PACO SLUNG THE Citroen-Dornier down the Champs, along the north bank of the Seine, then up through Les Halles. Marly sank back into the astonishingly soft leather seat, more beau- tifully stitched than her Brussels jacket. and willed her mind to blankness, lack of affect. Be eyes, she told herself. Only eyes, your body a weight pressed evenly back by the speed of this obscenely expensive car. Humming past the Square des Innocents, where whores dickered with the drivers of cargo hovers in bleu de travail, Paco steering effortlessly through the narrow streets. “Why did you say, `Don’t do this to me’?” He took his hand from the steering console and tapped his ear-bead into position. “Why were you listening?” “Because that is my job. I sent a woman up, up into the tower opposite his, to the twenty-second floor, with a para- bolic microphone. The phone in the apartment was dead; otherwise, we could have used that. She went up, broke into a vacant unit on the west face of the tower, and aimed her microphone in time to hear you say, `Don’t do this to me.’ And you were alone?” “Yes.” “He was dead?” “Yes.” “Why did you say it, then?” “I don’t know.” “Who did you feel was doing something to you?” “I don’t know. Perhaps Alan.” “Doing what?” “Being dead? Complicating matters? You tell me.” “You are a difficult woman.” “Let me out.” “I will take you to your friend’s apartment . . “Stop the car.” “I will take you to” “I’ll walk.” The low silver car slid up to the curb. “I will call you, in the” “Good night.”
“You’re certain you wouldn’t prefer one of the spas?” asked Mr. Paleologos, thin and elegant as a mantis in his white hopsack jacket. His hair was white as well, brushed back from his forehead with extreme care. “It would be less expensive, and a great deal more fun. You’re a very pretty girl~ . “Pardon?” Jerking her attention back from the street beyond the rain-streaked window. “A what?” His French was clumsy, enthusiastic, strangely inflected. “A very pretty girl.” He smiled primly. “You wouldn’t prefer a holiday in a Med cluster? People your own age? Are you Jewish?” “I beg your pardon?” “Jewish. Are you?” “No.” “Too bad,” he said. “You have the cheekbones of a certain sort of elegant young Jewess ….I’ ye a lovely dis- count on fifteen days to Jerusalem Prime, a marvelous envi- ronment for the price. Includes suit rental, three meals per diem, and direct shuttle from the JAL torus.” “Suit rental?” “They haven’t entirely established atmosphere, in Jerusa- lem Prime,” Mr. Paleologos said, shuffling a stack of pink flimsies from one side of his desk to the other. His office was a tiny cubicle walled with hologram views of Poros and Macau. She’d chosen his agency for its evident obscurity, and because it had been possible to slip in without leaving the little commercial complex in the metro station nearest Andrea’s. “No” she said, “I’m not interested in spas I want to go here.” She tapped the writing on the wrinkled blue wrapper from a pack of Gauloise “Well,” he said, “it’s possible, of course, but I have no listing of accommodations. Will you be visiting friends?” “A business trip,” she said impatiently. “I must leave immediately.” “Very well, very well,” Mr. Paleologos said, taking a cheap-looking lap terminal from a shelf behind his desk. “Can you give me your credit code, please?” She reached into her black leather bag and took out the thick bundle of New Yen she’d removed from Paco’s bag while he’d been busy examining the apartment where Alain had died. The money was fastened with a red band of translu- cent elastic “I wish to pay cash.” “Oh, dear,” Mr. Paleologos said, extending a pink finger- tip to touch the top bill, as though he expected the lot of it to vanish. “I see. Well, you understand, I wouldn’t ordinarily do business this way. . . . But, I suppose, something can be arranged. . “Quickly,” she said, “very quickly . . He looked at her. “I understand. Can you tell me, please” his fingers began to move over the keys of the lap terminal “the name under which you wish to travel?”