Could he be wired up with a recorder and yet not trigger the airport search alarm? Maybe it was in his briefcase, disguised as a tuna fish sandwich. Maybe it was implanted in his skull.)
So I put up my feet and went over the paper I wasgoing to deliver, hoping that its familiarity would put me to sleep. Perversely, it stimulated me into wakefulness. I wandered out to a
magasin
store and chose some good bread, cheese, and wine to keep in the room. My French did not meet with the merchant’s approval, but he did manage to find all the proper items.
I tried to summon up enthusiasm for being in Paris again, but it was rush hour; murderous traffic and poisonous air; so after walking around the block deciding not to do this and not to do that, I just picked up a newspaper and retreated to the room, and found it had been searched by an amateur.
Well, perhaps only by someone who didn’t care whether the search was discovered—or wanted me or Jacob to discover it, as a warning. I had aligned the typed page I was reading exactly along the first line of the page beneath it, an elementary precaution. The person who went through the pages had simply stacked them afterward and had not even put them back in quite the same position, squared with the corner of the table’s blotter. I wondered whether he’d found what he was after; he couldn’t have had more than ten or twelve minutes, even with a lookout posted downstairs to say, “Go.”
The lead bag with the gun was where I had hidden it, out of sight on top of the old-fashioned toilet tank. From now on I would take it with me when I left the room.
American, Russian, or French? Checking up on me, or Jacob? It could have been Jacob himself, actually, waiting for me to leave and then doubling back. But in that case I should think he’d be more likely to follow me. Rather than read through a speech he could see for the asking. I decided not to waste time worryingabout it Opened the box of dime-store Burgundy and drank off a fast, sour tumbler of it They hadn’t had wine in boxes the last time I was in France, and with luck they won’t have them the next time. Then I stretched out in the semidarkness and told my toes to relax, then ankles, shins, and so forth; old autohypnosis routine for falling asleep. Just as I reached the chin, which normally does it, a key rattled in the door, and it creaked open. “Jacob?”
“Nyet
.” I looked up, and there were two men in honest-to-God trench coats standing in the doorway. “Please, light?”
“Sure.” I switched on the light by the bed. “—Would you have wine?” I said in Russian, sitting up. “—It’s nothing extraordinary…”
“—Thank you, no. Come with us.” It took me a moment to place his accent: Bulgarian. That was a bad sign. You don’t have to know much about the trade to know who does wet work for the KGB in Europe.
I started to get my jacket. “—Not necessary. We’re not going outside.” They were a real Mutt-and-Jeff team. The one who was doing all the talking was a tall, blond, handsome fellow with a fixed, intense expression. Like the TV Russian spy who gave me so much secret amusement on
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
in my youth. His partner, from another division of Central Casting, was short and swarthy, with organ-grinder mustaches, carrying a large, shabby briefcase. He seemed to be concentrating on something else.
I turned on the watch and tried to think of some test that would be innocuous, in case we were being monitored. “—Do have a glass of wine while I use the bathroom.” This time they both nodded, and I poured two tumblers. Fairly strong evidence, if not really conclusive. I’d tested the machine on foreignstudents and American students speaking second languages, but never on a Bulgarian who was speaking Russian.
In the bathroom I considered the pistol. It would look pretty obvious stuck under my shirt; I decided to do without. I replaced it over the tank and waited for a
So I put up my feet and went over the paper I wasgoing to deliver, hoping that its familiarity would put me to sleep. Perversely, it stimulated me into wakefulness. I wandered out to a
magasin
store and chose some good bread, cheese, and wine to keep in the room. My French did not meet with the merchant’s approval, but he did manage to find all the proper items.
I tried to summon up enthusiasm for being in Paris again, but it was rush hour; murderous traffic and poisonous air; so after walking around the block deciding not to do this and not to do that, I just picked up a newspaper and retreated to the room, and found it had been searched by an amateur.
Well, perhaps only by someone who didn’t care whether the search was discovered—or wanted me or Jacob to discover it, as a warning. I had aligned the typed page I was reading exactly along the first line of the page beneath it, an elementary precaution. The person who went through the pages had simply stacked them afterward and had not even put them back in quite the same position, squared with the corner of the table’s blotter. I wondered whether he’d found what he was after; he couldn’t have had more than ten or twelve minutes, even with a lookout posted downstairs to say, “Go.”
The lead bag with the gun was where I had hidden it, out of sight on top of the old-fashioned toilet tank. From now on I would take it with me when I left the room.
American, Russian, or French? Checking up on me, or Jacob? It could have been Jacob himself, actually, waiting for me to leave and then doubling back. But in that case I should think he’d be more likely to follow me. Rather than read through a speech he could see for the asking. I decided not to waste time worryingabout it Opened the box of dime-store Burgundy and drank off a fast, sour tumbler of it They hadn’t had wine in boxes the last time I was in France, and with luck they won’t have them the next time. Then I stretched out in the semidarkness and told my toes to relax, then ankles, shins, and so forth; old autohypnosis routine for falling asleep. Just as I reached the chin, which normally does it, a key rattled in the door, and it creaked open. “Jacob?”
“Nyet
.” I looked up, and there were two men in honest-to-God trench coats standing in the doorway. “Please, light?”
“Sure.” I switched on the light by the bed. “—Would you have wine?” I said in Russian, sitting up. “—It’s nothing extraordinary…”
“—Thank you, no. Come with us.” It took me a moment to place his accent: Bulgarian. That was a bad sign. You don’t have to know much about the trade to know who does wet work for the KGB in Europe.
I started to get my jacket. “—Not necessary. We’re not going outside.” They were a real Mutt-and-Jeff team. The one who was doing all the talking was a tall, blond, handsome fellow with a fixed, intense expression. Like the TV Russian spy who gave me so much secret amusement on
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
in my youth. His partner, from another division of Central Casting, was short and swarthy, with organ-grinder mustaches, carrying a large, shabby briefcase. He seemed to be concentrating on something else.
I turned on the watch and tried to think of some test that would be innocuous, in case we were being monitored. “—Do have a glass of wine while I use the bathroom.” This time they both nodded, and I poured two tumblers. Fairly strong evidence, if not really conclusive. I’d tested the machine on foreignstudents and American students speaking second languages, but never on a Bulgarian who was speaking Russian.
In the bathroom I considered the pistol. It would look pretty obvious stuck under my shirt; I decided to do without. I replaced it over the tank and waited for a
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