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"Long story, baby. Not important. But the Mastersons are safe. The key to this is her brother. Right after we landed in Mississippi, she told me the bad guys really want her brother. She doesn't know where he is. So I'm on my way to Paris to find him. He should know who these bastards are."
"Can you do that?"
"Find him, you mean? I'm going to try hard."
"Just go to Paris?"
Jesus Christ, I have to go through the classified business, even with her!
"Baby, this is Top Secret-Presidential, which means you can't tell anybody, even your family."
Especially your goddamn brother.
She nodded, but her eyes asked for an explanation.
"The President, in what they call a finding, set up a covert unit to find the people who did this. He gave it to me, together with all the authority I need to do whatever has to be done."
Her eyebrows showed that she was impressed.
"I'll make sure they keep you up to speed on what's happening. But you have to keep it to yourself."
"Will they tell me?"
"Special Agent Schneider, you are now assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis, which is the cover for this," Castillo said. "I'm the chief. You'll be told."
"I wish I could go with you."
Jesus, she's not thinking of us holding hands as we take the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Or sitting in the Deux Magots on the Left Bank. She wants to go as a cop.
"Me, too."
"Be careful, Charley."
"Wiener schnitzel, baby. I have to go."
He bent over, kissed her very gently on the lips, and looked into her eyes for a long moment.
Then she shrugged, squeezed his hand, and motioned with her head toward the door.
As he and Fernando got on the elevator, he heard the Latin Secret Service agent talk to her lapel microphone.
"Don Juan coming down." [FIVE] Hotel de Crillon 10 Place de la Concorde Paris, France 0525 27 July 2005 Paris was just starting to wake up when they landed. There had been little traffic on the way in from Le Bourget, and the Place de la Concorde had been nearly empty of vehicles and pedestrians.
"I think the best thing to do is grab some sack time," Castillo announced as they registered. "What about leaving a call for half past ten?"
"Good idea," Torine said.
Castillo knew the problem was going to be jet lag. Their body clocks thought it was midnight, not half past five in the morning.
They weren't really tired, or even particularly sleepy, despite the time they had been up and the distances they had traveled since getting up almost twenty-four hours before at the Masterson plantation in Mississippi. For one thing, that had been only eighteen hours ago in real time. Paris time was six hours ahead of Mississippi.
For another, they'd shared the piloting between them, from Philadelphia to Gander, Newfoundland, and then to Shannon, Ireland, and finally Le Bourget. The "off-duty" pilot-a role each had played-had nothing to do but doze, and the Lear's seats in the main cabin, which folded back to near horizontal, had made dozing easy. It was as if they'd gotten up early and taken several naps before midnight.
The temptation was to take a qu
ick shower, grab a quick breakfast, and then rouse the Paris CIA station chief from his bed and get to work finding Jean-Paul Lorimer. The smart thing to do was to take a quick shower and go to bed, sleeping as long as possible. When sleep proved impossible, with a little bit of luck, the body clock might be fooled, and it would be something like getting up fresh and ready to do a full day's work.
Castillo tipped the bellman and then looked around his suite. The heavy curtain across the windows of his bedroom was permitting a crack of light. He went to it and impulsively pushed it aside far enough to look out. He had a view of the Place de la Concorde and the bridge across the River Seine.
