Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) by Haggai Carmon Page A
Authors: Haggai Carmon
Ads: Link
you both out to dinner,” I suggested, “and we can find a place to photocopy her passport.” Monica seemed disturbed a tad. Apparently, she wasn’t aware of the reporting requirement, or maybe she felt uneasy that André had never mentioned her to me. We dined at La Table d u Marquis, a simple, excellent restaurant just a few steps down the street. The place served rustic French food; André and Monica split a bottle of Bordeaux. After dinner we walked to a nearby all night copy center, and I asked Monica for her passport.
She hesitated for a moment and started digging in her purse.
“I’m afraid I don’t have it here,” she said. I don’t always know if people are telling the truth, but this one sounded like an outright lie.
“Please look again,” I said. “I hate to say it, but you can’t stay at the apartment unless I report you to the landlord.”
She let out a sigh, “Let me see again.”
I followed her hands with my eyes, and when I saw the red cover of her German passport — she was clearly trying to cover it with her hands, doing a sloppy job. I said, pointing, “There it is.”
Reluctantly she gave me the passport. I asked her for her home address.
“Salvador-Allende Str. 1320, 12559 Berlin, Germany,” she said.
I copied her passport; Monica Mann was born in 1984, making her 22 years old. “ She doesn’t look 22, no way,” said my inner little devil. He was right, I looked at Monica again. She looked much older than 22.
“ There are exceptions of course, but in most cases, the first gut feeling is the correct feeling,” — another maxim by Alex, my Mossad Academy instructor. He must have paraphrased another Moscow Rule: “ Never go against your gut; it is your operational antenna.” Here, I knew he was probably right. I scanned the copies of Monica’s passport and emailed them to Eric from the copy center’s computer via a European pass-through email address. “Notification to landlord of temporary guest at 1359, rue Beccaria, 7501 1 Paris, France. Monica Mann, home address: Salvador-Allende Str. 1320, 12559 Berlin, Germany.”
Eric did not expect any “temporary guest” in my Paris apartment serving only as an accommodation address. He would know to check her out.
We returned to the apartment. I went to sleep in “my” bedroom while André and Monica slept in his. I was bothered and jet-lagged, finally slipping into deep sleep until garbage truck noises woke me up at an early hour. Not sure why, but being wakened by a garbage truck in Paris was somehow preferable to being wakened by one in New York — the trucks in Paris seemed gentler, somehow; or maybe it was the city itself. Paris was daintier than New York, trimmed with cornices. Between the two cities, I always thought of New York as the man — impressive, concrete, a solid grid — and Paris as the woman, exquisite with her narrow streets, late lunches, and pink afternoon light. I left the apartment quietly; found a patisserie with croissants au chocolat fresh out of the oven; and got a copy of Le Monde. When I returned to the apartment, André was sipping coffee from a mug and getting ready to go out.
“Where’s Monica?” I asked, “I wanted to say goodbye, I’m leaving soon,” I said nonchalantly. “Is she a student at the Sorbonne as well?”
“Oh, she just left to run some errands,” he said as he went to the door, “No, she’s an art student in Germany and travels in Europe taking photos of old buildings to prepare her thesis. We met when she arrived in Paris. She was looking for a place to stay, and I invited her to stay here. I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your permission, I thought it was necessary only for a sublet, not for occasional guests.”
“The thing is, the landlord watches me like a hawk. He’s looking for any violation to evict me, so he can charge a new tenant a
She hesitated for a moment and started digging in her purse.
“I’m afraid I don’t have it here,” she said. I don’t always know if people are telling the truth, but this one sounded like an outright lie.
“Please look again,” I said. “I hate to say it, but you can’t stay at the apartment unless I report you to the landlord.”
She let out a sigh, “Let me see again.”
I followed her hands with my eyes, and when I saw the red cover of her German passport — she was clearly trying to cover it with her hands, doing a sloppy job. I said, pointing, “There it is.”
Reluctantly she gave me the passport. I asked her for her home address.
“Salvador-Allende Str. 1320, 12559 Berlin, Germany,” she said.
I copied her passport; Monica Mann was born in 1984, making her 22 years old. “ She doesn’t look 22, no way,” said my inner little devil. He was right, I looked at Monica again. She looked much older than 22.
“ There are exceptions of course, but in most cases, the first gut feeling is the correct feeling,” — another maxim by Alex, my Mossad Academy instructor. He must have paraphrased another Moscow Rule: “ Never go against your gut; it is your operational antenna.” Here, I knew he was probably right. I scanned the copies of Monica’s passport and emailed them to Eric from the copy center’s computer via a European pass-through email address. “Notification to landlord of temporary guest at 1359, rue Beccaria, 7501 1 Paris, France. Monica Mann, home address: Salvador-Allende Str. 1320, 12559 Berlin, Germany.”
Eric did not expect any “temporary guest” in my Paris apartment serving only as an accommodation address. He would know to check her out.
We returned to the apartment. I went to sleep in “my” bedroom while André and Monica slept in his. I was bothered and jet-lagged, finally slipping into deep sleep until garbage truck noises woke me up at an early hour. Not sure why, but being wakened by a garbage truck in Paris was somehow preferable to being wakened by one in New York — the trucks in Paris seemed gentler, somehow; or maybe it was the city itself. Paris was daintier than New York, trimmed with cornices. Between the two cities, I always thought of New York as the man — impressive, concrete, a solid grid — and Paris as the woman, exquisite with her narrow streets, late lunches, and pink afternoon light. I left the apartment quietly; found a patisserie with croissants au chocolat fresh out of the oven; and got a copy of Le Monde. When I returned to the apartment, André was sipping coffee from a mug and getting ready to go out.
“Where’s Monica?” I asked, “I wanted to say goodbye, I’m leaving soon,” I said nonchalantly. “Is she a student at the Sorbonne as well?”
“Oh, she just left to run some errands,” he said as he went to the door, “No, she’s an art student in Germany and travels in Europe taking photos of old buildings to prepare her thesis. We met when she arrived in Paris. She was looking for a place to stay, and I invited her to stay here. I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your permission, I thought it was necessary only for a sublet, not for occasional guests.”
“The thing is, the landlord watches me like a hawk. He’s looking for any violation to evict me, so he can charge a new tenant a
Similar Books
