Deception by John Altman Page A

immediately that it was not good news.
    They had taken care of Epstein, Dietz reported. But there had been complications.
    The man’s cabin and luggage had been searched, to no result. So it seemed as if Epstein had left no record of his work. But there was a possible problem. Leonard had seen the man and his wife talking with a young woman, at the fortress of Sapienza, in a way that Leonard had judged to be all too intense. There had been something between them—something of considerable importance to Epstein. And so it was possible, Dietz admitted, that in fact Epstein had kept a record of his work. It was even possible that he had been in league with the young woman, in some capacity. Perhaps she represented a foreign interest …
    Keyes put his head in one hand as his other held the telephone. His fingers moved: small circles, circles within circles. So Epstein had sold out, after all. After so much progress, they would be stopped by this—an old-fashioned security leak. Not only would they lose the formula, but it might also fall into enemy hands. And the prospect of the formula in the wrong hands was utterly terrifying.
    But Keyes himself wouldn’t be around long enough to suffer the consequences. When the Project came tumbling down, whose shoulders would the ruins come to rest on? On his shoulders, of course. He had not gone to the DIA, when it had become necessary, looking for help. He had run cover for Greenwich. And now he would be the one to pay the price.
    It was all finished.
    â€œWho is she?” he asked, still rubbing at his temple.
    â€œThat’s a good question.” Dietz sounded faintly amused. The man’s voice, Keyes thought, possessed a rather disturbing ironic distance. “Perhaps I could ask her myself. Somehow they cut a deal with the local authorities; the ship’s heading straight to Istanbul. We could meet it there and take her off.”
    â€œIstanbul,” Keyes repeated.
    â€œRight. Day after tomorrow …”
    â€œWhat hotel?” Keyes asked. “I’m coming out.”

NINE
    1.
    Henri Jansen reached across Madeleine’s body, found his pack of Gauloises on the nightstand, and lit two.
    â€œI need to go,” Madeleine said.
    But she accepted a cigarette anyway. She smoked with her eyes shut, a faint smile playing around her lips.
    â€œI’ve got a big day tomorrow,” she went on. “My husband has organized a hiking trip from les Cabassols. Tony Blair’s best friend from childhood is going to be there. And a Saudi prince. And a famous American, a white-collar criminal. Why is it that Americans get famous for being criminals?”
    Henri looked off into the gloom, and didn’t answer.
    â€œOh, I guess it’s not just Americans,” Madeleine said airily. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties—careless and flirty, on the surface, although from time to time Henri had seen something sweetly sad beneath the careless veneer. “Anyway. Can you imagination how the conversation will go? All about horse racing, I bet. They all own thoroughbreds, you know. They race them, like boys with toy cars.”
    Henri smoked, and made no comment.
    â€œWell,” she said, and handed the Gauloise back to him. “I’ve really got to go.”
    As she showered, he stayed in bed, alternating drags from each cigarette. Depression was nipping at him, stealthy and insistent. But there was no need to feel depressed, Henri thought. Why, this was what he had always dreamed of. Look how far he had come from the days when he hadn’t been able to afford even a single cigarette—the days when, as a child in Paris, he had been forced to forage butts off the street.
    But now: a cigarette for each hand. A different woman for each part of the day. A beautiful house, rent-free. Who could have asked for more?
    When the shower was finished, he watched Madeleine dress. Then he left the bed, kissed the back of her