Graham. “Your other employer.”

  Pierre shook his head. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you were a CIA informant. If I remember, you had some very unique postings. You would have been privy to information the CIA wanted. I imagine they kept you on their payroll for many years.”

  Graham looked around their apartment. “It looks like the double income came in very handy.”

  “Why do you think—”

  Graham interrupted. “Your Citroën was involved in the accident that took the lives of Georges LeMoine and Lady Godwin.”

  If Graham had not been watching the Thierrys so closely, if he hadn’t been so absolutely attuned to their every facial expression, their every utterance and sound, he would not have heard the noise that came from the hallway off the dining room.

  The sound was muffled. It was its suppression that Graham noticed more than the noise itself. At any other time, he would have assumed it was just another creak from an old building.

  There was a back door, Graham remembered, just off the kitchen. The delivery door. Someone could have entered through there.

  He had no time to think. Instinct made him react. In an instant, he made his decision. The Thierrys didn’t look as if they were expecting another visitor. While talking with them they had kept their eyes on him, never looking beyond him as if they were expecting someone else. Graham silently rose to his feet, then gestured out in the direction of the hallway. That only drew puzzled looks from the Thierrys.

  “You came back from your vacation,” Graham said, “and found your Citroën missing.”

  He moved without sound across the room. Thank God for the cushioned oriental carpeting. Their eyes followed him. Graham motioned for them to keep talking, and to direct their stares into the far corner. Anyone entering from the hallway wouldn’t be able to see to that spot without turning the corner into the room.

  The Thierrys continued to look at him. Graham was adept at charades and could always make himself understood through gestures. When words failed him in other countries, he resorted to hand language. So when the Thierrys didn’t immediately respond, Graham knew he had guessed wrong. They were in on it.

  Odile Thierry opened her mouth. He knew she was going to yell a warning to the visitor. But then she turned away from Graham, directing her gaze to the imaginary guest in the corner, and spoke.

  “We don’t understand what you’re saying, Graham. The car you speak of is garaged right in this building. We have no idea of what you claim.”

  Odile gave her husband a quick, sharp look, then turned her head back to the empty corner and smiled. Pierre, looking somewhat mystified, still decided to follow her lead.

  “Believe me,” said Pierre, “we know nothing of what you say. We returned from the country and our Citroën was garaged as always.”

  The gun preceded the assailant. He came into the room firing, and got two shots off into the corner. An antique vase shattered and Odile screamed. The silenced pistol only made a little coughing noise. The shooter almost instantly realized his error. He was already turning when Graham attacked from behind, kicking hard at the man’s instep and then smashing his knee. The crack of bone was the only sound. As he fell, the assassin twisted, but dropped in such a way as to still have a shot.

  The shooter’s left shoulder hit the ground hard. He bounced on impact. It didn’t stop him from getting off several more rounds, but his aim was thrown off. The glass window behind Graham shattered. But instead of running from the gun, Graham targeted it. His foot came at an angle, shattering the gunman’s wrist and knocking the gun away.

  The assassin dove for the weapon with his good hand. Graham was on it as well. The gun was like a loose football, squirting out of their hands. With the prize denied, each turned on the other. Graham had the better position, and two working hands and legs.

  It was barely enough to make the playing field even.

  The assassin smashed his head into Graham’s, and then swung an elbow into his ribs. Half conscious, Graham struggled with the gunman. His hands seemingly moved of their own accord, his thumbs stabbing at his assailant’s eyes. With his good hand, the man pulled at his belt buckle, revealing a hidden knife. Graham reacted just before the blade entered his ribs, pressing down with his left arm and the weight of his body.

  The man’s arm countered the weight. One good arm seemed to be all that he needed. He pushed upward, the blade of his knife inexorably edging toward Graham’s flesh. With his free hand, Graham struck at the man’s throat. The blow wasn’t as powerful as he hoped; fending off the knife diluted the effort. The blade was already pressing into his flesh.

  Graham struck at his Adam’s apple again, but the blow didn’t seem to have any effect. He hit him a third time. The cumulative blows worked. The assassin dropped his knife and stopped fighting for anything but tortured breath.

  Graham’s breathing sounded almost as ragged. He grabbed the knife, noticed its red tip, but didn’t pause to assess the growing stain on his shirt. He stretched for the gun, reached it, and then turned it on his assailant.

  The man’s face was bright red. He was older than Graham would have expected. Some air was making its way into his lungs, but only at great effort. He was breathing like a fish out of water. Every gasp made it sound as if he had the croup.

  Graham wasn’t much better himself. His hands were shaking, and his head felt as if someone had taken a baseball bat to it. The cut on his stomach didn’t appear too serious, but the Thierrys looked sickened by his seeping blood. Maybe it was because he was dripping on their prized oriental rug. He made no effort to move. Graham thought of Ran for a moment. He would be dead if it weren’t for him. Ran had taught him the basics of krav maga, given him the chance to survive. It was one more debt he owed his dead friend.

  His gun hand steadied, and so did his breathing. Graham studied the man who had tried to kill him. He had never seen him before. He was wearing a deliveryman’s uniform, had probably come in with a bag of groceries.

  “I’ll need some rope,” Graham told the Thierrys.

  “Rope?” asked Pierre.

  “Or cord, or chains. Something to tie him up. Do it now!”

  As Pierre hurried out of the room, Graham gave Odile a quick look.

  “Walk out to your balcony, Odile. Some of your neighbors are probably curious about the breaking glass. Give them an explanation.”

  Graham was left in the room with his assailant. He kept the gun centered on him. As long as the man had breath, he was dangerous. His lungs were still
straining for air, but his breathing didn’t seem quite as desperate.

  Pierre returned with some monofilament fishing line. “This is all I could find—”

  “It will do,” said Graham. “Use it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Wrap him tightly. Very tightly. We don’t want this fish to get away.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Now!” said Graham.

  Pierre started in. In the background Odile was finishing up her apologies to the curious. Her excuse was something about a heavy lamp that had fallen while it was being moved.

  “Tighter,” Graham instructed Pierre, as the line went around the man’s wrist.

  “It will stop the blood from circulating.”

  With his left hand Graham touched his bloody shirt. “My blood will do enough circulating for the two of us.” The gun never moved from his right hand.

  When Pierre started wrapping up his ankles, Graham spoke again: “Tighter.”

  “But I think his leg is broken,” Pierre said.

  “After he finished killing me, he was going to kill you and your wife. Given any opportunity, he will still do that.”

  Pierre worked the line with renewed vigor. As he finished up, Odile returned to the dining room. Their prisoner was breathing more regularly now. His face had gone from being bright red to ghost white. The pain from his injuries showed itself on his face.

  “Now,” said Graham, “I think it’s time the four of us had a little chat.” He turned to the prisoner. “What’s your name?”

  The man shook his head. Graham leaned over and grabbed his injured wrist. The man turned even whiter, if possible, and gasped in pain.

  “We will not condone torture!” Pierre shouted.

  “If your ethics were so stringent,” Graham said, “he wouldn’t have been sent here to kill us.” He asked his question again. “What’s your name?”

  “Bernd.”

  The man had a slight accent.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Germany.”

  “Who do you work for?”