The tuxedoed waiter at the Dikker en Thijs ground the lip of the flaming brandy glass into the silver receptacle of sugar; the ingredients would follow for café Jamique. It was a ridiculous indulgence, and probably a waste of very good liqueur, but Harry Lewis had insisted they each have one that night in Washington. He would tell Harry that he had repeated the ritual in Amsterdam, although he probably wouldn’t have if he had realized how bright the damn flames were and the degree of attention they would draw to his table.
«Thank you, Harry,» he said silently once the waiter had left, raising his glass inches off the table to his invisible companion. It was better, after all, not to be completely alone.
He could both feel the approaching presence of a man and see an enlarging darkness in the corner of his eye. A figure dressed in a conservative pinstriped suit was threading his way through the shadows and the candlelight toward the booth. Havelock angled the glass and raised his eyes to the face. The man’s name was George; he was the CIA station chief in Amsterdam. They had worked together before, not always pleasantly but professionally.
«That’s one way to announce your arrival here,» said the intelligence officer, glancing at the waiter’s tray table, the silver sugar bowl still on it. «May I sit down?»
«My pleasure. How are you, George?»
«I’ve been better,» said the CIA man, sliding across the seat opposite Michael.
«Sorry to hear that. Care for a drink?»
«That depends.»
«On what?»
«Whether I’ll stay long enough.»
«Aren’t we cryptic,» said Havelock. «But then you’re probably still working.»
«I wasn’t aware the hours were that clear-cut.»
«No, I guess they’re not. Am I the reason, George?»
«At the moment, maybe,» said the CIA man. «I’m surprised to see you here. I heard you retired.»
«You heard correctly.»
«Then why are you here?»
«Why not? I’m traveling. I like Amsterdam. You could say I’m spending a lot of accumulated severance pay visiting all those places I rarely got to see in the daytime.»
«I could say it, but that doesn’t mean I believe it.»
«Believe, George. It’s the truth.»
«No screen?» asked the intelligence officer, his eyes leveled at Michael. «I can find out, you know.»
«None at all. I’m out, finished, temporarily unemployed. If you check, that’s what you’ll learn, but I don’t think you have to waste channel time to Langley. I’m sure the centrex codes have been altered where I was concerned, all sources and informers in Amsterdam alerted as to my status. I’m off-limits, George. Anyone dealing with me is asking for a short term on the payroll and quite possibly an obscure funeral.»
«Those are the surface facts,» agreed the CIA man.
«They’re the only facts. Don’t bother looking for anything else; you won’t find it.»
«All right, say I believe you. You’re traveling, spending your severance pay.» The agent paused as he leaned forward. «It’s going to run out.»
«What is?»
«The severance pay.»
«Inevitably. At which time I expect I’ll find gainful employment. As a matter of fact, this afternoon—»
«Why wait? I might be able to help you there.»
«No, you can’t, George. I haven’t anything to sell.»
«Sure, you do. Expertise. A consultant’s fee paid out of contingency. No name, no records, untraceable.»
«If you’re running a test, you’re doing it badly.»
«No test. I’m willing to pay in order to look better than I am. I wouldn’t admit that if I were testing you.»
«You might, but you’d be a damn fool. It’s third-rate entrapment; it’s so awkward you’ve probably done it for real. None of us want those contingency funds scrutinized too carefully, do we?»
«I may not be in your league, but I’m not third-rate. I need help. We need help.»
«That’s better. You’re appealing to my ego. Much better.»
«How about it, Michael. The KGB’s all over The Hague. We don’t know who they’ve bought or how far up they go. NATO’s compromised.»
«We’re all compromised, George, and I can’t help. Because I don’t think it makes any difference. We get to square five, pushing them back to four, so they jump over us to seven. Then we buy our way to eight; they block us at nine, and no one reaches square ten. Everyone nods pensively and starts all over again. In the meantime we lament our losses and extol the body count, never admitting that it doesn’t make any difference.»
«That’s a crock of shit! We’re not going to be buried by anyone.»
«Yes, we are, George. All of us. By ‘children yet unborn and unbegot.’ Unless they’re smarter than we are, which may very well be the case. Christ, I hope so.»
«What the hell are you talking about?»
«‘The purple atomic testament of bleeding war.’»
«What!»
«History, George. Let’s have that drink.»
«No, thanks.» The CIA station chief slid back across the seat. «And I think you’ve had enough,» he added, standing up.
«Not yet.»
«Go to hell, Havelock.» The intelligence officer started to turn away.
«George.»
«What?»
«You missed. I was about to say something about this afternoon, but you didn’t let me finish.»
«So what?»
«So you knew what it was I was going to tell you. When did you intercept the cable? Around noon?»
«Go to hell.»
Michael watched as the CIA man returned to his table across the room. He had been dining alone, but Havelock knew he was not alone. Within three minutes the judgment was confirmed. George signed his check—bad form—and walked rapidly through the entrance arch into the lobby. Forty-five seconds later a youngish man from a table on the right side of the room got up to leave, leading a bewildered lady by the elbow. A minute passed, and two men who had been in a booth on the left side rose as one and started for the arch. Through the candlelight, Michael focused on the plates in the booth. Both were piled with food. Bad form.
They had been following him, watching him, employing intercepts. Why? Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
So much for Amsterdam.
The noonday sun in Paris was a blinding yellow, its quivering rays bouncing off the river Seine below the bridge. Havelock reached the midpoint of the Pont Royal, his small hotel only blocks away on the Rue du Bac, the route he followed being the most logical one from the Louvre. He knew it was important not to deviate, not to let whoever it was behind him think he suspected his or her presence. He had spotted the taxi, the same taxi, as it made two swift turns in traffic to keep him in sight. Whoever was directing the driver was good; the taxi had stopped for less than two or three seconds at a corner, and then had sped away in the opposite direction. Which meant that whoever was following him was now on foot on the crowded bridge. If contact was the objective, crowds were helpful, and a bridge even more so. People stopped on bridges over the Seine simply to stare absently down at the water; they had been doing so for centuries. Conversations could be had unobtrusively. If contact was the objective, and not surveillance alone.
Michael stopped, leaned against the chest-high stone wall that served as a railing, and lighted a cigarette, his eyes on a bateau mouche about to pass under the bridge. That is to say, if anyone was watching him, it would seem as if he were looking at the tourist boat, waving casually at the passengers below. But he was not; pretending to shield his eyes from the sun, he concentrated on the tall figure approaching on his right.
He could distinguish the gray homburg, the velvet-collared overcoat, and the glistening black patent-leather shoes; they were enough. The man was the essence of Parisian wealth and elegance, traveling all over Europe and gracing the salons of the rich. His name was Gravet, and he was considered the most knowledgeable critic of classical art in Paris—which meant the Continent—and only those who had to know knew he also sold far more than his critical expertise. He stopped at the railing seven feet to the right of Havelock, and adjusted his velvet collar; he spoke just loud enough to be heard. «I thought it was you. I’ve been following you since the Rue Bernard.»