Jennifer studied his face for a reaction, some glimmer of realization, of guilt, however slight. But she saw nothing.
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Don’t screw around.” Jennifer raised her voice ever so slightly. “I know what you do, who you are… Felix or Duval or whatever you call yourself these days.”
There was a pause as Tom looked at her, his face inscrutable, his right hand moving his glass around in tight wet circles where the condensation had run down onto the table.
“Why are you really here, Agent Browne?”
“I’ve come to offer you a deal.”
Tom gave a wry smile.
“That’s easy, then. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”
“You sure? If they’ve sent me all the way over here, it’s because they’re serious. Maybe you should hear me out.”
“What for? More lies? You’ve got nothing I could ever want. Have a good flight home.”
“I’m talking about a fresh start, Mr. Kirk. I’m talking about wiping your file clean.” Tom had stood up to leave but Jennifer’s urgent tone seemed to stop him in his tracks. “The CIA forgets about you. We forget about you. The last fifteen years just never happened. Think about it.”
Tom studied her for a few moments and then sat back down.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. We just want the coins back.”
He frowned.
“The coins?”
“And the name of whoever paid you to steal them. You do that and you’ll never hear from us again.”
Tom nodded thoughtfully and resumed the circling with his glass, slowly extending the edges of the wet patch on the table.
“There’s only one problem with your deal,” he said eventually.
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play games.” Jennifer spoke with an icy edge to her voice now. “You want me spell it out for you? Fine. We know you took the coins and we know how you did it. We want them back and the name of whoever sent you. Stand in our way and now that we’ve found you again, we’ll make life very difficult for you. That’s a promise.”
“No, let me spell it out for you.” The people at the neighboring table looked over disapprovingly from under their baseball caps as Tom’s voice rose until he was almost shouting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And let me give you an update. I’m out of the game now. Permanently. That’s the way it is, whether you believe me or not. Now, you think you got something on me, you go ahead and play that card. But I’m not taking the fall for something I know nothing about. Screwing me over will not help you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Jennifer considered him for a moment. She had always been able to sense when people were lying. She looked for small things; involuntary twitches, hand movements, the eyes mostly. To Jennifer’s surprise, all the signs that she could read pointed to Tom telling the truth. How could that be right? Even so, she continued along the lines Corbett and she had agreed upon.
“So you’re refusing our deal?”
“What deal? I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to deal.” There was a pause as he stared at Jennifer angrily. “Are we done here?”
Jennifer nodded. She’d rattled him. That was all they could reasonably expect at this stage. As to whether he would come round as the consequences of what she’d just outlined and the attractiveness of the deal sank in, only time would tell.
“For now. But I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“You know what, Agent Browne? Don’t bother.”
Tom got up, drained his glass, and marched toward the exit. As he approached the revolving door the same two men who’d been loitering in the arcade earlier stood up from where they had been sitting and squared up to meet him. Tom looked from one to the other and then swiveled round to face Jennifer. They stared at each other for a few moments over the heads of the crowded restaurant, before she signaled with a wave of her hand that they should let him pass. The two men parted like a set of iron gates.
As Tom disappeared out onto the street, Jennifer reached for her phone. Corbett answered on the second ring, in his usual terse manner.
“How did it go?”
“As we thought. Deny, deny, deny. He’s certainly convincing.”
Corbett snorted.
“Oh, yeah? Well, I figure it’s time to light a fuse under Kirk’s lying ass.”
Jennifer frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got a date tonight.”
Her eyes widened in understanding.
“You’ve managed to set something up with your contact?”
“I didn’t even have to ask. When Renwick heard that one of my people was in town, he mentioned that he was having someone over for dinner tonight and then asked whether you’d like to join them. Guess who the other guest is.”
“Kirk?” Her voice betrayed her excitement. This was even better than they’d hoped.
“That’s right. Turns out he invited him over last week. Let’s see how convincing Kirk is when you show up right in his backyard.”
“Does Renwick know why we’re here?”
“No. I told him that we were investigating something and needed his help again. I want you to take the coin along with you tonight. If anyone can help us narrow down the list of people who are behind the Fort Knox job, it’s him. Tell him what you need to, but try and keep the specifics to a minimum.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and we’ve set something up with Van Simson tomorrow at his place in Paris. Two-thirty. It’s the only slot he could do. Can you make it?”
“Sure. I’ll get the embassy people here to sort some transport out. It won’t be a problem.”
“Great. Call me in the morning and let me know how tonight goes.”
She returned her phone to her purse, smiling. Times like this reminded her why, despite all the John Pipers in the world, she still loved her job.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Harry Renwick lived on a wide, tree-lined street. Broad brick houses with tall windows and high ceilings climbed four stories into the sky. Station wagons and SUVs nestled bumper to bumper with weekend Ferraris and Porsches.
Tom had pulled on his best suit for the occasion, a merino-and-cashmere mix that was light and yet sat well on his square frame. In the end, knowing Renwick as he did, he had decided to wear a tie, although the unfamiliar collar rasped against his neck. Suits weren’t really his thing.
He stepped out of the cab and checked his wrist, a Tank from the 1920s, which Tom still regarded as Cartier’s best period. It was gold and solid and squat, the Roman numerals elegantly spaced out on the oblong face. It was eight o’clock. He was right on time.
“Come in, come in,” exclaimed Renwick as he threw the door open, Tom’s face reflecting in its gleaming black paint and polished brass.
Renwick was still wearing the same white linen suit, although he had taken the jacket off, revealing his shirt’s threadbare elbows. Tom shook Renwick’s hand and then handed over the bottle he was holding as he stepped onto the hall’s marble checkerboard floor.
“My dear boy!” Renwick exclaimed, his face beaming as he unwrapped it. “A Clos du Mesnil and an ’85, too. You really shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” said Tom, smiling. He was feeling much more composed now after the initial surprise of that morning’s events. More than anything now he was intrigued. The FBI’s involvement suggested that the Agency was not behind this approach, which had to be good news. And the fact that they hadn’t just had him picked up suggested that they needed something from him that might give him some room for maneuver. Even if he still didn’t really have a clue what they wanted.