With this in mind, Eva passed the next two hours wandering the arcades of La Ville Souterraine—two hours because Sasha would not permit a minute less. The only person who followed her was a man of perhaps fifty-five. He was not a professional, he was a stalker. It was one of the drawbacks of being an attractive female agent, the unwanted attention and long hungry looks from sex-starved men. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish lust from legitimate scrutiny. Eva had backed out of four wireless encounters with the mole because shethoughtshe was being followed. Sasha had not chastised her. Quite the opposite. He had saluted her vigilance.
At five minutes past eleven, confident she was not under surveillance, Eva returned to the boulevard and hailed a taxi. It took her to the church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Défense, where she spent five minutes feigning silent meditation before walking to the rue Saint-Denis. The Ford Explorer was in its usual place, parked on the street outside the townhouse at 6822. Eva unlocked the doors with her remote key and climbed behind the wheel.
The engine started without hesitation. She pulled away from the curb and then made a succession of rapid right turns designed to expose a trailing vehicle. Seeing nothing suspicious, she parked along a bleak stretch of the rue Saint-André and placed the flash drive in the glove box. Then she climbed out, locked the door, and walked away. No one followed her.
She hailed another taxi, this one on the avenue Christophe-Colomb, and asked the driver to take her to the Sheraton to collect her suitcase. The same taxi then took her to the airport. A permanent U.S. resident, she cleared the American passport check and went to the gate. Her flight began boarding on time, at one fifteen. As always, Eva had booked a seat at the front of the cabin so she could scrutinize the other passengers as they filed past. She saw only one of interest, a tall man with very fair skin and light gray eyes, like a wolf’s. He was quite handsome. He was also, she suspected, a Russian. Or perhaps a former Russian, she thought, like her.
The tall man with pale skin was seated several rows behind Eva, and she did not see him again until the flight landed in Washington, when he walked behind her through the terminal. Her Kia sedan was in the short-term parking garage, where she had left it the previous afternoon. She crossed the Potomac into Washington via Key Bridge and made her way to the Palisades, arriving at Brussels Midi promptly at four. Yvette was smoking a cigarette at the bar; Ramon and Claudia were setting tables in the dining room. The phone rang as Eva was hanging up her coat.
“Brussels Midi.”
“I’d like a table for two this evening, please.”
Male, arrogant, English accent. Eva foresaw trouble ahead. She was tempted to hang up but didn’t.
“I’m sorry, did you say that table was for two?”
“Yes,” drawled the man, exasperated.
Eva decided to torture him a little more. “And what time are you interested in joining us?”
“I’m interested,” he sniffed, “in seven o’clock.”
“I can’t do seven, I’m afraid. But I have a table free at eight.”
“Is it a good one?”
“We only have good tables, sir.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful. Name, please?”
The Bartholomews, party of two, eight o’clock, were a blot on an otherwise dull Tuesday night. They arrived twenty minutes early and, seeing several empty tables, flew into a rage. Mr. Bartholomew was balding and tweedy, and waved his arms while he ranted. His wife was a curvy, Rubenesque woman with hair the color of sandstone. The slow-burn type, thought Eva. She moved them from their assigned table—table number four—to lucky table thirteen, the one with the draft from the overhead vent. Not surprisingly, they requested a change. When Eva suggested the table next to the kitchen door, Mr. Bartholomew snapped.
“Haven’t you got anything else?”
“Perhaps you’d like a table outside.”
“There are none.”
Eva smiled.
From there, the meal went predictably downhill. The wine was too warm, the soup too cold, the mussels were a sacrilege, the cassoulet was a crime against cuisine. The evening ended on a positive note, however, when Mr. Bartholomew’s wife approached Eva to offer her apologies. “I’m afraid Simon has been under a great deal of stress at work.” She spoke English with an accent Eva couldn’t quite place. “I’m Vanessa,” she said, offering her hand. Then, almost as a confession: “Vanessa Bartholomew.”
“Eva Fernandes.”
“Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”
“Brazil.”
“Oh,” the woman said, mildly surprised. “I never would have guessed.”
“My parents were born in Europe.”
“Where?”
“Germany.”
