“Olivia,” Jake said. “We’ve been on a few dates.”
“Who is she?” Renard asked.
Jake wanted to tell him it was none of his business but knew he couldn’t. Renard was making it clear that everything was his business.
“Just an unemployed psychology PhD. She’s taking courses at the university to learn how to draw, and she parked herself in Avignon to make some sketches of gothic architecture. Cool way to pass the time if you ask me.”
“A perfect life, indeed,” Renard said. “Too perfect.”
“She’s had some hard times.”
“I sacrificed many of my intelligence channels when we stole the Colorado, but I still have a few. None of them, however, could produce a shred of data about her after she earned her PhD from Yale University three years ago.”
“I don’t like you looking over my shoulder.”
“It is for your protection.”
“You sure you’ve got the right Olivia McDonald?”
“Certain. Henri may be a hopeless romantic who telephones you to help you meet a new lady he’s supposed to be surveying, but he’s competent enough to capture a digital image of her face.”
“You can’t find anything on her after 2005?”
“Nothing,” Renard said.
“So what does that mean?” Jake asked.
“It could mean nothing,” Renard said. “The entire world is no longer at my fingertips, but I am concerned.”
“I’m not blowing her off because you’re concerned.”
Renard stamped out his cigarette and withdrew a gold plated Zippo lighter. His thumb whipped across a gear. A spark jumped, and flame danced across the tip of a Marlboro.
“How well does she know you?” Renard asked.
“She believes my cover,” Jake said. “Everyone believes my cover. Shit, Pierre, it’s not that hard to swallow. I tell everyone my rich father died and left me millions and that I got HIV from a cheating girlfriend.”
“The cover is workable, but my concern is the better people know you, the harder it is for you to separate your real history from the lies.”
“I’m not going to hide in an ivory tower.”
“Nor should you,” Renard said. “But have you considered hiding in a Taiwanese Agosta class submarine?”
“I’m not going with you.”
“Then this is it,” Renard said. “After today, I return to hiding, and I’m not sure when I will see you again.”
Henri’s head popped through the doorframe again.
“Come in,” Renard said. “Bring the others.”
“I’m serious,” Jake said. “You’re on your own.”
The five French submarine fleet veterans entered the room. The elderly couple waved and departed.
“At least stay and help us plan, Jake. When you hear what I’m up to, you’ll know why I need your input, and you may change your mind about joining us.”
“Sure,” Jake said and sat. “I’m not going to join you, but I’m sure you dumb asses need an American’s input on your anti-China submarine tactics so you don’t get yourselves killed.”
CHAPTER 7
Olivia studied her translucent image in a glass storefront. The French summer sun had started to tan her skin — a difficultly for a redhead from Connecticut.
She focused beyond her image into the store. Beside a carousel of men’s slacks, a shapely blonde woman stared back at her. The blonde removed an emerald ring from her right finger, slipped it over her left, and turned.
CIA Officer Rebecca Daman, I presume, Olivia thought as she stepped back from the window.
“I’m buying you a tie,” she said.
“I have enough ties,” Jake said.
“You’ve spent a lot of money on me, but you haven’t let me buy you anything.”
“Then buy me some chocolate. I’m hungry.”
Rebecca Daman appeared at the store entrance.
“Hello,” she said in French. “Do you desire anything?”
Olivia noticed a hint of a Long Island accent in her French but trusted Jake did not have the ear for it.
“No, thank you,” Jake said.
“Yes,” Olivia said. “Don’t you think he’d look fantastic in a blue Italian tie?”
“I think he looks fantastic already, but if you put him in a Villa Bolgheri, you’d have to fight off every woman in Provence.”
Rebecca smiled, tilted her head, and swept back her blonde hair. Jake started toward the store.
“I don’t suppose I’m getting out of this?” he asked.
“Not a chance,” Olivia said.
Olivia watched Jake flip a navy blue tie over the collar of his starched white shirt. She knew that Rebecca had chosen the tie because it was too dark. While the victim of her seduction assessed his image in a mirror, she slid out of his view.
“Third tie, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, “Ready for the control unit?”
“Do it.”
Olivia opened her purse and presented it. She frowned as she felt Rebecca insert and withdraw her hand. Although it was Rebecca’s first assignment, the motion should have been indiscernible.
Followed by Rebecca, Olivia walked behind Jake.
“Hey handsome,” she said, “that doesn’t look right.”
“No, it’s too dark,” Rebecca said. “Try this one.”
Jake exchanged the dark tie for one of pale blue.
“I don’t like this one either,” Olivia said.
“Too pale,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps this one.”
Jake tried the third tie.
“Perfect,” Olivia said.
“The blue matches his eyes,” Rebecca said.
“I’ll take it,” Olivia said.
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Jake asked.
Olivia wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.
“Nope. You’re wearing this to dinner.”
“That reminds me,” he said. “We need to hurry. It’s going to take us a few hours to get there.”
“Yeah, and I want to see Nice. Let’s buy this thing and get going.”
“Your pretty pushy for a new…”
She stepped in front of him.
“A new what?”
“Friend.”
“Okay, good,” she said. “I was afraid you were going to admit that you liked me.”
After a limousine ride to France’s southeast corner, Jake strolled through the streets of Nice. European wealth made him feel like he could spend his money liberally, and Nice’s gaudiness provided him a place to meet Renard without drawing attention.
His new tie around his collar, he grabbed Olivia’s hand. A lady wearing an apron and jeans stepped out of a candy store’s front and reached upward.
“Hurry,” he said. “The store’s closing.”
His grip slipping, he realized that the subject of his new infatuation didn’t share his zeal for chocolate.
“Go on,” Olivia said.
“Wait!” Jake said.
“Okay, take your time,” the lady in the apron said.
“Thanks,” Jake said. “I’m dying for a chocolate animal. What do you have?”
The lady stepped behind a glass display and pointed at pairs of chocolate-sculpted pigs and frogs nestled between éclairs and napoleons.
“The frogs, please,” Jake said.
He dropped euro into the lady’s hand, transformed his hand into a lily pad for his chocolate treats, and sauntered towards Olivia.
“Couldn’t you at least get them wrapped?” she asked.
“They’re not going to last long enough,” he said.
“Dinner’s in two hours.”
“Dear God, woman. Haven’t you seen me eat? You’re lucky I’m even thinking about giving you one.”
He rammed a frog head first into his mouth. Even after two years in France, he always enjoyed the sweet explosion of chocolate from French pastries.