expression was one of shock and confusion.
“What the hell?” James said.
The guy on the bed, a man in his late-fifties, was definitely not Max Baer. James yanked him to his feet, hauled him into the bathroom, zip-tied his hands and feet, and after covering his mouth with duct tape, closed the door.
Then he crossed the room and confronted the woman.
“What the hell’s going on here and who’s that man?” he demanded, motioning toward the bathroom.
The woman spoke in broken English through a thick French accent. “I know not his name . . . I meet him three days ago.”
“Where’s Max Baer?”
Totally disoriented, she sputtered, “Me, I know nothing.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
When she hesitated, James lowered his voice.
“Listen, if I don’t start getting some answers, you’re going over that balcony,” he said, pointing to a pair of French doors overlooking the street.
“Uh, yesterday, no, the day before,” she blurted out.
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, he go somewhere else in the city.”
She paused, crying.
“Can you contact him?”
She shook her head. No. “He see me at lounge, Casino de Paris. We never talk on telephone. He make love to me . . . he promise to come back. Two day. I no see him for two day!”
Getting more agitated, she shouted at him. “You find him, tell him I think he is pig.”
James stepped to the doorway, then he turned to her.
“Sounds like a real stormy romance.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him.
In the street, he hailed a taxi and the driver continued north and into the city’s Right Bank where James checked into a standard room at the Hotel du Casino . He showered, changed his clothes and walked onto the floor of the Casino de Paris , carrying photos of Max Baer. He showed them to employees, hoping someone would recognize the man. Eventually, he came across a dealer who remembered him.
“He’s a high roller,” the young man said.
“Really? Go on.”
“Has expensive taste in clothes, wine, everything,” he told James, slipping cards to the players around his table. “He likes to gamble, big stakes, and he loves the ladies.”
“Anything else?”
“He talked fondly about France.”
“How do you mean?”
“When the wine flowed into the late hours …” The dealer smiled. “He went on about France being his adoptive country, and how he felt safe here. I often have these conversations with my customers. It’s one of the perks, listening to their stories.”
“You’ve been helpful, thanks.”
“Anytime,” the Frenchman said. “Good luck.”
James came out of the casino and into the street where he strolled along the sidewalk toward the river Seine. He stood against a railing at the water’s edge, carried away by his thoughts.
Max Baer, once you turn men like him loose, they’re difficult to stop, which is exactly what Kate and I need to do. This trip, has it been worthwhile? Definitely. We know he’s in Paris. Terrific, all we need to do now is to find someone who’s hiding out in a city of twelve million people. But half of them are female, which reduces the odds to one in six million.
CHAPTER 26
B ack in D.C. the air was crisp and James gunned the throttle on his motorcycle, the powerful machine surging forward onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. A few miles into the ride, he felt a pang of apprehension wash over him. He slowed and turned to look.
An unsightly gash along the tree line poked out where the grisly car wreck had taken the lives of Senators Hill and Nelson, and left Daniel in a coma. Shaking off the feeling, he rode a few more miles and got off the parkway at an exit ramp. The bike curved around a loop and he drew closer to a security gate near a sign.
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
He was cleared through the back gate and rode up to a parking lot, dismounted the bike and walked to a lobby entrance where a middle-aged man approached, presenting himself in a
“What the hell?” James said.
The guy on the bed, a man in his late-fifties, was definitely not Max Baer. James yanked him to his feet, hauled him into the bathroom, zip-tied his hands and feet, and after covering his mouth with duct tape, closed the door.
Then he crossed the room and confronted the woman.
“What the hell’s going on here and who’s that man?” he demanded, motioning toward the bathroom.
The woman spoke in broken English through a thick French accent. “I know not his name . . . I meet him three days ago.”
“Where’s Max Baer?”
Totally disoriented, she sputtered, “Me, I know nothing.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
When she hesitated, James lowered his voice.
“Listen, if I don’t start getting some answers, you’re going over that balcony,” he said, pointing to a pair of French doors overlooking the street.
“Uh, yesterday, no, the day before,” she blurted out.
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, he go somewhere else in the city.”
She paused, crying.
“Can you contact him?”
She shook her head. No. “He see me at lounge, Casino de Paris. We never talk on telephone. He make love to me . . . he promise to come back. Two day. I no see him for two day!”
Getting more agitated, she shouted at him. “You find him, tell him I think he is pig.”
James stepped to the doorway, then he turned to her.
“Sounds like a real stormy romance.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him.
In the street, he hailed a taxi and the driver continued north and into the city’s Right Bank where James checked into a standard room at the Hotel du Casino . He showered, changed his clothes and walked onto the floor of the Casino de Paris , carrying photos of Max Baer. He showed them to employees, hoping someone would recognize the man. Eventually, he came across a dealer who remembered him.
“He’s a high roller,” the young man said.
“Really? Go on.”
“Has expensive taste in clothes, wine, everything,” he told James, slipping cards to the players around his table. “He likes to gamble, big stakes, and he loves the ladies.”
“Anything else?”
“He talked fondly about France.”
“How do you mean?”
“When the wine flowed into the late hours …” The dealer smiled. “He went on about France being his adoptive country, and how he felt safe here. I often have these conversations with my customers. It’s one of the perks, listening to their stories.”
“You’ve been helpful, thanks.”
“Anytime,” the Frenchman said. “Good luck.”
James came out of the casino and into the street where he strolled along the sidewalk toward the river Seine. He stood against a railing at the water’s edge, carried away by his thoughts.
Max Baer, once you turn men like him loose, they’re difficult to stop, which is exactly what Kate and I need to do. This trip, has it been worthwhile? Definitely. We know he’s in Paris. Terrific, all we need to do now is to find someone who’s hiding out in a city of twelve million people. But half of them are female, which reduces the odds to one in six million.
CHAPTER 26
B ack in D.C. the air was crisp and James gunned the throttle on his motorcycle, the powerful machine surging forward onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. A few miles into the ride, he felt a pang of apprehension wash over him. He slowed and turned to look.
An unsightly gash along the tree line poked out where the grisly car wreck had taken the lives of Senators Hill and Nelson, and left Daniel in a coma. Shaking off the feeling, he rode a few more miles and got off the parkway at an exit ramp. The bike curved around a loop and he drew closer to a security gate near a sign.
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
He was cleared through the back gate and rode up to a parking lot, dismounted the bike and walked to a lobby entrance where a middle-aged man approached, presenting himself in a
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