I left them on the outskirts of Caen. “Now I’m not about to take that robe away from you,” Howard said. “Can’t go doing that, even if this is France and all.”
Howard’s wife said, “Oh, Howie!” and giggled.
“So I’ll just give you my card,” he went on, “and you send the robe back when you’re done with it.”
I wonder if he ever got the robe back. I left it in one of the outbuildings of an apple orchard outside of Caen. The hired men lived in the building, and they were all out picking apples when I got there, so I went from bed to bed until I found a set of clothes my size – corduroy button-fly trousers, a thick flannel shirt. From beneath another bunk I liberated two heavy white wool socks and a pair of ankle-length cordovan boots with steel-reinforced toes. I gave them the terry cloth robe in return and left Howard’s card in the pocket just in case they wanted to send it back to him.
It was nice to be wearing underwear again.
Under an apple tree in a neighboring orchard I stretched out on my back and let the world calm down. It was a clear and warm day, and gradually the heat baked the chill out of me. I had come as close as I ever would to an old boyhood dream of swimming the English Channel. I was alive, I was dry, and I was almost warm. I had clothes on my back and boots on my feet and nine hundred dollars around my waist.
So much for assets. I didn’t even want to think about the other side of the ledger. I just wanted to get back to the States.
Yeah.
Well, what the hell else could I do? I couldn’t fly to Kabul as planned, because those clowns who were planning to overthrow the government of Afghanistan would welcome me with open guns. I couldn’t fly anywhere because I didn’t have a passport. If the police picked me up, they would send me to England, and the English would put a rope around my neck. And-
Phaedra, I told myself. Sweet innocent Phaedra Harrow. Or Debbie Horowitz, as you prefer. Think about Phaedra.
Oh, the hell with her. I did what I could, and-
But I had killed a man on her account, hadn’t I? Not that it had done her worlds of good, because the poor kid was chained up in some sort of Afghan whorehouse getting raped twenty or thirty times a day, and-
Good, I thought wickedly. She deserves it.
I sat up, clambered to my feet. I can’t take too much credit for the decision to press onward. I’d like to attribute it entirely to concern for Phaedra and strength of moral fiber, but I’ve got to admit that there was more to it than that. Because, after all, it couldn’t be too much harder for me to get to Afghanistan than back to New York. Either way I didn’t have a passport. Either way I was wanted by the British for murder, and the U.S. would be more likely to extradite me. Either way I was in all kinds of trouble, and it’s no great trick to be a hero when it doesn’t cost you anything.
I hitchhiked to Paris. Everyone has friends in Paris, and I have some particularly useful ones. A family of Algerian colons fed me and wined me, and a friend of theirs drove me through town in a dented Citroen to the home of his old OAS comrade who lived in the attic of a decrepit tenement off the Boulevard Raspail in Montparnasse. The old comrade was in no shape to win a beauty contest – he’d lost a hand and most of his face when some plastique went off ahead of schedule. But he took five of my hundred-dollar bills and disappeared into the night, and when he’d been gone almost three hours I looked accusingly at the Citroen’s driver.
“It is said by all that Léon is a trustworthy man,” he said.
I said nothing.
“And yet five hundred U.S. is a great sum of money. Twenty-five hundred francs, is it not?”
I admitted that it was.
“One should not leave one’s lambs in the care of too hungry a dog.”
I agreed that one probably shouldn’t.
“So we shall wait,” my driver said, “and we shall see.”
Léon was back before sunrise with a Belgian passport in the name of Paul Mornay. M. Mornay was fifty-three years old, stood five feet five inches tall, and weighed 214 pounds. They didn’t even come right out and say this, either. It was all in centimeters and kilograms and such and I had to work it out in order to see just how far apart were M. Mornay and I. His picture was as far off the mark as his vital statistics. He had a round face and a baldish head and a cute little moustache, and he looked more like Porky Pig than Evan Tanner.
“It is genuine,” Léon said.
“And M. Mornay?”
“M. Mornay has taken to bed one of the most energetic tarts in Montmartre.”
“From his picture,” I said, “one would think it would kill him.”
“And so it did,” Léon agreed. “At the critical moment, zut! The little death becomes the great one. Thus did his passport come upon the market, and thus one may rest assured that M. Mornay will not report its loss.”
My driver said, “If one must die, no way is sweeter.” And, in the car, he said, “I must apologize for Léon. I thought he was a trustworthy man.”
“He brought the passport.”
“If he paid more than a thousand francs for that passport then I am the bastard son of Enzo Ferrari and Queen Marie of Rumania. For twenty-five hundred francs one should obtain a U.S. or British passport in good order, not a shabby Belgian thing that requires further attention. One expects that Léon shall make a profit, but this is larcenous.”
“I didn’t think he would come back at all.”
“Ah,” said my driver. “But did I not assure you he was a trustworthy man?”
My barber was also a trustworthy man. He was one of the few White Russians in Paris who didn’t insist he had been a prince before the revolution. He said he had been a barber, and he was a barber still. His craft was only slightly impaired by the tremor which age had put in his fingers. He agreed that it was sensible to doctor me rather than the passport insofar as possible. He shaved me, leaving a moustache to match M. Mornay’s and he showed me how to fill this in with eyebrow pencil so that it did not look as sparse as it was. He dyed my hair black and toyed with the idea of shaving some of it, but we decided that a shaved head rarely looks authentically bald, so instead of subtracting hair from my own head I added hair to the photo of M. Mornay.
There was not very much else I could do. Good passport artists, with proper tools and years of experience, can perform extraordinary tricks. I know two such men, one in Athens and one in Manhattan, but I didn’t know of anyone in Paris and had no time to find one. It would have been child’s play for such an artist to alter Mornay’s height and weight so that they corresponded to my own. As things stood, I had to rely on the fact that the average immigration officer is far too harried to spend too much time looking at a passport.
I left Paris late that afternoon. A different colon in the same Citroen drove me to the airport at Orly. I was wearing a medium-priced ready-made suit, and the cut of it showed me why Europeans have their clothes made to measure. Still, it fit my new role better than the applepicker’s work clothes. I had them with me in a small imitation-leather suitcase.
I flew to Geneva and Zurich. The following morning I went to the Bank Leu in Zurich, where I have a signature-and-number account for money that can’t conveniently accompany me into the States. I checked the balance and found that it stood at fifteen thousand Swiss francs, which is just under thirty-five hundred U.S. dollars.