briefly, as the gunfire erupted, a deadly fusillade, slaughter for everything in its path. Latham tried to pull the Nazi behind the shell of the armor-plated diplomatic car; he could not do it and save himself. As the sedan raced away, he looked over at his prisoner. Erich Hauer, his body riddled, blood covering his face, was dead. The one man who could supply at least a few answers was gone. Where was somebody else, and how long would it take to find him?
3
T he night was over, the early light creasing the eastern sky as an exhausted Latham took the small brass elevator to his flat on the fifth floor in the rue du Bac. Normally he would have used the stairs, figuring it was physically good for something or other, but not now; he could barely keep his eyes open. The hours between shortly past two and five-thirty had been filled with diplomatic necessities as well as providing Drew with the opportunity of meeting the head of the powerful and secretive Deuxième Bureau, one Claude Moreau. He had called back Sorenson in Washington, asking
him
to reach the French intelligence officer at that hour and persuade him to go immediately to the American Embassy. Moreau was a middle-aged, medium-size balding man who filled out his suit as though he lifted weights for a good part of every day. He had an insouciant Gallic humor that somehow kept things in perspective when they were in danger of getting out of control. The potential loss of control first came about with the unexpected appearance of a furious and frightened Henri Bressard, First Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France.
“What the
hell
is going on?” demanded Bressard, walking into the ambassador’s office, instantly surprised yet accepting Moreau’s presence. “
Allô
, Claude,” he said, reverting to French. “I’m not entirely stunned to see you here.”
“
En anglais
, Henri.… Monsieur Latham understands us but the ambassador is still with his Berlitz.”
“Ah, American diplomatic tact!”
“I
did
understand that, Bressard,” said Ambassador Daniel Courtland, behind his desk in a bathrobe and slippers,“and I’m working on your language. Frankly, I wanted the post in Stockholm—I speak fluent Swedish—but others thought differently. So you’re stuck with me as I’m stuck with you.”
“I apologize, Mr. Ambassador. It’s been a difficult night.… I tried calling you, Drew, and when all I got was your machine, I assumed you were still here.”
“I should have been home an hour ago. Why
are
you here? Why did you have to see me?”
“Everything’s in the Sûreté report. I insisted the police call them in—”
“What happened?” interrupted Moreau. He raised an eyebrow. “Your former wife is not becoming hostile, surely. Your divorce was ultimately amicable.”
“I’m not sure I’d want it to be she. Lucille may be a devious bitch, but she’s not stupid. These people were.”
“What people?”
“After I dropped off Drew here, I drove to my apartment on the Montaigne. As you know, one of the few privileges of my office is my diplomatic parking space in front of the building. To my surprise, it was occupied and, adding to my irritation, there were several other nearby open spaces. Then I saw that there were two men seated in front and the driver was on his car phone, not exactly a normal sight at two o’clock in the morning, especially when the driver was subject to a five-hundred-franc fine for parking where he did without a government plate or the Quai d’Orsay emblem on the front window.”
“As always,” said Moreau, nodding his head appreciatively, “your diplomat’s penchant for introducing an event with perception and suspense is evident, but
please
, Henri, the personal insult to you aside, what happened?”
“The bastards started shooting at me!”
“
What?
” Latham leapt out of his chair.
“You heard me! My vehicle is naturally protected against such assaults, so I backed up quickly, then
3
T he night was over, the early light creasing the eastern sky as an exhausted Latham took the small brass elevator to his flat on the fifth floor in the rue du Bac. Normally he would have used the stairs, figuring it was physically good for something or other, but not now; he could barely keep his eyes open. The hours between shortly past two and five-thirty had been filled with diplomatic necessities as well as providing Drew with the opportunity of meeting the head of the powerful and secretive Deuxième Bureau, one Claude Moreau. He had called back Sorenson in Washington, asking
him
to reach the French intelligence officer at that hour and persuade him to go immediately to the American Embassy. Moreau was a middle-aged, medium-size balding man who filled out his suit as though he lifted weights for a good part of every day. He had an insouciant Gallic humor that somehow kept things in perspective when they were in danger of getting out of control. The potential loss of control first came about with the unexpected appearance of a furious and frightened Henri Bressard, First Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France.
“What the
hell
is going on?” demanded Bressard, walking into the ambassador’s office, instantly surprised yet accepting Moreau’s presence. “
Allô
, Claude,” he said, reverting to French. “I’m not entirely stunned to see you here.”
“
En anglais
, Henri.… Monsieur Latham understands us but the ambassador is still with his Berlitz.”
“Ah, American diplomatic tact!”
“I
did
understand that, Bressard,” said Ambassador Daniel Courtland, behind his desk in a bathrobe and slippers,“and I’m working on your language. Frankly, I wanted the post in Stockholm—I speak fluent Swedish—but others thought differently. So you’re stuck with me as I’m stuck with you.”
“I apologize, Mr. Ambassador. It’s been a difficult night.… I tried calling you, Drew, and when all I got was your machine, I assumed you were still here.”
“I should have been home an hour ago. Why
are
you here? Why did you have to see me?”
“Everything’s in the Sûreté report. I insisted the police call them in—”
“What happened?” interrupted Moreau. He raised an eyebrow. “Your former wife is not becoming hostile, surely. Your divorce was ultimately amicable.”
“I’m not sure I’d want it to be she. Lucille may be a devious bitch, but she’s not stupid. These people were.”
“What people?”
“After I dropped off Drew here, I drove to my apartment on the Montaigne. As you know, one of the few privileges of my office is my diplomatic parking space in front of the building. To my surprise, it was occupied and, adding to my irritation, there were several other nearby open spaces. Then I saw that there were two men seated in front and the driver was on his car phone, not exactly a normal sight at two o’clock in the morning, especially when the driver was subject to a five-hundred-franc fine for parking where he did without a government plate or the Quai d’Orsay emblem on the front window.”
“As always,” said Moreau, nodding his head appreciatively, “your diplomat’s penchant for introducing an event with perception and suspense is evident, but
please
, Henri, the personal insult to you aside, what happened?”
“The bastards started shooting at me!”
“
What?
” Latham leapt out of his chair.
“You heard me! My vehicle is naturally protected against such assaults, so I backed up quickly, then
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