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Henry taught me best. Surveillance is actually an unnatural activity, and a person partaking in it must deal with strong feelings of self-consciousness and of being out of place. People conducting surveillance frequently suffer from what is called “burn syndrome,” the erroneous belief that the people they are watching have spotted them. Feeling “burned” will cause surveillants to do unnatural things, such as suddenly ducking back into a doorway or turning around abruptly when they unexpectedly come face to face with the target. People inexperienced in the art of surveillance find it difficult to control this natural reaction. Even those of us who are experienced surveillance operatives occasionally have the feeling of being burned; the difference is we have received a lot of training and are better able to control our reaction and work through it. The most important thing is to maintain a normal-looking demeanor, even when your insides are screaming that the person you are surveilling has seen you.
The more I am able to stop and pause and survey my surroundings, the easier it will be to spot surveillance. So, I enter the airport bathroom and freshen up, adding thick-rimmed glasses to my repertoire.
I fix the blonde wig in place, rearrange several errant pieces of hair, and, finally satisfied, I smile at my handiwork. Given how far from my natural color I have gone, I am surprised I don’t look half bad. When my expression softens, once again going slack, I look weary and useless, and ultimately very ordinary, which just might help.
I don’t resemble Charlotte Jones in the least.
Instead of taking a shuttle to the hotel, I hail a taxi. In a cab, it will be easier to spot if I’m being followed. I can give the driver instructions, change directions, direct him where I want him to go if I need to lose a tail.
The driver glares at me in the rearview in a way that makes me uneasy. Even though the flight across the Atlantic is official, a real job, transporting a real businessman, and the agency wants to see this job carried out, one can never be too cautious. So I pat the handgun in my luggage, a reminder that all can be equal should I need it to be.
He speaks in broken French into a cell phone, and I make out that he is having an argument with his son.
Turning my attention toward the window, I glare out at the city of light. I’ve always hated Paris, but I hate it more in the winter. Maybe I hate it more because it’s the kind of place one is supposed to love. I feel nothing of the sort. There are too many people and not a single reason to feel alone.
Tonight, the last thing I want is to be alone. I am on a mission, and that mission, and bein
g in Paris, makes me want to go dancing. And so I do.
I meet her on the dance floor, soft and sweaty, about five minutes past her prime. Dark hair, watchful eyes. She speaks only French. Me, hardly any. She is my contact. She knows things I need to know. The rest I forget. It won’t matter tomorrow anyhow.
Or later in my hotel room, either.
The atmosphere in the bedroom is heavy, with a hint of lavender in the air. The pale carpet beneath my feet is soft and thick.
Now that we are here in my hotel room, everything feels a little more serious; the sexuality I had tossed around freely at the nightclub feels suddenly dangerous. Nothing in life is free, information included.
The physical act is easy enough, mostly mechanical when it comes right down to it. Kissing. Fingers. Oral and manual stimulation. It’s all acting, really. So what if sometimes you enjoy the job? Still, I wonder what I would lose if I seduced this woman. Nothing, I realize. There is nothing that could be taken from me that hasn’t already been taken.
Afterward, naked, she perches herself on a chair, like a lazy house cat, and smokes a cigarette. It’s not a small room, I’ve stayed in worse. Still, she takes up too much space. She’s hardly said a word, what little sex we had was awful, and I’m not sure I’ve ever hated anyone more. She says something in French, something universal, something along the lines of how long are you here for? When can I see you again?
I offer only two words in response: Geoffrey Dunsmore.
She crinkles her nose, looks momentarily surprised, before exhaling a thick plume of smoke into the air.
Another reason to hate Paris. Everyone smokes.
Slipping into the hotel robe, I walk over to where she’s perched and show her his picture on my phone. She knows I know she knows him. And I know she knows how and where to locate him. The two have a relationship of sorts. “I need to find him.”
She shrugs and mumbles something in French.
“Can you tell me where he hangs out?”
“This, I do not know.”
I smile, walk across the room, and lay the phone on the table. I love it when people pretend not to speak your language but very obviously do. It makes things simple.
“He’s a friend of a friend,” I tell her. “I think he’s your friend as well, no?”
“We’ve spent time together. Yes.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
She takes a long pull on her cigarette and then shrugs as she turns her face to the ceiling and exhales. “La Tempête, perhaps.”
Dropping the robe, I walk over to her and place my hands gently on the side of her face. “Merci.”
Leaning in and kissing her on the mouth, I sigh. She tastes like stale cigarettes and easy lies. “You were wonderful.”
