Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Deception

Vendredi. la maree. 8e. 20h. Urgent.

Friday, the La Maree restaurant in the 8th Arrondissement in Paris at 8:00 P.M. Urgent.

It was Sandrine, he thought. It couldn’t be anyone else. She was the only other person who knew that e-mail account. She wanted to see him. And it didn’t sound like she’d e-mailed because she actually wanted to see him. Something had happened. Hence the “urgent.”

God, what insane timing, he thought as he stared at the smoldering frame of the VW and the wreckage-strewn street filling with people, windows opening in buildings around the park, spectators peering out. He had to get away, he thought, climbing back into the taxi and patting the stunned driver on the shoulder.

One thing was clear: his turn was coming.

And now he had put her in danger too.

Paris,

France

“Iwasn’t sure you would come,” she said. It was the first time he had seen her wearing makeup, and in a green sheath dress and bronze eye shadow that brought out the gold in her lion’s eyes, she took his breath away. “I wasn’t so nice the last time.”

“You knew I’d come,” Scorpion said. “You didn’t dress like that for the chef de cuisine.”

They were sitting at a table at La Maree, a clubby restaurant with Tudor-style leaded windows on the Right Bank not far from the Arc de Triomphe. They were the only ones speaking English in the crowded restaurant, sharing a superb Montrachet white wine along with the freshest fines de claire oysters he’d ever tasted. The restaurant was famous for its seafood.

“Alors,” she smiled. “There are two occasions when a woman must look absolutely fabulous. When she’s going to see a man she’s interested in and when she’s getting rid of a man, so he can properly appreciate what he’s lost.”

“And which is this?”

“Allez au diable,” she laughed, her laughter clear as a bell. Go to hell. “Impossible man.”

The waiter came over and they ordered. Around them, well-dressed French couples were doing what the French did best, eating and talking. The evening sparkled, and looking at her, Africa and what had happened in Switzerland and Hamburg seemed far away. Except for the brown Peugeot 308 he had spotted following his taxi in from the airport.

Who could have made him at De Gaulle? he had wondered, watching as the Peugeot followed them in on the A1, past the Peripherique and into the city, making the turn from the Boulevard de la Chapelle onto Boulevard de Magenta. And then it hit him like the persistent beep-beep-beep of an alarm.

They didn’t know who he was in Hamburg, and in any case, he had gotten rid of the glasses, cap, and shaved the stubble to change his image. It had to be either Bern, the photo ID from the Kilbane cover, or that stupid article from Africa. Or worse, something else. Something he didn’t know about.

Except how had they gotten onto him in Paris? And so quickly? He’d watched the brown Peugeot in the taxi’s rearview mirror, not relaxing even when it didn’t follow their turn onto Rue Saint-Martin. Either he was being paranoid or they had switched off and someone else was following now.

“You said it was urgent,” he began, as they sat in the restaurant.

She nodded. “I was at a charity spectacle, tres chic , at the Grand Palais for les MPLM . This man came up to me. Said he was a journalist. He was asking about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were an American. That I hardly knew you, which of course is true.” The waiter brought them chilled langoustines for an appetizer and refilled their glasses. She waited till he left. “He wanted to know if I knew where you were.”

“And?”

“I told him I had no idea, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell him.” She smiled wryly.

“That doesn’t sound terribly urgent,” he said, sipping the wine.

“It was his manner,” she said. “I had a bad feeling. There was something about him.”

“Describe him.”

“Middle Eastern. Arab or Iranian. Small man. His hands were very big, like they belonged to a much bigger man. And his journalist’s carte . It looked cheap, phony. His clothes too. He gave me, in French we say, la chair de poule ?”

“He gave you the creeps.”

“Yes, he creeped me.” She frowned. “But it wasn’t just that.”

“Something spooked you. What was it?” he said, looking up as the waiter brought his sole meuniere and Sandrine her pike quenelles in shellfish sauce.

“For a journalist, he didn’t seem interested in the story. Not the children, not the bravery or what happened in Somalia, nothing. It was all about you. He wanted to know where you were. He showed me a photo.”

Scorpion put his fork down. His sole meuniere stuck in his throat. It was unbelievably good and at the same time terrible because he knew it was all about to go to hell.

“Of me?” he said.

She nodded. “Not the one from the article. A different one and with a different name.”

“Michael Kilbane?” he asked.

She nodded again. “He asked if it was you.”

Christ, he thought, taking a deep breath. He was blown. Someone had put it together.

“What did you tell him?”

She shook her head, her hair swaying like a curtain.

“I said it didn’t look like you to me.” She looked at him sharply. “But it was you. And I don’t think he believed me.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. There was laughter from another table, a family. A thin man with a long nose shook his head and told them: “Non, non. Mais c’est vrai.” No, no, but it’s true, and they laughed again.

“I don’t know what to call you,” Sandrine said softly. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“The food’s good,” he said, and in spite of herself, she sputtered, laughing.

“Damn you,” she laughed. “So what is your name? Is it really Nick? Or is it Michael, or do you have one for every day of the week?”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“I shouldn’t have come. It was stupid. Self-indulgent. I’m so very sorry,” he said, frowning. “We need to leave Paris. Both of us. Tonight.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not leaving.”

“Look, I know it sounds insane, but right now you’d be safer in Africa. I think you should go back to Dadaab. Now. Right away. I’m begging you.”

She examined him with her lion’s eyes.

“You know,” she said, “the Canadian nurse, Jennifer. She e-mailed me. She said the boy, Ghedi, the one you saved from Somalia, all he talks about is you. That you’re coming for him.”

“I will,” he said, his voice thick. He had to take a sip of wine to go on. “Have to clean this up first.”

“I don’t understand any of this. Why did you come tonight? Truly?”

He looked at her. Smooth golden skin, high cheekbones, and eyes like no one else’s.

“You know why,” he said, barely able to get it out. The effect she had on him was unbelievable.

“Tiens!” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Come on,” she said, taking his hand for him to get up.

“Where are we going?” he said, following her up and motioning to the waiter for the bill.

“My place. I’m going to rip your clothes off and have sex with you.”

As they headed for the door, the waiter, a Gallic half smile on his lips as if he knew exactly why they were leaving, handed him the bill, and Scorpion shoved a handful of euros at him.

“Why?” he asked as they nodded to the maitre d’ and stepped outside, the street dark and nearly empty except for the streetlights shining on the cobblestones and darkened shop windows.