Page 77

“Good afternoon, sir,” Agent says pleasantly. “How can we help you?”

“Identity papers. Both of you.”

Louis’s heart pounds, but his hands remain steady. “Of course.” He reaches into his jacket for his papers. Agent does the same. The officer examines them carefully.

“Louis Levallois. Architect. And you”—he looks at Agent—“Hubert Doré. Professor of history at the Sorbonne.”

“That’s correct.”

“What is your business together?”

“M. Levallois is advising on renovations to the university library. We’re discussing architectural plans,” Agent says smoothly.

The officer’s eyes narrow. “You are meeting in a restaurant? Not at the university?”

“We’re having lunch. We’re allowed to have lunch, aren’t we?” Louis keeps his voice mild, unthreatening. An old man slightly confused by the tone of the questioning.

“Open your briefcase.”

Louis’s stomach drops. “My briefcase?”

“Now.”

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Agent interjects.

“The briefcase. Now. Or we will take you both to headquarters for questioning.”

Louis reaches for the briefcase, moving slowly. Stalling. Where is Gypsy? She should be here by now. She’s supposed to be here.

He places the briefcase on the table. His fingers fumble with the clasp. “I’m sorry, Officer. My hands. Arthritis. It makes the clasps difficult sometimes.”

“Open it, or I will.”

The younger officer steps closer, hand now gripping his pistol. Other diners are watching. The restaurant has fallen into silence.

Louis opens the first clasp. Then fumbles with the second. “I apologize. These old fingers⁠—”

The officer grabs the briefcase, yanks it away. “Enough. I will open it myself.”

This is it, thinks Louis. He’ll find the forged documents and arrest us both. And then . . . torture, interrogation. The network compromised.

The officer opens the briefcase.

“Mon cher! There you are! I’m so sorry I’m late!”

Gypsy sweeps into the restaurant in a cloud of perfume and crimson silk. She’s breathtaking, elegant, confident, every inch the sophisticated Parisian woman. She goes directly to their table, kisses Louis on both cheeks, then Agent.

“The traffic was impossible. And then I couldn’t find my gloves. You know how I am about my gloves.”

She turns to the German officer, gives him a dazzling smile. “Oh, are you checking papers? How thorough of you. Here’s mine.” She produces her identity card with a flourish.

The officer looks at her, then at the identity card. “Mme Burdet, I know who you are, the manager of this fine establishment we find ourselves in.”

“That’s right. These two gentlemen are my dear friends. We’re having lunch to discuss⁠—”

“The renovations to the Sorbonne library,” Agent interjects.

Gypsy doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m going to be donating to the renovations, and M. Levallois is graciously going to let me have a look at his plans. You never know, I might want to add a little bit of my own design. Brighten it up a bit.”