“Don’t bother with carrying pads,” Mike said, chuckling. “If it goes up, you won’t need them.”
“You need to leave,” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot snapped, turning to the senior inspector. “I want him out of this area in fifteen minutes,” she continued, standing up. “I am going to go brief the president.”
“Well, I wonder what got her titties in a twist,” Mike said, sighing. “And who, exactly, is going to answer the phone if I leave?”
“You are,” Colonel Chateauneuf said, standing up. “She said you have to leave, not that you couldn’t take the phone with you. Does anyone have a specific use for it?”
“We’d like to check the directory,” one of the civilians at the table said. He had a faintly military bearing and Mike had pegged him as DGSE. “Run down some of the phone numbers.”
“We have a list of all of them already,” the senior inspector said.
“Does that mean you don’t want me to keep it?” Mike asked, waving it in the air.
“Oh, no,” the DGSE agent said, smiling. “By all means. And… try to be as convincing as you just were.”
“Will do,” Mike replied in a Southern accent. “Gentlemen, much as I respect the capabilities of the French security establishment, you wouldn’t mind if I watch the goings-on from, say… twenty klicks away or so, would you?”
“Not at all,” Colonel Chateauneuf said somberly. “I will escort you to your car.”
“I take it you’re not leaving,” Mike said as they walked to the sedan.
“No,” Chateauneuf said, shrugging. “My place is here.”
“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” Mike said. “I’ve got to introduce you to a song called ‘Winter Born.’ ”
“Crüxshadows,” Chateauneuf said, grinning. “A very good band. You will not tell people that I Goth, I hope? It is so hard to retain respect when people know you Goth.”
“Of course not,” Mike replied as he got in the car. “When it comes down to popish time, give me a holler and give me a play by play, okay?”
“I shall,” Chateauneuf said, holding out his hand. “Adieu.”
“Even I know that much French,” Mike said, shaking his hand. Adieu meant Go with God; it was a permanent farewell. “Let’s go for au revoir.”
“So what did you find out?” Bruce asked as they drove away.
Mike didn’t bother to answer, just picked up his cell phone and dialed OSOL.
“Pierson.”
“Go scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“It’s here, Bob,” Mike said, breathing out. “Notre Dame. The embassy driver and I are getting the fuck out of Dodge.”
“We heard,” Pierson replied. “Along with a very sharp message about your encounter with Madame Two-names.”
“Gabby LaSalle-Guerinot?” Mike said. “What a nice gal. We got along so well.”
“So I heard,” Pierson said dryly. “I believe the term ‘insufferably arrogant’ was used.”
“What? About the French?” Mike said.
“No, about you,” Pierson observed. “But, yes, arrogant is a good word. Not to mention lacking in leadership skills. The entire government is quietly evacuating. The president and Madame Two-names are already gone, taking their families. The president was supposed to be attending the pope’s high mass, but he sent his regrets. Some minor stooge, clearly not in the loop, is going instead.”
“Ah, French heroism at its finest.” Mike sighed. “All joking aside, we’ve got ourselves one fucked-up situation here. I don’t know for beans about EOD, not at this level, so I’m leaving it up to the experts. And, as I said, getting the fuck out of Dodge; I don’t see how they can prevent it from detonating.”
“Your phone call was intercepted by NSA,” Pierson said. “They were aware of the number before we were and traced the call to Amsterdam.”
“That’s nice,” Mike said. “The bomb’s scheduled to go off in about six hours…” He paused. “You want me to go to Amsterdam?” he added incredulously.
“Up to you,” Pierson replied. “The voice match was Assadolah.”
“Yeah,” Mike said thoughtfully. “I was pretty sure it was him. That English/Pakistani accent. But I’ve got to sit on the phone.”
“NSA has it covered,” Pierson said. “Calls to that phone will be transferred to your sat phone. And they can feed in artificial background noise from the event at Notre Dame. When a call comes in from the same phone, it will read ‘Assadolah.’ ”
“Gotta love modern technology,” Mike said sourly. “Bruce,” he continued, “about face. Charles DeGaulle. Step on it.”
On one level Mike loved Amsterdam’s red-light district. He’d stopped through on his European tour and sampled the wares, and lovely wares they were. But it was, in a way, just too “in your face.” As he walked down one of the narrow alleyways of the district, the curtain behind a plate-glass window moved and a very attractive young woman, a redhead wearing a green teddy and high heels, stepped out and reclined on the pillows in the window. She smiled at him as he passed and he smiled back distractedly. Pretty as she was, she wasn’t who he was looking for.
The street was lined with brothels, like the one he’d just passed, their “wares” casually presenting themselves in the windows, topless bars that doubled as brothels, brothels that doubled as bars, and “sex clubs” that were some of each.
“The call came from somewhere around cell tower 4793,” Colonel Fagan said. The colonel was another military attaché, in civilian clothes, but much less stuck on himself than Forester had been. With Mike’s haircut and build they just looked like two soldiers out for a good time. “That services the red-light district and some of the areas around it.”
“Assadolah’s into women,” Mike replied. “And the sounds that were behind him were from a bar, probably a topless joint from the music.” He paused at the first one they came to and shrugged. “What a horrible job we’ve got.” He paid for both their covers with a fifty-euro note, getting back forty euros in five- and ten-euro notes and a handful of one-euro coins.
The strip joint ran to form, dark with the only light coming from the three stages. In the middle of the room was the main stage, a long walkway with a pole at both ends and a swing in the middle. A blonde was dancing on it, down to nothing but her platforms and money-filled garter, doing a pole dance that Mike had to admit was spectacular. The women wandering around the room were equally spectacular, mostly blonde, long-legged with large breasts. You could tell the fakes from the real ones, even the very good fakes, and it was apparent that mostly they were real.
The two of them split up on either side of the stage, wandering casually to the back, then retracing their steps on opposite sides. There were two side rooms, one a “champagne” room where for probably a ton of money you could sit and talk to one of the girls while sipping champagne, and the other a “dance” room where for less the girls would perform “lap dances” for their “gentlemen friends.” When they got back to the front, Mike sat down in one of the chairs along the wall and shrugged.
“I don’t see him,” Mike noted. “But he could be getting a lap dance. Or a blow for that matter; it’s Amsterdam.”
“I’ll take the champagne room,” Fagan said, grinning. “But the U.S. government is going to have a hard time keeping up with my tab.”
“Uncle Sam can afford it,” Mike replied, handing over a wad of hundred-euro notes. “Keep an itemized tab and we’ll submit an expense report.”