Dark Zone

49

When Tommy Karr woke up in the Paris safe house, he discovered two messages on the telephone number he had given Deidre. Both had been left the day before. One asked if he was “up to anything” the next day, and the other said that she would be outside the Picasso museum at 11:00 a.m., adding that she wouldn’t mind continuing their tour. The museum wasn’t that far from her residence, and she made it sound as if it was a casual idea, but Karr suspected a more elaborate plot.

Which he wholeheartedly approved of.

But duty came first.

The Art Room wanted him to try pushing up the meeting with LaFoote, who according to his CIA shadow had returned home and not stirred since. Karr called the retired French agent but didn’t get an answer.

“You sure he’s inside?” Karr asked Telach.

“Our CIA friend hasn’t seen him leave,” she answered. “It’s still early. Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“It’s also possible he gave Sherlock the slip,” said Karr.

“Should I have him knock on the door?”

Karr thought about this for a moment. He didn’t want LaFoote to think he didn’t trust him. If he was home and wasn’t answering the phone, obviously he’d draw that conclusion, no matter how the CIA officer tried to cover his appearance at the door.

And if he’d slipped away?

Well, good for the old codger then. Sending the CIA agent to play vacuum-cleaner salesman wasn’t going to help.

“Nah. Just have him hang out. I’ll check back later.”

Karr caught some coffee — the French seemed to insist on far too much milk — then paid a visit to some of his CIA friends to get their opinions of Ponclare and his department.

Overworked and underpaid.

Which made the fact that he had a very nice apartment in the Marais area of Paris — the ultra-chic section, not the old Jewish quarter — more than a little interesting.

Karr did a little more checking. Ponclare’s family had once been very well off but had lost nearly everything by the time of World War II; the war finished off whatever small assets they had. As Rockman had told him, Ponclare’s father had been a renowned French citizen, honors all around — but few francs in the bank, or at least so it seemed. Ponclare more or less had followed in his father’s footsteps.

But over the last four or five years — since coming to Paris — Ponclare had managed not only to buy the expensive apartment but also to repurchase two of the family’s estates. The French themselves had been interested in this, according to a rumor the CIA hands told Karr, but it wasn’t clear if there had been a formal investigation.

The Desk Three op then ventured over to the Marais area to look up a retired American intelligence officer who had known Ponclare’s father, but the retiree added little beyond the press clippings Karr had already seen. When LaFoote still didn’t answer his phone, Karr decided to get an early lunch. Coincidentally, he happened to be only a few blocks from the Picasso museum. Karr swung over in that direction and arrived outside the walls just as Deidre herself was arriving.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he told her.

“What a coincidence,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

Karr tried taking the kiss in stride, though he felt himself blush.

They went inside the stone courtyard, Deidre explaining the history of the building as they walked toward the entrance. The collector of the salt tax had built it with money he’d skimmed from the tax, she said; unfortunately, the King figured out what was going on and the property was soon sold to pay for what he’d skimmed. Penniless and out of a job, the salt collector lived the rest of his life around the corner as a janitor.

“‘There’s a more complicated version,” said Deidre. “But that gets the highlights.”

Inside, Karr found that there was an advantage to walking around an art museum with an art student: Deidre had interesting stories to go with each painting. Karr had never exactly been an art lover and wasn’t one when they left the building an hour later — but he was definitely in love with Deidre.

Or at least, very serious like.

He led Deidre to a nice and inexpensive café a few blocks away that she claimed not to know. He excused himself and hit the men’s room, first trying LaFoote — no answer — and then connecting with the Art Room.

“We have nothing new for you,” Telach told him.

“I keep trying to get ahold of LaFoote, but there’s no answer,” said Karr. “What’s our spook say?”

“Hasn’t seen anything.”

“Maybe I’ll just shoot out there after lunch,” said Karr. He actually doubted that LaFoote was there, but it would give him a chance to look over the town — and maybe see who the priest was whom he trusted. “Unless you have something else.”

“No, I was going to suggest that myself.”

“What’s up with Charlie and Lia?”

“They’re in Paris resting.”

“Yeah?”

“‘They just got in. I told them to sleep. So how’s Deidre?”

“Jeez, Marie, you sound like my mom.”

“Just making conversation,” said the Art Room supervisor. “Word is, I’m going to have to read you directive one-oh-three-seventeen-b soon.”

“I’m guessing that’s about fraternization with ambassadors’ daughters.” Karr laughed. “Did you make that up, or is that a real directive?”

“It may be real by the time you get back, Tommy. Check in when you’re on the train.”