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“You drive well,” he says. “Glad you knew how to use a standard.”
“Always full of surprises,” I say, and we get out. The tiny rear yard is nearly overgrown with brushes and small saplings, and there’s an uneven brick patio covered with moss next to the Saab’s front wheels. Jeremy goes to a specific brick, pops it up, and removes a key. We go to the rear door of the cottage and Jeremy keys open the heavy-duty lock, and we go in.
Very unimpressive.
Dusty old furniture, a kitchenette that’s filthy, and piles of French books and magazines on the carpeted floor. I pick up a copy ofParis-Match;it’s three years old. The Oriental carpet in the center of the living area looks like it last got vacuumed when de Gaulle was running the place.
“Charming,” I say. “But safe houses don’t need to be charming.”
“That’s right,” Jeremy says.
“And why do we need to be in a safe house? I thought you were best buds with Victor and the DGSE.”
“Victor’s section of the DGSE, not the whole agency,” Jeremy says. “And there’s France’s General Directorate for Internal Security, and their military intelligence. We could be scooped up to embarrass the DGSE or MI6, or for any other reason. I don’t want to present anyone that opportunity.”
I go in farther as he switches on some lights. The illumination doesn’t make the place look any finer. I find a toilet with a brown bowl and a shower stall that has mold growing up the walls. A tiny bedroom with a single bed, absent covers or blankets.
Nothing else.
He looks to me, smiling slightly. The abrasion on his left cheek looks better.
“Move, will you?” I ask.
He takes one step to the left.
“Further,” I say.
One more step.
“Get to the rear door, will you?”
He smiles once more and heads for the rear door.
I go and move the heavy couch and two chairs off the dull brown Oriental rug. I pick up a corner of the rug and dust flies off, and then I roll it up.
The floor is cement.
Save for a smooth rectangular metal hatch in the center. It has a recessed ring and a keypad.
Jeremy says, “Nicely done.”
“Mind telling me the combination, or do you want to open it yourself?”
He strolls over. “I need to keep a few secrets, otherwise my boss will give me quite the dressing-down when this op is finished.”
Jeremy squats down, his fingers fly, there’s a muffledclick,and he stands up and pulls on the recessed ring. The heavy-looking hatch—counterweighted somehow—easily comes up, revealing metal stairs descending into a well-lit basement.
“After you,” he says.
“Oh, no,” I say. “I insist—afteryou.”
His smile remains the same, and he goes down with me following him. The hatch slowly descends behind us, and just because, I have my SIG Sauer out and behind my back.
Chapter53
THE BASEMENTis clean and well-ordered, and after we both take turns visiting a bathroom that’s not slippery with filth, Jeremy goes to a metal cabinet in a small kitchenette that also contains a small table and two chairs and removes a light-green cardboard box with French lettering. Across the top in large type isRATION DE COMBAT INDIVIDUELLE RECHAUFFABLE.In smaller type below that is the translation:Reheatable Individual Combat Ration.
I ask, “What? Not supporting Queen and country with your own rations?”
