omelet in the world. The eggs were whipped in large, copper mixing bowls—the kitchen staff beating out a hypnotic rhythm with their whisks. They were then cooked over a wood fire. The recipe and method of cooking hadn’t changed in more than 130 years.
The history of the establishment over that time was amazing. Guests included Teddy Roosevelt, Édith Piaf, Claude Monet, Picasso, Hemingway, Patton, Margaret Thatcher, Marlene Dietrich, emperors, kings, queens, princes, and princesses. The list went on and on. Each had been asked to leave something special, a memento, behind. The walls were covered with framed autographs, photographs, drawings, and sketches. It was like being in a museum dedicated to over a century of power and celebrity.
They made small talk as they ate, with Sølvi deftly handling an innocent, yet potentially troublesome question that popped up at one point. Dominique was interested in why neither of them were wearing wedding rings.
Harvath’s mind raced for an answer, but before he could come up with one, Sølvi stepped up. Without missing a beat, she explained that after France, they were flying to Thailand and had decided not to bring any jewelry on this trip. It was a terrific response and he was in awe of how quickly she had arrived at it and how effortlessly it had been delivered—even after a couple of glasses of champagne. She really was talented.
At the end of the meal, the manager came over to see how their lunch had been. They complimented him on the food and then he leaned in and said something to Dominique in French.
Smiling, she then relayed the offer to her clients. “Where are you staying tonight?”
Sølvi looked at Harvath and then back at their guide. “We actually hadn’t gotten that far. We were just going to drive around Normandy until we found something.”
Dominique’s smile broadened. “Well, now you don’t have to worry. They just had a cancellation here, upstairs. It’s only for one night, but it’s yours if you want it.”
Harvath hadn’t planned that far ahead yet. Once Nicholas had pinpointed Aubertin, he wanted to be ready to roll. With that said, there was no telling how long it could take. In fact, Nicholas had warned him not to expect a quick fix. It could be hours, or it could be days.
The idea of getting back in the Land Rover just to go to another hotel didn’t make much sense—not when they were already here.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” the guide continued. “Unbelievably romantic. More than half the tourists will be gone by five o’clock. I can meet you for another drink, we’ll go listen to vespers in the abbey at six-thirty, then you two can have dinner and walk the ramparts together. After a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, we’ll meet at Utah Beach. How does that sound?”
“It does sound appealing,” Harvath admitted. “I’m still a little jet-lagged.”
He was also holding out hope that spending more time with the woman might result in getting a little more information out of her.
At the moment, and until they had something solid from Nicholas, they had nothing to lose.
“I guess we’ll do it,” he announced, sealing their decision.
“Wonderful. You can check in and take a power nap, while Mrs. Owen does a little shopping?”
“Or,” said Sølvi, “I can take the Passeur back to our car to grab our overnight bags.”
“And when you get back, then you’ll do some shopping.”
Sølvi smiled, raised her champagne, and the two women clinked glasses.
Calling the manager back over, Dominique told him that they would take the room. She then looked at her watch and apologized, explaining that she was going to have to get going if she was to meet her next clients on time.
Harvath settled up with her, added a nice tip—as Sølvi had promised—and they made a rendezvous for drinks that evening.
After she had gone and they had paid for lunch, the manager accompanied them to the front desk, where he handed them off to a young desk clerk, before disappearing back into the restaurant.
Though they had been introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Owen, the clerk didn’t bat an eye when they filled out the registration card with the names on their fake passports. Had the clerk questioned the discrepancy, a hint that they were both married to other people would have been all that was necessary. This was France after all. It wouldn’t have been the first time paramours had tried to keep their identities secret while checking into a hotel.
Accepting two