| discuss it with her before you render a judgment. She might jump at it.” “What will it serve?” “She’ll be telling you where she is. Maybe where Carlos is. If not Carlos, certainly others closer to him. Then reach me. I’ll give you a hotel and a room number. The name on the registry is meaningless, don’t bother about it.” “Why don’t you give me your real name?” “Because if you ever mentioned it—consciously or unconsciously—you’d be dead.” “I’m not senile.” “No, you’re not. But you’re a man who’s been’ hurt very badly. As badly as a person can be hurt, I think. You may risk your life; I won’t.” “You’re a strange man, monsieur.” “Yes. If I’m not there when you call, a woman will answer. She’ll know where I am. We’ll set up timing for messages.” “A woman?” the general drew back. “You’ve said nothing about a woman, or anyone else.” “There is no one else. Without her I wouldn’t be alive. Carlos is hunting both of us; he’s tried to kill both of us.” “Does she know about me?” “Yes. She’s the one who said it couldn’t be true. That you couldn’t be allied with Carlos. I thought you were.” “Perhaps I’ll meet her.” “Not likely. Until Carlos is taken—if he can be taken—we can’t be seen with you. Of all people, not you. Afterwards—if there is an afterwards—you may not want to be seen with us. With me. I’m being |
soft and dramatic, pinpoint spotlights shining down from the dark brown ceiling, bathing manikins and expensively dressed clients in pools of flattering yellows. The jewelry and accessories counters were lined with black velvet, silks of bright red and green tastefully flowing above the midnight sheen, glistening eruptions of gold and silver caught in the recessed frame lights. The aisles curved graciously in semicircles, giving an illusion of space that was not there, for Les Classiques, though hardly small, was not a large emporium. It was, however, a beautifully appointed store on one of the most costly strips of real estate in Paris. Fitting rooms with doors of tinted glass were at the rear, beneath a balcony where the offices of management were located. A carpeted staircase rose on the right beside an elevated switchboard in front of which sat an oddly out-of-place middle-aged man dressed in a conservative business suit, operating the console, speaking into a mouthpiece that was an extension of his single earphone. The clerks were mostly women, tall, slender, gaunt of face and body, living postmortems of former fashion models whose tastes and intelligence had carried them beyond their sisters in the trade, other practices no longer feasible. The few men in evidence were also slender; reedlike figures emphasized by form-fitting clothes, gestures rapid, stances balletically defiant. Light romantic music floated out of the dark ceiling, quiet crescendos abstractly punctuated by the beams of the miniature spotlights. Jason wandered through the aisles, studying manikins, touching the fabric |
