So Deveraux owed him and that should make the situation infinitely simpler, though that didn’t make Blaine any fonder of the prospect of returning to Paris. He had spent by far the worst five years of his career stationed there, frustration simmering until it had boiled over at the airport barely a week before. The smell of Orly Airport itself brought back all the bitterness of those years, all the anger over the fact that his own people had buried him.
Blaine checked into a hotel, made a series of phone calls, and then waited in the darkness flirting with sleep. It was morning before he learned that not only was François Deveraux in town, he would be attending a special performance at the famed Paris opera house that very evening. Deveraux would be sitting in his private box and Blaine would let him enjoy the first act before making his appearance. It was a tremendous stroke of luck actually, for if Deveraux had been out of town or otherwise indisposed, precious time would have been lost getting to see him.
The opera setup presented McCracken with only one problem — dress was strictly formal, at least if he wanted to move comfortably in Deveraux’s circles and not stand out. Blaine rang up the hotel concierge, who sent up a tailor to take his measurements. A rented tuxedo in the proper size would be delivered to his door by six that evening, no small accomplishment on a Sunday.
The worst thing about life in the field was the waiting. And the worst thing about waiting was that it gave you time to think. All of Blaine’s thoughts as he lingered in his hotel room throughout the day centered around Luther Krell. He should have killed him. Plain and simple. It was the expected thing to do and the right thing, too, since Krell could have blown his dead man’s cover. Sure he could tell himself that after talking, the fat man would never dare return to Sahhan, that he was as good as dead anyway. But it didn’t wash. McCracken couldn’t do the job because he didn’t have the stomach for such execution-style killings anymore. Killing in self-defense or the defense of others was one thing; putting a bullet in a whimpering lump of flesh, something else again. It implied vulnerability. Five years ago there would have been no doubt, no hesitation, and Blaine trembled at the thought of where that hesitation might show up next.
His tuxedo was delivered thirty minutes late, at half past six, which left him just enough time to dress and make it to the opera house prior to the start of the first act. Most disquieting was that he lacked a firearm. Smuggling in or obtaining a gun had proven impossible; there was too much risk involved. Blaine felt naked as a result. He took a cab to the opera house. His ticket was being held at the box office, so there was really no reason for him to rush except that he needed time to spot Deveraux’s private box.
The Paris opera house was a huge building constructed nearly two hundred years before. Though remodeled numerous times in the interim, it nonetheless retained the elegant decor of its birth. The lobby of the building was huge, with a swirling staircase rising through the various levels. People in formal attire clustered in small groups to chat and sip champagne. Blaine hoped he might find Deveraux mingling among them, in which case he could finish their rendezvous early and spare himself sitting through the opera’s first act.
No such luck. The arms dealer was nowhere to be found and Blaine found his own seat five minutes before the lights were dimmed. His eyes swept the rows of private boxes above him, some set back so far that their occupants were hidden. He borrowed a pair of opera glasses from a hefty woman seated next to him and intensified his sweep, aware that once the house lights were turned down, he would have to break the search off. The orchestra had finished tuning their instruments. He had only seconds left.
He was studying the middle boxes on the left side of the hall when a man rose to greet a pair of female guests. Blaine smiled. François Deveraux hadn’t changed a bit. His toupee seemed to fit better than the last time they had met, but other than that he looked exactly the same. His flesh was baked bronze by the sun, the absence of lines and wrinkles due not so much to nature as to a plastic surgeon’s skilled knife. His smile flashed white and full, and he kissed the ladies politely.
The lights dimmed and a drumbeat pounded the air. The opera was about to begin. Blaine returned the glasses and slumped back in his chair, making himself applaud until the people next to him stopped.
The next hour was as long as any he could remember. He did not know the opera’s tide, nor could he follow its plot as it unfolded onstage. The high notes and orchestral reverberations stung his ears, and he found himself stealing as many glances as he could up at Deveraux’s box, wondering what he might do if the arms dealer was similarly unenthused about the performance and made an early exit.
At last the first act came to an end and Blaine pushed by the others in his row and made his way up the aisle. It was already crowded, and he felt the nag of frustration in the pit of his stomach, eyes cheating up toward Deveraux’s box. He needed the arms dealer alone up there. If Deveraux had opted for a trip to the bar, Blaine might have to stomach another act, and he wasn’t sure if he was up to that.
He moved with the crowd back into the lobby and then against the traffic up one of the circular stairways closest to Deveraux’s box. He had tried to pin down its location from its proximity to others, a needless task as it turned out, since two guards were stationed before its private entrance. Deveraux’s guards were there more for show than anything else, since the private boxes were connected, split only by a thin dividing wall and a curtain. Blaine passed Deveraux’s and entered the one two down from it.
“Excuse me,” he said, pushing by two exasperated couples and sliding behind the curtain.
He repeated the same process at the next box and then stuck his face out from behind the curtain at Deveraux’s.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Deveraux.”
The two women gasped. Deveraux swung around quickly.
“Mon dieu” he muttered, face suddenly pale.
“Take it easy, François, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Blaine said, and stepped out from behind the curtain.
“I believe I have, mon ami, or perhaps the champagne was too strong.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Oui, oui. Come in, please.”
Blaine moved forward and smoothed the curtain back into place. Deveraux told the two women to bring back another bottle of champagne and inform the guards to make sure he wasn’t disturbed.
“I heard you had been killed in the States, mon ami,” Deveraux said softly when they were alone.
“Couldn’t kick off until the debt was square between us, now, could I?”
Deveraux slid a small table holding a golden spittoon closer to him. In spite of his rich, urbane life-style, he had never abandoned the habit of chewing tobacco. The only concession he made was to buy the most expensive supply around, packaged in gold foil pouches that looked quite respectable. He packed a small measure in his mouth.
“We need to talk, François.”
“Are you in trouble? If so, my house is yours. No one in France would dare touch you under my protection.”
“It’s not like that. No one in France knows I’m here besides you.” A pause. “I’m working again.”
“For your own people? I would have thought your days with them were over.”
“They are formally. This is strictly undercover and unofficial. No accountability and all that.”
Deveraux expelled a wad of tobacco juice into the spittoon as gracefully as he did everything else.
“Which branch?”