"What does all this accomplish?" Holliday asked.
"This will tell the passport office computer in Ottawa that Mr. Norman Peterson and Miss Allison Masters, both presently in Paris, France, which is the closest actual passport-issuing office in the area, are renewing their passports, and have, in fact, already done so. It is telling the computer that the new passports are actually waiting at the embassy in Paris. Meanwhile a different set of instructions has been sent to new files, along with a request for a JPEG digitization of two new passport pictures. Everything gets backdated by a few days, the passports get printed during today's run and they'll be ready and waiting for you when you get to the embassy. Show them the birth certificates, driver's licenses and Social Insurance Numbers I'll provide you with and they'll give you two perfectly authentic Canadian passports, hot off the press, orchestrated by yours truly. If one of their electronic forensics people tries to reverse analyze the transaction it will dead end at the Albanian consulate, which is probably located in a dirty little hole-in-the-wall office above whatever passes for a convenience store in Tirana. It's a little convoluted, but it's a perfect hole in the system. Bust into their own database, they assume that the instructions are their own and thus legitimate and authorized. Hasn't failed me yet."
"Don't you mean Social Security Numbers?" Peggy asked.
"Don't make that mistake at the embassy in Paris if anybody happens to question you, which they won't. Social Security is American; Social Insurance is Canadian."
"But we're not going to Paris," Peggy argued.
"Oh yes, you are," said Paddy Philpot.
With the exception of their passports, they had all the documents they needed by two in the afternoon. As a bonus Pyx had thrown in two valid Bank of Nova Scotia Visa cards in their new names, each with a ten-thousand-dollar limit that, according to the Irishman, would somehow be skimmed from the huge Canadian bank's vast stream of invisible wireless transfers that pinged off satellites around the world each day.
They spent most of their day at Le Vieux Four drinking ice cold Sangano Blonde beer, nibbling on cheese and pate and listening to Paddy Philpot spin tales about his old cloak-and-dagger days. Holliday could almost forget why they were in this beautiful place. Almost.
In the early afternoon, documents in hand, they thanked Pyx for his hospitality and the speed and quality of his work, then climbed back into the Mercedes and headed down the mountain to the valley below. Finding the auto route, they made the sixty-mile trip to Lyon in a little over an hour and Philpot dropped them off in front of the modern Part-Dieu railway station.
"There are fast trains all the time. The trip to Paris takes about two hours. You should be all right. You remember the name of the hotel I told you about?"
"Hotel Normandie. Rue de la Huchette between Rue du Petit Pont and the Boulevard Saint-Michel on the Left Bank," said Holliday, repeating Philpot's instructions.
"Good man." The CIA analyst smiled.
"We owe you for the passports," said Holliday grudgingly. "I haven't forgotten, you know. We'll pay you back."
"Think nothing of it, Doc. Consider yourself back on the Company payroll."
"What about you?" Holliday asked.
"I have some people to see back in Prague. But we'll meet up again back in the States." He took a small black cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Holliday. "I'll call you." He smiled again, rolled up the window and drove off.
Holliday and Peggy turned, crossed the broad sidewalk and went into the low-ceilinged modern terminus. They bought a pair of first-class tickets on the next highspeed train to Paris, a brand-new TGV Duplex double-decker with big, airplane-style seats, lots of legroom and a top speed of 186 miles per hour.
They boarded the train, found their seats and settled in for the relatively short journey. So far they had seen nothing suspicious, but without passports and only forged documents to identify themselves they both felt vulnerable. The train was packed, mostly with tourists of various nationalities on their way back to Paris, but they had seats together and no one paid them any attention.
The train headed smoothly out of the station, right on time, and a few minutes later they were gathering speed as they raced through the suburbs of the big French city. Neither one of them had spoken since leaving Philpot at the entrance to the station.
"You want something to eat?" Holliday asked. He had taken the aisle seat, giving Peggy the window.
"No, thanks."
"Drink?"
"No, I'm not thirsty," said Peggy, shaking her head. "Maybe later."
"Yeah, maybe later," said Holliday awkwardly. Another moment passed.
"What do you really know about Philpot?" Peggy asked finally.
The train began to sway and vibrate slightly as they hit the open countryside and continued to gain speed. "I know he and Pesek got us out of a lot of trouble yesterday. He's arranged for passports today. Stuff we couldn't have done ourselves."
"Like some kind of guardian angel-is that it?"
"I'm not sure."
"You ever wonder whose side he's on?" She frowned. "He could be part of Sinclair's scheme. He could be part of the rogue group within the Agency. Lies inside lies inside lies."
"Yes."
"Well?"
"I can't give you an answer because I don't know. I only know what he's done for us so far."
"There's something wrong with the world when you suspect that everybody's out to get you."
Holliday was silent for a moment. He stared at the striped fabric and the pull-down table on the seat ahead.
"You ever watch a TV show or read a book and come to a place where you stop and ask yourself, why don't they just go to the cops?"
"Sure," Peggy said. "It's like in a horror movie when the girl goes down into the dark basement and everybody but her knows she should turn and run."
"But if she did, the movie would end right there," agreed Holliday. "That's where we are," he went on. "We're at the place where the movie should just end, because if we had any brains we'd run to the cops."
"But we can't," said Peggy.
"What are you getting at?"
"Philpot's keeping the movie going." She paused. "And you can GPS us off that phone with the right equipment."
"So?" Holliday asked.
"Why is he doing it?" Peggy said. "He and Pesek's people save our bacon after they kidnapped us, and now he gets us passports. He wants us back in the middle of it all. Why?" She paused. "Is he setting us up like Brennan did?"
"That thought had crossed my mind," Holliday said abjectly. "But what are we supposed to do about it now?" He turned and looked at Peggy. "I should send you back to Rafi in Jerusalem."
"Don't be so retro, Doc. And besides, Rafi's not in Jerusalem; he's in Ethiopia or somewhere, looking for some lost Roman Legion or King Solomon's Mines or something. And, anyway, I wouldn't go. You need me." Peggy looked out the window, then back at Holliday. "So, what do we do now?"
"I might have one more card to play," Holliday said thoughtfully.
"It better be an ace," said Peggy.
Kate Sinclair was over the mid-Atlantic on her way back to the United States for her son's formal investiture as vice president when her companion's satellite phone pinged insistently. Excusing himself, Mike Harris took the call. He listened for less than a minute and then ended the call.
"Anything important?" Sinclair asked, smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of her own red wine.
"Pyx reporting in as you requested. He's given everyone passports and Visa cards. The Visas have GPS locators under the hologram, just as he said. We can find them anytime we want."