Then she shrugged her shoulders, an afterthought add-on to the noncommittal smile.
“And you want immunity for this? For Dexter?”
“And for me.”
“For you?”
Kate nodded.
“Did you play any role in the theft?”
She shook her head.
“But you knew about it?”
“No, not … not at the time. It happened last winter.”
He leaned toward Kate, his elbows on the table in the café atop the Georges Pompidou Center. “Then why do you need immunity?”
“I don’t, really. But you never know.”
This was bizarre. “And where is this money?”
“Well, we have—that is, Dexter has—half of it. The other half is, uh, unavailable. At the moment.”
Hayden raised his eyebrows.
“Dexter had a co-conspirator. She has the other half. I think.”
“You think ?”
Kate huffed, blowing a slow stream of air out of swollen cheeks. “I just discovered this, Hayden, and it sort of ruined my life. So give me a fucking break.”
Hayden looked away from Kate, out over the café on the Beaubourg rooftop, off to the south, the picture-postcard images of Paris—the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, the severe geometry of the Louvre, the machine-age elegance of La Tour . This beautiful city, onetime capital of the world, center of high culture and international intrigue. Now a political backwater, an engine driven by food and fashion, by tourism, by the centripetal pull of the big city in a small country, irrelevant.
Paris is still important to the French, but it’s no longer the European center of what matters to Americans. Germany is by far thebiggest economy; Spain and Greece the loci of unrest; London the capital. There are Muslims growing militant in Scandinavia, and gangsters growing restless in Russia; there are the perpetually downtrodden and occasionally revolutionary hordes of Eastern Europe, the religious strife and ethnic tensions of Southern, the strategic oil reserves of Northern.
There are always important developments in Europe to monitor, to influence; there’s a never-diminishing assortment of unsavory characters to handle. But there’s an increasing reluctance in Langley to prioritize, to authorize, to legitimize the European desk. In the wake of 9/11, all their focus shifted to the Mideast, and to American-targeted terrorism. The subtleties of Europe had been growing increasingly elusive and unmanageably intricate to the crop of Agency bureaucrats raised on MTV, with the attendant attention spans. They thought they understood the blunt dynamics of Middle Eastern conflict, short-form conflict; they had very little patience with the longer arc of the European narratives.
Beginning in the late nineties, Hayden had run some extracurricular operations, a mutually symbiotic relationship with an international businessman; they helped each other create the news that Hayden, as a representative of the CIA, desired. But as that man grew more influential and visible over the subsequent decade, that business by necessity waned, and then disappeared entirely.
Which is why Hayden had been toying with the idea of setting up something new, something different, an off-the-books fund to run a freelance team that he could use for the types of operations that would no longer get approved by cover-your-ass Washington oversight. Disinformation. Counterintelligence. Character assassination.
Perhaps this was it, right here, falling into his unprepared lap in the soft early-fall gloaming, high above the busy streets of the 4 ème arrondissement . Not only the operating capital, but also the point person, the most important personnel member. He could make some sort ofdeal with Kate. He could take her stolen millions in exchange for her husband’s immunity. Sort of. And he could give her the job she wants. Again, sort of.
He considered Kate in the falling light, leaning away and breathing evenly, anxious for his answer but trying to hide it. A vulnerable woman, easily manipulated.
“Okay, Kate,” he said,
“And you want immunity for this? For Dexter?”
“And for me.”
“For you?”
Kate nodded.
“Did you play any role in the theft?”
She shook her head.
“But you knew about it?”
“No, not … not at the time. It happened last winter.”
He leaned toward Kate, his elbows on the table in the café atop the Georges Pompidou Center. “Then why do you need immunity?”
“I don’t, really. But you never know.”
This was bizarre. “And where is this money?”
“Well, we have—that is, Dexter has—half of it. The other half is, uh, unavailable. At the moment.”
Hayden raised his eyebrows.
“Dexter had a co-conspirator. She has the other half. I think.”
“You think ?”
Kate huffed, blowing a slow stream of air out of swollen cheeks. “I just discovered this, Hayden, and it sort of ruined my life. So give me a fucking break.”
Hayden looked away from Kate, out over the café on the Beaubourg rooftop, off to the south, the picture-postcard images of Paris—the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, the severe geometry of the Louvre, the machine-age elegance of La Tour . This beautiful city, onetime capital of the world, center of high culture and international intrigue. Now a political backwater, an engine driven by food and fashion, by tourism, by the centripetal pull of the big city in a small country, irrelevant.
Paris is still important to the French, but it’s no longer the European center of what matters to Americans. Germany is by far thebiggest economy; Spain and Greece the loci of unrest; London the capital. There are Muslims growing militant in Scandinavia, and gangsters growing restless in Russia; there are the perpetually downtrodden and occasionally revolutionary hordes of Eastern Europe, the religious strife and ethnic tensions of Southern, the strategic oil reserves of Northern.
There are always important developments in Europe to monitor, to influence; there’s a never-diminishing assortment of unsavory characters to handle. But there’s an increasing reluctance in Langley to prioritize, to authorize, to legitimize the European desk. In the wake of 9/11, all their focus shifted to the Mideast, and to American-targeted terrorism. The subtleties of Europe had been growing increasingly elusive and unmanageably intricate to the crop of Agency bureaucrats raised on MTV, with the attendant attention spans. They thought they understood the blunt dynamics of Middle Eastern conflict, short-form conflict; they had very little patience with the longer arc of the European narratives.
Beginning in the late nineties, Hayden had run some extracurricular operations, a mutually symbiotic relationship with an international businessman; they helped each other create the news that Hayden, as a representative of the CIA, desired. But as that man grew more influential and visible over the subsequent decade, that business by necessity waned, and then disappeared entirely.
Which is why Hayden had been toying with the idea of setting up something new, something different, an off-the-books fund to run a freelance team that he could use for the types of operations that would no longer get approved by cover-your-ass Washington oversight. Disinformation. Counterintelligence. Character assassination.
Perhaps this was it, right here, falling into his unprepared lap in the soft early-fall gloaming, high above the busy streets of the 4 ème arrondissement . Not only the operating capital, but also the point person, the most important personnel member. He could make some sort ofdeal with Kate. He could take her stolen millions in exchange for her husband’s immunity. Sort of. And he could give her the job she wants. Again, sort of.
He considered Kate in the falling light, leaning away and breathing evenly, anxious for his answer but trying to hide it. A vulnerable woman, easily manipulated.
“Okay, Kate,” he said,
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