Authors: F. W. Rustmann
The plans showed that an elevator
shaft separated two rooms on either side of the rear top floor of the embassy,
and that the building was probably too narrow for the addition of any offices
to the original plan in that area.
François hit the buzzer on the
door jam and entered the adjacent apartment building just once, for no more
than five minutes. He swiftly photographed the locks on each apartment door,
two to a floor, and made clay impressions of all the keyways.
This would help in identifying
the locks in case a surreptitious entry became necessary. Some locks were
easier to pick than others, but he knew that the techs would go to great lengths
to avoid having to pick a lock. It wasn’t at all like the movies, where the
pick was inserted, jiggled around a bit, and the door popped open.
He would try to help in this
regard as well, but that would come later, after the specific target apartment
was identified.
He prowled the hallways at an
hour just after dusk, hoping not to run into anyone. He had a close call while
he was on the third floor and heard the main downstairs door open and feet
begin to ascend the stairwell.
Should I brazen it out? Descend quickly and
pretend I’ve been visiting someone on the uppermost floor?
While he momentarily froze,
debating his options, the footsteps stopped on the second floor. He heard a key
turn in a lock, a door open and then close again, and then silence. Greatly
relieved, he hurried through the rest of his work and re-emerged on the street
undetected.
He also located a tiny “
au
pair
” efficiency apartment on the top floor of a building directly behind
the target. It was no more than 100 meters away with direct line-of-sight. It
would be a perfect LP from which to monitor the soon-to-be-installed
clandestine transmitter. He secured the listening post apartment, in alias,
with a cash deposit of 500 Euros.
When MacMurphy put the information from the two support assets
together, he concurred with TRAVAIL’s assessment that the top rear office was
Huang’s and decided to concentrate all of their efforts on that office. This
meant the next step was to identify the occupants of the apartment in the
building on the other side of the common wall. The building plans obtained by
GUNSHY showed there were two apartments per floor in the building, and there
were five floors. They needed access to the fifth floor rear apartment to gain
access to Huang’s office.
GUNSHY came through on this score
as well. He had first taken all the names of the apartment residents off the
mailboxes in the lobby of the building. Then, through selective surveillance,
he had been able to follow the occupants when they left in the morning and when
they returned in the evening.
He was able to put faces to
apartment numbers by observing them picking up their mail from their boxes in
the lobby and seeing what apartment lights went on or off when the occupants
entered or left the building. By the end of the two-week period, he knew the
name and face of every resident of the building, where they each worked, where
they shopped, and which cafés and restaurants they frequented. More information
than they actually needed.
When MacMurphy instructed
François to concentrate on the occupants of the fifth floor apartment, he knew
this would be a lucky operation. The occupants were a middle-aged woman,
unmarried but not unattractive – she needed to take a bit more care with makeup
and coiffure – and her doddering eighty-ish year old mother.
The spinster would be putty in
the hands of the handsome François Leverrier. François would be in her
apartment and, if necessary, in her bed in no time. Of that he was very, very
confident.
Chapter Fifty
T
he first time François allowed
their eyes to meet, he smiled shyly and the spinster blushed. It happened in
the
patisserie
around the corner from her apartment while she was
purchasing a baguette for dinner.
The next morning he entered the café where she and her mother usually
had their morning coffee and croissants. He sat a few tables away and allowed
their eyes to meet again. This time it was he who dropped his eyes and blushed.
This gave her confidence, and she smiled at him more boldly, touching her hair
and forcing another blush. When she and her mother passed his table as they
were leaving, their eyes locked and held until she had passed him.
The next time he saw her at the
café, she was alone and he said, “
Bonjour
,” and she replied. Later they
started talking. He remained seated at his place on the banquette that ran
along the back wall of the café, and she remained sitting a few feet down from
him, behind another table.
They conversed across the empty
table between them. An hour later they were still there, but sitting next to
each other, and she had agreed to have dinner with him the following evening.
Collette Lebrun felt as if she
had known the man who called himself Jacques DuBois for a very long time.
When GUNSHY arrived to pick up
Collette at her apartment the next evening, he brought flowers for both mother
and daughter. And not just flowers for each, but a different bouquet for each
one. The mother’s bouquet was all whites and purples, with sprays of baby’s
breath, while Colette received a rainbow-hued assortment, with green ferns
interspersed.
The women fussed over the
bouquets and placed them in vases, then offered François an aperitif. He
accepted, settled back in an overstuffed old chair, and went about the task of
charming the old lady while Collette busied herself breaking ice cubes from a
frozen tray and preparing the drinks.
“Oh, but you have decorated your
apartment so charmingly!” he exclaimed with something less than truthfulness. In
reality he hated the gloomy, airless, typically French room. “And do tell me
more about that wonderful antique chair,” he added, pointing to an old wooden
chair sitting in a corner with no pedigree at all.
He had both women fawning over
him by the time they had finished their aperitifs.
Before leaving for dinner with
Collette, who was looking decidedly better with makeup and a pretty new dress,
cut low to display her ample assets, he asked if he could try out his new
camera on the group. He then went about arranging the two women on a couch
along the wall he knew abutted the Chinese Embassy, and arranged the flowers on
the end tables on both sides of them.
He placed his camera on a table
across from his subjects, focused, set the timer, and joined them on the couch
between the two women, placing an arm lightly around the shoulder of each one.
W
hen the camera flashed, he had an
excellent interior casing photo of the common wall the audio techs would have
to drill through to get audio from Huang’s office.
Restoring that flowered wallpaper
is going to be a bitch,
François thought. Fortunately that job would fall to one of the other team
members, a fact for which he was exceedingly grateful.
Chapter Fifty-One
T
he unwitting recruitment of Collette Lebrun
intensified during the evening. François took her to dinner at the cozy
Taillevent restaurant. It was located only a short walk from Collette’s George
V apartment and was the proud possessor of three coveted Michelin stars.
The atmosphere was plush, relaxing, living room style, and the food was
absolutely superb. He got Collette settled in comfortably, inquired as to
whether she had ever dined there before and quickly learned that she had not. He
asked her, “Would you like me to make some recommendations from the menu?”
They dined on
terrine de
bouchet
and
ris de veau Florentine
, accompanied by a bottle of fine
white
Cotes de Beaune
. They topped the meal off with
crepes soufflées
sauce Sabayon
and yet another bottle of wine; a beautiful
Chateau
d’Yquem
sauterne, which further oiled their tongues and loosened their
inhibitions as the evening sped by.
“And you have never married?”
François asked with feigned amazement. “Such a lovely flower as you…” She
blushed and brushed her hair back away from her face. “I am amazed! But I am
also pleased…it is my good fortune, after all, that you are single.”
“And how do you account for
your
single status?” she parried.
“Well…I guess I had just not met
anyone as charming and…” François groped for a believable compliment,
“down-to-earth as you.”
In her forty-seven years,
Collette had never been in such fine surroundings and in the company of such a
handsome and refined gentleman. She was very happy and did not want the evening
to end...ever.
François observed her as she
talked and smiled and sipped the sweet nectar gracefully. Slowly he realized
that he actually
liked
the plain, middle-aged woman sitting across from
him.
Collette had a pleasant face and,
like many French women, retained a beautiful complexion. She actually needed very
little makeup. She had a certain dignity about her that is unique to French
women as they age. Yes, maybe it was partly the wine and food, but he was
beginning to enjoy Collette’s company. He took her hand in his hand, covered it
with his other hand and smiled deeply into her eyes. He wasn’t acting at all.
But that would not let him forget
why he was there. When she got up on wobbly legs to go to the restroom, he quickly
snatched the keys from her purse, brought them to his lap out of sight of the
waiters, and pressed her apartment key into the clay of the key impression kit MacMurphy
had given him.
Now he could really relax. The
main goal of the evening had been accomplished. From now on, everything else
was topping. He could really relax and enjoy the company of Colette Lebrun now.
This was indeed very pleasant work.
Chapter Fifty-Two
T
hey were familiar now. François
had gone from non-threatening and shy during their first fleeting encounters,
to protective and touching—getting her used to his touch by guiding her, hand
lightly on her waist, through the crowds and across streets on their way to the
restaurant, during the early part of the evening.
Now he found occasions to lightly
brush her fingers and hand as they talked softly and sipped the wine.
On their way back home they held
hands like young lovers, and once, after she made a witty remark, he kissed her
gently on the cheek amidst the swirling crowds on the Champs-Elysées, drawing a
blush made of wine, happiness, and more than a little embarrassment.
When they reached the door to her
apartment, he brought her face to his with both hands and kissed her gently on
one cheek, then the other, then lightly on her soft mouth. Her lips parted a
bit, and she shuddered ever so slightly. She tasted of the sweet sauterne and
of building desire. He felt the familiar stirring in his own groin, but he
restrained himself from letting his lust lead the way.
He let her fit her key into the lock but made no effort to follow her
into the room. She sensed his reluctance and took his hand. “Come on in for a
minute.
Tu veux un cognac
?” It was the first time she had used the
familiar “tu” form of speech with him. “Do not worry. Mother is long asleep.”
He followed her into the room and
pushed the door closed behind them. She came easily into his arms, and their
bodies pressed tightly together. The cognac was forgotten…
She could feel him through the
thin fabric of her dress, and the feel of his excitement, and the sense of
power she felt at knowing she had caused his condition served to generate
further heat in her groin area. Her bosom swelled and pressed into him. He
traced her ample but well-shaped hips with his hands and brought them up to her
breasts, cupping them.
He held her tightly but made no
move to advance the familiarity, even though she was clearly more than ready.
“Not here,” he whispered, wandering hands caressing her hips and buttocks, “not
now. I want it to be perfect. Can you come away with me next weekend?”
“
Mais oui
, but....”
“Do not worry about your mother.
She can accompany us. I have a villa in Trouville on the Normandy coast. It is
beautiful. Plenty of room.” His lips gently caressed her eyes and lips and ears
and neck as he spoke. “I like your mother. She will love the place, and we will
have plenty of time alone. You will see.
Ça va
? We will have the whole
weekend together....”
“Of course. Of course I want to
come. Are you sure it is all right? With mother, I mean?”
“
Certainement
. I would not
have it any other way. I will pick you up early Saturday morning. Pack a
maillot.
We will have a swim in the moonlight.”
They kissed again, long and deep
and passionately. He reluctantly pushed away again and whispered “Saturday,” and
then he was gone, leaving her trembling and aroused. She would dream about
François Leverrier, a/k/a Jacques Dubois, every night until the weekend.