In his last communication with Gridley, the man had obliquely hinted at a brute-force approach that was being tried on the attack, designed to find the mechanism by which their network had been compromised. Seurat had not been surprised, since it was the approach he would have expected from the Americans anyway. Never use a scalpel when a chain saw will serve…
But his own team had not been able to suggest a better approach.
He liked to think of himself and of CyberNation as smarter, more able to figure out the linchpin, the keystone of a problem, and to use that knowledge rather than force to achieve victory. A dagger rather than a blunt instrument.
And when they had failed him, and he, himself, had not been able to solve the problem either, he had left work in a foul mood.
On the way home, as he looped around the Boulevard Périphérique, his calendar had chimed to remind him of a showing at his aunt’s house, just out of the city. His family had for years managed to use the influence of their name and of their various connections in the art world to arrange for private showings of his ancestor’s works whenever one was on tour and passed through Europe. The events reinforced the bond of blood, and had helped reconcile the disparate branches of his family line, legitimate and not. Plus, they were usually a good time, a respite from the work world, and indeed a reason to take one.
But he’d been angry and had slapped his PDA, silencing the reminder, and accelerating toward his home. Art could not help him now, he needed science.
It had taken a few more kilometers of driving for him to laugh at himself, and to acknowledge that art was what he needed. Even if it did not inspire a solution, it would provide a different focus for the rest of the evening. Besides, the painting coming was a study for La Grande Jatte, one that had been out of the country for decades. Surely it was not going to be back soon.
So he had kept driving past his exit, heading toward his aunt’s, another thirty kilometers outside the city. By the time he had arrived, it had grown dark. The gathering was in full swing, the old chateau lit brightly from within, the color of the electric light the only difference from what might have been seen several hundred years before.
His uncles and aunts had greeted him warmly, and he’d grabbed a glass of wine from one of the family vineyards, a delightful ’08 that had sweetened his disposition considerably.
He had enjoyed the interaction, and had gradually worked his way toward the back of the house, to the old parlor where Aunt Sophia displayed paintings for events such as this. The rococo stylings of the house had soothed him, taking away the pain of the difficult day through their familiarity and sense of continuity.
Things have been worse and gotten better before, they seemed to say.
And there, in the back of the room, several of his older cousins staring at it, was the painting.
It was large, and Seurat recognized it immediately as one of the last studies for La Grande Jatte, nearly full-size, with the majority of the pantheon from the final painting laid out on it, albeit somewhat differently.
He stepped closer, feeling the warmth of that distant day, enjoying the serenity of the figures in the painting as they did also, taking pleasure in the consummate skill of his ancestor, acknowledging the careful planning.
And this was not even the final painting.
He felt a touch at his sleeve and returned to the world, the noise from the party washing back over him like an ocean tide, not realizing he’d completely tuned it out until it returned.
Standing there was good old Aunt Sophia, wearing one of her opera gowns, dressed, as usual, to deny detractors the pleasure of disparaging comments.
“Ahhh, Charles, mon cheri, there you are! I wanted to introduce you to Mademoiselle Millard, who is here with the painting. She travels with it on the tour, and was good enough to grace us with her presence.”
He thought he’d heard his aunt emphasize the woman’s status as single, and made a note to tease her about it later, which he promptly forgot as he turned and saw Millard.
She was tall, and wore a low-cut dress that covered enough to satisfy propriety, but which revealed enough to encourage imagination. She smiled, a graceful movement of her lips. Surely anyone could do such a thing — but if that were so, how come he’d never seen them poised just—so?
Sophia had completed the introduction.
“Michelle Millard, this is my nephew, Charles — also a Seurat.”
He remembered feeling a sudden thrill rush through him as he heard her name.
Michelle. How beautiful.
“Mademoiselle, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, thinking how inadequate it was. But somehow she brightened, and when she spoke her words seemed to tell him something deeper, something more.
“The pleasure is mine,” she’d said, and then, “I understand you have some of your ancestor’s works that are not publicly shown?”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d heard Sophia chuckle before she walked off.
Seurat was no schoolboy. He’d been with women — many women. But he had had such chemistry with only a handful.
They had talked until late in the evening, about surface things — paintings, favorite artists, and even the weather. But beneath their words an understanding simmered, cascades of meaning that spoke of a deeper interest, deeper meanings to the nods and smiles.
He had offered to drive her back to Paris, of course.
And when she had asked if they could perhaps stop by his house to see his paintings, he had said, “Of course.”
Truly she was beautiful — and more.
Seurat couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much time with anyone without talking about CyberNation. Had he even told her what he did?
“Do you like what you see, Monsieur?”
He started. Had she been awake the whole time?
“If I had any clothes on, your eyes would have burned through them the way you were looking at me!”
He chuckled. “If I had any clothes on, they would have been burned off just by looking at you. Does that answer your question, Mademoiselle?”
“Oui.”
She reached over and slid her hand down his body, stopping at just the right place.
“As does this.”
He put his hands on her as well, and her breathing increased to match his.
An American, he thought, as they started to move together, and then, She is wonderful beyond belief.
It could be that he was going to have to reevaluate his feelings about the United States. Surely a place from which she had come from couldn’t be quite as bad as he had thought…
24
Colonel Abe Kent glanced at his watch. It was pushing midnight, and Natadze was buttoned up tight. The motel room he was in had no rear exit, and there was no reason for him to be crawling out through a window — assuming he hadn’t spotted Kent tailing him.
From his rented van, thirty yards away and parked facing Natadze’s door, Kent considered his strategy and tactics. Natadze wasn’t going to step out into the parking lot with his eyes closed — he’d be wary, looking for anything unusual. He knew Kent by sight, so there was no way he could just stroll in the killer’s direction and make it close enough to get the drop on him. He could park his vehicle a bit nearer, but even so, opening a car door would draw Natadze’s attention in a hurry.