"I will come directly to the point," he said. "Someone has disappeared. Someone of vital interest to the security of not only France, but of all Europe, Britain, and the United States. In short, someone of interest to the western world."
"A scientist." It was a statement, not a question. The unexpected disappearance of one scientist caused more panic than the defection of a dozen bureaucrats, no matter what the country.
Remy nodded.
"Have you ever heard of Fernand Duroche?"
I took a thoughtful puff on my cigarette and did a mental run-through of the AXE bio-files on French scientific leaders. Fifteen feet away, the dancer was doing her best to distract me. The music was steadily increasing in tempo. I could feel the oud in my belly. The girl was quivering, her belly muscles contracting in rhythm to the music, her thighs pulsing.
"Dr. Fernand Duroche, Ph.D. Legion d'Honneur. Born in Alsace, 1914. Graduated first in class, Ecole Polytechnique, Paris, 1934. Research in underwater propulsion devices for the French Navy until the German invasion. Fought with Free French under De Gaulle through the liberation. Postwar work: Major achievements in the field of computerization for nuclear submarine development in the French Navy. Since 1969, Director of RENARD, topsecret French Navy project. Codenamed Dr. Death during war for lethal expertise with explosives. Name still used as joke in view of Duroche's meek personality."
Remy nodded again. Now his eyes were on the girl, too. Her quivering breasts gleamed wetly in the smoky light. Her eyes had become hooded as she danced.
"You have done your homework. AXE gathers its information well. Perhaps a little too well for my own comfort, as security director of RENARD. Nevertheless, that is the man we are concerned with."
"And the key word in his dossier is, of course, 'nuclear, " I said.
"Perhaps."
I raised one eyebrow.
"Perhaps?"
"There are other key words. Such as 'computerization' and 'underwater propulsion devices. Which of them is the right one, we do not know."
"Could it be all of them?" I asked.
"Again, perhaps." Remy stirred slightly. So did I. A subtle restlessness was invading the room, a growing and almost palpable tension. It was pure sexual tension, emanating from the girl in the center. Her veil was dropped now. Only the thin, gauzy material of the harem pants and bra covered the rich breasts with their pouring nipples and the luscious thighs. Through that material every man in the room could see the black triangle of her sex. She moved it hypnotically, her hands gesturing in front of it, inviting, begging attention.
Remy cleared his throat and took another gulp of the rum-laced tea.
"Let me begin at the beginning," he said. "Approximately three months ago, Dr. Duroche left the RENARD headquarters at Cassis for his annual three-week vacation. According to his co-workers, he was in an exhilarated mood. The project was moving rapidly toward a successful completion and, in fact, only a few details remained to be ironed out. Duroche's destination was Lake Lucerne, in Switzerland, where he intended to spend a boating holiday with an old friend from his days at the Polytechnique. He packed his bags, and, on the morning of November twentieth, kissed his daughter goodbye at the…"
"His daughter?"
"Duroche is a widower. His twenty-three-year-old daughter, Michelle, lives with him, and is librarian at RENARD. But I will return to her later. As I said, Duroche kissed his daughter goodbye at the airport in Marseilles, boarded a plane for Milan, with connections to Lucerne. Unfortunately…"
"He never arrived," I finished for him.
Remy nodded. He turned slightly to avoid having the dancer in his line of vision. I could see why. She was no aid to concentration. She had left the center of the floor and was writhing through the onlookers now, breasts and thighs brushing voluptuously against one eager man, then another.
"He boarded the plane," Remy continued. "We know that. His daughter saw him do so. But he did not go through customs and immigration at Lucerne. In fact, he is not listed as being aboard the plane from Milan to Lucerne."
"So the kidnapping, if it is kidnapping, took place in Milan. Or aboard the plane from Marseilles," I said thoughtfully.
"It would seem so," said Remy. "In any event, his daughter received a letter from him two days later. Both Mademoiselle Duroche and our best handwriting experts agree that it was indeed written by Duroche himself. In the letter Duroche stated that once on the plane, he had been seized by a sudden need for solitude, and had made a spur of the moment decision to isolate himself somewhere to 'think things over. "
"Postmark?" I asked, forcing myself not to look at the dancer. She was getting nearer. Low moans came from her throat now; her torso movements were becoming frantic.
"The postmark on the letter was Rome. But that, of course, means nothing."
"Less than nothing. Whoever kidnapped him could have forced him to write the letter, then mailed it from anywhere they chose." I finished my rum and tea in one easy swallow. "If, that is, he way kidnapped."
"Exactly. Of course, in spite of his brilliant record of patriotism, we must face the possibility that Duroche has defected. If we take the words and tone of his letters at face value, that is most likely."
"There was more than one letter?"
"Three weeks after his disappearance, Michelle Duroche received another letter. In it, again in his handwriting, Duroche stated that he was increasingly disturbed about the nature of the work being done at RENARD, and had decided to spend another six months in solitude to 'think over' whether he wanted to continue. It was only then that his daughter became truly alarmed — he did not state in the letter where he was, or state when he would communicate with her again — and decided it was her duty as an employee of RENARD, as well as his daughter, to contact the authorities. I was brought into the case immediately, but since then our investigations have turned up virtually nothing of value."
"The Russians? The Chinese?" The girl was close to us. I could smell the perfume and the muskiness of her gleaming body. I could see the drops of sweat between her lush breasts. Men were reaching out to touch her, to grab for her.
"All our agents give negative on that," said Remy. "So you see, mon ami, we are truly facing a blank wall. We do not know who he is with, whether he is with them of his own will or not and, most important, we do not know where he is. What we do know is that with the information within Fernand Duroche's head, project RENARD can be duplicated by anyone, anywhere in the world, for only a few million dollars."
"How deadly is it?"
"Deadly," said Remy somberly. "Not a hydrogen bomb or bacteriological warfare, but in the wrong hands, deadly."
Now the girl was so close I could feel her hot breath on my face. Her moans were becoming guttural, demanding, her pelvis moved back and forth in a frenzy, her arms reaching up as if to the invisible lover who was producing the ecstatic agony in her flesh; then her thighs spread to receive him. More men reached out for her, their eyes blazing with hunger. She eluded them, never losing her concentration on her own inward convulsions.
"And the daughter? Does she think it possible that Duroche might really have gone off alone to 'think things over'?"
"You will speak to the daughter yourself," said Remy. "She is in hiding, and I will bring you to her. That is one reason, mon ami, I have asked you to come here to Tangier. Another reason, and the reason I have involved you and AXE, is a suspicion I have. Call it, how do you say, a hunch. But who could best have infiltrated project RENARD, become aware of what it was and how it could be used — then kidnap Dr. Duroche, or encourage him to defect? Who…"