Tanner chose the Hotel Saint Beuve from memory as well. Tucked into a warren of quiet side streets overlooking the sixty-acre Luxembourg Gardens, the Saint Beuve’s exterior was that of a Gothic mansion, while inside it was appointed with baroque furniture, open-hearth fireplaces, and a muted color scheme of tapestries that lent the rooms a medieval flair. Few tourists recognized the Saint Beuve for what it was, let alone bothered to venture inside. Parisians treated the Saint Beuve as a well-kept secret, a country retreat in the center of the city.
The front desk receptionist happily reported she had a double room for them. “And how long will the messieurs be staying?” she asked. She was in her early twenties with bobbed black hair and a disarming smile.
Tanner replied, “A week, perhaps two.”
“Very good, sir.” She signaled for a bellhop, who walked over. “This way, messieurs.”
Once they were settled into their room, Cahil headed for the shower while Tanner called Holystone. Oaken picked up on the first ring. “Where’re you staying?” he asked Briggs.
“Hotel Saint Beuve, the Luxembourg Quarter.” He gave Oaken the address and phone number and heard the tapping of computer keys.
“Okay, here … There’s a FedEx office three blocks away on Toumon; give them a call, they’ll deliver your package.”
“Package” was Oaken’s own code for what was known in tradecraft jargon as a “dump”: spare phones, a pre-loaded laptop, sanitized credit cards, emergency communication procedures. As this was a personal mission, Tanner hadn’t expected it. “Oaks, I don’t—”
“No arguments, just take it. Check in when you can.”
“Thanks, Walt.”
“No problem. One other thing: I’ve got a lead for you. His name is Frank Slavin; he works for DEA Intell out of the embassy.” Oaken recited Slavin’s phone number, then said, “He’ll know you by Dan Watts; he’s expecting your call.”
“Another member of the Walter Oaken Secret Friends Network?”
“Not after this. When I mentioned Susanna’s name, he clammed up; I could feel the chill through the phone. I had to twist his arm pretty hard.”
“How hard?”
“Very. Whatever she was into, Briggs, it was dicey.”
Tanner agreed. There were only a few reasons why the DEA would be so miserly with information about Susanna, and none of them were good: One, whatever her assignment, it was potentially scandalous; two, digging into her disappearance might jeopardize an ongoing operation they’d decided was more important than a single agent’s life; or three, they had reason to believe she was still operational. If this were the case, the DEA was pushing her too far out on the limb. In Tanner’s experience, the only time you let an agent vanish was when you’d established a network capable of tracking him or her down the rabbit hole.
Was someone watching out for Susanna? he wondered. He hoped so. Either way, he was going to find out for himself.
“What does Slavin know about me?” Tanner asked Oaken.
“You’re a retired DOJ investigator and an old friend of Gill’s.”
“He’s going to try to snow me.”
“Probably,” Oaken replied with a chuckle. “Something tells me it won’t work.”
“Do me a favor: Keep Gill up to speed; I don’t want him sitting around wondering. I’m a little worried about him.”
“Already talked to him. Between Leland and me, we’ll be talking to him every day until you find her.”
“You’re a good man, Oaks.”
“Ah, yes, but a bad camper.”
“Better that than the opposite,” Tanner replied.
“True enough. Good hunting, Briggs.”
Tanner called the FedEx office, and twenty minutes later the package was delivered to their door by the hotel’s concierge. Inside the box they found two Motorola satellite phones, a Sony Vaio laptop, a pair of Visa cards for each of them, and a short note:
PHONES YOU KNOW; CREDIT CARDS FRESH AND FULLY BACK-STOPPED; LAPTOP PRELOADED WITH BRIEF AND COMM PROTOCOLS — READ ALL BEFORE FIRST MEETING; MIGHT COME IN HANDY. SEE JPEG 1 ON DESKTOP: PIC OF YOUR CONTACT.
Reading over Tanner’s shoulder, Cahil said, “He’s a good man.”
“That’s what I told him.” Tanner powered up the laptop, then clicked on the file labeled “JPEG 1,” which was a copy of what Tanner assumed was Frank Slavin’s embassy ID card. “Think you can spot him?” Tanner asked.
“Handsome devil like him? No problem.”
Tanner clicked on the “Brief” folder on the desktop. They started reading and finished twenty minutes later. As usual, Oaken’s attention to detail shone through. Where he’d gotten his information, Tanner wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t from open sources. Bless him, Iceland was bending the rules to help.
“This guy is going to wet himself once you start talking,” Cahil said.
“Let’s find out,” Tanner said and reached for the phone.
If Frank Slavin was reluctant with Oaken, he was evasive with Tanner, citing a busy schedule as his excuse. It was only after Briggs suggested he come down to the embassy and wait for Slavin’s schedule to clear that the DEA man agreed to meet for lunch at the Bistro Cote Mer on Saint Germain overlooking Ile the Seine.
He and Cahil left an hour before the meeting, walked through the Luxembourg Gardens, past the Sorbonne, and into the Latin Quarter. Saint Germain Boulevard lay within view of the river’s quai streets, following the contours of the shoreline. As though floating in mid-channel, Notre Dame cathedral rose from its island, buttresses arcing out and downward like the legs of a giant crab.
“Spider-leg house,” Cahil said, staring at the cathedral.
“What’s that?” Tanner replied.
“That’s what Lucy called it when she first saw a picture of it,” Cahil said. His daughter had just started second grade. “Humpback spider-leg house.”
Tanner laughed. “Who knows, maybe that’s the real translation.”
“And they’re just too embarrassed to admit it?”
“Could be.”
When they reached the block on which the Bistro Cote Mer sat, they parted company. Tanner continued on and found the restaurant under a blue awning. Inside, the motif was French countryhouse, with whitewashed brick walls, undressed wooden columns, and walls painted in golds, blues, and reds. Above each table hung a wrought-iron hurricane lamp.
Tanner gave his name to the hostess then found a seat at the bar and ordered mineral water. Five minutes later, the bell over the door tinkled and Frank Slavin walked in. He said something to the hostess, who pointed in Tanner’s direction. Slavin walked over.
“Watts?”
“Dan,” Tanner replied, extending his hand. Slavin was in his early fifties, paunchy, with a rosy face. He smelled of cigars. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Yeah.” Slavin took the stool next to Tanner. “Ain’t got much time.” The bartender wandered over and Slavin ordered a bourbon, neat.
“Lunch?” Tanner asked.
“No time.”
“Pain aux noix et pomme, s’il vous plaît,” Tanner told the bartender.