Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) by Haggai Carmon

apartments in the area, the ceilings were low, with ancient wood beams; a balcony looked out onto the standard Parisian courtyard. My framed photos—landscape shots of my “home” country, which could be anywhere in Europe— were on the wall, and my clothes and other personal belongings were in the closets. “This apartment is still under 1948 rent control laws,” was the legend that the realtor had offered as to why André had to pose as my son, when all he wanted was to rent a cheap apartment advertised in the newspaper. “Monsieur needs to maintain and support the fact that he’s never abandoned his residence, although he now travels constantly and is there only a few times a year, since a member of his immediate family lives in the apartment,” the realtor had explained.  André hadn’t seemed to care. Why should he? A furnished apartment, well below market price, with two bedrooms and an absentee landlord who visited twice or three times a year for two or three days?
    "There are other conditions," the realtor had told him at the time. "When Monsieur Van der Hoff comes to Paris he must sleep at the apartment, and you must introduce him as your father if you ever meet a third person." André had obviously agreed. For all he cared, presumably, I could be a drug dealer, although I’m sure he hoped I wasn’t a serial killer. 
    When I used my key and entered the apartment, André wasn’t in. I looked around, trying to figure out whether my security contamination had started here. I went through André’s things. There was nothing suspicious – all the trappings you’d expect from a senior at the Sorbonne, including philosophy books, an iPod, and a small quantity of weed wrapped in a foil paper. One thing that surprised me, though, was women’s clothing hung in the closet and makeup accessories in the bedroom. A woman was staying here, I realized, a clear violation of the agreement with André. As I sat on the living room sofa, the door opened and André walked in with a young woman. Both were dressed in black. The woman was smoking a cigarette, fouling the room with smoke.  André seemed surprised to see me.
    “Bonjour , André, mon petit,” I said and hugged him. The woman looked at André in anticipation for an introduction.
    I moved first and gave her my hand, “Hi, I’m Jaap, André’s father, he wasn’t expecting me,” I said in French with a broad smile.
    “Monica,” she said and took off her dark sunglasses, revealing deep blue eyes. She had wavy, black hair, probably dyed; fair skin; a long, almost horse-y face; and multiple piercings in each ear. Even so, she was attractive enough. She appeared to be 26 or 27 years old, dressed in a tight black mini skirt and heels. So, André prefers older women, I thought; he was only 22.
    “Monica is my friend,” said André, “she’s from Germany, so let’s talk in English, her French isn’t that great.”
    I thanked André in my heart, because my French was also wobbly. 
    “Sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but my plans have changed, so I decided to see how you were doing.”
    “I’m fine,” he continued with the charade, but I sensed he had to make an effort. Realizing I had noticed that Monica was living in the apartment without my permission, he said, “Oh, Monica is staying here for a few days, I hope you don’t mind.”
    With my earlier cursory review of the apartment, I’d already figured out that Monica had installed herself there.
    “You know the rule,” I said, “Even for a few days, I must report to the landlord whoever is living here, or face eviction from an apartment that your grandfather first rented decades ago.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said realizing he was caught red handed.
    “I need a copy of Monica’s passport, and her full home address,” I said. That was bull, of course, but it created an opportunity to run a background on Monica. They didn’t react.
    “It’s a little early, perhaps, but please let me take