Middle Man by David Rich

banker, and a trader.”
    Maybe. I was tired of this game. “What am I doing here, Major?”
    â€œDo you think you could fit in with this crowd?”
    â€œYou mean can I get a fake tan and pull swaps out of my ass? You’d have to explain why I would want to.”

7
    A fter an elaborate exchange of good-evenings, the maître d’ led us to a table at Chez Martine. It was still early in the evening and the place was not crowded. The walls were striped in yellow and white, and the leather banquettes along the right wall were reddish brown. The paintings on the walls were modern with bright colors. Major Hensel looked at the table, between two others that were occupied by couples, and said, “We’d like to sit in the back room, please.”
    The maître d’ tilted his head to one side and shook it and closed his eyes for a moment as if the Major had asked if they served tacos. We stood there between those two tables for about a week while the Major and the Frenchman went back and forth in calm, quiet voices. Finally, the maître d’ turned up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. A classic gesture: Take it or leave it. I thought the maître d’ held the strong hand and I was interested to see whether the Major would choose retreat or surrender. But Major Hensel spoke in French, one short sentence, and stared right into the eyes of the startled maître d’. Time froze. Then the maître d’ nodded and ushered us to the back room.
    â€œI love French restaurants. They serve so much more than food and wine,” the Major said after we were settled.
    â€œWhat did you say to him?”
    â€œI said that if any of the other guests overheard our conversation, their lives would be in danger.”
    Coming from someone with muscles or a rough presence, it might have been taken for an aggressive, nasty, call-the-police kind of threat. But this pudgy man with glasses and a quiet voice made the arrogant headman want to cooperate. The punch was well timed and well placed.
    The table was full of glasses and silverware and small plates and large plates. If I had wanted to put my elbows on the table, I would have had to move some of that stuff to the floor.
    â€œHow is Will Panos?”
    â€œHe’ll be fine. He’s spending a little time in Havre. He can deal with the locals while recuperating.”
    â€œHe’ll like that. He has an eye for the widow.”
    The Major squinted as he tried to picture the match. “He’s a very methodical person. I give him a good chance. The ammunition in Montana and in Wisconsin was M118 Long Range. The FBI should be able to determine where it was purchased.”
    â€œOr stolen,” I said. The M118 was most often military sniper ordnance. The waiter hovered between rooms until he caught the Major’s eye and was beckoned forth. He had been warned by the maître d’. The Major ordered wine and appetizers, and fish for himself. “Do you like lamb?” he asked.
    â€œSure.”
    He ordered lamb for me. “It’ll be better than whatever you ate at Frank Godwin’s place,” he said.
    â€œDan used to take me to a French place, Bistro Arletty, when I was ten years old. There were business associates who needed to know that Dan was a family man. He taught me how to handle it. ‘Act like you’re considering buying the place, but you need to be convinced,’ he said.”
    Major Hensel told me a story about how he once invested in a restaurant and came to hate eating there because he knew too much about the behind-scenes operation. He missed the pleasure of the surprise.
    One waiter approached cautiously with appetizers, and another to dance the wine tango with Major Hensel. When the waiters went away, the Major said, “The FBI has no license plates, no witnesses seeing someone fleeing the scene, other than you, of course.” He was the only senior officer I ever met who