A DEATH IN PARIS
A NOVEL
GREGORY BALDERSTONE
For Lorna
I was taught that no death should
be considered natural….
ONE
I’m looking through the viewfinder of my Nikon. I’ve posed four women in a tight group. One woman has black paint on her face and a hood over her hair. One has nothing covering her face and nothing over her hair. Another is wearing dark sunglasses. And the last one is wearing a white mask over her face and large black frames over the mask. She has a scarf and a hood over her hair and the mouth of the mask is small and the lips are tight together. The eyes are cut out and are dark and there’s nothing to identify the woman except that she’s different from the others.
0640 The telephone is on the bedside table next to me. I have to reach over a framed photograph of my wife, Lorna, between the book I’ve been reading before bed and a letter from my mother that I’m still reading and the lamp to pick-up the receiver. I don’t keep a clock on the table for obvious reasons. There’s no room.
I pick-up the receiver unconsciously, since it’s still dark in the bedroom and I’m maneuvering my hand towards the phone without thinking about where the phone is or how to reach the receiver, but I answer with my eyes open in the dark.
“Catherine-Elizabeth if you’re just doing this because you know you can….”
“We’re needed. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. This is…personal, Matt.”
Answering the phone is the first of half-a-dozen things I’ll do unconsciously this morning but I answered the phone with my eyes open. In the bathroom I remembered to lift the toilet seat and to zip up my fly although I didn’t think about it. What does Catherine-Elizabeth mean by, “It’s personal?” and what’s so important that we have to meet at 0700?
The Limousine
0700 Limousines aren’t totally uncommon in Paris but there aren’t many with United States license plates and Catherine-Elizabeth doesn’t drive one but that’s what’s parked at the curb.
I can’t see in the windows but when the door opens I stop wondering why it’s there and I get in. I recognize Ségolène Hollande, Catherine-Elizabeth and one of the men, Clive Bray, before I sit next to Catherine-Elizabeth and I look at the other man.
Catherine-Elizabeth is my Assistant, Ségolène is the deputy director of the Directorate Central Police Judiciere, Paris, Intelligence Assessment and Analysis Division, and Clive is the Director of the CIA, Langley. Catherine Elizabeth and I were deep cover operatives for the company before we both left and we came to Paris where I became a fashion photographer for Givanchy and Catherine-Elizabeth became my assistant. And only Ségolène and Clive know who we were in the past.
Ségolène looks at me seriously and says, “This is Gérald Feurnier, he’s here to authorize your operation on French soil in the name of the President and to insure that you both understand that you cannot discuss this matter with anyone, ever.”
I looked at Clive, then at Catherine-Elizabeth before she put her hand over mine and she squeezed it.
Clive was tired and he was uncomfortable having to deal with Ségolène and Gérald. “As of midnight last night you you’ve both been working for me, you’ve been recalled to active duty with the agency on my orders. Mademoiselle Hollande will supply you with whatever you need and that you have a safe and secure place to work in the spirit of cooperation and you’ll you have the usual access to our computers and the resources of Langley and you’ll report to the Ambassador at the conclusion of this operation for further orders.”
