The safe house was on a steep, picturesque street in Montmartre—a third-floor apartment far swankier than any location Helen had ever come up with in Berlin. Pretty as a postcard, in fact, near a patisserie and a bookstore, and with a beautiful terrace that overlooked a narrow cobbled lane. Yet, from the moment Helen entered something didn’t feel quite right, and it must have showed on her face.
“What’s wrong?” said Claire, who’d arrived earlier. She sat with legs crossed, right arm stretched across the back of a couch with a cigarette going—the very image of style and self-assurance, posed as if for a photo by Cartier-Bresson. Helen still wore her outfit from that morning, which was beginning to droop as much as she was. She had arrived hoping for rest and refuge. Instead, her radar was sending out small, wary beeps.
“Hard to say,” Helen said, continuing to inspect the room from the foyer.
Maybe it bothered her that the rent here must be through the roof, or that the furnishings looked downright lavish, a Langley bean counter’s nightmare. She was also taken aback by the sight of a well-stocked liquor cart stationed next to the umbrella stand by the entrance, like part of a welcoming committee.
“That’s certainly an innovation I never thought of, putting the fun right up front,” she said. “Is this how they do it in all your safe houses?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before, either. Like I said, Audra procured this place. This is my first time here.”
“Have you checked to see if the equipment’s on?”
“No, and now you’ve made me feel like a fool, because that’s an excellent point.”
Helen followed Claire down the hallway. Plush carpet runners and embossed wallpaper, king beds, everything spotless, luxurious, and beautifully maintained. Except for the equipment, which they found easily enough in a hall closet. Helen frowned again.
“Something wrong?” Claire asked.
“Just a little outdated.”
“All I know about recorders are those sleek little body models they give you for clandestine work. Nagra SNs. Swiss, I think. Supposedly the East Germans like them even better than our people.”
“Well, this one’s Dutch. A Philips.”
“They’re no good?”
“Oh, it’s probably fine. But I’ve never seen this brand on our requisition list. Probably bought before I came on board. Still, a little strange they wouldn’t have updated, given what they must be paying for this place. You said this house isn’t on the usual list of locations?”
“Not one I’ve ever come across, and the locale is certainly a bit touristy for my taste—too many foreigners with cameras walking around—but keeping these places running isn’t my department. I figured maybe it was reserved for a separate group of case officers.”
“That would be one way of doing it, I suppose.”
“You don’t do it that way in Berlin?”
“I wasn’t aware that any station did. But I’ve put in some of my own rules for our houses, so maybe whoever runs the show in Paris has done the same.”
“Audra might know.”
“No sense troubling her over it. Housekeeping trivia. Just shows what I’ve been reduced to. The only part of our business I really know.”
“Pretty valuable info, I’d say, so don’t sell yourself short. How ’bout a drink?”
“Perfect. But if I have any of the hard stuff I’m liable to curl up on the couch and fall asleep.”
“I was thinking wine. Let’s check the kitchen.”
They headed for the back. The fridge was well stocked. Prepared foods from a specialty shop, filet steaks in butcher’s paper. The wine was of the best vintages. Helen wondered who the tenant must be. A fairly prosperous male, judging from the clothes and other items she’d seen in the bedrooms. Her preference was always for tenants of more modest means, plain-living types who weren’t likely to draw attention to themselves or their dwellings.
“Cheers,” said Claire, after pouring each of them a glass. A white Bordeaux, exactly what she needed. The first swallow pooled in her stomach with a sensation of spreading coolness. Helen sighed and leaned back against the counter.
“Well, I’ve learned one thing already,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t cut out for this. All along I’ve thought I deserved to be in the field, but I doubt I’d last a month, much less a year or more.”
“You’re blown and on the run, so of course you’re overwhelmed. Most operational work is entirely different. With my assignments, the biggest challenge is boredom. I’ve never truly gone undercover like you. Or not since I was twelve.”
“Twelve?”
Claire smiled.
“Our church needed a minister, and my dad was on the search committee. For the better part of a summer he piled us into the station wagon every Sunday to scout prospects all over Georgia. Augusta, Waycross, Tifton. We’d arrive just in time for the eleven o’clock service. Dull sermons followed by covered dish suppers on church lawns.”
“Sounds awful.”
“The good part was that Dad swore us to secrecy. If anyone asked why we were there, we were supposed to say we were just visiting from out of town. We even used fake names—the Martin family from Atlanta. Sanctioned to lie in your Sunday best, fibbing to all those nosy little church ladies while we ate their fried chicken and congealed salads. I enjoyed it way too much. I think it’s half the reason I fell for the CIA. That, and maybe because the recruiter who came to campus looked like Robert Redford.”
“They got me with the same setup.”
Claire drained the last of her wine and set the glass in the sink.
“Shall we do business?”
They went into the living room. Claire took the couch, Helen an easy chair. She noticed then that Claire had brought a large tote bag, which appeared to be full.
“Marina, you said. She’s my next contact?”
“Yes.”
Just before Helen could speak again, a small but distinct click sounded from across the room. Claire must have heard it, too, because she frowned and looked in that direction.
“What was that?”
It happened again. It seemed to be coming from a cabinet just below the television. They went over for a look, opening the cabinet door to find another tape recorder.
“Testing, testing,” Helen said, and the reels sprang into motion. After a few seconds they clicked to a stop.
“Voice-activated,” Helen said. The machine confirmed her conclusion by again slowly spinning into motion. She reached down and shut it off.
“Not the usual location for that kind of thing, is it?” Claire asked.
“No. Or not under the guidelines that the Property and Personnel Branch sends out to all stations. The hardware’s a bit clumsy, too. We never should have been able to hear it, and it’s even older than the one upstairs. Another Philips.”
“This place is starting to give me the heebie-jeebies. I’m not sure I feel comfortable telling you what you need to know here.”
“What do you suggest?”
“There’s a little café, not far from here. Quiet and usually uncrowded.”
She gestured toward the door.
“First things first.”
“The tape?”
“You did say Marina’s name.”
Helen removed the take-up reel, snapped the tape with her teeth, and unspooled the recorded portion. She carried the spaghetti pile to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. They watched as it swirled out of sight toward the sewers of Paris.