10

JAMES ANDERSON

PARIS, FRANCE

“IF YOU’LL FOLLOW ME, MONSIEUR, we’ll get you processed.”

Detective Bernard slid out of the SUV. James pulled the door handle on his side and found it locked. Bernard popped his head back into the vehicle.

“You will have to come this way, monsieur,” he said. “That door does not open.”

“Okay,” James said, stringing the word out dubiously. He wondered if he had just entered The Twilight Zone.

Inside the building on the left, James discovered a small lobby that looked like what he would imagine any police department might have. A long counter dominated one side of the room. A female officer in uniform staffed it, doing paperwork behind its protective glass window. Only one door led out of the building: the one he was stepping through.

“This way, monsieur,” said Detective Durand, indicating the counter.

“Oui? Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” asked the pretty female officer who stood barely over five feet tall. Her short black hair was neatly tucked beneath her hat. She gave a cold smile as Detective Bernard rapidly explained their business. James listened, trying to catch the flow of the conversation, but it seemed like mostly numbers—procedural codes of some sort, he assumed.

“Eh, d’accord … Oui … Je sais.” The woman’s responses were easy to pick out. When she suddenly switched to English, it caught James a little off-guard. “So, we will need you to sign a declaration and empty out your pockets in order to continue,” she said.

“Empty out my pockets?” James said, taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“Standard procedure, James,” Detective Bernard said. “We can’t have you walking around the station with dangerous items in your pockets. We will pass through several metal detectors, and there may be dangerous criminals being detained somewhere in the building who could use items you may be carrying against us, or you. We need to control all, eh, visitors’ items while they remain in our care. Trust me, this is just a minor technicality.”

“Really?” James asked. Although he was very familiar with the laws of the United States, he had never looked into the nuances of French law beyond those necessary from a business point of view. He hesitated to hand over all his electronics, especially the laptop that he was still carrying with him.

The police officer behind the desk gave him a shy smile and nodded. “Standard procedure, monsieur.”

James bit down on what he was going to say about all of their standard procedure and placed his laptop on the counter, emptying out his pockets on top of it. “I’ll want a receipt,” he said.

“You’ll get a signed notice,” the officer said as she wrote down all of the items. “One wallet with ninety-seven Euros, deux cartes de crédit, un ordinateur …” Her voice was monotone. “Les clés, a mobile phone, and—” She stared pointedly at his watch. James opened his mouth and then closed it. He handed her the watch.

A smile broke across her face, “And one Rolex watch! Anything else, monsieur? Keepsakes or valuables?”

“No, it seems that you have just about everything.”

Don’t worry. We’ll keep everything safe until you’re done.”

“Humph!”

James followed Detective Bernard to the nearest metal detector, through the door on the other side of the room, and into the bowels of the Serious Crimes Unit.

The inside of the building managed to appear much smaller than it actually was. The corridors were barely bigger than James’s shoulders, and most of them ended in small yellowing brick T-junctions or sharp turns. Dull blue-green doors sprouted from these drab cinderblock walls, and the dim lighting did nothing to improve the mood. Clearly, the décor had not been updated in decades. James felt as if he were a criminal being escorted to his cell.

“This way, monsieur.” Detective Bernard stopped at a door marked “3A” in bold black lettering. He unlocked it to reveal a small interview chamber just ten feet square that could have doubled for a closet. In the center stood a sturdy black metal table surrounded by three gray plastic chairs. Bernard, James, and Durand filed into the room. “If you’ll just sit down, we can begin to take your account of what happened,” Detective Bernard said.

“I really don’t understand why you couldn’t have just taken my statement at the apartment. I don’t have much to say,” James grumbled. By way of answer, Detective Bernard produced a tape recorder and a notebook.

For the next hour, the detectives made James go over every detail of the morning, from the time when he had first been awakened by Robert’s call to his arrival back at the apartment.

“So, you have been on the phone to this Robert Matson all day?” Detective Bernard asked.

“No,” James said. “I already told you. He sent me some files to look over, relating to our business this morning, and then I was disconnected from him later in the day. We eventually exchanged emails, but I really don’t see how this has anything to do with my apartment being burglarized. Nor is my business any of your business.” By this time he was tired and irritable, and kept checking his wrist where his watch should have been.

“And what did you and Monsieur Robert discuss?”

“He was calling about a business problem we are having in the U.S. Wait. Why does that even matter? We are talking about a break-in here!”

Detective Bernard smiled patiently. “Just making sure all the facts are covered,” he said. “If your mind has been on matters of business all day, then it seems you were distracted. At one of these cafés you’ve been frequenting, perhaps someone overheard you and followed you home?”

“What are you talking about?” James fumed. “When I got home, my apartment had already been ransacked. If they’d followed me home, they would have done it later.”

“So you have not been anywhere else in Paris since you arrived in France?”

“Of course I have been going out, but I haven’t been on the phone in public much.”

The two detectives exchanged glances, then looked at James as if he were naïve. “What kind of business do you and this Robert do?” Detective Bernard asked.

James eyed the other man suspiciously. “We have invested in a company together.”

Detective Bernard looked down at his notebook, wrote something, and then flipped backward a few pages. “Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around your apartment?”

“You mean aside from the guy who tried to walk into my apartment this morning? I haven’t noticed anyone checking out my place to rob it, if that’s what you mean. I would have notified you a long time ago.”

“Okay, I’d like you to fill out a complete statement concerning that man immediately. Have you made many enemies in your line of work, Monsieur Anderson? Perhaps there is someone who is not happy with what you and Robert are doing? Perhaps an old business associate or rival?”

“Well, if this has anything to do with my business, it seems the person would be better off ransacking my home in the United States while I’m here. Doesn’t it?”

“Have you called home to see if that might be the case?” Detective Durand asked.

For a few seconds James panicked, as he wondered if someone had targeted him and not just the contents of his Paris apartment. But he had a house-sitter; even though he was gone, she would have been in and out of his house every day. If something were amiss at home, she knew how to get in contact with him. And for God’s sake, who would want to target him?

“I don’t need to call home. I would be notified if something happened there.”

“When exactly were you planning on leaving Paris?”

“I’ve told you this already, too!” James sighed wearily. “My flight leaves on Sunday, at nine in the morning.”

“Yes, so our records show. Are you planning on returning to France?” Detective Bernard asked.

“I am leaving the country earlier than I wanted to; however, I have a scheduled meeting that I need to make. I won’t return for several months.”

“And that meeting is with … ?”

“Caruthers. Stan Caruthers of Princeton University. Not that it makes any difference. Why is that relevant, anyway?”

“It all seems rather odd,” Detective Bernard mused. “Why are you leaving the country in such a hurry for this meeting if you wanted to stay longer?”

That did it. “I am just about done answering questions that have no bearing on the fact that I was robbed!” James said, not bothering to conceal his anger. “Now you need to—”

“If you will excuse me, monsieur, I just need to go make a phone call,” the detective said abruptly.

“What—?” James spluttered, but Detective Bernard had already stood up smoothly and headed for the door.

“Would you like some coffee? I’ll go ask the desk agent to get you a cup,” Detective Durand said, before following his partner out of the room.

James heard the automatic locks on the door slide into place with a click. In disbelief, he stood and tried the door handle, only to find himself locked in. Slamming his hand against the wall, he shouted, “You call this police procedure? I’d hate to see how you treat criminals!”

He sat down and drummed his fingers on the table. He had never been one for sitting around with no answers and dealing with such inefficiency. The questions the officers had asked him were a waste of time; clearly, nothing he told them would aid in a robbery investigation. Eventually, his frustration overcame him, and he got up and tried the door again. It was still locked.

Never before had he missed his watch so badly. There was no clock on any of the walls. Hours seemed to pass. When he couldn’t bear sitting any longer, he began pacing the small room, rolling his shoulders to ease out a cramp. His stomach rumbled, and he realized that he was hungry. With nothing better to do, he began shouting again, “How long have I been in here? And where is my cup of coffee?”

Just as he was about to begin banging one of the chairs against the door and demanding to speak to the American Embassy, he heard a muffled argument and the sound of the door bolts being drawn back.

“—afraid that is out of the question,” a voice was saying. “You cannot do this! There are laws that protect the rights of our citizens.”

Just then the door opened to reveal a thin woman with a bob of blonde hair and a gray-blue matching jacket and skirt. The woman was strikingly handsome—beautiful, even, in a hard, athletic kind of way. The hint of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes only gave her an air of maturity and control. Hovering behind her, James could see the diminutive form of the female police officer who had been operating the front desk.

“He is in our custody,” The officer was saying. “Do you understand?”

“And I am revoking that custody. As a consular officer from the American Embassy, I want this American citizen released immediately. By your own admission, he has not been charged with a crime, and will not be charged. He is clearly a victim here. You cannot just go pulling American citizens off the street and holding them against their will when they haven’t been placed here on the order of a judge.”

James’s spirits rose as he watched the new woman glide into the room and smile at him. Now that is efficiency, he thought, in awe of how quickly the embassy had become aware of his predicament and leaped into action.

“James?” the woman asked him. James thought he detected the slight twang of some other European accent, something heavier or more guttural. He couldn’t decide if it was German, or perhaps Russian.

“Yes?”

“I am Maria Zorin,” the woman said. “I work for the American Embassy. We got word of what happened to you from your neighbor, Bernadette Morel. If you would like to get out of this cubicle, you can come with me. I am sure the sergeant here will allow us to collect your things, and you will be free to go.”

“I really cannot allow this—” the female police officer began.

“Well, I am afraid that I will have to lodge a formal complaint, perhaps with your president through our diplomat. You have seen my credentials,” Ms. Zorin spat at her. “James,” she called, and led the way out of the room without waiting to see if he was behind her.

James gave the desk officer a cheery smile and followed his unexpected savior through the maze of corridors and the metal detector into the front lobby.

“But really—this is incredible! Bernadette Morel notified you?” James asked in wonder. “Did she see the officers taking me away?”

“No questions, yet, James. Just collect your things, and let’s get out of this place,” Ms. Zorin replied as the desk sergeant reluctantly returned to the other side of the counter.

“Yes, ma’am!” James almost chuckled.

“His things?” Ms. Zorin demanded as she stared down at the agent who had taken his inventory. James relished the fact that the flustered sergeant was once again checking off all of the goods that they had confiscated from him.

When they were finally able to step through the door of the building into the courtyard, James was surprised by the sudden fresh chill of evening air that hit him. It was dark, and the streetlights were on.

“Good God! How long was I there?” he asked as Ms. Zorin led him to a large, burgundy car with a distinctive Mercedes badge over its grill and the seal of the United States on its front window. James was impressed. Obviously, the life of an embassy representative had some perks.

“Long enough,” she said. “Now get in quickly, please.”

James was happy to be out of there, but he did not understand why Ms. Zorin was in such a hurry. She drove toward the front gate, and the doors opened automatically.

“You might want to wear your seat belt,” she said, never taking her eyes from the way in front of her. James barely had time to click it before she gunned the engine and squealed the tires into an agonizing turn, rocketing away from the exit.

Ms. Zorin wasted no time speeding toward the boulevard again and weaving through the traffic. James had always thought Parisian drivers were a little over-excitable, but this was ridiculous. He watched as the speedometer began to edge above 60 kilometers per hour. This woman is crazy, he thought.

“Uh—Ms. Zorin? Are we going to the embassy?” James asked, feeling a little sick to his stomach with their increasing speed. Ms. Zorin shrugged off her jacket, revealing a light, sleeveless blouse and very toned, almost masculine arms. She spoke assertively as she gripped the steering wheel, firmly maneuvering the vehicle in and out of traffic.

“James, we have no time to bandy words,” she said. “You have just been the prisoner of DGSE and DCRI, and now you are not. Be happy you are free from them,” Zorin said, her voice steady and level as she flew between a large truck and a car that swerved into their lane. Occasionally, she would glance over her shoulder.

“What? Who in the hell are they? And don’t you think that you should watch your speed?” James’s voice raised a little, and he shifted in his seat, steadying himself by pressing his arm to the door. Ms. Zorin ignored him, passing so close to another vehicle that James was certain the mirror on his door was going to be knocked off.

“Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence and General Directorate for External Security, respectively,” she said. “The first performs human intelligence on French soil: bugging, following people, and searching hotel rooms. The second performs international intelligence operations. You’ve heard of the Rainbow Warrior incident in the ’80s? Or perhaps the rescue of French journalists in Iraq? That would be the DGSE.”

“And what the hell would they want with me?” James asked. They came to a stop at a red light, and Ms. Zorin braked hard to avoid colliding with the car in front of them. She reached for something on the side of her seat. “It’s not really you they want,” she said. “It’s the information encrypted on your laptop. We, on the other hand want both—” Suddenly, she produced a stubby six-shot .38 revolver from her seat and powerfully swung it as hard as she could, striking James in the side of the head and knocking him unconscious.

Several minutes later James awoke. Dizziness filled his head, and he had a sharp pain in his temple. Slowly as he came to, a queasy feeling gripped him. He was unable to make sense of the blur of streetlights and dark sky, and his head was leaning against his door. Suddenly he remembered what had happened, and stopped himself from moving.

He could see in the mirror a black SUV with tinted windows, approaching at high speed. His kidnapper sped into the path of oncoming traffic, overtook a few cars, and slid back into the lane heading out of central Paris. The SUV performed a handbrake turn into the central junction and roared toward them.

The SUV gained ground as Ms. Zorin tried to avoid other cars. Soon it caught up, and slammed into the back of the Mercedes. James was thrown forward and felt the sharp edge of his seatbelt. Maria immediately turned right, going the wrong way down a narrow street, and sped away from the SUV. James nearly vomited.

The SUV tried to turn but slid into parked cars along the street, tearing off at least a couple of passenger doors. Sparks rained down on the road. The world was a sudden whirl of noise and screeching horns as cars peeled off around them, desperately trying to avoid the lunatic drivers swerving across lanes.

“Derr’mo!” he heard Ms. Zorin curse as the SUV grazed the corner of her rear bumper. Her Mercedes took out a line of rental bikes and they flew all around the Mercedes, scattering like leaves in the wind. The Mercedes careened into a utility pole on the driver’s side and the car suddenly spun out of control into the center of an intersection.

The car came to a rest halfway across the lane of oncoming traffic. Moving as little as possible, James unclipped his seat belt with his right hand and braced himself against the door. This was his chance. He didn’t know where the gun was, but the hard impact must have dazed Zorin. He heard her moan and fumble with the stick shift. She desperately tried to restart the engine, and it began to rev hard. This was it. James gathered up his courage for a desperate effort.

Clutching his laptop, James pulled the handle open and drove his shoulder into the passenger door, slamming it open. He pushed his legs against the floor edge to jump with all his might, just as the car began to speed off. He rolled across the pavement, and the world blurred for a horrible instant as James wondered if he would land under the grill of an oncoming car or get shot. He collided with a collection of plastic trash bins on the curb and came to rest lying on his side, still clutching the laptop.

Just then the SUV slammed into the Mercedes again. Zorin’s engine gunned wildly, tires squealed, and smoke filled the air around the car. The Mercedes leapt up onto the sidewalk and drove at a frightening speed toward pedestrians, throwing one woman through the plate-glass window of a storefront. The SUV did not follow. The Mercedes drove straight through tables outside of a cafe, throwing chairs, glassware, and umbrellas in all directions. People dove out of the way of the car. The car bounced back onto the road at an intersection and turned down a small street out of sight.

James tried to regain his senses. His ears were ringing; he felt his head spin as he flirted with unconsciousness again. Instinctively, James’s hand went to the large welt on the side of his head. His temple felt incredibly tender, but when he surveyed the rest of his body, he was amazed to find that he was mostly all right. He knew that he would probably be black and blue tomorrow, but for now everything worked. Even the laptop appeared to have made it through in one piece.

James stepped through the toppled trash bins and garbage onto the curb. Brushing himself off, he looked up to see Detective Durand standing in front of the SUV.

“Monsieur James, would you be so kind to accompany me back to headquarters?”

James sighed resignedly and followed the agent to his vehicle. As he climbed into the passenger seat, he asked, “Will someone please tell me what in the fuck is going on around here?”

Police cars were arriving at the scene, and Detective Durand rolled down his window to speak in a hurried tone with some officers. He pointed to the road where Ms. Zorin had disappeared, then rolled up his window.

“You deserve some answers, Mr. Anderson,” he said in an even tone, as they headed off. “You were the target of a crime—that part is true. But we are not police, Mr. Anderson. We are with French intelligence. We intercepted communications from some of our intelligence sources, indicating that there was going to be a robbery. The target was data contained in a laptop. We believe we intercepted this communication from the Russian Federal Security Service—the newest incarnation of the KGB—although we are not certain. That is why we were at your apartment. Sadly, we arrived too late. We think Ms. Zorin, whom we identified from a surveillance video, is a new agent of their Intelligence Service.

“This appears to be an incident of industrial espionage,” the detective continued. “I don’t know why, Monsieur Anderson, but the Russians wanted to steal your research. Unfortunately, Ms. Zorin had forged credentials and clearly understood our procedures. Frankly, she made my office look like a bunch of amateurs when she walked out of there with you before I could finish our interview and explain our investigation.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me this to begin with?” James asked wearily.

“We wanted to ensure there was no illegal activity occurring in Paris that involved you. When we received certain information, our team began monitoring your communications. It appears your biology research is what Ms. Zorin was after.”

“What?” James felt violated. “You’ve been monitoring me? What gave you that right? Did you have a search warrant?”

“Mr. Anderson, when the Russian Federation is involved in activities on our soil, we will take certain liberties. By the way, does the name Father Perez mean anything to you?”

“No,” James spat, furious. “I’m agnostic. Go over to Vale De Grace. Maybe you’ll find him in the chapel.”

Detective Durand nodded opaquely. “Mr. Anderson, I’m not sure what your business is, but the research you are carrying must be very valuable,” he said. “I suggest that you leave with that information for the U.S. immediately. I will have you escorted to your apartment and thereafter to the airport.”

Through James’s disbelief, he immediately thought of Robert.