The Red Syndrome (32 page)

Laura's conduct raised too many red flags to ignore. Even back in the
United States, she had tried to dissuade me from continuing working on
breaking the code, then told me she was going outside to smoke a cigarette. All I saw was her talking on a cell phone; when she returned she
didn't smell of smoke. A quick search I'd made in her purse had shown
no sign of cigarettes, matches, or a lighter.

I needed more information before I could confront her. Still, the direction in which this was going seemed ominous. I decided to play her game
to see what, if anything, I could get out of her.

I called Eric - aka Dr. Jean Pierre Arnaud - and left a message that
I'd had visitors. I went to the hotel's central safe and retrieved the goody
box Martin had given me. Back in my room, I took from the box a
micro video camera, with the diameter of a dime and the thickness of a
silver dollar. I climbed the stylish desk at the far end of the room
hoping it wouldn't collapse under me and attached the camera to the
smoke detector on the ceiling with the included adhesive tape. It
matched perfectly. I hooked a mini signal recorder to the back of the
TV. The video camera had motion, sound, and heat detectors: Any
change in the room temperature in one spot, any noise, or any movement would start the camera. It also had ultraviolet capacity, enabling
it to record in near-complete darkness. The video output would be
transmitted to the recorder, which could operate nonstop for thirty-six
hours. I went outside to the corridor. When I was sure it was empty, I
mounted another micro video camera on the wall-mounted light fixture
opposite my door. I then looked around the room to make sure I hadn't
left anything behind. I went to the reception desk and rented the room
opposite mine.

I left the hotel through the back door, making sure I hadn't gained a tail.
After several maneuvers, I was confident I wasn't being followed. I went
behind a nearby office building, where I found trash cans full of office
debris. I collected a used brown file folder and approximately 15o pages of
printed material in French that looked like financial reports and general
correspondence, and stuffed them into the folder. I also picked up an
empty, used FedEx large envelope that still carried the airbill addressed to Hector, Nicolas & Freber, Business Consultants, 24B Ave du Prado,13o06
Marseilles, France. I went back to my original hotel room through the
main entrance, holding the FedEx envelope in one hand and the file folder
in the other. I made a minimal effort to hide the file folder near my bed,
but left the FedEx envelope in plain view on the coffee table. But unlike a
hunter who stands watch after setting a trap, I promptly went to sleep. The
following morning, I went downstairs to a hotel pay phone and called
Laura at the Promenade. She answered right away.

"Something's come up," I said apologetically. "I've just received loads of
documents concerning my meeting with the bad guys, but in looking
through them, I realized that a crucial portion of the file isn't there. So I
need to drive to an office in Nice to get the missing documents. I'm afraid
our lunch plans will have to be put off. I'm really sorry."

"How could that have happened?" Her tone of voice was a mixture of
interest and concern.

"I don't know. Some moron sent one part of the files to an agreed-upon
address here in Marseilles as a dead drop, but the rest was sent to Nice.
It's a two-hundred-mile drive on narrow roads, but I have to have them."

"Can't someone send it over again?"

"No, it's also a dead drop, I must do it myself. Idiots," I said in contempt.

"Well, shit happens," she said. "I'm disappointed, but I understand. Can
I come with you?"

"Sorry, no."

"Then I'll do some sightseeing and wait for you. When are you leaving?"

"Right now, but I'll be back in the evening, and I'll call you. Maybe we
could go out to dinner if it's not too late."

"It'd be great if you can make it for dinner," she said.

I noted that although Laura suggested joining me on the day trip, she
didn't insist and was complacent upon hearing my refusal. Besides, if she
had an accomplice and a key, it didn't matter one way or the other.

I went through the hotel's main entrance to the nearby parking lot and
drove the rented car in the direction of the main artery connecting
Marseilles and Nice. I made a few sudden turns, including two U-turns,
demonstrating the typical behavior of a driver uncertain of the direction he is going, stopping several times to ask for directions - all the while
surreptitiously glancing into the rearview mirror to make sure I wasn't
being followed. I parked near an office building in the outskirts of
Marseilles. I went inside, left through another entrance, and took a taxi
back to my hotel, entering through the back. I went to the basement and
took the elevator to my floor. I made sure the corridor was empty as I
entered my original room. I quickly replayed the video feed, but saw no
suspicious activity. I hooked another transmitter to the video reception
unit, crossed the hall, and entered my newly rented room. I sat on the
couch and turned on my handheld mini video receiver with a color fiveby-three-inch monitor. In a moment the monitor's split screen showed
me both the hallway leading to my room and the room's interior. I sat
patiently. But I wasn't calm. Every now and then my monitor showed
people walking through the hallway, all of them either hotel guests
entering or exiting their rooms, chambermaids, or maintenance people.
No one stopped near my room.

After two hours I was getting bored. Maybe I was overly paranoid. I
was also becoming hungry, but I couldn't leave the room or even order
room service. So I just sat there. I tried to read a magazine but pushed it
aside. I turned on the TV, but after flipping through the channels for five
minutes I turned it off. I had to concede that I was nervous. Then I saw
her coming. There was no mistake; it was Laura. She walked gingerly
down the hallway, looking for a room number. She stopped next to my
room and inserted an electronic card key into the slot. The door opened
and she entered, looking around to see if anyone was watching her. No
one was, of course - except me.

I hoped the way she conducted her search of my room would reveal
what kind of animal she was - a pro, or someone who didn't really know
what to look for. She looked in drawers and closets. I didn't see her
searching for surveillance equipment. After a while she stopped rifling
through my clothing and glanced around. She discovered the FedEx
envelope near the bed. After examining it, she copied the address on the
label. Then she saw the file folder next to it. She picked it up, opened it,
and flipped through the papers. After about five or six minutes, she pulled out a few pages, wrote something on a piece of paper, and returned
the pages to the folder. She then went through my personal things,
making sure she returned everything to its original place, and left.
Watching on the monitor, I saw her walk to the elevator.

A minute later I went to the room's window and saw her cross the street
and hail a cab. I waited ten more minutes, then took the elevator to the
basement and left through the back door. Going in and out of the basement wasn't easy: I had to hide behind ceiling supports three times
because security men were patrolling the floor. Out on the street at last,
I walked for a few minutes, and after making sure I was alone I took a cab
to the spot I'd left the rental car earlier. I called Eric, but there was no
answer. So I called Bob Hodson in New York.

"Hi, Dan, what's new?"

"I'm at a pay phone in France, it's not a secure line. But I need to ask
you a question that can't wait."

"Go ahead."

"Do you know where Laura Higgins is?"

"Can't stop mixing business and pleasure, Dan?"

"Seriously, Bob. Do you know where she is?"

"She asked for an emergency family leave for a few days. How the heck
would I know where she went?"

"So she's not on assignment for you?"

"As I said, she's on a personal leave, but you can also ask Eric; he should
be near you."

I returned to my hotel room. I read the newspaper, watched television,
and took an hour nap. At 7:00 P.M. I called Laura.

"Hi, I'm back. Are we still on for dinner?"

"Of course. When do you want me ready?"

"I'll pick you up in forty-five minutes." Her voice certainly gave nothing
away.

I changed clothes and took a cab to the Promenade. Laura was waiting
in the lobby. I looked around to see if she was being monitored from a
distance but could see no warning signs.

At the recommendation of the concierge we walked to a nearby French bistro. The food was bland at best, but I wasn't there for the food. I needed
to find out what game Laura was playing and why.

"How was your trip?" she asked while leaning back on her chair, and I
couldn't help but note her stunning figure in white jeans and a tee. Were
her outfit and body language deliberately chosen to distract me? The
evening - more accurately, the night - could have played out so nicely
if I didn't suspect her. For a moment I even entertained the thought. Why
not? Was there a rule against sleeping with a potential subject of an
inquiry? Could I label it an invasive interrogation and get away with it?
But reason mixed with responsibility and - as much as I hated to admit
it - work ethics tied my hands. I just couldn't do it.

Apparently Laura had different ideas. Whether conniving or genuine,
however, I couldn't say.

"No trip," I answered, "just a long drive behind polluting trucks in heavy
traffic. I could never understand why the time of day with the slowest traffic
is called rush hour. I found the missing file and drove back. That's all."

"What files are these?"

"Background stuff supporting the material I already have for my
meeting."

"About the bad guys you mentioned earlier?"

I nodded.

"What have they done?"

"Laura!"

She smiled, exposing her perfect teeth. "I'm just asking. But seriously,
Dan, I'm really frustrated that we can work together, break codes, look for
terrorists, and then all of a sudden I'm compartmentalized and shielded
from information. It just doesn't make sense. Why can't we pick up from
where we left off?"

Did she mean breaking the code or the brief sexual encounter we'd
begun before I had to leave?

"I feel the same way, but I can't bend that rule. You saw how Hodson
treated me when I dared to remove a coded message from the office. Can
you imagine what he'd do if he found out that I'd broken another rule?
With you?

"Besides," I went on, "it's quite possible that you or any other member of
the task force could get the same assignment I have right now, or something very similar, without knowing about my work."

"Why?" She put her hand on mine.

"To assure independent findings." I pulled my hand to drink the wine.
"When we all work on the same team and share information, there's a
high likelihood that if the investigation hits a dead end, everyone gets
stuck. In a team like ours, there are in fact only one or two leaders; the
rest just follow and don't engage in independent thinking. That can be
bad, particularly bad in a case this serious. I'm sure that upon your return
they'll assign you to a task and tell you not to share your methods or tactics with anyone -just report directly to HQ."

Laura nodded lightly. I couldn't tell if she bought my argument. "How
long have you been doing this?" She sounded really friendly.

"What?"

"This line of work."

"More years than I care to count. Why do you ask?"

"Because what you say sounds like a conclusion learned from experience, not from the kind of desk training I've been through."

Was she kissing up or leading me on? I couldn't tell. So I decided to
change tacks and be the aggressor. "Laura, can I be frank?"

"I wish you would."

"You know I'm attracted to you. I'm going to be very busy tomorrow,
so the only time left for us here in France will be tonight and the day after
tomorrow, but depending on how tomorrow plays out that may not be an
option, either. Let's be together tonight."

"Tonight?" As soon as I'd called her bluff, her tone of voice changed.

"Yes, tonight. Is there a problem?"

She was at loss. I could almost see her thinking. Clearly there was
something she had to do tonight, so I pressed my offensive, leaning in at
her and taking her hand.

"Dan," she said finally, "I know this is going to sound dumb to you, but
my hair, face, and nails look terrible; I was finally able to find a beautician
that could do me over. The only time she has available is later tonight. I wasn't planning to be with you after dinner, because I hoped to surprise
you tomorrow with a bright fresh look." She got up.

"Where are you going?"

"My appointment is in thirty minutes."

"Come," I said, taking her hand, "I'll take you."

"No need, I'll just take a cab."

"I insist. I want to spend more time with you."

"No, Dan. I mean it. Sometimes a woman needs to be alone. I'm getting beautiful for you."

Her earlier inviting signals had been to lead me on so she could pump
for information. But when I leapt at the bait rather than let her coax me
to it, she'd gotten flustered - either that or, more likely, realized if she
got in any deeper I'd keep her from a prior commitment. I walked with
her to the street corner and helped her into a taxi. Our parting was awkward. No kiss; no see you later.

As her cab pulled away I approached a motorcyclist parked nearby, a
man in his midtwenties. "Want to make a quick hundred euros?" I said in
French.

"Doing what?"

"Just follow that cab and take me along."

"You're kidding," he said.

I shook my head. "No, really."