would handle the arrest. She felt she was free to get away. Is there a problem? Can I assign someone else?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Can you give me her cell phone number?”
“Of course. Hold on:”
While he was on hold, Charles Raimondi swiveled in his chair to look out the sealed window behind his desk. From his thirty-fifth-floor perch, he could see the Arch de Triomphe below him to his right and the Eiffel Tower in the distance across the winter-brown Seine. Though it was only three PM, the street lamps lining the Avenue des Champs-Elysées were on. Snow was spitting from a leaden sky. Dirty weather, dirty business, he thought, wondering where Catherine Laurence had gone off to and whether he might surprise her there when his dirty business was done. Ms. Nolan had given him the slip, as they said in American gangster movies, but surely someone in the neighborhood had seen her.
It was a pity Nolan was wanted so badly. She was strikingly beautiful, with her long reddish-blond hair and exotic eyes. And her unmistakable air of superiority. It would have been interesting to have met her under different circumstances. Catherine Laurence, however, was in the same category of beauty. Her provincial Frenchness worked against her, but after all he would not be marrying her. He was sure that there would be logical answers to the panicky questions raised by his Saudi Arabian contact. It would give him another excuse to speak with Catherine, perhaps catch her in her apartment as she was packing or getting out of the shower.
“Here is the number, Charles:”
“Yes, go ahead.” Raimondi wrote the number down. “And her home address?” He listened and wrote again.
“Will you be needing anything else?”
“No, DST will handle this from now on:”
“I would have liked to stay on the case. A terrorist cell ... Good luck:”
“Thank you, Geneviève, By the way—no one will approach you about this case, but if someone does, you must say nothing and call me immediately.”
“Yes, of course, Charles. I understand:”
No you don’t, Raimondi thought, smiling. Then he picked up one of his untraceable, throwaway cell phones—which he kept handy for purposes of liaison-making with the wives of fellow diplomats—and dialed Catherine Laurence’s number.
“Are you going to answer that?” Pat asked.
“No;” Catherine answered, reaching into her shoulder bag on the console between them, extracting her tiny silver cell phone, and pushing the off switch.
“Where are we going?”
“To a house that my husband owns—owned—in Rambouillet:”
“‘Rambouillet.’” Pat repeated the word, attempting, not entirely unsuccessfully, to duplicate Catherine’s pronunciation.
“Its not far, forty-five minutes:”
“What’s going on?”
“Let’s get there first. Then we can talk:”
“No, Catherine. I want answers now. I want my own options:”
“You have none:”
“I’ll decide that:”
They had approached the entrance to a highway marked A10 and Catherine slowed down and concentrated on slipping into its stream of traffic. When they were safely on, Pat said, “What about my hotel?”
“You cannot return to your hotel:”
“Why not?”
“Because the men we just saw will come for you there:”
“Good. I like to talk to them:”
“No, Patrick, you would not. The one with the bandage is a wanted terrorist. He beheaded the Newsweek journalist in Karachi last summer:”
“What?”
“Yes, and now, for reasons I cannot understand, he is looking for your daughter. And I am not sure of this, but I believe he has the help of the French Foreign Office, and quite possibly the DST, which is our equivalent of your CIA:”
“Why do you think that?”
“I set up the raid in Courbevoie by telling the only DST man I know, the one who ordered me to follow you, a man
“No, that won’t be necessary. Can you give me her cell phone number?”
“Of course. Hold on:”
While he was on hold, Charles Raimondi swiveled in his chair to look out the sealed window behind his desk. From his thirty-fifth-floor perch, he could see the Arch de Triomphe below him to his right and the Eiffel Tower in the distance across the winter-brown Seine. Though it was only three PM, the street lamps lining the Avenue des Champs-Elysées were on. Snow was spitting from a leaden sky. Dirty weather, dirty business, he thought, wondering where Catherine Laurence had gone off to and whether he might surprise her there when his dirty business was done. Ms. Nolan had given him the slip, as they said in American gangster movies, but surely someone in the neighborhood had seen her.
It was a pity Nolan was wanted so badly. She was strikingly beautiful, with her long reddish-blond hair and exotic eyes. And her unmistakable air of superiority. It would have been interesting to have met her under different circumstances. Catherine Laurence, however, was in the same category of beauty. Her provincial Frenchness worked against her, but after all he would not be marrying her. He was sure that there would be logical answers to the panicky questions raised by his Saudi Arabian contact. It would give him another excuse to speak with Catherine, perhaps catch her in her apartment as she was packing or getting out of the shower.
“Here is the number, Charles:”
“Yes, go ahead.” Raimondi wrote the number down. “And her home address?” He listened and wrote again.
“Will you be needing anything else?”
“No, DST will handle this from now on:”
“I would have liked to stay on the case. A terrorist cell ... Good luck:”
“Thank you, Geneviève, By the way—no one will approach you about this case, but if someone does, you must say nothing and call me immediately.”
“Yes, of course, Charles. I understand:”
No you don’t, Raimondi thought, smiling. Then he picked up one of his untraceable, throwaway cell phones—which he kept handy for purposes of liaison-making with the wives of fellow diplomats—and dialed Catherine Laurence’s number.
“Are you going to answer that?” Pat asked.
“No;” Catherine answered, reaching into her shoulder bag on the console between them, extracting her tiny silver cell phone, and pushing the off switch.
“Where are we going?”
“To a house that my husband owns—owned—in Rambouillet:”
“‘Rambouillet.’” Pat repeated the word, attempting, not entirely unsuccessfully, to duplicate Catherine’s pronunciation.
“Its not far, forty-five minutes:”
“What’s going on?”
“Let’s get there first. Then we can talk:”
“No, Catherine. I want answers now. I want my own options:”
“You have none:”
“I’ll decide that:”
They had approached the entrance to a highway marked A10 and Catherine slowed down and concentrated on slipping into its stream of traffic. When they were safely on, Pat said, “What about my hotel?”
“You cannot return to your hotel:”
“Why not?”
“Because the men we just saw will come for you there:”
“Good. I like to talk to them:”
“No, Patrick, you would not. The one with the bandage is a wanted terrorist. He beheaded the Newsweek journalist in Karachi last summer:”
“What?”
“Yes, and now, for reasons I cannot understand, he is looking for your daughter. And I am not sure of this, but I believe he has the help of the French Foreign Office, and quite possibly the DST, which is our equivalent of your CIA:”
“Why do you think that?”
“I set up the raid in Courbevoie by telling the only DST man I know, the one who ordered me to follow you, a man
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