cartoon figures above the various rides and sideshows, the dirt paths littered with debris. The screams of -delight from the crowds of children, however, defined the equality with its grandiose American competition.
"There are two entrances, Monsieur Director," said the driver.
"One north and one south."
"You know this place, Franqois?"
"Yes, sir. I've taken my two daughters here several times. This is the north entrance."
"Shall we use the pass and see what happens?" asked Drew.
"No," replied the Deuxieme chief.
"That can come later if we think it will be helpful.. .. Jacques, you and Franqols go in together, two fathers looking for your wives and children. Monsieur Latham and I will go in separately through different gates. Where would you suggest we meet, Franqois?"
"There is a carousel in the center of the park. It's usually crowded and the noise from the excited children and the calliope makes it ideal."
"You both have studied the photograph of Madame Courtland, no?"
"Certainly."
"Then split up inside and walk around, looking for her. Monsieur Latham and I will do the same, and we'll meet at the carousel in half an hour. If either of you see her, use your radios and we'll move up the rendezvous."
"I don't have a radio," complained Drew.
"You do now," said Moreau, reaching into his pocket.
Madame Courtland had been ushered into a small building at the south end of the seven-acre amusement park. The anteroom was a slovenly mess, garish old posters tacked on the walls in no particular order and without concern for symmetry. Two desks and a long, rickety buffet table were piled high with assorted multicolored flyers, many stained by coffee rings and cigarette ashes, while three employees labored over a mimeograph machine and several stencils. Two were overly made-up women in belly dancer costumes and a young male in a strangely ambiguous outfit soiled orange tights and a blue blouse-his gender revealed by a scraggly beard. There were four small windows on the upper-front walls, too high for those outside to look through, and the clattering of an ancient air conditioner seemed to be in syncopation with the mimeograph.
Janine Clunes Courtland was appalled. The Saddle and Bootery was a palace compared to this dump, she thought. Yet this dump, this foul-smelling office, was obviously superior in status to the exquisite leather boutique in the Champstlys6es. Her doubts were partially put to rest with the sight of a tall, middle-aged man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but in reality from a narrow door in the left wall. He was dressed informally, the soft blue jeans and tan suede jacket the best to be found in Saint-Honor6, and the ascot around his throat the most expensive [email protected] had to offer. He signaled her to follow him.
Through the narrow door, they walked down an equally narrow but dark corridor until they reached another door, this on the right.
The tall man in the extravagant sport clothes pressed a series of digits on a square electronic panel and opened the door. Again, she followed him, entering an office that was as different from the first as the Hotel Ritz was from a soup kitchen.
The walls and furniture were made, of the finest wood and leather, the paintings authentic works of the Impressionist masters, the recessed, mirror-paneled bar complete with glasses and decanters of Baccarat crystal. It was the lair of a very important man.
"Willkommen, Frau Courtland," the man said in a voice warm and ingratiating.
"I am An&6," he added in English.
"You know who I am?"
"Certainly, you used my name twice and the code of the month, Catbird. We've been expecting your contact for many weeks now.
Please, sit down."
"Thank you." Janine sat down in front of the desk as the park's manager lowered himself in a chair next to her, not behind his desk.
"The time wasn't right until now."
"We assumed that. You're a brilliant woman and your coded messages to Berlin have been received regularly. Through your information regarding the financial watchdogs in Paris and Washington, our accounts have swelled. We are all eternally grateful."
"I've always wondered, Herr AndrE, why Berlin? Why not Bonn?"
"Bonn is such a small city, night wabr? Berlin is and will remain a mass of confusion. So many interests, so much chaos-the crumbling Wall, the influx of immigrants; it's far easier to conceal things in Berlin. After all, the funds remain in Switzerland, and when they are needed in Germany, the transfers are in successive increments, hardly noticeable in a city of such high finance that millions are sent by computer every hour