drowned out by the traffic, yes, it was feasible. Then, grabbing her purse, a trophy to be sent to Bonn, and disappearing among the crowds of afternoon strollers, time elapsed, no more than two or three seconds. It would work; it had worked four years earlier in West Berlin when he had taken out a British MI-6 officer who had made one too many sorties behind the Wall.
The man in the Peugeot unlocked the glove compartment, withdrew a short-barreled .22 revolver, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He started the engine, swung into the street, and circled at the first break in the traffic. He pulled into the curb as a blue Ferrari lurched away from the space; the entrance to the expensive leather shop was diagonally to the left, in full view, no more than ten meters away. He could be out of the car and within feet of the woman in seconds, the moment he saw her, but not spotting her between the bodies of the erratic strollers was too great a risk. He got out of the Peugeot and made his way to the elaborate front windows of the Saddle and Bootery. He studied the extravagant items behind the glass, constantly aware of those leaving the entrance only several arm's lengths away.
Eighteen minutes passed and the fashionably dressed assassin's patience was coming to an end. Suddenly the pleasant face of a clerk looked at him through the window, from behind the banquette of the tasteful display. The killer shrugged amiably and smiled. Seconds later the youngish man came out of the entrance and spoke.
"I noticed you've been looking over our merchandise for quite a while, monsieur. Perhaps I could help you? "
"In truth, I'm waiting for someone who is quite late. We're to meet here."
"One of our clients, no doubt. Why not come inside, out of the sun? My word, it's broiling."
"Thank you." The former Stasi officer followed the clerk through the door.
"I believe I'll look over your boots," he continued in perfect French.
"There are none -better in Paris, sir. If you need assistance, please call me."
The German glanced around the store, at first not believing his eyes. He then slowly studied the women individually; there were seven, either standing in newly purchased equestrian finery or sitting in chairs being fitted for riding boots. She was not there!
That was why the Deuxieme official had raced back to the Bureau's automobile! He had learned what the assassin-of-record had just found out nearly an hour later. The ambassador's wife had escaped the surveillance! Where had she gone? Who had made it possible for her to leave unseen?
Obviously someone in the shop.
"Monsieur?" The killer, standing over a row of polished boots, beckoned the clerk.
"A moment, please."
"Yes, sir," replied the employee, approaching with a smile.
"You've found something to your taste?"
"Not exactly, but I must ask you a question. I was not entirely direct with you outside, for which I apologize. You see, I'm with the Quai d'Orsay, assigned to escort an important American woman, protect her from the vagaries of Paris, if you like. As I mentioned, she was late, but she cannot be this late. The only answer is that she came inside before I arrived, then left, and I missed her."
"What does she look like?"
"Medium height and quite attractive, in her early forties, perhaps.
She has light brown hair, neither blond nor brunette, and, I'm told, was wearing a summer dress, white and pink, I think, and obviously very expensive."
"Monsieur, look around you. You could be describing half the women shoppers here!"
"Tell me," said the assassin in the pinstriped suit, 4ccould she have left another way, through a rear exit, perhaps?"
"That would be most unusual. For what reason?"
"I don't know," answered the would-be killer, his tone of voice conveying his anxiety.
"I merely asked if it was possible."
"Let me think," said the clerk, frowning and looking around the store.
"There was a woman in a pink dress, but I did not notice her later, as I was with the Countess Levoisier, a lovely but most demanding client."
Again the assassin was torn. His control had called the Saddle and Bootery the "Andre conduit." If he pursued his questioning too far' word of his carelessness might be sent back to Bonn. On the other hand, if the ambassadors wife was in the back of the store or had been taken somewhere else, he had to know. Frau Courtland had left the embassy unprotected, not in a customary limousine driven by an armed escort.