"Nothing," he said. "Get some rest, pack, brush up on your French. I just came by to give you your papers."
She had become so accustomed to working out with him that the prospect of a day without that challenge seemed flat. "So this is it, huh? If I don't get that invitation, I won't see you again."
He hesitated, then reached out and lightly touched her cheek with his fingertips. He started to say something and stopped. Something like regret, only more complex, flickered briefly in his blue eyes. Without a word he turned and left, letting himself out the back door, his movements so silent she wouldn't have known he was there if she hadn't been looking at him.
She stood in the kitchen, fighting the chill that raced over her at his touch. No, she wasn't cold. She was shivering, but she wasn't cold. Just that light touch of his fingertips had set her nerve endings to tingling. Holy cow. What would it be like to actually-"No," she ordered herself aloud. "Don't go there." Don't imagine what it would be like to make love with him. Men like John Medina didn't make love, they had sex; they didn't have relationships, just encounters.
Though one couldn't tell it from the way she had lived her life for the past five years, she had sometimes thought, in a vague way, of remarrying and having children. That was always in the nebulous future, and even though there hadn't been any candidates for the position of husband, still she had expected her life to eventually take that route. If she became involved with John, though, she could kiss that dream good-bye. She wouldn't be able to settle for an ordinary Joe if she ever let herself indulge in an affair with him.
He might pass himself off as a sheep to most of the world, but she knew him for the wolf he was. And she knew her own nature, knew her craving for excitement. She'd never be able to get herself back, because sleeping with John would be going one step too far. That was the ultimate kick, and nothing else would ever equal it But if she didn't let herself taste him, she would never know what she missed. She might suspect, but she wouldn't know, and she would still be capable of happiness with that ordinary Joe who had to be somewhere in her future.
What difference did it make? she wondered, pressing a fist to the pit of her stomach in an effort to squash the butterflies that were fluttering there. He was gone. If this plan didn't work, she probably wouldn't see him again. Though he'd said he would be back, she didn't quite believe him. She couldn't let herself believe him, because if she did, she might start dreaming he was coming back for her, and that was the most dangerous fantasy of all.
Niema packed in the battered Vuitton luggage that had been delivered the day before. The luggage was a nice touch, she thought; it was expensive and fit with her supposedly well-heeled background, but still looked far from new. It looked, in fact, as if it had been around the world several times. The name tags carried her fictitious name and address.
She dressed in a stylish linen and cotton blend sage green dress for travel, a simple chemise style that she topped with a lightweight cardigan. On her feet were sensible taupe flats. For all its simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the ensemble shrieked "money." Old money, at that.
The day was bright and sunny; there wouldn't be any bad weather delays. She felt jittery and couldn't tell if it was due to anticipation or dread. But she felt ready; she wanted to be in Paris right now. She wanted to meet this Louis Ronsard and see if breathing was, indeed, all she had to do to be come-hitherish. John needed her inside Ronsard's villa; he would continue on his own, but the job was less risky if he had backup. She had to get that invitation.
Uneasily she thought of a precaution John had insisted she take: birth control pills. It was standard for female operatives, he'd told her. Did he expect her to sleep with Ronsard? She knew that sex was often the route women used to get to the men they targeted, in real life as well as in espionage. Well, her devotion to the job didn't go that deep; she would not, could not, sleep with the arms dealer, no matter how good-looking he supposedly was.
The cab arrived on time, and the driver came to the door to carry her bags. As he went back down the sidewalk she looked around at her comfortable home, wondering at the weird sense of disconnection, as if she would never see it again. This wasn't much different from going on vacation. A week, two weeks at the most, and she would be home again, once more settled into the routine of work and chores. This episode wouldn't be repeated.
She carefully locked the door and set the alarm, which John had reactivated. He had definitely made her more safety conscious, though; even with the alarm, she found herself going around to every window and door and hooking the latches. She had bought a timer for the lamps and television, to give the house at least the appearance of being lived in. And John had promised that Agency people would keep an eye on the house for her, so she wasn't really worried.
The cab driver was looking impatient, so she hurried down the walk, and with every step her spirits lifted. She was finally in action again!
* * *
She was met in Paris by a uniformed chauffeur who loaded her luggage and solicitously handed her into a large Mercedes-Benz. She sank into the leather seats and closed her eyes with a sigh. Did the Concord eliminate jet lag, she wondered, or did the body automatically note the position of the sun and know something was wrong? The supersonic flight was much faster than a regular jet, but she was still as exhausted as if the flight had taken the normal length of time. All she wanted was a long bath and a quiet place to lie down.
The Marine guards at the embassy checked the car and her passport before allowing her into the embassy grounds. As the car stopped out front, a tall, slender woman in her early sixties, with striking silver-white hair, came down the steps, her hands outstretched and her face wreathed in smiles.