pinpoint the whereabouts of phone users, that’s worse than dental extraction. And more time-consuming.”
“I can give you the number to trace,” she said.
“That lessens it a bit but not enough,” Nut said.
She heard beeps and clicks in the background.
“Talk to a ham radio operator,” he advised. “They monitor cell phone transmissions all the time.”
“René needs help, right away. There’s no time to lose.”
“Go to Club Radio, 11 rue Biot,” he said. “Tell Léo I sent you. That’s the best I can do, Léo helped another friend last week. And don’t forget, Aimée.”
“That I owe you?”
“René’s a black belt. Give him some credit.”
Nut clicked off.
Fear rippled through her as she stepped into her boots and grabbed her knee-length suede shearling coat in the hallway. She ran down the stairs, onto rue du Louvre and found a taxi letting out passengers.
“Eleven rue Biot,” she said to the taxi driver.
“Clichy’s out of my way.” The driver shook his head. “They were my last fare. Sorry, I’ve been working since six a.m.”
Lights glittered on the Seine below. A passing barge churned the black, sluggish water. No other taxis in sight.
She reached for her wallet. “Fifty francs extra for your trouble.”
“Must have a hot date.”
Little did he know.
The taxi driver hit the meter switch. “Get in.”
NUMBER 11 RUE Biot, between the old Café-concert L’Européen, where Charles Trenet had sung in the thirties, and an Indian restaurant, was a cobblestone’s throw from Place de Clichy. She pressed the buzzer, the door was buzzed open, and she stepped into a small courtyard. Against the night sky, a row of antennas poked from the rooftop like twigs: a good sign. She passed the old stables, now garages, and mounted the back stairs to the second floor.
The door stood ajar. She walked inside to what she figured had once been two rooms that had been opened up into a large space. Bare putty-colored walls, a wooden farm table, a bag of potting soil on the floor. Instead of the buzzing and static she expected, she saw a plump woman in her forties wearing an apron, sitting at a scanner by several radios. She wore headphones.
“I’m looking for Léo. . . .”
“Short for Léontyne,” she said, smiling. “My mother loved opera and Léontyne Price.”
“Nut sent me.”
“I know,” she said. “Can you hurry up? Sorry but I’ve got to add forty-five megahertz in about seven minutes.”
She gestured to a large red clock, and pulled off her headphones.
Aimée nodded. “I don’t know if my friend’s in Paris, but he’s in trouble. I’m desperate. Can you help me find him?”
Léo hit several switches and adjusted a black knob that caused a needle to quiver on the volumeter.
Aimée wrote René’s name and cell phone number on a pad of paper by Léo’s elbow.
“ Parfait! Most people don’t even have that much. Now we can tap into the ocean of dialogue, ignore the police bandwidth, firefighters, ambulance drivers, paramedics, sanitation workers, and infant monitors and pinpoint it. Like they say, it’s an electromagnetic jungle out there.”
Aimée was out of her depth. “How does it work?”
“I set up a system for this phone’s ESN and MIN code, its serial number and identification number. So each time,” she paused, rubbing her neck, “René . . . that’s his name, René?”
Aimée nodded.
“So when René makes a phone call, my scanner picks up his ESN and MIN numbers, my computer, hooked up to my scanner, recognizes his cell phone, and tunes in to his conversation and records it.”
“Sounds easy. But I’m sure it’s not.”
“So far there’s no encryption in the radio spectrum,” she grinned. “When it happens, we’ll figure something else out.”
“And if the phone’s not on?”
“I can only monitor what’s out there.”
Aimée paused looking around the room filled with radios. She clenched her fists, trying to keep her hands
“I can give you the number to trace,” she said.
“That lessens it a bit but not enough,” Nut said.
She heard beeps and clicks in the background.
“Talk to a ham radio operator,” he advised. “They monitor cell phone transmissions all the time.”
“René needs help, right away. There’s no time to lose.”
“Go to Club Radio, 11 rue Biot,” he said. “Tell Léo I sent you. That’s the best I can do, Léo helped another friend last week. And don’t forget, Aimée.”
“That I owe you?”
“René’s a black belt. Give him some credit.”
Nut clicked off.
Fear rippled through her as she stepped into her boots and grabbed her knee-length suede shearling coat in the hallway. She ran down the stairs, onto rue du Louvre and found a taxi letting out passengers.
“Eleven rue Biot,” she said to the taxi driver.
“Clichy’s out of my way.” The driver shook his head. “They were my last fare. Sorry, I’ve been working since six a.m.”
Lights glittered on the Seine below. A passing barge churned the black, sluggish water. No other taxis in sight.
She reached for her wallet. “Fifty francs extra for your trouble.”
“Must have a hot date.”
Little did he know.
The taxi driver hit the meter switch. “Get in.”
NUMBER 11 RUE Biot, between the old Café-concert L’Européen, where Charles Trenet had sung in the thirties, and an Indian restaurant, was a cobblestone’s throw from Place de Clichy. She pressed the buzzer, the door was buzzed open, and she stepped into a small courtyard. Against the night sky, a row of antennas poked from the rooftop like twigs: a good sign. She passed the old stables, now garages, and mounted the back stairs to the second floor.
The door stood ajar. She walked inside to what she figured had once been two rooms that had been opened up into a large space. Bare putty-colored walls, a wooden farm table, a bag of potting soil on the floor. Instead of the buzzing and static she expected, she saw a plump woman in her forties wearing an apron, sitting at a scanner by several radios. She wore headphones.
“I’m looking for Léo. . . .”
“Short for Léontyne,” she said, smiling. “My mother loved opera and Léontyne Price.”
“Nut sent me.”
“I know,” she said. “Can you hurry up? Sorry but I’ve got to add forty-five megahertz in about seven minutes.”
She gestured to a large red clock, and pulled off her headphones.
Aimée nodded. “I don’t know if my friend’s in Paris, but he’s in trouble. I’m desperate. Can you help me find him?”
Léo hit several switches and adjusted a black knob that caused a needle to quiver on the volumeter.
Aimée wrote René’s name and cell phone number on a pad of paper by Léo’s elbow.
“ Parfait! Most people don’t even have that much. Now we can tap into the ocean of dialogue, ignore the police bandwidth, firefighters, ambulance drivers, paramedics, sanitation workers, and infant monitors and pinpoint it. Like they say, it’s an electromagnetic jungle out there.”
Aimée was out of her depth. “How does it work?”
“I set up a system for this phone’s ESN and MIN code, its serial number and identification number. So each time,” she paused, rubbing her neck, “René . . . that’s his name, René?”
Aimée nodded.
“So when René makes a phone call, my scanner picks up his ESN and MIN numbers, my computer, hooked up to my scanner, recognizes his cell phone, and tunes in to his conversation and records it.”
“Sounds easy. But I’m sure it’s not.”
“So far there’s no encryption in the radio spectrum,” she grinned. “When it happens, we’ll figure something else out.”
“And if the phone’s not on?”
“I can only monitor what’s out there.”
Aimée paused looking around the room filled with radios. She clenched her fists, trying to keep her hands
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