37.
Waiting outside Hotel des Bergues in Geneva, Jeremy Katz, the intrepid private investigator for TZM, wished he’d brought an extra body as he tried to decide who to follow, Josh Penner or Tom Richardson, who was forking the opposite direction with Sophie Gunderson.
He opted for his prime target, and discreetly trailed Penner as the movie star picked up flowers, chocolates and a bottle of champagne, which he took back to his room in Hotel Beau Rivage.
Less than a mile from the Beau Rivage, inside Tom Richardson’s small room in Hotel Cornavin, Sophie Gunderson watched as the rogue spy stroked his keyboard until a Word Document popped up, after which he rose and invited her to take his desk chair.
Cleared for Top Secret, even Gunderson was astonished and alarmed by what she read scrolling through the 333-page document.
Richardson did not budge, aware that Gunderson need only insert a flash drive to download the document in seconds and take possession. He edged by the window and peered through lace curtains.
KGB operative/book publisher Igor Kuntevich stood across the street, looking up.
Richardson smiled, contemplating the Franck Muller wristwatch that would be his first purchase upon an influx of funds. He could already imagine it on his wrist.
In his hotel suite, Josh Penner went about arranging champagne in a bucket of ice and positioning his other delights for maximum impact on the woman he intended to seduce.
Then he accessed his cell phone messages. Jack Woodward grated his eardrum: What had Penner decided? Woodward demanded to know—and demanded to know it fast.
Penner remained undecided how to handle Woodward’s attempt to blackmail him; had hardly thought about the matter. And now it intruded upon his reverie over how to get Sophie Gunderson’s long legs around him.
And making this connection, Penner determined it would make an ideal talking point with Sophie during a romantic dinner in a dark, candlelit restaurant. To this end, Penner picked up the phone and connected to the concierge for expert advice on such.
Sophie Gunderson did not return until late in the afternoon and, when she did, it was to quickly touch base with Penner before scooting off to the U.S. Mission—and CIA’s cryptographic phone to headquarters.
Nearby, at the Russian Mission, Igor Kuntevich was already on a secure phone to his superiors in Moscow. In addition to a photograph of Katz, he had also transmitted a photograph of Sophie Gunderson to the SVR. Their USA desk quickly made a match, confirming Gunderson as a clandestine officer of the CIA.
That fool, Richardson—he’s fallen right into a trap!
Having watched Gunderson depart from Hotel Cornavin, Kunty deduced Richardson would now be alone. He phoned him.
“Ah, Igor,” said Richardson. “Was your presence in Des Bergues at lunch just a coincidence?”
It took Kuntevich off guard; the Russian remained silent.
“Just kidding! I know how much my book means to you.” Ah, to be the center of attention.
“Can we make a deal?” asked Kunty with undisguised impatience.
“Up to you, Igor. Have you talked to your publisher about a higher advance?”
“Yes. We must meet to discuss.”
“Dinner on you?”
Meantime, Sophie Gunderson connected to the seventh floor office of Chuck Livingstone, Director of the National Clandestine Service.
Livingstone and his deputy, and the Eurasian Division chief, listened to her voice over a cryptographic STE as Gunderson recounted from notes she made on the contents of Tom Richardson’s manuscript.
Gunderson’s voice trembled, clearly shaken by the extent, and specificity, of the revelations she encountered, many of which dealt with operations in France and Europe.
When Gunderson finished, the hushed silence of her somber audience was interrupted by Livingstone, who asked a few pointed questions about others engaged in the bidding process.
“Yes, the next point on my agenda,” said Gunderson. “The Russians are in on it.”
Another hushed silence.
“Richardson pointed out someone watching us at lunch,” continued Gunderson. “Someone he claimed to be a Russian publisher.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Richardson didn’t say, and it would have been too suspicious to ask.” She paused. “Richardson seems to think he can deal with Penner and the Russian publisher. And he also mentioned that a British publisher has offered him an advance.”
“Did he say which one?”
“No. But his manner and tone suggest he’s not bluffing.”
Gunderson took careful note of new instructions issued to her.
Meantime, Josh Penner sat at the Beau Rivage Hotel bar sipping a glass of nutty Swiss chardonnay, wondering what was taking Sophie Gunderson so darn long. And then his phone jingled with a text from her: Back in room, where are you?
He texted hotel bar.
When Gunderson appeared five minutes later, Penner drained his wine, signed a tab and rose before she could sit down. “C’mon, I have reservations.”
A hotel doorman saw them into a taxi.
“Les Armures,” Penner purred.
Their cab crossed the Mont-Blanc Bridge and ascended through old town’s narrow streets until reaching a quaint cobble-stoned forecourt outside the old armory.
A maitre ‘d welcomed the couple into a warmly lit tavern, the back end of Hotel Les Armures, and sat them with menus at a candlelit table. Penner ordered their specialties: raclette fondue, lake perch and Swiss wine.
“So,” said Penner, attempting to penetrate Gunderson’s translucent blue eyes. “Has this trip been worth it so far?”
The CIA officer nodded. “Yes.”
Penner waited for more, but Gunderson offered nothing further.
“What’s wrong?”
“We can’t talk about business in public.” She averted Penner’s relentless eye-gaze, glancing around for any indication that the Russian from lunch, or any of his comrades, had settled nearby.
“Okay, maybe later, back at the hotel,” said Penner, a smarmy smile that suggested to Gunderson he was coming onto her, like just about every male she’d ever encountered from the age of thirteen.
“How did you spend the afternoon?” she asked.
Riveted by Gunderson, Penner paid less attention to her words than the movement of her lips uttering them. He could practically visualize those lips around his…
Gunderson stopped in mid-sentence and lowered her voice, which had only been slightly above a whisper. “When you have a chance, look to you left across the room by the wall and tell me if you recognize anyone.”
Penner forked a piece of bread into molten cheese, lifted the fondue to his mouth and chewed it sensually, licking his lips, while focused on the contrast between Gunderson’s tiny black pupils and blue irises. Then he took a sip of white wine and nonchalantly twisted his neck to look. He refaced Gunderson. “Nope. Who-what-why?”
“I’m certain he was at the table next to ours at lunch today.” Gunderson paused. “We should leave.”
“Now?” Penner forked fondue into his mouth. “But this is good.”
Gunderson raised her arm to flag a waiter. “Bill, please.”
Sitting across the dining room, Jeremy Katz knew he’d been rumbled. He pressed a key on his cell phone, connected and whispered, “Don’t come in, they’re coming out. I’m burned. Follow them.”
Gunderson settled the tab with her own credit card as Penner stuffed himself with more fondue. “Who cares if he was next to us at lunch?”
“Me,” Gunderson replied with a steely matter-of-factness that penetrated Penner’s bones. “S’il vous plait appeler un taxi a l’entrée principale,” she said to the waiter in a flawless French accent.
“Wow, where’d you learn that?” asked Penner.
Gunderson rose. “Let’s go. This way.” She led Penner not out the restaurant door but into the hotel, up a flight of stairs and through a short corridor into Les Armures’ lobby.
A taxi pulled up seconds later.
“Go around the building, to the hotel entrance,” Jeremy Katz snapped into his cell phone.
Natalie Ruvo and Bradley Bish of TZM reached the front in time to see a large black Mercedes taxi pull off.
“They must be in it,” said Ruvo. “Follow,” she instructed Bish, behind the wheel of their rented Renault.
Gunderson, detecting surveillance, ordered the driver to lose the vehicle behind them. The cabbie grunted and floored it, happy to demonstrate his expertise on the narrow, cobblestoned streets and a complicated one-way system around the old town.
Satisfied the watchers had been eluded, she ordered the cabbie to Hotel Richemond.
Penner shot her a quizzical look.
“I need to think,” whispered Gunderson. “Whoever’s watching knows we’re staying at Beau Rivage. They’ll do anything to get Richardson’s manuscript. And they know we’re in their way.”
Penner considered this quietly.
The taxi drew up to Le Richemond and the pair alighted.
“Anything?” said Penner.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t sign up to risk my life.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gunderson. “Do you think you’re making a movie?”
“If we were, we’d be in bed by now.” Penner could not help himself, the sexual tension (in his own mind) so thick.
“This isn’t a movie, snapped Gunderson. “And we’re in dangerous territory. You’re going to have to listen to me, okay?”
“Okay,” said Penner.
“Follow me.” Gunderson entered Le Richemond and made her way to the restaurant bar, Penner in tow. She sat and beckoned him to sit across from her. A waiter took her order for a double espresso.
“What single malt Scotch whiskey do you have?” Penner asked.
Gunderson shook her head. “Do like me. Coffee.”
“I’ll never sleep,” Penner protested.
“That’s right—and it may save your life.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I understand the stakes involved,” said Gunderson.
“What stakes?”
She ignored he question. “We’re going to wait a few minutes. The Beau Rivage has a side entrance, the other side of the bar, on Rue Dr. Alfred Vincent. We’re going to go in that way, go straight to our rooms, grab our things and leave.”
“You really think we have to...?” What about the flowers, chocolate and champagne?
“I don’t take chances,” snapped Gunderson. “Now, don’t be calling anyone.”
“What if someone calls me?”
“Don’t answer. In fact…” Gunderson grabbed her cell phone, unscrewed the back panel and removed the battery. “Do as I do.”
“But…”
“But nothing,” she said sharply. “If and when they get our cell numbers, our phones will become open microphones.”
Penner complied as a waiter served espresso.
Gunderson sipped, realized it wasn’t too hot, and drank the potion in three gulps. “Ready?”