Paris

Before the plane from Jakarta touched down at Charles DeGaule, Craig went into the lavatory and looked into the mirror. Dreadful, he decided.

He had bandages on his forehead and chin. One eye was almost closed. His face, like most of his body, was every possible shade of black and blue from the roll down the hill. And he was limping from bad bruises on his upper thigh.

Half an hour later, when he walked off the plane at four in the afternoon, he immediately saw Elizabeth standing at the gate. She didn’t rush forward, but stood stone-faced, gaping at his bruised face.

He approached her and pulled her off to the side. “You’re still angry.”

“It wasn’t just that what you did was stupid.” Her tone was sharp. “You didn’t give my opinion the least bit of consideration.”

“Will it help now if I tell you I’m sorry? That you were right? I should have listened to you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We walked into a trap. I’m the only one who made it out alive.”

“I was sure you would never come back.” Her voice had softened. Tears were running down her cheeks.

“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. In my obsession to get Francesca’s killer, I lost my judgment. I don’t want to lose you, too. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“You look awful.”

Ignoring the stares of bystanders, he kissed her passionately. Then he pulled back. “I couldn’t call you from Indonesia. I was afraid the government was monitoring all calls. I assume the Italian Embassy informed Giuseppe of my travel plans under an alias, and he called you.”

They began walking as they talked. “That’s exactly what happened. Your car and driver are at the curb. Giuseppe and Carlos are waiting for us at your office. When the meeting’s finished, they’re both flying home this evening.”

“After that,” Craig said, “let’s head back to the apartment. I can’t wait to get into bed with you.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Okay, maybe dinner first.”

He wrapped an arm around her. To Craig’s pleasant surprise, she didn’t pull away.

When Craig walked into his office with Elizabeth, he saw Giuseppe pacing and a grim-faced Carlos.

“You were the only one who made it to the Italian Embassy,” Carlos said. “I assume my four men were killed.”

“Zhou set a trap. We walked right into it.”

Craig explained what had happened in meticulous detail. At the end, he said, “All four of your men performed bravely. I couldn’t have asked for more. Please convey to Prime Minister Zahara and their
families my deep appreciation and regret.”

Craig got a knot in his throat as pictures of the four flashed into his mind, and he thought of Manuel’s six-month-old son.

“Thank you,” Carlos replied.

“How come we didn’t know about the Chinese troops?” Giuseppe asked.

“You’re being kind, my friend,” Craig replied, “by using the word we. What you mean is how come I didn’t know. How could I have screwed up so badly.”

No one responded.

“On the long plane ride to Paris,” Craig continued. “I’ve asked myself that over and over. What I’ve concluded is that the latest satellite photos I had of the compound were two days old. My friend Betty at the CIA was operating offline. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get later ones. The Chinese troops must have moved in after the last set of photos was taken.”

“But knowing you,” Giuseppe said, “you’re not giving up on General Zhou. I’m sure you have some other way of getting at him.”

“Maybe you want to go back to Bali again with four more Spanish soldiers,” Elizabeth said sharply. “This time, all five of you can perish.”

“I don’t think I’ll try that again. But General Zhou’s not planning to spend his whole life in Bali. Once he moves, we may be able to get at him.”

“And how will we know that?” Carlos asked.

“I think we have the technology here without having to involve the CIA. At least, I hope so.”

Craig hit the intercom. “Get me Marie,” he told his secretary.

Two minutes later, a statuesque blonde in a powder blue sweater and tight navy pants walked in holding a small computer. Craig introduced Marie to the others. Once they were all seated around the table, Craig said, “I have precise coordinates for a residential compound on the island of Bali. I want to monitor all cell phone conversations between anyone in the compound with anyone on the outside. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely,” Marie said without hesitation. “We have satellites I can use to do precisely that. I’ll be able to tell you who is on both ends of the call.”

“Will you be able to record the calls?”

“Yes.”

“It’s likely they’ll be speaking Chinese,” Elizabeth interjected.

“Glad you told me that. I have a machine that does simultaneous translation from just about any language. I’ll hook it up.”

“Sounds like what we need,” Giuseppe said.

“Exactly. One other thing, Marie,” Craig said. “Besides sending me a recording of the calls, can you have a written transcript prepared?”

“I also have a machine that will do that.”

“Isn’t modern technology wonderful?” Giuseppe said.

“Only when it works,” Craig responded.

Taking deep breaths periodically during another marvelous dinner in the Hotel Bristol dining room, Craig finally relaxed by the time the waiter brought a plate of chocolates along with the espresso. Craig savored the last drops of the 2005 Chambolle Musigny by Dujac before turning to the chocolates and espresso.

During the meal, as they talked about many different subjects, Elizabeth’s book, rivalries and infighting at her newspaper, new restaurants to try in Paris, anything other than General Zhou, he sensed her anger dissipating.

But then, without any warning, she looked worried again. He knew he wouldn’t like what was coming next.

“You know, Craig,” she said sternly, “You’re almost fifty.”

“I haven’t even had my forty-seventh birthday.”

“Let’s not quibble. Don’t you think it’s time to let the younger
people do the field work. Put their lives on the line while you direct operations from headquarters.”

“You think I’m too old for a young man’s game?”

“I didn’t put it that way. But let me ask you this. Twenty years ago, would Craig Page have walked into that trap?”

He started to respond by telling her that he couldn’t get up to the minute photos from Betty and that was the problem. But he swallowed the words. Perhaps she had a point.

“Listen, Craig,” she continued. “I love you so much. I don’t mean to hurt you. I just don’t want to lose you.”

“I know that.”

“Better to quit too early than too late. You have to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “I really will.”

He wanted to change the subject. “Let’s go to Corsica for a few days. Neither of us has ever been. I hear it’s beautiful in the spring. Flowers will be in bloom.”

“Now that’s an idea.”

“Can you get away from the paper?”

“You bet. I won’t even take my stuff for the book. We both need a vacation.”

He signaled the waiter for the check.

Once they entered the apartment, she raced to the hall closet. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Deciding what to take to Corsica.”

Though his whole body ached, he snuck up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, clutching her breasts, and kissed her on the back of the neck.

“Packing can wait,” he said softly.

She pulled away and said, “I shouldn’t even let you have sex with me. I’m so angry at you for going off to Bali and almost getting killed.”

“But I did suggest a vacation in Corsica.”

She smiled. “Well, okay.” Then she kissed him, pressing her body tightly against his.

He winced from the pain. She pulled away and said, “You’re not going into bed. You’re going to soak in a warm tub with some bath salts.”

“It’s large enough for two.”

After he soaked alone for fifteen minutes and was feeling better, she came in and sat behind him. He leaned back against her.

“You’re a damn fool,” she said.

“But you love me.”

“I guess so.”

He desperately wanted to make amends for the pain he had caused her. But not if it meant foregoing a chance to get Zhou—if he ever had another chance.