"It was all an act," Cynthia said, marveling at the scam.
"Every bit of it. We think even the promotion from the Presidium was phony. He set us up to get his daughter into this country so she could kill the President. And she damn near succeeded."
"Where did this happen?"
"In New York. Outside the UN."
"You mean it was Tatiana Kobelev who tried to kill President Manning in New York? I thought it was what's-her-name, Millicent Stone, the one who died. They published her diary and everything."
Carter shook his head. "The FBI fabricated the story. They had to. Tatiana is a Russian national, don't forget. If it had gotten out who'd really pulled the trigger, it would have strained things between our countries forever. It may have even called for a military response."
"So Kobelev had it planned from the beginning. Lure you to Russia to provide legitimate entry for his daughter so she could kill the President. Amazing."
"The man is diabolical. He has to be stopped at any cost."
"Poor Nicky," she said, gently running her fingers through his hair. "You look as if you're taking all this on yourself."
"I had a chance to kill him in Moscow and I blew it. He'd contrived this fencing match between us, thinking he'd humiliate me in front of his wife and daughter. He didn't know I was an intercollegiate champion for four years in a row. I could have run him through, but I didn't. I thought I'd get another chance. But if I'd skewered him then as I should have…"
"If you'd killed him in front of his entire family you never would have gotten out of Russia alive, and our side would have lost one of the most valuable agents it has. Don't be so hard on yourself, Nick." She leaned over and kissed him. It was meant to be a reassuring peck, but her lips lingered a few extra seconds, savoring the sensation.
"Do that again and I might not be able to control myself."
She put her arms around him, her hand resting on the nape of his neck. "What do you think I've been waiting for?" she asked huskily. Gently she pulled him down with her onto the mat. He smiled and followed her without the slightest hesitation as she brought her leg up around his, and pressed against his body.
For all her strength, she was incredibly soft, and in a few moments they were both nude, and Carter was kissing her neck, and her lovely breasts, her nipples hard now as her chest rose and fell.
"Nicky… oh. God, Nicky," she moaned softly, her fingernails beginning to scratch his back.
And then he was inside her, and they moved in an easy, graceful rhythm, like two athletes or a pair of dancers, their passion mounting, but gently.
She cried out in the end, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, at the same moment Carter thrust deeply one last time.
They finished their workout around eight o'clock. Cynthia put on her robe while Carter stood staring out the large arched window at the end of the huge room.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, coming up behind him and looping her arm through his.
"I was thinking how nice it would be right now to go out and eat Chinese. I know a nice little place not far from here."
"I can't leave."
"I know, but every now and then I get a yearning to lead a normal, everyday sort of life."
She squeezed his arm, and together they stared down at the puddles glistening in the streetlight at the far end of the parking lot.
It was raining over the entire eastern seaboard from Stowe, Vermont, to Charleston, South Carolina, but out over the Atlantic the clouds dissipated, and in Paris at this particular moment, the weather was crisp and dry.
With six hours of time difference it was already two in the morning Paris time, and in spite of the fabled "nightlife Parisienne," the city's streets were practically deserted. Even the legendary Champs-Elysee's traffic was light — a taxi, a private car, and of course, every now and then, a truck.
One such truck, a squat white one, pulled out of a narrow alley onto the famous avenue. Ahead was the Arc de Triomphe and a dozen streets to the east the Palais de l'Élysée, where at this hour the president of France lay sleeping.
Two men sat in the truck: Jean, the driver, a wiry little Parisian whose looks greatly belied his august physical strength; and beside him, Guillaume, older and heavier, his sailor's watch cap pushed to the back of his head and a Gauloise eternally stuck to his lower lip.
They turned left on the Avenue General Gallieni and crossed the Seine on the Pont Alexandre III. Here the city began to change, subtly, but significantly all the same. The streets became cleaner, the shrubs better trimmed, the sidewalks in perfect repair.
Jean turned in at the rue Avignon and slowed. The street was quiet, not a soul stirred. Under a line of chestnut trees Mercedes, Peugeot, Citroen, and Cadillac limousines were wedged next to the curb bumper-to-bumper. Beyond these were the house fronts, cold gray stone with thick wooden doors behind screens of wrought-iron filigree. Bronze plaques identified each: Ambassade d'Espagne, Ambassade d'Italie, Ambassade d'États-Unis. At this last building Jean cranked the wheel, and the big truck lumbered down the long driveway toward the back.
The row of refuse cans stood against the north wall surrounding the compound. Jean stopped the truck with a bounce and a hiss of air brakes, ground the shift lever into reverse, and when the rear bumper of the truck was within a few feet of the cans, stopped it again.
The two men climbed out, pulling on thickly soiled gloves, and began dumping the cans. They were halfway down the line when the sound of someone clearing his throat forced Guillaume to turn around. Standing at the edge of the truck's rear was a uniformed figure, his flat-topped hat making his head seem disproportionately large in the darkness. At his hip was a revolver.
"How you boys doin'?" the figure asked.
"Comme çi, comme ca," Jean said offhandedly. He picked up another can, slung it onto the back of the truck, banged it empty, and replaced it.
"Where's your partner, Estaban?"
"Sick," said Jean. "Mal à l'estomac." He made a face and a hand motion around his middle to indicate how poorly Estaban was feeling.
"Who's this guy, then?"
"Permettez-moi… mon ami, Guillaume." Jean said.
Guillaume bowed his head uncertainly, watching Jean for his cue out of the corner of his eye.
"Yeah," said the guard. "Ain't you boys workin' a bit early this mornin'?"
Jean made several gestures to indicate he'd like to explain but couldn't because of the language barrier, then finally pointed to Guillaume and said, "Moonlight."
"I see," said the guard. "He has another job during the day?"
Jean smiled expansively and nodded. Guillaume, meanwhile, had moved behind the guard, had pulled out a piece of knotted piano wire, and was winding it around his hand.
"Sa femme," explained Jean, making a big stomach with his hands.
"I get it," the guard said. "His wife is pregnant and he has to work two jobs. You poor son of a bitch." The guard put his hand sympathetically on Guillaume's shoulder as he turned and headed back to the house. "Well, try to keep the noise down, boys. Got people sleepin' upstairs."
Jean shot a glance at Guillaume. He shook his head.
In a few minutes they'd finished the last of the barrels, closed the truck, and were heading back up the driveway to the street. As he turned the corner and recovered the wheel, Jean slapped his companion brusquely on the shoulder. "Give it to me," he said harshly, holding out his up-turned palm.