"I guess it wouldn't be illogical about Bowden. Raval, I don't think so."
"You gonna tell me what your people are doing?"
"Same as you. Looking for Gaudet. Stop him before he hurts somebody."
"What's the latest from Benoit Moreau? When am I going to get that interview?"
"I'm sure any day now. But you know she's told all she knows. She can't help us catch Gaudet any more than she already has."
Benoit Moreau had moved into a sublet apartment in Manhattan's garment district-an area where there were few apartments. The usual occupant was on a trip to Europe. Benoit was calling herself Jacqueline Dupont because worldwide there were thousands by that name. From the apartment she used the phones to set up the escrow arrange ments in Switzerland, kept track of Baptiste, placated the ad miral. Constantly she had to keep in mind what Baptiste knew and what the admiral didn't know, and vice versa. Good news that this would be her best and last exercise in duplicity.
She called Gaudet, who was getting impatient.
"When will I see you?"
"Soon, when I've arranged everything. At the moment I'm having trouble with Raval and trying to make a deal with Bowden for the 1998 journal."
"How do you know it is 1998?"
"All that matters is that I convince the French government that it is 1998 and tell them the page."
"Why does Bowden sell this to you?"
"He doesn't own the rights to the Chaperone process. This is his best chance to make money and be done with it."
"I am hungry for you. It has been a long time. I hear that prison has not aged you."
"Be patient. We have bigger things to do now."
"When you can come, I will need advance notice. There are many precautions."
"I understand."
Next she wrote an e-mail to Sam. Finally she dressed to meet Georges Raval for the first time in more than a year.
Chapter 17
The cougar stalks while the fawn eats.
The law firm was a short cab ride from Greenwich Vil lage, where Sam was staying. Instead of having the driver stop in front of the building, Sam had him drive past the front entry and drop him off a block down the street. In this area the buildings were truly huge and walking in the con crete canyons seemed like something out of a Tolkien fantasy. It was cold and he wore a dense sweater with a heavy wool topcoat-all purchased by Anna. It was hard to stop thinking about her and he made no particular effort
The weather, like his mood, was troubled, and above the city the sky loomed pitch dark. Ground Zero was still a cav ernous, empty space in the skyline. All the buildings were lit and the neon was everywhere, making twilight across the pavement and deep shadows along its borders. As Sam walked down the crowded sidewalks, he kept to the shadows and scanned the street.
Automobiles filled Broadway, taxis crept and honked while motorcycles weaved in and out, playing tag with death or dismemberment.
Sam eyed the entrance to the law firm's building and noted that people were leaving in ones and twos, not in a steady stream. All walked briskly, no doubt anxious to get home.
There did not seem to be anyone hanging around near the doorways to the main lobby. Sam approached the building's covered portico through a break in the foot traffic. He carried a sizable briefcase with the tools of his trade. Four revolving doors were set to allow exit while, given the hour, only one was set to allow entry. As he stepped close to the entryway door, it began to move as if it had a mind, and he stepped in between the glass sections and was whisked into the building. Once inside, he went to the security man, glanced at the board, and saw that main reception for the firm of Binkley, Hart, amp; Rove was on the tenth floor.
"I'm Michael Bowden. I'm meeting Mr. John Stephan at Binkley, Hart, and Rove." He handed the man a fictitious Michael Bowden passport, which matched his artificially bearded face. He looked nothing like himself after an hour with makeup and the beard.
"Go on up to the second floor."
Sam looked down at the listings under the law firm, let his eye travel to S, and found no Stephan, only a Stevens, a Smith, and a Stewart. Bowden had recalled that the managing partner on the project was Stewart. The law firm occupied floors 10 through 13, not the second floor. No office number was listed for Stewart.
"I don't see a Mr. Stephan listed."
"I was told you would be meeting Mr. Stephan and that you would meet him on the second floor in the lobby of the restaurant."
"I see. Okay. Well, thanks."
Sam emptied his pockets, went through a metal detector, then walked around the corner to elevator banks for the lower floors 1 through 20, and immediately found the stairs and noted with satisfaction that they could be entered without passing through the guard's field of view, but for a scan ning camera. It was an easy matter to feign waiting for an el evator and to then remain outside the camera's changing field of view all the way to the stairs. If the security had been good, there would have been multiple cameras or a hidden camera, and evasion would not have been so simple. Or perhaps it wasn't so simple and he was being watched but not apprehended. It made for an interesting life.
Sam took care not to make loud, echoing footfalls on the stairs. At the top he came to a steel door. As he approached it, he was able to see through a small window. Normally, this sort of door would be kept locked, but when he twisted the handle, it released. He opened it a crack.
There was grayish-white canvas draped around, with white wall texture material on it, and there were three men in the doorway of a darkened restaurant that was obviously being remodeled. It was a place with its guts ripped out, a skeleton of a room, and it did not provide a reassuring feeling. He listened.
"You got any more of that gum? The kind that squirts the green stuff in your mouth?" The speaker was very big, six feet four inches, probably 250 pounds, bull-necked, a round, meaty face with old zit scars, and a marine-style haircut. He spoke to a thin, smaller guy, probably just over thirty, with a jogger's body but no apparent muscle above the waist. The little guy was a sharp but conservative dresser wearing something like a Hickey Freeman suit, three-button coat with quality material, and wing tip shoes, nearly new. He sported a $40 haircut that came down slightly over the ears, had soft, white hands with well-kept fingernails, a crisp white shirt, and a red-checked power tie. He was bored, obviously hanging around with a couple of guys he deemed in ferior, and he was without a doubt a lawyer-unless they had asked some stockbroker to stand around outside a gutted restaurant.
The third man was black with a mustache, the kind of guy who watches everything. He was in a sport coat, tie, and good slacks. No telling his role.
The lawyer fellow reached in his pockets and pulled out loose change, a cell phone, old receipts, an airline stub, and a wadded-up tissue.
"I think I'm out of gum. But he should be here anytime."
"Yeah. I don't know why they wanted us to go through this baloney. We could tell if he was alone down in the lobby."
"Just conservative is all. They don't want to be embar rassed upstairs."
"Yeah, well, if I was this guy Bowden, I'd get the spooks just stepping off the elevator and seeing this."
"This guy has lived in the jungle with savages, for God's sake. He tracks down remote tribes. I think he'll know we're friendly."
"Then why am I here?"
"We've gone over it, Max. You're a prop. Just a prop. Your only job is to chew your gum."
"If after talking, he doesn't want to go upstairs, he leaves?"
"Of course he leaves. Jeez, remember who you are working for. Besides, have you ever actually been in a fight after you got out of the service?"
"The rowdy client at the Christmas party. What do we do if he's like that guy, and after he listens to you, he wants to strangle your scrawny lawyer neck."