Latham played out the litany programmed by Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger, and when he was finished, he raised his head, his eyes clear.
"I've told you the rest, gentlemen."
The tribunal looked at one another, each shaking his head very briefly in obvious confusion. Then the American spoke.
"Look, Harry," he said softly, "for the next few days we'll go over everything you've brought us, okay? After that, you've earned a long period of rest, okay?"
"I'd like to fly to Paris and see my brother-"
"Sure, no sweat, even if he's with Cons-Op, not my favorite branch."
"I understand he's pretty good at what he does."
"Hell," agreed the CIA station chief, "he was damn good when he played hockey for the Islanders farm team in Manitoba. I was stationed in Canada then, and I tell you, that hulk body-checked much bigger hulks into the walls more often than anyone I ever saw. He could have made it big in New York."
"Fortunately," said Harry Latham, "I talked him out of such a violent profession."
Drew Latham woke up in the overstuffed bed in his suite at the Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. Blinking his eyes, he looked at the bedside telephone and pressed the buttons for room service. As long as Germany was paying for it, he decided to have a porterhouse steak topped with two poached eggs, and porridge with heavy cream on the side; he was told his order would be delivered in thirty minutes. He stretched in the bed, his left arm annoyed by the automatic beneath the pillow, then closed his eyes for a few last minutes of rest.
A scratch, a metallic slice in the door. Not natural-not at all natural! Suddenly there were loud staccato bursts from a jackhammer six stories below in the street, a repair crew starting unusually early in the morning.. .. Unusual-not normal! It was barely light! Drew grabbed his weapon and slid off the left side of the bed; he rolled over and over until he was flush with the corner molding of a far wall. The door opened and an explosive fusillade of bullets ripped apart the bed, shattering the mattress and pillows alike, in concert with the deafening noise from outside the windows.
Latham raised his gun and fired five successive rounds into the black-encased figure in the doorframe. The man fell forward; Drew rose as the jackhammer stopped in the street, and he raced to his would be killer. He was dead, but as the assassin had clutched at his upper body, he had torn down his skintight black sweater. On his chest were tattooed three small lightning bolts. Blitzkrieg. The Briiderschaft.
can-Pierre Villier stoically accepted the criticism leveled at him by the Deuxieme Bureau's Claude Moreau.
"It was, indeed, a brave gesture on your part, monsieur, and be assured we are tracing the automobile in question, but please understand, should any harm have come to you, all France would have revolted against us."
"I think that's rather overstated," said the actor.
"However, I'm glad I was able to contribute in some small way."
"In a very considerable way, but we now understand each other, isn't that so? There'll be no more contributions, correct?"
"As you wish, although it was a simple role to play, and there could be further information I might unearth-"
"Jean-Pierre!" exclaimed Giselle Villier.
"You will do no such thing, I won't permit it!"
"The Deuxieme Bureau will not permit it, madame," interrupted Moreau.
"You'll no doubt learn of it later in the day, so I might as well tell you now. Three hours ago a second assassination attempt was made on the American Drew Latham."
"My God .. .
"Is he all right?" asked Villier, leaning forward.
"He's fortunate to be alive. To say the least, he's a very observant man and has learned a few of our less advertised rules of Paris."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Everything was timed to the extremely loud and offensive noise of a street repair crew who started working at an hour when the majority of our visitors had barely gone to bed after experiencing the joys of our city, especially those to be found in the more expensive hotels."
"It's summer," said Giselle, shaking her head. we have enough trouble because of our manners. The Ministry of Tourism would cut off heads."
"Our friend Latham somehow instinctively knew that. There was no repair crew, only a single man with a concrete hammer machine below his windows. Perhaps akin to the title of one of your films, Monsieur Villier, Prelude to a Fatal Kiss, if I'm not mistaken. It's one of