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We’re airborne somewhere over France, on our way to London, and this bulky phone has a nice display screen and a simple web-browser system, and in a couple of minutes I get the number of the American Embassy in Paris—33 1 43 12 22 22—and even at this early hour it’s picked up on the first ring.
Another automated prompt, damn it, but I punch 0 and a young woman comes on the line.
“U.S. Embassy, what is the nature of your call?”
“This is an emergency,” I say. “I need to speak to Paul Pruitt.”
“Hold, please.”
There is no Paul Pruitt at the American Embassy. There will never be a Paul Pruitt. But someone working under that name is a fellow employee.
The phone rings and is answered, “Pruitt.”
I take a deep breath. “This is Amy Cornwall,” and once again, my service number. “I’ll be arriving in London in less than an hour. I need to contact someone in my division for a debrief and update.”
The man says, “Repeat your name and service number, please.”
I do that and he says, “Identification declined.”
The words don’t make sense. “Excuse me—say again?”
“Identification declined.”
“What?” I nearly shout. “What kind of bullshit is this? I work for Ernest Hollister in the Special Activities Division, and I need to come in and talk to someone from my division or any other directorate. I’ve found out that—”
The man hangs up.
Fuming, I dial the American Embassy again and punch in 0 once more. This time the woman says, “I’m sorry, Miss, but I’ve been instructed to decline any phone call made from this number. Goodbye.”
Disconnected once again.
Damn it all to hell…
A soft rap on the door, and Jeremy comes in.
He sees the look on my face and says, “What’s wrong?”
I can’t believe the words I’m uttering.
“I’ve been smoked,” I say slowly. “The Agency…I’m no longer employed, I’ve never been employed, I don’t exist in their records. Do you understand? Not only have I been fired, I’ve been cut loose. Anything I’ve done in the past, anything I’ll do in the future…the CIA will deny any connection with me. When I get to London, I’m on my own. I’ve got no money, no credit cards, nothing. I could be arrested at any moment, even sent to a black site like Gitmo—disappeared forever.”
“I wouldn’t worry about anything bad happening to you in London,” Jeremy says.
I keep my voice low, level, and threatening. “Why? You know something I don’t?”
He says, “We’re not going to London. We’re going to Paris. Rashad Hussain is there.”
Chapter32
ON THISbeautiful and bright morning in May, Rashad Hussain is in the Village Saint Paul section of Paris, a block in the area of Rue de Rivoli and Quai des Célestins. Here are the best antique stores andmagasins de curiositéin the city, and as Rashad moves along the narrow streets of this district, filled with four-story-high buildings with wrought-iron balconies on the upper floors and plenty of shops and stores, he smiles and nods at the pedestrians passing by, including two women wearing chadors.
Rashad stops at one particular store that has suited him over the years. As he enters, there’s the familiarjingle-jangleof the overhead bell being triggered by the old wooden door. Inside is the smell of dust, of old things, and the crowded remains of the recent past. There are racks of clothes, glass-enclosed display cases, shelves of knickknacks—everything from old leather cases to ceramic bowls to little figurines. In the corners are poles and staffs bearing tattered French flags and Army banners, and from the rear an old, short man bustles his way out through a beaded curtain, rubbing his hands.
“Ah, Monsieur, it’s been a long time, has it not?” asks Hugo Fournier, the shop owner, in smooth, slightly accented English.
“Too long, my friend, much too long.” Rashad extends his hand and Hugo gives it a two-handed shake. Hugo has on dark cotton trousers, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a black vest. His trimmed beard and hair are marble white.
“Ah, but I have two objects for you,” Hugo says, “but knowing your preferences, your pleasure, I have not put them on display. May I bring them out?”
