Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“How did you do that?” Harry is mesmerized.

“I’m sure you’ve seen this before,” she tells him.

“I’ve seen maps,” says Harry. “But not like that.”

“Watch.” She does it again, zooms in from the satellite view to the bubble that appears on the street and from there to the sidewalk view. “It’s easy,” she says.

“Maybe for you.” Harry is leaning over her shoulder looking at the screen. “How often do they update the pictures?”

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“Maybe if we watch long enough, we can catch Liquida coming out of the building,” says Harry.

Joselyn stops moving her finger over the tracker and looks back at him with big round eyes. The smile spreads across her face as she laughs. “You have a good poker face.” She turns back toward the screen. “For a second I thought you were serious.”

Harry shoots me a dense look.

“Even the village idiot knows the satellite overhead and ground photos are not in real time,” says Joselyn. “And, in answer to your question, they probably upgrade the photos every few years.”

“Wouldn’t want you to think I’m some techno-bozo with a bone through my nose,” says Harry. “But are there any programs out there that give you pictures in real time?”

“Not unless you have an office at Langley with the CIA,” she tells him. “I wanted to take a look at the area around the Hotel Saint-Jacques so we can see the lay of the land. Maybe we can scout out a place to stay. Somewhere safe.”

She has a point.

Joselyn moves back to the map page and starts typing in a search for other hotels in the area.

There is no one from the FBI to meet us at the airport in Paris when we arrive. I suspect Thorpe may not have received the message.

By the time we approach the Hotel Claude Bernard, it is dark. The street outside looks nothing like the daytime pictures we saw on Joselyn’s computer nearly twelve hours earlier.

The incandescent lights in the restaurants and bistros combine with the eerie glow from the brighter lights of central Paris to give the neighborhood a fairy-tale-like appearance. Based on the map, the Bernard is about three hundred yards west of the Hotel Saint-Jacques and on the same side of the street, the rue des Ecoles.

According to the computerized map, there are two other hotels that are closer, but the Bernard appears, to us at least, to be safer because of the distance. There is not much chance of running into Liquida by accident unless we get careless; that is, assuming he is booked at the Saint-Jacques. It is at times like this I miss Herman and his streetwise instincts for knowing how heavily, and where, to tread. The fact that Herman, who lives in the dark crevices of tracking and surveillance, was ambushed by Liquida in a dim garage in Washington is not lost on any of us.

Businesses crowd the sidewalks on both sides down the rue des Ecoles, mostly small shops, restaurants, and other boutique hotels. Our taxi pulls up and stops at the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Harry, who is up front with the driver, speaks pidgin English and does sign language gesturing for him to get our bags. The guy sits there with a cigarette dangling from his lip. He seems not to understand a word of English other than the name of our hotel.

The Claude Bernard has a redbrick facade on the ground level with five stories above, including the penthouse. Wrought-iron-railed balconies reminiscent of those in New Orleans wrap the building on three of the upper floors.

Harry spies a boulangerie behind us and just across the street, kitty-corner to the hotel. He has his taste buds set for coffee and a pastry. It has been a while since our last meal on the plane. Riding in coach, we didn’t get much.

“Later,” I tell him. “We need to get off the street and up into the rooms.” Though we are a good block away from the Saint-Jacques, it wouldn’t do to have Liquida cruise by and see us.

The driver is out, getting the bags from the trunk. Joselyn and I collect our belongings from the backseat of the taxi. “Seeing as none of us speak French, how do we pay the guy?” says Harry.

“Hold out money,” says Joselyn.

“What, and let him take what he wants?” says Harry.

“The price of cultural ignorance,” she tells him.

“So we shouldn’t come to France unless we speak French, is that it?” he says.

“In a word, yes.”

“It’s that kind of attitude that’s gotten American tourists speaking English in Paris turned into spittoons,” says Harry. “Why don’t you and I get the luggage?” He looks at me. “I’ll deal with the driver. Que quantos euros?” says Harry.

“Your Spanish is as bad as your French,” says Joselyn.

“Tell you what, why don’t you get the rooms?” he tells her. “The desk clerk will be less likely to spit on a woman.” Harry hands Joselyn his credit card and smiles at her. “You might want to wear a raincoat.”

“Fine.” She grabs the credit card from his hand. “No problem. Should we put both rooms on this one or do you have a card you’d like to give me as well?” She looks at me, all pissed off.

“What did I say?”

“Do you have a credit card or not?”

“It all comes out of the same pot,” I tell her. Harry and I are using business credit cards, and the business is very nearly drained.

Joselyn gets out of the car and slams the door like she is trying to break the window.

“Here,” Harry hands me some euros. “You deal with the driver. I’ll get the bellman to get the bags.”

Before I can say anything, Harry is out of the car, following Joselyn toward the entrance.

I get out on the driver’s side and stand pressed against the side of the car as traffic passes by.

The driver tosses the last bag onto the sidewalk. It’s a good thing we aren’t carrying glass. He closes the trunk and comes around to the driver’s side.

“How much?” I hold up the euros.

He gives me a face. I get the sense that he understands every word, but he’s not going to say it, not in English anyway. He flashes five fingers with his right hand and one more with his left, cigarette ash dripping down the front of his tweed coat. He wants sixty euros. I don’t know if this is correct or not, but I pay him. When the last ten-euro note hits his hand, he takes it with the other and stands there with his hand still out waiting for more. He wants a tip. I give him five euros. He looks at it as if it’s shriveling in his palm and turns his nose up. For a moment I think perhaps he is going to give it back to me. Instead he pockets it, looks at me with disgust, and flips what is left of his cigarette. It hits my shoe. He does this with such accuracy that I suspect it is well practiced. He gets into the taxi, slams the door, and pulls away. He nearly runs over my toes as I stand in the street.

Harry is out on the sidewalk with the bellman. They have the bags stacked on a cart. I follow them into the hotel. By the time we get there, Joselyn is engaged in animated conversation with the desk clerk, a young man she seems to have charmed.

“What did I tell you?” says Harry. “Send a pretty woman to deal with a Frenchman, you get smiles and French bullshit. You and me, we just get the bullshit.”

As we approach, Joselyn turns and says: “Hi, guys. I’d like you to meet Michel.”

“Bonjour!” says the guy behind the desk. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” He looks at me, waiting for a reply.

I stand there like a potted plant.

He looks at Joselyn, then back at me. “Parlez-vous francais?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“No parlez-vous?”

“No.”

The clerk rips up the registration card he had already started and throws it at me.

“Now you’ve done it,” says Joselyn.