The Case Officer (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

10
July

Paris

M
acMurphy stepped out of the
crowded metro train at the Place de la Concorde station and slipped into the
herd of people meandering up through the connecting underground tunnels toward
the street. Not much had changed in Paris since he’d been posted here a few
years back.

Musicians and beggars still
inhabited the bowels of the metro. Only their names had changed over the years;
their faces and dress remained the same, and the same sounding tunes still
echoed through the cavernous halls. The beggars’ various pleas and ploys hadn’t
changed a bit, either.

 He was at home in Paris. The
previous day had been spent getting reacquainted with the city. Although he had
passed through the city frequently on short vacations and on CIA business since
his posting, it was always a thrill to return.

While the buildings and streets
in a place like Hong Kong changed so rapidly that a location would often be
unrecognizable from one year to the next, Paris stayed pretty much the same.
Building façades and streets and landmarks almost never changed. He had worked
the streets and back alleys of the city as a young case officer, and he had
remained intimate with it over the years through frequent visits. Paris was his
town.

The day he arrived, he had been greeted by a beautiful morning when the
sun broke through the clouds during the long and expensive cab ride in from
Charles de Gaulle airport, and his mood reflected the weather throughout the
day. This is the way it was in Paris. There were so few gorgeous days in
northern Europe that the French bloom with the sun. The rest of the time the
streets were filled with long serious, dour faces of people going hurriedly
about their business.

He’d spent that day of his
arrival on a combination of business and pleasure, including casing for
prospective meeting sites, poking around the neighborhood of the Chinese
Embassy on Avenue George V, and some more general area re-familiarization.

On arrival from deGaulle, he had
the cab drop him at the Port Maillot bus terminal at the western edge of the
city, and then, after dumping his bags in a locker, he strolled up Boulevard
Pereire into the familiar 17th
arrondissement
where he had lived during
his previous tour in Paris.

He stopped for a double-espresso
coffee and criossant at the Café des Ternes on the busy corner of Avenue des
Ternes. He chose a small table under the awning on the sidewalk and engaged in
that very
Parisienne
sport of people watching—watching people strolling
by who were in turn watching people sitting in the cafés.

He focused on a handsome couple
approaching along the sidewalk. The man was boring the pretty young woman in
the bright orange dress with his non-stop chatter. She gazed disinterestedly
past him at the people seated in the café. Then her eyes met Mac’s. Their eyes
locked and came alive in a flirt as she continued to walk, neither wanting to
break off the moment, until the still-chattering head of her companion broke
their line of sight. Then, just as the couple passed, the woman glanced back
over her shoulder at the handsome man sitting alone in the café, and winked.
This was Paris.

Mac allowed himself a brief
fantasy. He mentally chatted up the young woman and assayed the ways to get to
know her more intimately, seeing himself ensconced in her low-lit living room,
a glass of wine in her hand and another in his, the bedroom door provocatively
half-open…. But even as he indulged in this delightful what-if, his eyes and
his brain remained conscious of his surroundings.

A case officer could never let
his guard down totally. Mac had to remain ever watchful, ever alert. And so,
while part of his mind enjoyed the image of the young girl in an advanced state
of being
en déshabillé
, her dress slipping invitingly to the floor,
another part of his mind was watchfully checking out the faces and the actions
of the people all around him.

After fortifying himself with
another cup of the strong French espresso, Mac continued his stroll up the
Boulevard Pereire. He turned off onto Rue Laugier and then a bit further on turned
into the courtyard of a familiar small six-story apartment complex that
specialized in short-term
pied-á-terre
furnished rentals.

He had rented several safehouses there
in the past. The last time had been on a TDY visit about two years ago, and he
hoped the concierge would still remember him. The package of alias documents
and other paraphernalia he had had pouched to the Station from Headquarters
would not arrive for a couple more days, and he needed a safe place to stay
now. Above all, he most certainly didn’t want his true name on any hotel
registration slip.

He walked through the courtyard
toward the rear of the complex and knocked on the door of the concierge’s
apartment. Mme. Fabry opened the door and squinted up at the grinning, handsome
young man in the light tan suit filling the doorway in front of her.

It took a moment for the synapses
of her old brain to connect, but then the flicker of recognition sparked in her
eyes, and she blurted, “
Ah, Monsieur LeMen, comment ça va?
How long has
it been?
Entrez, entrez, mon vieux
.”

Mac embraced the old woman and
kissed her three times on the cheeks—
trois fois à la campagne—
as is the
custom among old friends from the countryside. She offered him a cup of strong espresso
coffee, and he accepted gratefully. His body had not yet adjusted to the time
change, nor had he slept well on the plane. He was very appreciative of the
caffeine’s help in staying alert.

Mme. Fabry rented him a small
furnished
pied-à-terre
on the fourth floor, overlooking the courtyard
and away from the noises of the bustling Rue Laugier. Mac, alias Barry LeMen,
French-Canadian businessman, gave her a month’s rent in advance, in cash.

Later that evening, he returned
with his bags and crashed for the night. Before falling asleep, he thought
about how he would handle his meeting with Burton B. Berger in the morning. But
he hadn’t long to think before he fell soundly asleep, exhausted.

When he slept, he dreamed not of
the flirtatious young lady he had made eye contact with earlier, but of someone
who had a much stronger hold on him – Wei-wei Ryan....

Chapter Thirty-Four

M
ac emerged from the
bouche de
metro
and squinted into the bright sun over the Place de la Concorde. He
crossed Rue de Rivoli and walked in the shade of the Rivoli arcade the short
block to the U.S. Embassy on the corner of Rue Boissy d’Anglas and Avenue
Gabriel.

He showed his black diplomatic
passport to the young Marine Lance Corporal at the entrance of the chancery. It
was eight-thirty in the morning, and the lobby was filled with people hurrying
to their offices. He rode the crowded elevator up to the fourth floor and
entered the door to the office marked “Assistant to the Ambassador.”

He stepped into the room and
stood quietly in front of the desk of the COS’s secretary, Wei-wei Ryan. His
mission was no longer the sole thought occupying his head. Wei-wei’s delicate
beauty had neither changed nor diminished one iota. And Mac, as a connoisseur
of beauty, showed a great appreciation for the half-Chinese woman with the
incredible shiny black hair who sat behind the desk in front of him.

The station communicator, Rodney
Jackson, had just dropped a large stack of morning cable traffic on her desk –
neither looked up. Mac stood there patiently, once again stunned by the beauty
of the petite Eurasian woman as she began to sort through the morning cable
traffic.

It was Rodney who looked up first
and saw Mac standing there. “Hey you ol’ sonavabitch, how the hell ya doin’,
Mac?” They greeted in a slapping high five.

“Great, Rotten. What’s happening,
ol’ buddy?”

Wei-wei burst from her chair,
almost knocking Rodney off his feet. “Mac!” She leaped into his arms, and he
swung her around, her long, shiny black hair flowing outward like polished silk.

“Weren’t you expecting me?” He
put her down, kissed her warmly on the cheek, and hugged her once again.

“Yesterday, you dope! You were
expected yesterday. What happened to you?” The darkened, worried eyes showed
that genuine concern marked her question, not mere curiosity…and more concern
than her official position warranted.

Mac put a strong hand on the back
of her head and pulled her to him. Wei-wei held him tight. “I was worried about
you!” she breathed softly.

Rodney retreated out the door.
“Ah’ll leave you two lovebirds to reacquaint yourselves. See’ ya at the Marine
House, Mac?”

“Sure, Rodney. See you there
Friday. They still have happy hour on Fridays, don’t they?”

“Is the Pope still Catholic?”
Rodney closed the door behind him, and Mac turned his attention back to
Wei-wei.

“I had some things to take care
of before coming in, but tonight I’m all yours. You are free for dinner, aren’t
you?”

“Tonight and every night,
sailor.” She pecked him on the cheek, then again gently on the lips. “But now
you’d better get in to see the boss. He also expected you yesterday, so you’ve
got some explaining to do.”

“Screw him,” said Mac
offhandedly.

“You haven’t changed. Wait here.
I’ll see if he can see you now.” She reluctantly pushed away from Mac.

She knocked softly on the COS’s
door and gracefully slipped halfway inside, holding the door partially open
behind her. “Mr. MacMurphy is here, sir. May I send him in, or would you like
me to set up an appointment for later in the day?”

“It’s about time. Send him in,”
said the precise voice from within the room, “and ask Mr. Little to step in
here as well.”

Wei-wei backed out and held the
door for Mac. “He’s all yours,” she said, adding a whispered “Good luck!” Then
she turned and walked away, closing the door behind him.

Mac advanced into the lion’s den.

Berger stood up behind his desk
and fixed Mac with a superior stare. He held out a long, delicate hand to Mac.
“Welcome back to Paris,” he said with raised eyebrows. “I expected you
yesterday. Was your flight delayed?”

Mac grasped the extended soft
white fingers, shook the limp hand once in the European manner and dropped into
one of the two chairs in front of the COS’s desk.

He knew Berger liked to
intimidate people, but like most bullies he disliked direct confrontations. So
Mac decided to be confrontational until Berger backed off.

“Thanks. It’s good to be back.
No, my flight was on time. It landed yesterday at nine-ten in the morning.”

“Then where have you been?”

“Busy... I had a few things to
take care of, find a place to stay and all, but now I’m here. Can we get
started? I don’t want to take up too much of your time and I’ve got a long list
of things we need to cover.” Mac calmly pulled a small notebook and pen out of
his shirt pocket and sat poised to begin.

Showing his displeasure, Berger
pressed his long, thin frame back into his tufted leather executive chair. He
attempted to stare Mac down, to gain control of the situation, but Mac calmly
returned his gaze while motioning with the hand that held the notebook, as if
to ask, “Shall we begin?”

Berger unhappily swung his chair
back and forth as he regarded Mac and used a long, slender index finger to push
his glasses back up his narrow nose. His finger trembled ever so slightly,
displaying nervousness and pique. He folded his delicate hands gently on his
paunch before responding. “We’ll wait for my deputy, Mr. Little. He waited all
day yesterday for you.”

Mac said, “Okay,” in an amiable
voice that implied he didn’t know he was being rebuked, which only heightened
Berger’s pique.

The tension in the room was
broken by the arrival of Bob Little.

“I think you know my deputy.
Robert Little, Harry MacMurphy,” announced Berger, gesturing limply from one to
the other like a priest giving a benediction.

Little, a balding, pear-shaped
fellow in his late-fifties with a thin, gray mustache, scurried across the room
to shake hands with Mac. He uttered a high-pitched “Hello Mac” and dropped into
the other chair in front of Berger’s desk.

Chapter Thirty-Five

M
ac knew Bob Little—“Little Bob,”
as he was called by the troops—very well. As a young, first tour officer, Little
had been assigned to Siem Reap, Cambodia during the months preceding the fall
of the country to the Khmer Rouge in l975. The story of his posting there was
well-known among the case officer corps within the Agency.

The danger of living in the midst
of the Khmer Rouge had paralyzed him with fear. And he hated the heat, the
smells, and the Asian people. All he wanted to do was return to a nice cushy
post in Europe. “Europe is my specialty,” he would say in his high-pitched,
staccato voice. “I’ve got a photographic memory, two European languages, and a
PhD in history from Harvard. Why should I sit in a stinking hole in Southeast
Asia, dodging bullets with smelly knuckle-draggers for the sake of nasty little
Asians? It’s a total waste of my talents.”