His nerves kept him alert, but he wished for a stash of coca leaves to chew, here in the urban equivalent of the jun gle.
From quite a distance he saw a man and a woman coming from the Fifth Avenue side of the park. The man wore a beret and had on a long coat. According to his verbal description, that would be Georges Raval and the woman on his arm was as mentioned in the e-mail.
As the couple approached, he looked warily about, determined that if he saw others he would flee, but he saw no one this time. The man wore a bulky coat and he wondered if he too was wrapped in body armor. The woman wore a hat that looked to be of fur, or a look-alike material, and a heavy, stylish, long dress coat.
"Georges?" he said quietly as the man drew close. This was the man he had met briefly in the apartment building.
"Hello, good to see you again."
The man's features were hard to make out in the dark; he still had the mustache and was a little under six feet, give or take. Even in the low light the woman seemed beautiful.
"Shall we walk?" Michael said.
"Yes. As you can see, I brought a friend, but you can trust her. Let me introduce you to Benoit, the love of my life."
"I am very pleased to meet you both."
"Benoit knows everything I am about to tell you."
"Are you married?"
"No. She is a prisoner in France, let out to find me. How's that for a shocker?"
"That's a shocker."
"We should do this quickly. You know about the work of Grace Technologies, yes? Altering brain cells to achieve per sonality changes."
"Yes, I know generally."
"You have heard of Chaperone?"
"Yes. You created this miracle?"
"I believe I'm the only person alive who understands it. Although the knowledge is incomplete. The molecule has not yet been fully mapped and therefore it isn't ready to be synthesized, although it can be used if a supply could be obtained."
They were walking in the park and Michael led them into a darkened area and into some heavy brush and out the other side to an old bench in a small clearing on another path. "Let's sit here."
"Are you sure it's safe?" Raval asked.
"I'm sure," Benoit said, taking a very large pistol from her handbag.
"God," Raval said, "I hate guns."
"Let's continue," Benoit said.
"My only regret," Raval said, "is that I don't know you better."
Michael interpreted that as a need to trust him before di vulging more. "I understand." He had a book bag, from which he removed three sandwiches. "Would you like some thing to eat? When you've been in the jungle as long as I have, it's hard not to carry food around with you."
"I don't need much." Georges broke his sandwich in two and gave half to Benoit. He thanked Michael, then spoke of science generally. He seemed interested in the Amazon and all that it spawned. In moments they were eating and laugh ing like friends, and they hadn't mentioned Grace Technologies again or vectors or the like.
When the food was gone, Michael turned the conversation serious once more. "You've been through hell. Perhaps afraid for your life. As for your friend, she seems to have an iron constitution. Perhaps she fears nothing."
"All of the above," he said.
"I fear French jails," the woman said.
"Why don't you come with me. I've moved to the mountains of California, where it is lonely and beautiful. I have bodyguards you can trust."
"Bodyguards?" Georges said.
"You saw them in the Village, when we were attacked on the street. They are good men, and I'll be able to work there."
David Dun
Unacceptable Risk
"First we must be about other business," Benoit said.
"What is that?" Georges seemed puzzled.
"You are good scientists. But the rest of life escapes you both. It's part of your charm. There is a man, Sam. You both know him?"
"Yes. He's the one with the bodyguards."
"Well, Mr. Sam?" Benoit spoke loudly all of a sudden.
There was only silence.
"No one knows we are here," Georges said.
"One of the reasons I love you is that you do not understand what we are dealing with. We probably could have a UN convention with the people in these woods."
"Right here," a voice said. Michael recognized it as Sam's.
"So, at last we meet." Benoit said. "I would enjoy seeing the man who put me in jail-or at least this man's current disguise," Benoit said.
The bushes moved. "Yep. That'd be me."
"This better be good," Agent Ernie Dunkin said. "I have half the French Embassy and various mercenaries or emis saries or diplomats or spooks or whatever handcuffed to trees in Central Park. I can hardly wait to hear the screaming in the morning."
"I promise you that this will be interesting." The group was in several cars headed to FBI headquarters. Ernie and Sam shared a backseat. A young man was driving. Normally, Ernie drove his own car, but Sam didn't ask about the un usual arrangement.
"Let's not go to the FBI. I have a meeting room at the Park Plaza."
"A meeting room?"
"Bear with me, Ernie. None of this is going to be orthodox. None of it."
"I don't like this."
"Look, I really needed you to help get us out of Central Park without a gunfight. But we have to be free of you to solve this case and then to put it back in your lap."
"You're telling me that you just needed a babysitter in Central Park and now I get nothing?"
"Ernie, you're going to get everything on your doorstep. Without the CIA."
"Without the CIA? Then it's overseas too."
Sam nodded.
"I never really liked your shit. I prefer to solve my own crimes. But for some reason I put up with it."
"You like getting all the glory. It's no mystery."
"Yeah, well, there better be glory. This is post 9/11 and we don't screw around like we used to."
"Come on. You stretch the rules even more and you have much looser rules. You're just a hell of a lot more tight-assed about appearances."
Ernie fell silent and Sam knew he was vacillating be tween rage and intrigue.
"This could be the biggest one of the career?" Ernie fi nally asked.
"That's right."
"Delivered right in my lap?"
"Have I ever failed you, Ernie?"
"Don't give me that crap."
They lapsed into silence again.
"Take us to the Park Plaza. Drop these gentlemen off. Take me home." Then Ernie got on the radio and had the guys in Central Park released so they could go make their protestations of outrage. He chuckled, which at times like this was uncharacteristic.
"Let me in on the joke," Sam said.
Ernie got back on the radio.
"Listen up all you loyal agents of la-la land. You be sure and let it slip that you are the New York City Police Department."
"We already said FBI," a voice came back.
"So, be creative about contradicting yourself."
"Ooh," Sam said with a smile. "You're good."
The room in the Park Plaza seated ten. Benoit, Georges, Sam, and Michael sat inside along with the attorney that Benoit had requested. His name was Stan Beckworth and he spe cialized in immigration. Outside waited a dozen of Sam's hired help, spread up and down the hallway.
Benoit spoke up immediately when they sat down.
"I need to speak with Sam and the attorney alone."
"Why?" Georges asked.
Benoit turned to him. "I have told you that this is the one thing on which I will not compromise."
It was clear to Sam that the woman meant it.
"All right." Georges sighed.
"Why am I here?" Michael asked.
"You were the source of the original material that went into Chaperone," said Benoit. "What we need from you now is a counterfeit version of your 1998 journal."
"It was more work to make the phony journal than the real one, even using real journals as a template," Michael said. "The fake set includes a previously known salamander in place of the sponge. Now, what do you want all this for?"