his personal prison; even the recycled air was beginning to become oppressive. He opened a window, immediately shutting it; the Paris night was humid, the air-conditioning preferable. He had spent too long cooped up like the fugitive he was presumed to be. He had to get out as he had yesterday afternoon when he had visited his flat on the rue du Bac, accompanied by his marine escort. It had taken less than an hour, only minutes in the street, but that hour, those minutes, were a brief respite from the suffocating, restricting enclosures of the Antinayous'Maison Rouge, Witkowski's place, even Karin's apartment-no, not Karin's apartment. That had been a release from something else, something he had been running away from for years, and it was splendid and warm and filled' with comfort.
But now, now he had to feel like a free man again, if only for a while; he had to walk in the streets among people, it was as simple as that, perhaps. He had spoken to Karin two hours earlier while she was still at the embassy, agreeing that in the interests of absolute security, he would not call her in the Madeleine. Certainly not; the last thing he wanted was to make her a fugitive too. She had, however, given him an urgent message from Washington. He was to reach Wesley Sorenson on his very private line, and keep trying until the Cons-Op director answered; and if by six o'clock D.C. time they had not made contact, he was to call Sorenson at his home, regardless of the hour.
He had tried repeatedly, knowing the number could not be traced, until eleven o'clock in Paris, six o'clock in Washington.
Then he had phoned Wcs's home. Mrs. Sorenson had answered;
the compleat spook's wife had said the proper words.
"My husband's expecting a call from our antiques dealer in Paris. If this is he, Mr. Sorenson is tied up until around seven, our time, but if it's not too inconvenient, please try then, as we don't have your apartment number. He's most eager about the tapestry we saw last month."
"It hasn't been sold, madam," Drew had said.
"I'll call him shortly past midnight, Paris time, seven o'clock yours. It's the least I can do for such excellent clients."
What was so important that Sorenson termed it "urgent"? No matter, there was an hour to waste, and to speculate on a dozen possibilities in the confines of the small hotel suite was more than he could tolerate. Besides, he was wearing the inhibiting uniform that barely allowed him to breathe, his hair was dyed a ridiculous blond, he would wear the glasses Karin had given him, and it was dark out. What could be more secure than the combination of altered appearance and darkness? Finally, he had his thin cellular phone. If Witkowski or anyone with maximum clearance at the embassy needed him in an emergency, they would try that number should they not be able to reach him at the hotel.
He took the elevator down to the lobby, walked past the concierge's desk, feeling foolish as fingers touched caps along with such salutations as "mon colonel?" and "Monsieur le Colonel Webster?" until he went through a revolving door and out onto the rue de Castiglione. God, it felt good to be outside, away from his prison walls! He turned right, away from the street lamps, and proceeded down the sidewalk, breathing the air deeply, his stride firm, almost military, he realized, chuckling to himself.
And then it happened. The phone in his tunic pocket rang, a low, emphatic ring. It so startled him that he fumbled, forgetting the buttons on the army jacket, wanting only the damn noise to stop.
At last he ripped the ringing instrument out, pressed the receiver button, and put the phone to his ear.
"Yes, what?"
"This is marine unit W, that's you, mister! What are you doing outside the hotel?"
"Getting a little air, do you mind?"
"You can bet your ass we do, but it's too late. You're being followed."
"What?"
"We've got a photograph; we can't be sure, but we think it's Reynolds, Alan Reynolds from the comm center. We've got him in our binoculars, but the light's not so good, and he's wearing a hat with his lapels up."
"How the hell could he spot me? I'm in uniform and my goddamn hair's blond!"
"A uniform can be rented, and blond hair doesn't mean much when it's mostly dark out and someone's wearing an officer's cap. . Keep walking and laugh a lot when