Lie Down With Lions (2 page)

“I think you’re exaggerating.”

“You always say that.” She stepped into the shower and banged the door. Ellis took his razor from the drawer where he kept his overnight kit and began to shave at the kitchen sink. They had had this argument before, at much greater length, and he knew what was at the bottom of it: Jane wanted them to live together.

He wanted it too, of course; he wanted to marry her and live with her for the rest of his life. But he had to wait until this assignment was over; and he could not tell her that, so he said such things as
I’m not ready
and
All I need is time,
and these vague evasions infuriated her. It seemed to her that a year was a long time to love a man without getting any kind of commitment from him. She was right, of course. But if all went well today he could make everything right.

He finished shaving, wrapped his razor in a towel and put it in his drawer. Jane got out of the shower and he took her place. We’re not talking, he thought; this is silly.

While he was in the shower she made coffee. He dressed quickly in faded denim jeans and a black T-shirt and sat opposite her at the little mahogany table. She poured his coffee and said: “I want to have a serious talk with you.”

“Okay,” he said quickly, “let’s do it at lunchtime.”

“Why not now?”

“I don’t have time.”

“Is Rahmi’s birthday more important than our relationship?”

“Of course not.” Ellis heard irritation in his tone, and a warning voice told him.
Be gentle—you could lose her.
“But I promised, and it’s important that I keep my promises; whereas it doesn’t seem very important whether we have this conversation now or later.”

Jane’s face took on a set, stubborn look that he knew: she wore it when she had made a decision and someone tried to deflect her from her path. “It’s important to
me
that we talk
now
.”

For a moment he was tempted to tell her the whole truth right away. But this was not the way he had planned it. He was short of time, his mind was on something else, and he was not prepared. It would be much better later, when they were both relaxed, and he would be able to tell her that his job in Paris was done. So he said: “I think you’re being silly, and I won’t be bullied. Please let’s talk later. I have to go now.” He stood up.

As he walked to the door she said: “Jean-Pierre has asked me to go to Afghanistan with him.”

This was so completely unexpected that Ellis had to think for a moment before he could take it in. “Are you
serious?
” he said incredulously.

“I’m serious.”

Ellis knew Jean-Pierre was in love with Jane. So were half a dozen other men: that kind of thing was inevitable with such a woman. None of the men were serious rivals, though; at least, he had thought not, until this moment. He began to recover his composure. He said: “Why would you want to visit a war zone with a wimp?”

“It’s not a joking matter!” she said fiercely. “I’m talking about my
life.
”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t go to Afghanistan.”

“Why not?”

“Because you love me.”

“That doesn’t put me at your disposal.”

At least she had not said
No, I don’t
. He looked at his watch. This was ridiculous: in a few hours’ time he was going to tell her everything she wanted to hear. “I’m not willing to do this,” he said. “We’re talking about our future, and it’s a discussion that can’t be rushed.”

“I won’t wait forever,” she said.

“I’m not asking you to wait forever. I’m asking you to wait a few hours.” He touched her cheek. “Let’s not fight about a few hours.”

She stood up and kissed his mouth hard.

He said: “You won’t go to Afghanistan, will you?”

“I don’t know,” she said levelly.

He tried a grin. “At least, not before lunch.”

She smiled back and nodded. “Not before lunch.”

He looked at her for a moment longer; then he went out.

The broad boulevards of the Champs-Élysées were thronged with tourists and Parisians out for a morning stroll, milling about like sheep in a fold under the warm spring sun, and all the pavement cafés were full. Ellis stood near the appointed place, carrying a backpack he had bought in a cheap luggage store. He looked like an American on a hitchhiking tour of Europe.

He wished Jane had not chosen this morning for a confrontation: she would be brooding now, and would be in a jagged mood by the time he arrived.

Well, he would just have to smooth her ruffled feathers for a while.

He put Jane out of his mind and concentrated on the task ahead of him.

There were two possibilities as to the identity of Rahmi’s “friend,” the one who financed the little terrorist group. The first was that he was a wealthy freedom-loving Turk who had decided, for political or personal reasons, that violence was justified against the military dictatorship and its supporters. If this was the case then Ellis would be disappointed.

The second possibility was that he was Boris.

“Boris” was a legendary figure in the circles within which Ellis moved—among the revolutionary students, the exiled Palestinians, the part-time politics lecturers, the editors of badly printed extremist newspapers, the anarchists and the Maoists and the Armenians and the militant vegetarians. He was said to be a Russian, a KGB man willing to fund any leftist act of violence in the West. Many people doubted his existence, especially those who had tried and failed to get funds out of the Russians. But Ellis had noticed, from time to time, that a group who for months had done nothing but complain that they could not afford a duplicating machine would suddenly stop talking about money and become very security-conscious; and then, a little later, there would be a kidnapping or a shooting or a bomb.

It was certain, Ellis thought, that the Russians gave money to such groups as the Turkish dissidents: they could hardly resist such a cheap and low-risk way of causing trouble. Besides, the U.S. financed kidnappers and murderers in Central America, and he could not imagine that the Soviet Union would be more scrupulous than his own country. And since in this line of work money was not kept in bank accounts or moved around by Telex, somebody had to hand over the actual banknotes; so it followed that there had to be a Boris figure.

Ellis wanted very badly to meet him.

Rahmi walked by at exactly ten thirty, looking edgy, wearing a pink Lacoste shirt and immaculately pressed tan pants. He threw one burning glance at Ellis, then turned his head away.

Ellis followed him, staying ten or fifteen yards behind, as they had previously arranged.

At the next pavement café sat the muscular, overweight form of Pepe Gozzi, in a black silk suit as if he had been to Mass, which he probably had. He held a large briefcase in his lap. He got up and fell in more or less alongside Ellis, in such a way that a casual observer would have been unsure whether they were together or not.

Rahmi headed up the hill toward the Arc de Triomphe.

Ellis watched Pepe out of the corner of his eye. The Corsican had an animal’s instinct for self-preservation: unobtrusively, he checked whether he was being followed—once when he crossed the road, and could quite naturally glance back along the boulevard while he stood waiting for the light to change, and again passing a corner shop, where he could see the people behind him reflected in the diagonal window.

Ellis liked Rahmi but not Pepe. Rahmi was sincere and high-principled, and the people he killed probably deserved to die. Pepe was completely different. He did this for money, and because he was too coarse and stupid to survive in the world of legitimate business.

Three blocks east of the Arc de Triomphe, Rahmi turned onto a side street. Ellis and Pepe followed. Rahmi led them across the road and entered the Hôtel Lancaster.

So this was the rendezvous. Ellis hoped the meeting was to take place in a bar or restaurant in the hotel: he would feel safer in a public room.

The marbled entrance hall was cool after the heat of the street. Ellis shivered. A waiter in a tuxedo looked askance at his jeans. Rahmi was getting into a tiny elevator at the far end of the L-shaped lobby. It was to be a hotel room, then. So be it. Ellis followed Rahmi into the elevator and Pepe squeezed in behind. Ellis’s nerves were drawn wire-tight as they went up. They got off at the fourth floor and Rahmi led them to Room 41 and knocked.

Ellis tried to make his face calm and impassive.

The door opened slowly.

It was Boris. Ellis knew it as soon as he set eyes on the man, and he felt a thrill of triumph and at the same time a cold shiver of fear. Moscow was written all over the man, from his cheap haircut to his solidly practical shoes, and there was the unmistakable style of the KGB in his hard-eyed look of appraisal and the brutal set of his mouth. This man was not like Rahmi or Pepe; he was neither a hotheaded idealist nor a swinish mafioso. Boris was a stone-hearted professional terrorist who would not hesitate to blow the head off any or all of the three men who now stood before him.

I’ve been looking for you for a long time, thought Ellis.

Boris held the door half open for a moment, partly shielding his body while he studied them; then he stepped back and said in French: “Come in.”

They walked into the sitting room of a suite. It was rather exquisitely decorated, and furnished with chairs, occasional tables and a cupboard which appeared to be eighteenth-century antiques. A carton of Marlboro cigarettes and a duty-free liter of brandy stood on a delicate bowlegged side table. In the far corner a half-open door led to a bedroom.

Rahmi’s introductions were nervously perfunctory: “Pepe. Ellis. My friend.”

Boris was a broad-shouldered man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to show meaty, hair-covered forearms. His blue serge trousers were too heavy for this weather. Over the back of a chair was slung a black-and-tan-checked jacket, which would look wrong with the blue trousers.

Ellis put his backpack on the rug and sat down.

Boris gestured at the brandy bottle. “A drink?”

Ellis did not want brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning. He said: “Yes, please—coffee.”

Boris gave him a hard, hostile look, then said: “We’ll all have coffee,” and went to the phone. He’s used to everyone being afraid of him, Ellis thought; he doesn’t like it that I treat him as an equal.

Rahmi was plainly in awe of Boris, and fidgeted anxiously, fastening and unfastening the top button of his pink polo shirt while the Russian called room service.

Boris hung up the phone and addressed Pepe. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said in French. “I think we can help each other.”

Pepe nodded without speaking. He sat forward in the velvet chair, his powerful bulk in the black suit looking oddly vulnerable against the pretty furniture, as if
it
might break
him
. Pepe has a lot in common with Boris, thought Ellis: they’re both strong, cruel men without decency or compassion. If Pepe were Russian, he would be in the KGB; and if Boris were French he’d be in the Mafia.

“Show me the bomb,” said Boris.

Pepe opened his briefcase. It was packed with blocks, about a foot long and a couple of inches square, of a yellowish substance. Boris knelt on the rug beside the case and poked one of the blocks with a forefinger. The substance yielded like putty. Boris sniffed it. “I presume this is C
₃
,” he said to Pepe.

Pepe nodded.

“Where is the mechanism?”

Rahmi said: “Ellis has it in his backpack.”

Ellis said: “No, I don’t.”

The room went very quiet for a moment. A look of panic came over Rahmi’s handsome young face. “What do you mean?” he said agitatedly. His frightened eyes switched from Ellis to Boris and back again. “You said . . . I told him you would—”

“Shut up,” Boris said harshly. Rahmi fell silent. Boris looked expectantly at Ellis.

Ellis spoke with a casual indifference that he did not feel. “I was afraid this might be a trap, so I left the mechanism at home. It can be here in a few minutes. I just have to call my girl.”

Boris stared at him for several seconds. Ellis returned his look as coolly as he could. Finally Boris said: “Why did you think this might be a trap?”

Ellis decided that to try to justify himself would appear defensive. It was a dumb question, anyway. He shot an arrogant look at Boris, then shrugged and said nothing.

Boris continued to look searchingly at him. Finally the Russian said: “I shall make the call.”

A protest rose to Ellis’s lips and he choked it back. This was a development he had not expected. He carefully maintained his I-don’t-give-a-damn pose while thinking furiously. How would Jane react to the voice of a stranger? And what if she were not there? What if she had decided to break her promise? He regretted using her as a cutout. But it was too late now.

“You’re a careful man,” he said to Boris.

“You, too. What is your phone number?”

Ellis told him. Boris wrote the number on the message pad by the phone, then began to dial.

The others waited in silence.

Boris said: “Hello? I am calling on behalf of Ellis.”

Perhaps the unknown voice would not throw her, Ellis thought: she had been expecting a somewhat wacky call anyway.
Ignore everything except the address,
he had told her.

“What?” Boris said irritably, and Ellis thought: Oh, shit, what is she saying now? “Yes, I am, but never mind that,” Boris said. “Ellis wants you to bring the mechanism to Room Forty-one at the Hôtel Lancaster in the rue de Berri.”

There was another pause.

Play the game, Jane, thought Ellis.

“Yes, it’s a very nice hotel.”

Stop kidding around! Just tell the man you’ll do it—please!

“Thank you,” Boris said, and he added sarcastically: “You are most kind.” Then he hung up.

Ellis tried to look as if he had expected all along there would be no problem.

Boris said: “She knew I was Russian. How did she find out?”