Most afternoons, Harding Torrance walked home from work. His cardiac guy had told him walking was the best thing for his heart. He liked walking. Also, he liked walking in Paris. The women, you know? Paris had the world’s most beautiful women, full stop, hands down. Plus, his eight-room apartment was on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A famous street in one of the fancier arrondisements on the Right Bank.
He’d lived here over twenty years and still didn’t know which arrondisement was which. He had learned an expression in French early on and it always served him well in life: “Je ne sais quoi.”
I don’t know.
His homeward route from the office took him past the Ritz Hotel, Sotheby’s, Hermès, Cartier, et cetera, et cetera. You get the picture. Ritzy real estate.
Very ritzy.
Oddly enough, the ritziest hotel on the whole rue was not the one called the Ritz. It was the one called Hotel Le Bristol. What he liked about the Bristol, mainly, was the bar. At the end of the day, good or bad, he liked a quiet cocktail or two in a quiet bar before he went home to his wife. That’s all there was to it, been doing it all his life. His personal happy hour.
The Bristol’s bar was dimly lit, church quiet, and hidden away off the beaten path. It was basically a nook in a far corner of the lobby where only the cognoscenti, as they say, held sway. Torrance held sway there because he was a big, good-looking guy, always impeccably dressed in Savile Row threads and Charvet shirts of pale pink or blue. He was a big tipper, a friendly guy. Knew the bar staff’s names by heart and discreetly handed out envelopes every Christmas.
Sartorial appearances to the contrary, Harding Torrance was one hundred percent red-blooded American. He even worked for the government, had mostly all his life. And he’d done very, very well, thank you. He’d come up the hard way, but he’d come up, all right. His job, though he’d damn well have to kill you if he told you, was Station Chief, CIA, Paris. In other words, Harding was a very big damn deal in anybody’s language.
He’d been in Paris since right after 9/11. His buddy from Houston, the new President, had posted him here because the huge Muslim population in Paris presented a lot of high value intel opportunities in one concentrated location. His mandate was to identify the Al Qaeda leadership in France, whisk them away to somewhere nice and quiet for a little enhanced interrogation.
He was good at it, he stuck with it, he got results, and he got promoted, boom, boom, boom. The President even singled him out for recognition in a State of the Union address, had specifically said that he and his team were responsible for saving countless lives on the European continent and in the U.K.
Harding had gone into the family oil business after West Point and a stint with the Rangers out of Fort Bragg. Spec ops duty, two combat tours in Iraq. Next, working for Torrance Oil, he was all over Saudi and Yemen and Oman, running his daddy’s fields in the Middle East. But he was no silver spoon boy, far from it. He had started on the rigs right at the bottom rung, working as a ginzel (lower than the lowest worm), working his way up to a floor hand on the kelly driver, and then a bona fide driller in one year.
Oilfields were his introduction to the real world of Islam.
Long story short?
He knew the Muslim mind-set, their language, their body language, their brains, even, knew the whole culture, the warlords, where all the bodies were buried, the whole enchilada. And so, when his pal W needed someone uniquely qualified to transform the CIA’s Paris station into a first rate intelligence clearinghouse for all of Europe? Well. Who was he to say? Let history tell the tale.
His competition? Most guys inside the Agency, working in Europe at that time, right after the Twin Towers? Didn’t know a burqa from a kumquat, and that’s no lie—
CHAPTER 5
“Monsieur Torrance? Monsieur Torrance?”
“Oui?”
“Votre whiskey, monsieur.”
”Oh, hey, Maurice. Sorry. Scotch rocks,” he said to the head bartender.
“Mais certainment, Monsieur Torrance. Et, voilà.”
His drink had come like magic. Had he already ordered that? He knocked it back, ordered another, and relaxed, making small talk, le bavardage, with Maurice about the rain, the train bombing in Marseilles. Which horse might win four million euros in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp tomorrow. The favorite was an American thoroughbred named Buckpasser. He was a big pony, heralded in the tabloids as the next Secretariat, Maurice told him.
“There will never, ever, be another ‘Big Red,’ Maurice. Trust me on that one.”
“But of course, sir. Who could argue?”
He swiveled on his bar stool, sipping his third or fourth scotch, checking the scenery, admiring his fellow man.
And woman.
Wouldn’t you know it? It was a rainy Friday night and he’d told his wife Julia not to expect him for dinner. Something troubling had come up with the state visit of the new Chinese president to the Elysée Palace on Sunday. And something really bad had come up. But …
“Sorry, is this seat taken?” she said.
What the hell? He hadn’t even seen her come in.
“Not at all, not at all. Here, let me remove my raincoat from the bar stool. How rude of me.”
“Thank you.”
Très chic, he registered. Very elegant. Blond. Big American girl. Swimmer, maybe, judging by the shoulders. California. Stanford. Maybe UCLA. One of the two. Pink Chanel, head to toe. Big green Hermès Kelly bag, all scruffed up, so loaded. Big rock on her finger, so married. A small wet puffball of a dog and a dripping umbrella so ducked in out of the rain. Ordered a martini, so a veteran. Beautiful eyes and a fabulous body, so a possibility …
He bought her another drink. Champagne, this time. Domaine Ott Rose. So she had taste.
“What brings you to Paris, Mrs.…”
“I’m Crystal. And you are?”
“Harding.”
“Harding. Now that’s a good strong name, isn’t it? So. Why are we here? Let me see. Oh, yes. Horses. My husband has horses. We’re here for the races at Longchamp.”
“And that four million euros purse, I’ll bet. Maurice here and I were just talking about that. Some payday, huh? Your horse have a shot?”
“I suppose. I don’t like horses. I like to shop.”
“Attagirl. Sound like my ex. So, where are you from, Crystal?”
“We’re from Kentucky. Louisville. You know it?”
“Not really. So, where are you staying?”
“Right upstairs, honey. My hubby took the penthouse for the duration.”
“Ah, got it. He’s meeting you here, is he?”
“Hardly. Having dinner with his trainer somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne, out near the track, is more like it. The two of them are all juned up about Buckpasser running on a muddy track tomorrow. You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Harding?”
“It’s my business.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“I’m a writer for a quiz show.”
She smiled. “That’s funny.”
“Old joke.”
“You’re smart, aren’t you, Harding? I like smart men. Are you married?”
“No. Well, yes.”
“See? You are funny. May I have another pink champagne?”
Harding twirled his right index finger, signaling the barman for another round. He briefly tried to remember how many scotches he’d had and gave up.
“Cute dog,” he said, bending down to pet the pooch, hating how utterly pathetic he sounded. But, hell, he was hooked. Hooked, gaffed, and in the boat. He’d already crawl through a mile of broken glass just to drink this gal’s bathwater.
“Thanks,” she said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette with a gold Dupont lighter. She took a deep drag and let it out, coughing a bit.