# The Parisian Affair

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

Chapter One

There's something about a graveyard, even one in

a city as bright and bustling as Paris, that makes all

•your senses just a little more alert. The Cemetery

Montparnasse was no exception.

It was on the Left Bank, a few blocks south of

the famous Café Le Dome. Because of the well-

known writers and composers buried there—

Baudelaire, de Maupassant, Saint-Saens, and

Franck, to name a few—it did a brisk daytime

tourist trade. But at an hour short of midnight, the

place was cold, quiet, and deserted.

I'd been in the cemetery since ten, carefully

checking and rechecking the grounds. It was a per-

fect spot for a set up. Almost too perfect. The maze

of tombstones and vaults offered enough cover to

hide a small army. For a single gunman, conceal-

ment would be child's play.

So far, the only thing I'd flushed out was a

hungry-looking alley cat. But I still couldn't shake

the feeling that I wasn't alone. And in my work,

ignoring your gut instincts is the quickest way to

1

NICK CARTER


2

(12 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

wind up dead. I figured this place was crowded

enough already; it really didn't need a stone

marker engraved with the name Nick Carter.

There wasn't enough time left for another sweep

of the grounds. The informant was due in ten

minutes. I hunkered down behind a tombstone

where I had a clear view of the main entrance on

Boulevard Edgar-Quinet. Wilhelmina, my 9mm

Luger, comfortably filled my hand.

Informants are a necessary part of the espionage

business; even a super-secret agency like AXE em-

ploys a few. I never liked them very much and this

one even less. He was an amateur and amateurs

have an uncanny way of getting people killed.

Through an old friend of Hawk's, we'd put word

out of a substantial reward for' any information

that could help us trace the assassin who had termi-

nated four Third-World diplomats during the past

two weeks. I'd gotten the call in my hotel room late

in the afternoon. It was a man's voice, young, ur-.

gent, and strained with fear. "I have what Boissier

says you want," he told me in heavily accented En-

glish. "Cemetery Montparnasse, eleven tonight—

and don't forget the money."

The line went dead before I could say a word. It

had all the makings of a set up, but I couldn't let it

pass by. The anonymous, frightened voice was the

only call I'd had after three days of impatient wait-

ing. I had to go.

At exactly eleven, the cemetery gate eased

cautiously open. Squatting in the wet grass, I

watched a head appear and finally the slim figure

2

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR


3

(13 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

of a man in a trench coat. I had assumed that this

was going to be strictly one on one. But right be-

hind the man was a blonde-haired girl, barely out

of her teens.

I began to move toward them, staying low, using

the shadow and cover of the headstones. There was

no point in showing myself until I was closer. If

this was an ambush, I'd need every advantage I

could get.

After a moment's hesitation, the man started

slowly up the graveled path with the girl trailing

him a few feet back. His head darted from side to

side like someone watching a tennis match. I think

if I'd shouted "Boo" he would have jumped a good

three feet into the air.

We were almost parallel now. I stepped out of

the shadows and called out softly, "Over here."

Even that startled him a bit. But when he got a

good look at me, his thin, pallid face flooded with

relief. "Bon soir, Monsieur Carter," he said, grin-

ning. "l was beginning to think you'd stood me

up."

Gunfire split open the quiet night. The first shot

hit him high in the chest, a dark circle of blood

staining his trench coat. More slugs tore into the

body, sending it jerking and spinning in a

grotesque danse macabre. He hit the gravel face

first, his arms spread wide in supplication.

The girl stood screaming, paralyzed with fear. I

broke cover and tackled her as another burst of fire

peppered my back with flying gravel. In a flurry of

kicking legs, we rolled into the deep shadow of a

3


4

(14 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

family vault. I pushed her around the corner to

safety and brought Wilhelmina into action.

It was no damn good. At that range a Luger is

useless against a high-powered, semiautomatic ri-

fle. The rifleman was on the top floor of a dark-

ened building overlooking Rue Froideaux. From

that vantage point almost the entire cemetery was

in range. Thinking back now, I was glad that I'd

trusted my instincts; the unseen presence I'd sensed

hadn't been in the cemetery, but above it. Whoever

planned the job was a real professional.

Bullets continued to pound the vault, pockmark-

ing the limestone walls. I glanced back at the girl,

who was making a low, moaning noise like keening

at an Irish wake, her thin arms wrapped around

her shivering body. It didn't look like she'd do any-

thing dumb, like moving.

Belly down in the wet grass, I began to crawl

toward the gunner's position, weaving in and out

of the deep pools of shadow. If I cou!d make the

far wall, I would find a service entrance there that

opened on to Rue Froideaux. I was getting tired of

this duck shoot; once I reached the street it would

be a two-way battle.

I was about twenty feet from the wall when the

firepower shifted direction. I looked back and saw

the body of the young man twisting spasmodically

as the corpse took burst after burst of rapid fire. It

was senseless and stupid, hatred in its ugliest form.

The gunman was just too good not to know that he

was already dead.

As suddenly as it had begun, the shooting

4


5

(15 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

stopped. The cemetery was quiet again, but off in

the distance I could hear the urgent, high-pitched

wail of sirens. It was now or never, I thought, as I

stood up and sprinted the short distance to the ser-

vice entrance. I hit the street just in time to see a

dusty, gray Citroen take the corner on two wheels.

The deep-throated engine shifted into high gear as

the car sped off into the night. Feeling frustrated

and angry, I slipped Wilhelmina back into my

shoulder holster. The killer was gone, but there was

still plenty left for me to do.

The sound of sirens was louder now; I ran back

into the graveyard.

The body was a sodden wreck, something even a

lover would have trouble recognizing. The final

burst from the gunman had flipped him over on his

back. His shattered face was that of a man in his

mid-twenties, with curly black hair and pale-blue

eyes with long, feathery lashes. Beyond that, I

couldn't even begin to guess.

Gingerly, I peeled back the blood-soaked trench

coat and searched for his wallet. It was in his jacket

breast pocket, miraculously intact despite the dev-

astating barrage. But the contents were meager—

just a few hundred francs, a driver's license in the

name of Paul Julot, and a half-dozen business

cards for a firm called Agency Castel. There wasn't

enough time left for a thorough search of the body.

I slipped the wallet in my pocket and then, almost

as an afterthought, leaned over and closed his eyes.

The girl was where I'd left her. She watched my

approach with the blank, expressionless stare of

5


6

(16 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

someone in shock. I bent down and pulled her gen-

tly to her feet. There was no resistance in her

slender body and her hands were cold to the touch.

"Allons, " I whispered, putting my arm around her.

Without speaking, she followed me out of the

graveyard.

It was a café tabac, a small neighborhood place

with a counter in the front and a back room with

eight tables that served as the café. I sat the girl

down at a corner table and ordered two double Re-

mys at the zinc-topped bar. If the barman noticed

the grass stains on my tweed jacket, he saw no rea-

son to mention it. I left him a liberal pourboire and

carried the glasses back to the table. There were

only two other patrons, a pair of workmen in cov-

eralls sharing a carafe of wine.

"Je m'appelle Nick Carter," I said, handing her

the snifter of cognac. After what we'd been

through, I figured it was about time we introduce

ourselves.

"I speak English," she replied in a low, angry

voice, "and I already know your name. Paul said it

just before .. ." The words trailed off as she looked

down at the table. "Who the hell are you?" she de-

manded, meeting my eyes again.

"I'm a reporter for the Amalgamated Press and

Wire Services." I slipped my press card from my

wallet and held it out to her.

"Don't play games," she said, pushing my hand

aside. "Journalists don't carry guns and they don't

get innocent people murdered. " Her voice crackled

6


7

(17 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

a little as if the gory death scene were replaying

itself in her mind.

In the light of the café she looked older than I

had first guessed, early to mid-twenties. Her warm,

honey blonde hair just touched the shoulders of her

suede coat, framing a delicate oval face with a gen-

erous mouth and wide, sea green eyes. Her eyes

were red-rimmed now and her face had the slack-

ness that so often follows shock. In spite of all that,

she was a very attractive woman.

"I'm sorry about your friend," I told her hon-

estly. "There was nothing I could do. By the way,

you still haven't told me your name."

"Lauren Savord," she said quietly. Then she

began to cry. I let the jag run itself out, knowing

she would feel better when she was done. After a

few minutes her shoulders stopped moving and she

raised her face away from her cupped hands. I

handed her my handkerchief.

"l must look like merde," she said with a timid

smile.

"Your eyes are a little dewy, but other than that,

you look terrific."

she said, laughing. "Can I have a

"Liar,"

cigarette, please?"

"Certainly." I offered her my case and lit one

myself. "You were close to Julot?" I prompted.

"No, but it wasn't for lack of trying." She

grinned ruefully and took a sip of Remy. "We both

work at the Agency Castel; I'm a secretary and

Paul handled some of the bookings. I've only been

in Paris for two months. I come from Saint-Fiacre,

7


8

(18 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

a village near Matignon. It's so small you could

drive through without ever realizing you were

there. Maybe I arrived here with too many expecta-

tions. I thought I'd lead a different life in Paris, one

filled with romantic evenings, walking arm in arm

along the Seine and sharing intimate midnight sup-

pers." She paused to blow a spiral of smoke toward

the ceiling. "But it didn't work out that way. To-

night was my very first date. For weeks I'd been

hoping Paul would notice me, at least say some-

thing more than 'Hello' or 'Get this letter out right

away.' And finally, today he did."

"I find it hard to believe that it would take that

long for any man to notice you."

Lauren tossed back her head and laughed. "Ob-

viously. you don't know the Agency Castel,

Monsieur Carter. It's one of the top modeling

agencies in Paris, maybe in the world. The women

who move through there every day aren't merely

pretty, they're devastatingly beautiful."

"I suppose some of them move in the upper so-

Cial circles? The arts and diplomatic scenes?" I

tried to make the question sound casual, despite its

importance.

"That's true," she responded quickly. "They're

always being written up in the columns as having

been seen at some premiere, gallery opening, or re-

ception to honor a visiting head of state. It's only

natural,"

she added with a typical Gallic shrug.

"Powerful men like to be seen in the company of

beautiful women."

I nodded silent agreement. This sounded as

8


9

(19 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

though it might be the first real lead I had on the

assassinations. All four victims had been high-

ranking diplomats from Third World or emerging

nations and in each instance they had been

murdered in a high-security area, either the em-

bassy itself or at a well-guarded, carefully screened

reception. This was no amateur operation. Each

one had been killed with swift, quiet precision—no

mess, no commotion, just another dead body to

add to the list. The methods varied: an air-filled

hypodermic, curare poisoning, and in the last two

cases, a simple knife across the throat. At three of

the scenes, traces were found indicating the possi-

bility that the assassin was a woman.

"You're suddenly very quiet," Lauren chided

me.

"Just thinking. Tell me, weren't you surprised

when Paul asked you out after all that time?"

"Well, I certainly didn't expect it,"

she said,

grinning again. "He spoke to me about an hour

before closing; he seemed nervous, jumpy, not like

himself at all. He practically insisted I spend the

evening with him. Of course, at the time I was very

flattered, but all through dinner and the film we

saw afterward, he kept looking at the people

nearby as if he were afraid someone was watching

him. It didn't do a whole lot for my ego."

"I could see where it wouldn't." I held out my

cigarette case again, lit us both, and took a healthy

sip of Remy. "What reason did he give you for

going to the Cemetery Montparnasse?"

' 'Paul told me he had to meet a man about a

9


10

(20 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

business matter. He said it would only take a few

minutes and then we could go and have a nightcap

at La Coupule. It sounded a little weird at the time,

but I figured the way the evening was going what

did I have to lose." Her wide eyes fixed me with

startling intensity. "Why was Paul meeting you

there?" she asked abruptly.

"In a way, it was a business matter," I admitted.

"Julot had information to sell and I was the buyer.

It's a common enough occurrence in journalism."

"What about murder? Is that common, too?"

"It happens. If I could have prevented it, I would

have. I certainly didn't expect anything like that to

happen."

Lauren finished the last of her cognac with a sin-

gle, gulping swallow. "It wasn't as though we were

close or anything," she said quietly, "but nobody

should have to die that way."

My own thoughts were nowhere near as sympa-

thetic. Maybe she hadn't realized it yet, but Julot

had undoubtedly asked her out for a lot more than

just the pleasure of her company. If the killer was

someone they both knew, he had assumed he

would be safer with a possible witness tagging

along. Or perhaps he was one of those men who

can't make a move without someone holding their

hand. He had seemed scared enough to be the type.

Whatever the reason, he had knowingly put an in-

nocent woman in danger of her life. Let somebody

else mourn the bastard.

' 'I'm going home now," said Lauren, pushing

back her chair. We walked out together.

10


11

(21 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

I found a cab rank a few blocks away on

Boulevard Raspail. "Would you like me to see you

home?" I asked.

She shook her head. "You seem awfully sure of

yourself, Monsieur Carter. What makes you think

I won't go straight to the police? Tell them I was

there when it happened, give them your name?"

"You can if you want to," I said calmly. "But

there wouldn't be much point to it. It won't change

the fact that Julot's dead and there's nothing I can

tell them that they don't already have from the evi-

dence at the scene."

"You know," said Lauren smiling, "for no rea-

son at all I trust you."

"I'm glad," I said truthfully. "I'll phone you

tomorrow if you like."

"I'll be home: 47 Rue Mazarine. It's in the

book. "

I watched her taxi until it merged with the flow

of northbound traffic. I'd considered grabbing the

next cab in line and following her home, but it

would only have been a waste of time. If the killer

had wanted her dead she would have been back in

the graveyard with Julot know.

I checked my watch. It was half past twelve,

which would make it seven-thirty in Washington.

Knowing my boss, David Hawk, he would still be

at the office. I had a feeling he'd be pleased to hear

that things were finally starting to happen.

11


Chapter Two

Number 19 Rue Froideaux was a turn-of-the-cen-

tury luxury apartment building. It obviously had

just been remodeled; the windows were all curtain-

less blanks and the tiny foyer smelled of fresh paint

and plaster dust. If the police had been here at all,

they were now long gone. My footsteps echoed

sharply as I crossed the uncarpeted marble floor.

"Bon jour, Monsieur, a beautiful morning, no?"

He popped out of the concierge's cubical like a

child's spring-up toy, middle-aged and balding,

with a white carnation in his buttonhole and the

hearty smile of rental agents the world round.

"It's a fine day," I agreed. "I'm interested in an

apartment on the top floor, something overlooking

the street if it's available."

"l have only one left," he said eagerly. "Number

8, three bedrooms, two baths—and the view of

Cemetery Montparnasse is superb."

"That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for."

"Good. Let me just lock up the office and I'll

give you a tour."


13

(23 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

"If it's all the same to you," I said quickly, "I'd

prefer to look around on my own."

"As you wish, Monsieur." With a crestfallen ex-

pression, he slipped a key off a well-loaded ring

and handed it to me.

"By the way," I said, "a friend of mine was sup-

posed to stop by, late yesterday, to view the same

apartment."

"La jeune fille, tres magnifique, " responded the

agent with a knowing leer. "You are indeed for-

tunate to have a friend of such beauty."

I returned his grin. "That certainly sounds like

Christine. Tall, blonde hair and blue eyes?"

"Yes, she was tall, but as for the rest it was im-

possible to tell because of the hat and dark

glasses."

"That was her, all right," I told him, heading for

the elevator.

"It's the first door on your left," he called out

after me.

As it turned out, I didn't need the key after all.

The tall oak door opened at the touch of my hand.

I eased Wilhelmina free of my shoulder holster and

went in crouching low. The apartment was empty.

I didn't bother with a room-to-room search, be-

cause the dusty parquet floor clearly revealed the

passage of a single visitor in a trail that lead from

the door to the balcony and back again.

The footprints were small, made by a woman's

high-heel shoes. From the length of the stride she

was five feet nine inches at least, probably taller.

When describing my imaginary "friend" to the

13


14

(24 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

agent downstairs, I'd said "tall" for a specific rea-

son. Height is one of the prime requirements of a

fashion model. Being tres magnifique doesn't hurt,

either. Every move I'd made so far seemed to bring

me that much closer to the Agency Castel.

I stepped through French doors and out onto the

balcony. It was small but sturdy, with a waist high

wrought-iron railing in an elaborate floral design. I

hunkered down and peered over the top. From a

squatting position all but the very nearest part of

the cemetery was within easy range of someone

with a high-powered rifle. My eyes sought out the

spot where Julot had died. In spite of an early

morning rain, the gravel still retained the rust-

brown color of blood.

There was no trace of her presence on the

balcony floor, not a single cigarette butt or empty

shell case. She'd probably waited there for hours---

patient, motionless, poised for the kill. Gaining en-

trance would have been easy. Either she'd ducked

back inside after she'd returned the key or simply

returned later to pick the single, flimsy lock I'd

seen on the lobby door. Although I didn't like the

results in the least, I couldn't help admiring the

handiwork.

The rental agent was waiting for me in the lobby.

"Monsieur is impressed?" he asked, smiling.

' 'Very." I handed him back the key. "But I'd like

to talk it over with my friend before I make a de-

cision. "

The Café Rénard Rouge never opens early.

14


15

(25 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

It's a late-night spot, one of the favorite haunts of

students, radicals, and people who break the law

without ever making a living at it. Despite the often

explosive mixture of crime and politics, it was a

quiet, well-run café. The credit for that belonged

entirely to André Boissier, le rénard rouge him-

self.

Although it was after eleven, I wasn't surprised

to see the shutters still up and the outdoor tables

and chairs stacked against the wall. I went up to

the door and rapped on the glass.

"Fermé," a deep, rumbling voice called out.

I knocked again, louder.

"Cochon, " the voice bellowed. The epithet was

followed by slow, shuffling footsteps. Suddenly, an

angry red face was peering out at me from behind

the glass.

"Nick!" With recognition, the face broke into a

wolfish grin. André Broissier opened the door, his

red-rimmed eyes blinking at the sunlight.

"Good morning, André. I didn't wake you up,

did 1?"

"Of course not. Come in, Nick. I've just opened

a new bottle of vintage calvados."

Boissier was a big man, six feet four and well

over two hundred-and-fifty pounds. At sixty-three,

his wavy red hair and full beard were flecked with

gray, but his powerful arms and shoulders still

looked as though they could squeeze the life out of

a man without even trying. Drinking had aged him

the most. His face had the pinkish, broken-veined

flush of a heavy tippler.

15


16

(26 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

He went behind the bar and poured calvados

into two pony glasses, filling them to the rim.

"Bonne chance, " he murmured, sliding my glass

across the scarred walnut.

"Bonne chance, " I replied. The tangy apple bran-

dy had the warmth and kick of controlled fire. It

was the best calvados I'd tasted in a long time.

Broissier finished his in one deep pull and wiped

his beard with the back of his sleeve. "Too bad

about Julot," he said quietly.

"I figured you would have heard about that by

now. "

The big man laughed. "More like an hour after

it happened. He wasn't any great loss; a ladies'

man, and from what I've heard, not even much in

that department."

"Who gave him the word, André?"

Broissier shrugged. "A friend of a friend of a

friend. I put it out just as Hawk requested. Julot

was a regular here; he could have heard it from

anyone of a dozen people." He paused and poured

us both another shot. "Was he able to tell you any-

thing before he died, mon ami?"

I shook my head. "We said hello and then the

shooting started."

André laughed again and tossed back his bran-

Like all men who've lived for long periods of/

time in constant fear for their lives. Broissier saw a

certain grim humor in death. As a young man, he'd

been a leader in the maquis, the French resistance-

movement. For three years he and his men had

16


17

(27 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

waged a hit-and-run war on the Germans occupy-

ing France. Seeming to be everywhere at once,

they'd blown rail lines and arms depots, as-

sassinated high-ranking Gestapo officers, and

saved more than three hundred Jews and gypsies en

route to the death camps. Because of his tactical

brilliance and lightning speed he became known as

le rénard rouge, the red fox.

I knew Boissier because of Hawk. He was one of

three men I'd met who had the rare privilege of

calling my boss by his first name. They went back

a long way, to Hawk's very first assignment in the

field. He was just twenty-four, as he liked to re-

mind me, a raw Army recruit singled out to serve in

the OSS by Wild Bill Donovan himself. After two

months training, they dropped him in occupied

France to operate as their liaison with the maquis

south of Paris.

Hawk always ended the story there. Despite the

close working relationship we'd developed over the

years, I never felt I had the right to press him for

details. Maybe some of it was still classified or

maybe the retelling raised ghosts and memories

better left undisturbed. I never asked and he never

told me. The one thing that he did say was that

he'd learned more "tradecraft" during these eigh-

teen months spent with Boissier than he ever did

during his long postwar run as an active agent, and

that the burly Frenchman had saved his life twice.

That alone was enough for me.

"Another drink, Nick?" André prompted.

"One more and then I've got to be going." I lit a

17


18

(28 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

cigarette and started in on my third brandy.

"There's something I'd like you to do for me, An-

dré."

"Name it," he responded eagerly.

"Spread the word around that my offer's still

open, five thousand in gold Krugerrands for any

information on the embassy killings."

"Money like that always brings someone out of

the woodwork," he said, grinning. "It's only a mat-

ter of time. No operation can remain a secret very

long without someone on the outside knowing

about it."

I nodded silent agreement. As far as I knew,

Boissier had never heard of AXE or of my own

status as Killmaster N3. Through his long associa-

tion with Hawk, he knew we were both in the

"business," but that was as far as it went. He was.

a friend and a useful contact. Anything morel

would have jeopardized AXE security, not to men-

tion my own life.

J said goodbye after promising to check in with

him later that evening.

The sun was out in full force now, its warm glo

burning off the chill in the November air. I decided

to combine business with pleasure by asking

Lauren to have lunch with me at Ledoyen on the

Champs Élysées. I rang her number from a

tobacconist's and got a busy signal. Forty-seven

Rue Mazarine was less than ten minutes away. The

walk would do me good.

She lived in one of those big, anonymous apart-

ment complexes that have been springing up all

18


19

(29 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

over Paris since the early sixties. This one was all

brick and glass, with tiny balconies and a parking

garage below street level. I found Lauren's name

opposite the bell for 2-B. In response to my ring,

the lobby door clicked open and I walked in.

He leapt out of the shadows in a low crouch, a

flaxen-haired man in a leather windbreaker. Light

gleamed off the knife blade as he rushed me, the tip

of the Bowie angled up for a single, gut-spilling

slash at my unprotected abdomen.

I twisted aside and grabbed his knife arm. He

was going so fast that the momentum carried him

past me. I held on and twisted. He screamed as he

hit the wall and the Bowie fell from his grasp, mak-

ing a loud clanging noise on the tile floor.

I slipped Hugo into my hand and started toward

him. His eyes widened at the sight of the stiletto.

Noisily sucking in air, he scrambled for the knife

just a few inches from his outstretched fingers.

I brought Hugo down in a flashing arc. He

screamed again as the pencil-thin blade dug out a

deep gash in his forearm. Blood gushed from the

open wound, spattering his cheap leather jacket

like a carelessly flicked paintbrush.

Rolling over, he kicked out at my groin. I

pivoted and took the blow on my thigh. He was

good, but running scared now. He tried to pull

himself up, using the wall for support, but his eyes

had that doomed look that says this is it, the end.

It was just as well that he didn't know I wanted

information, not blood. I grabbed his shoulder and

slammed him against the wall. We came face to

19

NICK CARTER


20

(30 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

face as I brought Hugo's tip to rest at the base of

his throat.

"Who sent you?" I demanded. "Give me a

name, just one name, and you can walk away from

this. "

"No." The single word came out in a harsh,

sibilant whisper. Our eyes met for a second and

then he snapped his head forward, burying Hugo

in his throat halfway to the hilt.

I pulled the stiletto free and eased him down to

the floor. Blood poured freely onto his chest. It was

a hell of a way to commit suicide, fanatical and

insane. If he could do this to himself, then what

had he done to Lauren?

I took the stairs two at a time with Hugo in one

hand and Wilhelmina in the other. The door to

2-B was ajar. I kicked it open and entered in a

shooter's crouch, making my body as small a target

as possible.

The room was empty.

In spite of the noisy entrance, there was no re-

sponse of any kind. If Lauren was alive she would

have cried out or tried to signal me in some way.

Both the bedroom and kitchen were empty and un-

disturbed. Maybe she had decided to go into work

after all, I kidded myself.

Her clothes were lying in a heap on the bath-

room floor: a blue silk camisole and panties,_

nylons and a flower-print cotton dress. I leaned

over and pushed back the shower curtain.

Lauren was in the tub, curled up on her side in

the fetallike position of a sleeping infant. She was

20


21

(31 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

naked except for the twisted wire that had been

used to bind her hands and feet. A towel had been

shoved in her mouth to gag her.

As I reached down for it, her eyes flickered open,

wild and bright, and very much alive.

21


Chapter Three

I lifted her up to a sitting position and eased the

gag from her mouth. She sucked in air in hungry

gulps, her body trembling from the effort. Her sea

green eyes had the glassy, glazed-over look of

someone suffering from a deep and traumatic

shock.

"It's all right," I said softly. "I'm here and no

one is going to hurt you now."

"I knew you'd come," she said in a hoarse whis-

per. "I didn't know how or why, but I knew you'd

come."

She opened her mouth to say something more,

but her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and she

dropped her head so that her honey blonde hair

covered it like a mask.

Finally, she looked up again and met my gaze.

"Mon Dieu, " she said in a barely audible voice.

"He told me he was going to kill me. Exactly how

he would do it and exactly what I was going to feel.

He was holding that knife the whole time . . . cut

ting patterns in the air . . . as if I were already un-

22


23

(33 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

der the blade. And when he looked at me .. . my

body .

. it was always with the same, cold-eyed

smile. It was horrible. I felt—" The rest of the

words were choked off and lost in a long, plaintive

sob.

I reached out and put a gentling hand on her

shoulder. It was a simple reflex action—and it was

also the wrong thing to do. I had no way of know-

ing. In shock cases like this, there just aren't any

easy-to-follow rules.

At my touch, the sob turned into a silent scream

and for a split-second her face was a twisted mask

of agony. Then, mercifully, she blacked out. I man-

aged to catch her head before it could hit the side

of the tub. She was better off like this; a few hours

of oblivion would go a long way toward healing the

inner scars.

I lifted her up and backed my way out of the

bathroom. The white porcelain, chrome fixtures,

and gleaming tiles were beginning to remind me

too much of a morgue. I had visited enough of

them over the years—it comes with the territory.

Some were newer and cleaner than others, but ex-

cept for the tenants they were all basically the same

—cold, brightly lit rooms that smelled of disinfec-

tant and death.

Lauren's supple, long-legged body was light in

my arms. I carried her into the living room and put

her down on a high-backed green velour couch.

Working quickly but gently, I loosened the twisted

wire from her ankles and wrists, doing my very best

to ignore the scent of her perfume and the way the

23


24

(34 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

sunlight made her skin glow like burnished gold.

Time was running out. And there was another

body cooling rapidly in the lobby below. I wanted

to get Lauren out of there before the Süreté ar-

rived. I'd watched them work on several occasions

and after what Lauren had been through, they

could very easily drive her over the edge. Maybe

forever.

As if on cue, the piercing shrill of aflic's whistle

cut through the steady flow of noise from the

street. I slipped the last of the wire off Lauren's

ankles and headed back to where I'd first found

her.

The pile of clothes on the floor didn't offer much

in the way of choices. The dress was one of those

complicated affairs, all buttons, hooks and snaps;

so it would have to be the camisole or nothing. The

blue silk undergarment was just long enough to

cover the vital parts, but the way it was cut

wouldn't leave much to the imagination.

I slipped her limp arms through the straps,

tugged the camisole down, and gathered her up in

my arms again. The sounds from the street were

more frantic now: orders being shouted, car doors

slamming, boots thudding heavily against the

pavement. The gendarmerie were quickly cordon-

ing off the scene of the crime.

The tiny second floor landing was deserted. I

jabbed the elevator button with my elbow,

murmuring a silent prayer that the police hadn't]

already demobilized the car. Green lights flickered

on the panel over the door as the car began a slow,

24


25

(35 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

descent from three floors above. One good thing

about these modern buildings is that they don't

have the old-style European elevators—glass and

steel cages that gave the passenger about as much

privacy as a fish bowl.

Finally, the car reached two and the doors slid

open. It was empty—our luck was running good. I

stepped iff and pressed the button marked G, hold-

ing it firmly down as we began to drop. If every-

thing went according to plan, we'd have a quiet,

uninterrupted trip down to the basement-level ga-

rage—uninterrupted in particular by a lobby full of

gendarmes.

I took a deep breath as the green light on the

overhead panel moved to L The elevator stopped.

The doors slid open.

"We'll catch this découpeur soon enough, Chief

Inspector," said a soft voice with a thick provincial

accent. "It has all the signs of a Union Corse kill-

ing, don't you agree?"

"Perhaps. "

There were nearly a dozen cops in the lobby, uni-

form and plain-clothes, working in groups of two

and three. The two men talking were only a few

feet away from the open elevator doors. I could

have reached out and touched them if I'd wanted

to.

Instead, I continued to jab the button that would

take us down to the basement. Just as the doors

started closing, Lauren let out a low moan and

began thrashing wildly, her bare feet pounding out

a frantic tattoo on the car wall.

NICK CARTER


26

(36 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

The pair by the elevator turned in unison. I

caught a final glimpse of the man addressed as

"Chief Inspector" just before the doors closed in

his face. His expression was a mixture of bewilder-

ment and rage.

Even more importantly, he had gotten a good

look at me. The eye contact only lasted a split-sec-l

ond, but I had a feeling he would remember me all

too well.

His subordinate's words were more comforting.

Perhaps because the dead man also had been

armed with a knife, he had quickly pegged the kill-

ing as the work of the Union Corse, the French

equivalent of the Mafia. On the surface it did have}

the look of a grudge murder or gangland-style vent

dctta. I was the découpeur he had referred to---

découpeur as in "carver of meat."

When the elevator doors parted on G level, I saw

that our troubles were far from over. Two blue

caped gendarmes were guarding the entrance and

exit ramps; one was stationed on the Rue Mazarine

end and the other at the rear of the garage where

the ramp led out to Rue Dauphine.

My only problem was how to neutralize them

both at the same time. Even if I put Lauren down

the distance between the two cops still made it im

possible. Of course I could have used Wilhelmina

but my fight wasn't with the French police. In this

game they were little more than innocent by

standers.

There was only one solution. They would have

to come to me.

26


27

(37 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

"Au secours!" I yelled, walking out in plain view

of both flics. "Mademoiselle is in immediate need

of medical attention. You'd better take a look at

her. I'm not even sure she's still breathing."

I'll never know for sure whether it was my call

for help or the trim line of Lauren's bare legs, but

both men deserted. their posts at a brisk trot. The

one from the Rue Dauphine end reached us first.

"What happened?" he asked, his eyes widening

as he saw what Lauren was wearing.

"I don't know," I said. "We were coming down

in the elevator together when all of a sudden she

just passed out. I think she hit her head when she

fell. You'd better take her, my arms are about to

give out."

Before he could protest, I shoved Lauren into his

arms.

"I'll call an ambulance," his partner said. Ile

was standing just behind me, a little to the right.

I swung round and knocked him out with a light

blow to the neck. As his legs buckled, I grabbed his

collar and eased him down to the concrete floor.

"Son of a bitch," the first cop said in a stunned

whisper. Short of dropping Lauren, there wasn't

much else he could do. As he knelt to put her

down; I snapped back his head with an open palm

to the chin. When he woke up he'd have one hell of

a headache, but no serious physical injuries. The

whole thing took less than a minute, but I figured

the Chief Inspector's men couldn't be far behind

us.

The second car I checked had its keys in the igni-

27


28

(38 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

tion. I laid Lauren on the seat beside me and

backed the small Renault out of its stall. Just as I

began turning toward the Rue Dauphine exit, the

stairwell door slammed open and half a dozen cops

came spilling out, running with guns drawn.

I hit the clutch, shifted gears, and floored the gas

pedal.

28


Chapter Four

Paris and New York are alike in many ways. One

trait shared by the residents of both cities is a kind

of wordly "we've-seen-it-all" attitude. Even the

most outlandish dress or behavior rarely shocks

them, and something that might draw a crowd in

another city doesn't even rate a second glance from

a native Parisian or New Yorker.

So I wasn't surprised by the reception we got

when we entered the lobby of the' Plaza Athé-

née. Lauren was still unconscious, but not as

scantily dressed as before. I'd wrapped her up in an

old army blanket I'd found on the back-seat floor

of the Renault. It was frayed at the edges and it

carried the smells of love-making and spilt wine.

Lauren's long, tapered legs still dangled freely, but

the rest of her body was enveloped in a scratchy

wool cocoon.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Carter. "

"Bonjour, Theo." The liveried attendant

opened the door with a flourish, his eyes staring

straight ahead at a point somewhere over my

29


30

(40 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

shoulder. I was a frequent guest and a generous

tipper. I don't think Theo would have blinked an

eye if I'd walked in carrying an M-16.

I crossed the luxurious circular lobby with

Lauren in my arms. Except for an obvious pair of

German tourists, no one so much as looked up

from their newspapers or apéritifs. I stopped at

the concierge's desk and was again greeted by

name.

' 'Any messages?" I asked. I was expecting a call

from Hawk with a cross-referenced list of names

that I'd asked for when I'd phoned in my report

last night.

"Non, Monsieur Carter. Is there anything else

you require?"

"Not at the moment—although I may need the

hotel physician later."

"You need only to phone me. Your key,

Monsieur." He reached across the desk and laid it

gently on top of the blanket. There wasn't much

chance of it slipping off since the Plaza Athénée

attaches each key to a large plastic medallion with

the guest's name inscribed on the reverse side. It's

a nice personal touch and it also allows the con-

cierge to address each guest by name.

The service was one of many reasons why I

always stayed in the Plaza Athénée when I had

business in Paris. It is also one of the city's most

beautiful hotels, with its arched windows and or-

nate balconies done in the palace-like style of pre-

World War I architecture. Among the half-dozen

great luxury hotels on the Right Bank, such as the

30


31

(41 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

Georges V, Le Bristol, and Le Ritz, the Plaza Athé-

née has the best location. It's on Avenue Mon-

taigne just off the Champs Elysées, only a block

from the Rond Point and a few minutes walk from

the Arc de Triomphe.

When I reached the small suite I had on the sixth

floor, I stripped off Lauren's blanket and tucked

her into my bed with the down-filled édredon to

keep her warm. One side of me was all for waking

her up. I urgently needed to know everything that

had happened before I arrived on the scene. A

name, a place, even a few words of political

philosophy would help me to narrow the field. I

did have the Agency Castel lead, but there was no

telling how far that would take me.

As much as I wanted to, I still couldn't wake her.

Last night she'd watched as the man beside her was

cut down by a sniper and today her apartment had

been invaded by a sadistic, knife-wielding maniac.

That was one hell of a lot for any woman to han-

dle, especially a nonagent who still didn't know

why this was all happening. The best thing I could

do for Lauren was to let her sleep her fill. I hoped

she would wake up a rational, functioning human

being. If she did go into shock, the hotel doctor

could be with her in minutes.

There wasn't much else for me to do but wait for

Lauren to wake up and for Hawk to phone with

the information I'd requested. So I made myself a

Chivas and water and carried it out to the balcony.

My room overlooks the Avenue Montaigne, a

pleasant, tree-lined street that houses numerous

31


32

(42 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

specialty shops and boutiques.

The midday sun was out in full force, cutting an

intricate shadow pattern through the trees, its

warm light somehow making all the passing wom-

en a little lovelier and more desirable than they

really were. But then, that's Paris—magical in

its way.

An hour and a half passed and I was just finish-

ing my second drink when I heard Lauren

thrashing around. I went in and found her tangled

up in the édredon. Her wide, sea green eyes

tracked me as I crossed the room.

"It's you," she said. Her face softened a bit and

her eyes lost that fearful, haunted look. "Where am

I?" she demanded. "And why am I here and—what

in God's name is going on?"

"The first one is easy. You're in my room at the

Plaza Athénée. There are several reasons for the

'why,' but mainly because it's the safest place for

you to be right now. The rest of it is going to take

some explaining and even then there certain things

I can't tell you . . . things you'd be better off not

knowing. "

"Don't try and play games with me. I know

you're an espion—that press card is just a CIA cover."

Espion, the French word for spy. Someone knew

I was an intelligence agent, but they didn't know

who I worked for. Very interesting.

"Did the man with the knife say I was CIA?"

Lauren nodded. "He even knew your name and

what you looked like. He said you were working

against France, trying to undermine our govern-

32


33

(43 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

ment and economic stability."

"l guess he told you all this before he started in

with the Bowie knife?"

"Oui." She trembled slightly and pulled the

édredon around her as if the room had suddenly

grown cold.

I offered her a cigarette, took one myself, and lit

them both. "Listen," I said sitting down on the

edge of the bed, "you have to trust someone,

Lauren. I didn't get you involved in this, your

friend Julot did. Apart from the fact that I always

like meeting a beautiful woman, I really wish you'd

never walked into that graveyard. But you did and

now I need your help .

France needs your help,

too. "

"How do I know that what that man said isn't

"You just have to trust me," I said. "It might

help if you forgot about the accusations for a

minute and remembered what they did to Julot and

what they threatened to do to you. It doe.sn't exact-

ly add up to this country's motto—Liberté .

Egalité

Fraternité."

"That's true, " she admitted. "But I still can't un-

derstand why you ran away from the gendarmes

last night."

"Let's just say I am here on government busi-

ness. If we'd waited around for the police, they'd

want to question us both. I don't know if you've

ever had any dealings with the flics, but they have

a neat little law here called garde-å-vue. It means

they can hold you for twenty-four hours for no rea-

33


34

(44 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

son at all, forty-eight if they think the case involves

national security. I couldn't risk letting that hap-

pen. There's too much at stake."

Lauren gave me a slow, hesitant smile. "All

right, you've convinced me. At least for the mo-

ment," she quickly added.

"Fine. Now if you're feeling up to it, I'd like you

to tell me everything that's happened to you since

I put you in the cab last night."

"First, another cigarette, please."

I gave her one and watched as she pushed the

pillows back and made herself comfortable.

"When I got home," she began, "I checked to

make sure all the windows were locked and put the

night-chain on the door. I felt like I wanted to sleep

for a week, but I made myself take a bath first. I

don't think I had any blood on me, but I just didn't

feel clean. Then I slept, woke up around ten, and

made myself café au lait. The man came a little

after eleven."

"Came how?" I asked. "Did he break in or did

you open the door for him?"

"I let him in," she said meekly. "He told me he

was with the CRS, the national security police, and

that he wanted to question me about Julot's

murder."

"Did he question you about it?"

"No," she said looking away from me. "I feel-

like such an imbecile."

"Don't," I said softly. "We've all been there be-

fore. Besides, you had no way of knowing."

"Well, there was something strange," she said,

34


35

(45 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

meeting my eyes again. "He didn't seem interested

in what happened in the cemetery. It was almost as

if he already knew all about it. He just kept asking

me about what happened before. 'Did Paul speak

to anyone after we left work? Did he say anything

odd or out of place during the course of the eve-

ning? Did he give you any message or object to

pass on to M'sieur Carter?' He went on like that

for nearly half an hour. Always the same questions,

just phrased a little bit differently each time."

"Let's go back to the beginning," I suggested.

"Did he give you his name? Show you any identi-

fication?"

"Dossin," Lauren said quickly. "No first name.

He did flash a small leather card case under my

nose. But he only held it open for a second; it could

have contained an old Métro ticket for all I

know."

"This next question is important, Lauren. Judg-

ing from his accent, his mannerisms, where would

you say he was from?"

"France," she replied without hesitation. "Not

Paris, but somewhere in the south. Maybe

Gascogne or Auvergne."

"That's important information," I said en-

couragingly. She seemed more confident now, but

there was a distant quality to her voice as if she

were describing a movie she'd seen or some inci-

dent that happened long ago. Sooner or later she

would have to come to grips with the fact that it

had happened to her.

"Now let's go back to where we left off," I said.

35


36(46 of 212)

- + 110%

T »

What sive gores ON

Pad lacked

* Cis Mor

He scoo

• is

32258° 18001 2050g 38°

She sound da be had ta

The babasta

SNOR 3

SHE RUN IN 300

Bal canad


37 (47 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER


38

(48 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

I eased her back and slipped the camisole off.

Some women reach their peak in their teens, but

Lauren had blossomed later. Her lightly tanned

skin was flawlessly smooth and full breasts were

firm and upright, their dark circular nipples erect.

As we continued to kiss and caress, her hands

eagerly undid my shirt and belt. I slipped out of my

clothes and lay down beside her. We took our time,

each of us exploring the other, touching, feeling,

building the fire.

She moaned softly as I entered her, her long legs

riding my back while she held me close. At first the

love-making was a frantic reaffirmation of life, but

gradually we moved into the intimate rhythms of

pleasure. I'm still not sure how long we stayed to-

gether, except that when we finally stopped, night

had already begun to darken the Paris skyline.

38


Chapter Five

"Christine Dalton, Ann-Marie Michaels, and Gail

Huntington," Hawk said, reading down the list.

'6 The first two are French nationals and the last

one is an American expatriate. Ali three of them

are high fashion models working for the Agency

Castel—and all three of them attended the recep-

tions at which a diplomat was terminated."

As usual, he was precise and to the point.

Hawk's voice had the clear, metallic quality to it

that we always get whenever we're using the

scrambler on both ends. His call had come a few

minutes after eight, just as Lauren and I were fin-

ishing up a room service supper of veal, profit-

eroles, and a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet.

Through the half-open door I could see her head in

profile, the lamplight shining on her honey gold

hair.

"That does tend to back up your Castel theory,"

he went on, ' 'but running the guest lists through

the computer also shows us that there were eighty-

seven other people who attended all of the recep-

39


40

(50 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

tions. I'm sure you already realize this isn't a mat-

ter of coincidence. Almost all of these people were

diplomats who accepted the invitations because it

was part of their job. It would have been an insult,

a breach of protocol not to."

"What about the other nondiplomats?" I asked.

"Alex Raymond, the newspaper columnist, and

his wife, and Gail Huntington's escort, Carlos

Ramez. He's an importer with offices in Paris and

Bogota. His uncle is cultural attaché to the Co-

lombian Embassy in Paris." Hawk paused, and I

heard the metallic click of a lighter as he fired up

one of the foul-smelling cigars he was constantly

smoking. ' 'I'm sending all the information we have

by courier," he continued, "but as far as the three

models are concerned, it amounts to practically

nothing. "

"I can take care of that on this end, sir."

"I'm sure you can, Nick. *Ihat isn't what worries

me. Our biggest problem is the upcoming Arab oil

summit. It's due to start in three days and in spite

of the diplomatic pressure both from France and

ourselves, the Arabs flatly reject the idea of post-

poning it or relocating somewhere other than Par-

is. The Arabs are a logical target for this kind of

terrorist group and we both know what the conse-

quences could be if they were successful."

The implications were so enormous that even/

Hawk hesitated in speaking about them on a se-l

cured line. Still, I knew exactly what he meant. The,

Middle East was already a tinderbox, needing only

the smallest spark to set it ablaze. An assassination

40


41

(51 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

would do just that. Hostile neighboring states

would jump at the chance to wage war on one an-

other. The world's oil supply would be drastically

reduced almost overnight, pulling the superpowers

into the conflict whether they wanted to be in-

volved or not. What Hawk didn't want to talk

about was global confrontation—in short, a Third

World War.

"Is there anything else, sir?" I asked.

"Just one other thing, Nick. I've arranged for

you to attend a reception at the Somalian consulate

tomorrow evening. All of the suspects are also on

the guest list. It should give you a chance to look

them over in their natural habitat. I'm sure you

won't have any problem finding a suitable young

lady to take along. "

"I don't think so, sir." We both said good night

and when the line went dead, I unhooked the port-

able scrambler, packing away its miniaturized

components inside the frame of the typewriter

carried as part of my journalistic cover.

"You were a long time on the phone," Lauren

said when I walked back into the room. "I was

starting to think you were neglecting me," she

added, her tone of voice half-flippant, half-serious.

"Possibly my new outfit will make you think twice

about that."

She rose from her chair and did a slow, full-circle

turn for my inspection. She did look fantastique.

Her call to Dior had produced a wine-colored silk

blouse, tan suede trousers that fit her like a second

skin, and a pair of high-heeled, dark-brown

41


42

(52 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

Western boots. I knew the bill would cause a few

ripples when it reached the AXE accounting de-

partment, but it was worth it. Lauren not only

looked different now, but her whole attitude had

changed since this afternoon's love-making. Her

shaking and mood-swings had stopped; now she

smiled often and had even laughed twice during

dinner. I knew she still wasn't over the shock of the

last two days and that she probably never would

be. The horrors were buried somewhere just below

the surface and sooner or later, they would rise

again to haunt her.

"You look terrific," I told her.

"Merci, Monsieur. Now that I'm so beautifully

turned out, the least you can do is take me out for

the evening. A new form of what you call 'protec-

tive custody,' " she added with a wide, provocative

smile.

"I'm sorry, Lauren, but I have something very

important to take care of. Something that just can't

wait. I'll make arrangements for someone to stay

here with you until I get back; I shouldn't be gone

more than a few hours."

"No," she said with quiet force. Having spoken

that single word, her full lips formed a hard, stub- •

born line while her sea-colored eyes stared back at I

me defiantly. "Either I'm going with you," she

continued, "or I'm going home—where I'm sure

the gendarmes still have somebody waiting for me. i

I know you wouldn't have any problem stopping

me, but I'll try just the same. I just don't think I'

could stand being- left alone tonight, and I'm not

42


43

(53 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

talking about some goon you'll bring in to keep me

company. Please, Nick," she said more softly,

"take me with you."

In a way, I should have seen it coming. After

what she'd been through it was only natural that I

would become someone to cling to, someone she

wouldn't want to let go of too soon. That's the

trouble with my business—no time and no emotion

allowed for personal relationships.

Tonight's job was an easy one with not much

risk involved. Since we had so little on the three

models, I'd decided to break into the Agency

Castel for a look at their files. Along with the basic

background information, they were also likely to

contain lists of their recent bookings, including

who had employed them and what foreign coun-

tries they had visited for photo sessions. The pro-

fession was a perfect cover for an agent or courier.

And the files might help me tie one or all of them

to the terrorist assassinations.

I could take Lauren with me. Since she worked

for the agency, her knowledge of the layout would

be helpful. As far as keeping her protected went,

she might be better off with me. It went against

everything in the rule book, but then I'd never real-

ly followed it anyway.

I turned away, heading for the other room where

I could strap on Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre in

privacy. "l hope that outfit comes with a jacket," I

called back over my shoulder, "because it looks

like we're in for some rain."

43


44

(54 of 212)

110%

Chapter Six

It was pouring by the time we reached our destina-

tion. The modeling agency was located on the

Avenue Elysée Reclus in a corner building

overlooking the carefully groomed gardens of the

Champ de Mars. The building itself was a turn-of-

the-century private residence with a limestone

faqade and heavy, cast-iron grill work covering

the street-level windows. Lauren had told me that

the agency occupied all four floors; she knew that.

they didn't employ a night watchman and she I

didn't think that the place was rigged with an alarm

system. But then, we'd be finding out the answer to

that one soon enough.

Lauren and I were standing in a doorway on the

other side of the avenue. With our arms around-

each other, we looked like two typical Parisian lov-

ers who didn't give a damn about the weather. I

held her so that had a clear, unobstructed view of

the agency. In the twenty minutes that had passed

since our arrival, the windows had remained dark'

and no one had either come or gone through the

44


45

(55 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

arched double doors that formed the main en-

trance.

"This is nice," Lauren whispered, "but can't we

go in now? I'm starting to get cold."

"In another minute," said, suppressing an urge

to laugh. I don't think this was quite the evening

out she'd expected. I drew her closer to me, softly

stroking the back of her neck. She'd shown no sur-

prise when I'd told her that we were going to be

breaking into her employer's offices. In fact, she'd

said it sounded like fun.

Traffic on the avenue was light. I watched as a

battered green Citroen passed by, the twin head-

lights dimmed by the wind-swept rain. When I

heard it turning onto Rue Harispe, I decided that

now was as good a time as any.

"Allons, " I said quietly. ' 'If we don't run you're

going to get drenched. But watch your step; I don't

want you twisting an ankle. We may have some

real running to do on the way out."

Lauren slipped her arm through mine and with

our heads down we sprinted across the rain-slick

cobblestones. The next part was the hardest. For at

least a minute, we would be silhouetted by the

overhead light, with no way of hiding from the flics

who frequently cruised the area in their small

black-and-white Renaults.

"Stand in front of me," I told Lauren, "facing

the street as if you were waiting for someone."

There were no traces of an alarm system on either

the door or the frame. With my set of picks in

hand, I knelt down behind Lauren and began to

45


46

(56 of 212)

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

probe thc lock. It was nothing special, a standard

cylinder arrangement that any amateur could have

opened with a few hours of training. I slipped in

another pick, gave it a slight turn, and heard the

metallic click of the tumblers falling into place. The

door eased open at the touch of my hand.

"Let's get inside," I said, pushing Lauren in

ahead of me. I slid in behind her, relocked the

door, and took out the pen-sized flashlight I'd

brought along.

The building may have been old, but inside the

place was ultramodern. I played the narrow beam

of light over the reception area, illuminating a

glass-and-chrome desk, matching chairs, and an

abstract bronze sculpture nearly as tall as I was.

Except for a small table stacked with fashion mag-

azines, there was nothing to indicate that this was

one of the top modeling agencies in the business.

"This is just to impress the clients," Lauren said

as though she had read my thoughts. "The real

work takes place upstairs. That's where the files

are, too, on the second floor."

"Fine, we'll take the stairs; elevators make too

much noise. And stay a few feet behind me on the

way up—we're still not sure there isn't anyone else

in the building."

The staircase was narrow and winding. I turned

off the flashlight and we made our way up slowly,

staying close to the wall in case we hit a creaky

tread. When we reached the top, I paused and sur-

veyed the shadow-filled room.

"Okay," I said, flicking the flashlight back on.

46


47

(57 of 212)

+ 110%

THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

"Show mc where the files are."

Lauren took my hand and lcd me past a long

row of desks. Unlike the reception area, there were

pictures everywhere—some framed, some merely

tacked up on corkboard. Caught for a second in

the flashlight's beam, they seemed to smile back at

me—poised, beautiful and seductive.

"This is the file room," Lauren said, leading me

through a doorway. "There aren't any windows, so

if you want to shut the door, I can put on the

light."

"Go ahead," I told her. Lauren flicked the

switch and I blinked my eyes to readjust them to

the glare from thc overhead neon florescent light-

ing. The small room contained nothing but three

walls of gray-metal filing cabinets, a scarred oak

table, and two chairs. None of the file drawers were

locked, so it took me little more than a minute to

locate the three folders I wanted.

"Who are they?" asked Lauren, peering over my

shoulder.

"Just some women I'm interested in."

"Bulle merde, " she said with a quiet laugh.

But I was interested in the three photographs

spread out on the table before me. They were

portrait shots, in black and white, and the only

word to describe thcm was stunning. Each of the

women was incredibly beautiful in a different way;

together, they were almost too perfect to be real.

Christine Dalton, Gail Huntington, and Ann-

. as difficult as it was to accept,

Marie Michaels, .

one of them was probably a ruthless, cold-blooded

47


978