Read Online Scorpion Deception by Andrew Kaplan - Free Book Online Page A

ordered. Around them, well-dressed French couples were doing what the French did best, eating and talking. The evening sparkled, and looking at her, Africa and what had happened in Switzerland and Hamburg seemed far away. Except for the brown Peugeot 308 he had spotted following his taxi in from the airport.
    Who could have made him at De Gaulle? he had wondered, watching as the Peugeot followed them in on the A1, past the Périphérique and into the city, making the turn from the Boulevard de la Chapelle onto Boulevard de Magenta. And then it hit him like the persistent beep-beep-beep of an alarm.
    They didn’t know who he was in Hamburg, and in any case, he had gotten rid of the glasses, cap, and shaved the stubble to change his image. It had to be either Bern, the photo ID from the Kilbane cover, or that stupid article from Africa. Or worse, something else. Something he didn’t know about.
    Except how had they gotten onto him in Paris? And so quickly? He’d watched the brown Peugeot in the taxi’s rearview mirror, not relaxing even when it didn’t follow their turn onto Rue Saint-Martin. Either he was being paranoid or they had switched off and someone else was following now.
    â€œYou said it was urgent,” he began, as they sat in the restaurant.
    She nodded. “I was at a charity spectacle , très chic , at the Grand Palais for les MPLM . This man came up to me. Said he was a journalist. He was asking about you.”
    â€œWhat did you tell him?”
    â€œThat you were an American. That I hardly knew you, which of course is true.” The waiter brought them chilled langoustines for an appetizer and refilled their glasses. She waited till he left. “He wanted to know if I knew where you were.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI told him I had no idea, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell him.” She smiled wryly.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound terribly urgent,” he said, sipping the wine.
    â€œIt was his manner,” she said. “I had a bad feeling. There was something about him.”
    â€œDescribe him.”
    â€œMiddle Eastern. Arab or Iranian. Small man. His hands were very big, like they belonged to a much bigger man. And his journalist’s carte . It looked cheap, phony. His clothes too. He gave me, in French we say, la chair de poule ?”
    â€œHe gave you the creeps.”
    â€œYes, he creeped me.” She frowned. “But it wasn’t just that.”
    â€œSomething spooked you. What was it?” he said, looking up as the waiter brought his sole meunière and Sandrine her pike quenelles in shellfish sauce.
    â€œFor a journalist, he didn’t seem interested in the story. Not the children, not the bravery or what happened in Somalia, nothing. It was all about you. He wanted to know where you were. He showed me a photo.”
    Scorpion put his fork down. His sole meunière stuck in his throat. It was unbelievably good and at the same time terrible because he knew it was all about to go to hell.
    â€œOf me?” he said.
    She nodded. “Not the one from the article. A different one and with a different name.”
    â€œMichael Kilbane?” he asked.
    She nodded again. “He asked if it was you.”
    Christ, he thought, taking a deep breath. He was blown. Someone had put it together.
    â€œWhat did you tell him?”
    She shook her head, her hair swaying like a curtain.
    â€œI said it didn’t look like you to me.” She looked at him sharply. “But it was you. And I don’t think he believed me.”
    For a moment neither of them spoke. There was laughter from another table, a family. A thin man with a long nose shook his head and told them: “Non, non. Mais c’est vrai . ” No, no, but it’s true, and they laughed again.
    â€œI don’t know what to call you,” Sandrine said softly. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
    â€œThe food’s