N’DJAMENA
“What did you learn?”
Paul Deladier slumped into a padded chair that, unlike the vintage wine he sipped, had not improved with age. He regarded his boss, then replied, “There is more to the American team than we thought.”
“Well?” Hurtubise was never known for his tolerance.
“I managed a chance meeting with the black woman. I tailed her from the American embassy and talked to her for a few minutes. She said she’s a temporary stenographer, but I don’t believe her.”
“Why not?”
Deladier mussed his dark blond hair and swirled the wine in its glass. “Well, for one thing, Etienne and I have seen her with the training team. There is no reason for her to associate with them unless it’s social, which is unlikely.”
Hurtubise swung his legs away from the kitchen table. He was becoming more interested in his young colleague’s opinions. “Go on.”
A Gallic shrug. “Just a sense of her. She’s confident, looks you in the eye. Not at all like some prissy little clerk.” Deladier paused for a moment, recalling the woman’s face; her expression. “I think she might be an operator.”
Marcel Hurtubise sat back, rubbing his trademark stubble. “Now that is an interesting observation. She’s what? Forties? Overweight, not very attractive.”
Deladier smiled. “You are no gentleman, monsieur.”
Hurtubise ignored the backward compliment. “Nobody would expect a fat black American female to be very capable, would they?”
“No, I suppose not. Which is why…”
“… she would be an excellent undercover agent.”
Deladier drained the glass and smacked his lips. “Should I talk to her again?”
Hurtubise shook his head. “No, that would be too much of a coincidence. I have another idea.”
“Yes?”
“My young friend, you don’t always send a fox to catch a chicken. Sometimes you send another hen.”