The Book of Fate

5

With mayonnaise?” the thin woman with the red bifocals asked in a heavy French accent.

“Oui,” Terrence O’Shea replied, nodding respectfully, but disappointed that she even asked. He thought his French was flawless — or as flawless as FBI training could make it — but the fact she asked the question in English and referred to the garlicky aïoli as “mayonnaise”… “Excusez-moi, madame,” O’Shea added, “pourquoi m’avez vous demandé cela en anglais?” Why did you ask me in English?

The woman pursed her lips and smiled at his largely Swiss features. His thin blond hair, pink skin, and hazel eyes came from his mother’s family in Denmark, but his fat, buckled nose was straight from his father’s Scottish side — made only worse by a botched hostage rescue back from his days doing fieldwork. As the woman handed O’Shea the small container of french fries drenched with mayo, she explained, “Je parle très mal le danois.” My Danish is terrible. Reading O’Shea’s thin grin, she added, “Vous venez de Danemark, n’est-ce pas?” You are from Denmark, yes?

“Oui,” O’Shea lied, taking a strange joy in the fact she didn’t spot him as American. Then again, blending in was part of the job.

“J’ai l’oeiul pour les choses,” the woman added.

“J’ai l’oeiul pour les choses,” O’Shea repeated, dropping a few coins into the glass tip jar on the edge of the woman’s sausage-and-french-fry pushcart. Sometimes you just know.

Heading further up Rue Vavin, O’Shea felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket for the third time. He’d already convinced the pushcart woman that he wasn’t American, and even though it didn’t matter, he wasn’t going to reveal himself by interrupting their conversation and picking up on the first ring.

“This is O’Shea,” he finally answered.

“What’re you doing in France?” the voice on the other line asked.

“Interpol conference. Some nonsense on trends in intelligence. Four whole days away from the pit.”

“Plus all the mayo you can eat.”

Just as he was about to bite his first mayo-dipped fry, O’Shea paused. Without another word, he pitched the basket of fries into a nearby trash can and crossed the street. As a Legat — a Legal Attaché—for the FBI, O’Shea had spent almost a decade working with law enforcement officials in seven foreign countries to help deter crime and terrorism that could harm the United States. In his line of work, the surest way to get yourself killed was being obvious and predictable. Priding himself on being neither, he buttoned his long black coat, which waved out behind him like a magician’s cape.

“Tell me what’s going on,” O’Shea said.

“Guess who’s back?”

“I have no idea.”

“Guess…”

“I don’t know… that girl from Cairo?”

“Let me give you a hint: He was killed at the Daytona Speedway eight years ago.”

O’Shea stopped midstep in the middle of the street. Not in panic. Or surprise. He’d been at this too long to be fazed by bad intel. Better to confirm. “Where’d you get it?”

“Good source.”

“How good?”

“Good enough.”

“That’s not—”

“As good as we’re gonna get, okay?”

O’Shea knew that tone. “Where’d they spot him?”

“Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur.”

“We have an office there…”

“He’s already gone.”

No surprise, O’Shea thought. Boyle was too smart to linger. “Any idea why he’s out?”

“You tell me: It was the same night President Manning was there for a speech.”

A red Fiat honked its horn, trying to blast O’Shea out of the way. Offering an apologetic wave, O’Shea continued toward the curb. “You think Manning knew he was coming?”

“I don’t even wanna think about it. Y’know how many lives he’s risking?”

“I told you when we first tried to bring him in — the guy’s poison. We should’ve never tried to flip him all those years ago.” Watching the rush of Paris traffic, O’Shea let the silence sink in. Across the street, he watched the thin woman with the red bifocals dole out another basket of fries with aïoli. “Anyone else see him?” O’Shea finally asked.

“President’s aide apparently got a look — y’know… that kid with the face…”

“He have any idea who he was looking at?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

O’Shea stopped to think about it. “What about the thing in India next week?”

“India can wait.”

“So you want me on a plane?”

“Say good-bye to Paris, sweetheart. Time to come home.”