| may I direct your call?” “Frozen foods division, if you please. Monsieur ”Giroux.” “I’m afraid his line is busy.” “I’ll wait precisely thirty seconds, and if he’s not free, I’ll cancel my order.” “I see… That won’t be necessary, sir, I can ring him now.” “Catbird?” asked a male voice. “At least I used the right words. What the hell is going on? Why haven’t you called?” “Because there’s nothing to report.” “That’s ridiculous! It’s been over three hours!” “We’re as disturbed as you are, so don’t raise your voice to me. Our last contact was an hour and twelve minutes ago; everything was on schedule. Our two men were following Latham in a Renault driven by a woman. Their last words were “Everything’s under control, the mission will be carried out shortly.” “That was it? An hour ago?” “Yes. “Nothing else?” “No. That was the last transmission.” “Well, where are they?” “We wish we knew.” “Where were they going?” “North out of Paris, specifics weren’t mentioned.” “Why not?” “With frequency traffic, it would be stupid. Besides, those two are a prime unit, they’ve never failed.” “Is it possible they failed today?” “It’s extremely unlikely.” “Extremely unlikely is hardly an unequivocal answer. Have you any idea how vital this assignment is?” “All our assignments are vital, or else they would not be directed to us. May I remind you, we are the solution of last resorts.” “What can I say to Von Schnabe?” “Please, Catbird, at this point, what can |
was a slovenly mess, garish old posters tacked on the walls in no particular order and without concern for symmetry. Two desks and a long, rickety buffet table were piled high with assorted multicolored flyers, many stained by coffee rings and cigarette ashes, while three employees labored over a mimeograph machine and several stencils. Two were overly made-up women in belly dancer costumes and a young male in a strangely ambiguous outfit soiled orange tights and a blue blouse-his gender revealed by a scraggly beard. There were four small windows on the upper-front walls, too high for those outside to look through, and the clattering of an ancient air conditioner seemed to be in syncopation with the mimeograph. Janine Clunes Courtland was appalled. The Saddle and Bootery was a palace compared to this dump, she thought. Yet this dump, this foul-smelling office, was obviously superior in status to the exquisite leather boutique in the Champstlys6es. Her doubts were partially put to rest with the sight of a tall, middle-aged man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but in reality from a narrow door in the left wall. He was dressed informally, the soft blue jeans and tan suede jacket the best to be found in Saint-Honor6, and the ascot around his throat the most expensive Herrn@s had to offer. He signaled her to follow him. Through the narrow door, they walked down an equally narrow but dark corridor until they reached another door, this on the right. The tall |
