Paris Match by Stuart Woods

shower running, then he dozed off again. When he came to, Holly was bending over him, and she was, disappointingly, dressed. “You were just what a girl needed last night,” she said.
    “Always glad to be of service,” he replied. “Why are you dressed so early? Are my services no longer desired?”
    “They are, but Rick LaRose called, and I’ve got to run over to the embassy for a while,” she said. “I’ll be sure and be back for dinner. Book us somewhere special.”
    “Done,” he said, then went back to sleep.
    —
    HOLLY TOOK a cab to the embassy and let herself in through the side door with her ID card. She identified herself to a guard in a glassed-in cage, then entered the Paris station of the Central Intelligence Agency and walked briskly to the station chief’s office. “He’s with someone,” Rick’s secretary said, then Rick opened his office door and waved her inside.
    “Good morning.” he said. “Thanks for coming over. Holly Barker, meet Jean-Noël Ragot of the Berlin station.” A tall, heavily built man in his forties stood. “Hi, Holly,” he said.
    “Jean-Noël is the man I told you about,” Rick said. “We served together in this station some years ago.”
    “Hello, Jean-Noël,” Holly said. “What brings you to Paris?”
    “I don’t know,” Ragot replied.
    Rick spoke up. “Jean-Noël got a call from Lance Cabot yesterday, ordering him here.”
    “He didn’t say why,” Ragot added.
    “Do I detect an accent?” Holly asked.
    “Probably more than one,” Ragot replied. “I have a French father and a German mother, but I was raised in the States.”
    Holly didn’t know what else to ask him. “So, what are we doing here, Rick?”
    “Waiting for Lance to phone from Langley,” Rick said. “We assume he will, soon.”
    Rick’s intercom buzzed and he picked up the phone. “Yes? Send him in.”
    Lance Cabot walked into the room and dropped a leather duffel and his briefcase on the carpet. “Morning, all.” He flopped onto the sofa. “Now that we’re all assembled, let’s get down to it.”
    They waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
    “Get down to what?” Holly asked, finally.
    “This business with John, no middle initial, Simpson. Jean-Noël knew him—in fact, he brought him to Paris a while back.”
    “This is so,” Ragot said.
    “Tell us why,” Lance said.
    “Ron Spencer sent me and three others here to…” He stopped, looking doubtful.
    “We’re all family here,” Lance said. “Tell us.”
    “To interrogate a Russian,” Ragot said.
    “At whose request?” Lance asked.
    “Ron had a contact in the French national police who wanted the man spoken to.”
    “Don’t the French police know how to conduct an interrogation?” Holly asked.
    Ragot looked uncomfortable. “Of course, but our host didn’t want this Russian to be known to his colleagues.”
    “Why did you choose Simpson to accompany you?” Lance asked.
    “Simpson was something of an expert,” Ragot said.
    “In interrogation?” Rick asked.
    “In… persuasion,” Ragot replied. “Another of the team did the interrogation. Simpson was to persuade the subject to reply.”
    Everyone was silent for a moment before Lance spoke. “What was the identity of the Russian?”
    “We never knew his name,” Ragot asked.
    “What was the name of Ron’s friend in the police?”
    “We never knew his name, either. Our instructions came from a man on the telephone. We never met him.”
    “What was the subject of the… conversation with the Russian gentleman?”
    “The man apparently knew the identity of a spy for the Russians inside the Paris police.”
    “A spy for Russian intelligence?”
    “I think not,” Ragot said. “I formed the opinion that the spy was working not for Russian intelligence, but for other Russians, I know not who they were.”
    “Were you able to learn the name of the person who made the request from inside the Paris police?” Lance asked impatiently.
    “No, we