12.
Tom Richardson descended the stairway of Hotel Lutece on the Isle Saint Louis, where the City of Light was born. He had negotiated a weekly rate of 1200 euros for a decent room in this three-star hotel situated at the very heart of Paris, a stone’s throw from Notre Dame Cathedral and one bridge away from the Latin Quarter.
The thing he liked to do most was walk, and no better city to delight a walker’s senses than the French capital.
Paris was where the CIA was supposed to have sent him. But only days before his flight, the agency abruptly fired him, for reasons they refused to explain.
So after brooding on his predicament—sudden and unexpected unemployment, booted from a job he adored—Richardson decided to go to Paris anyway. He had two reasons for this: One, he had already learned to speak French at the agency’s language training facility, had read many books about the City of Light and felt a romantic attachment to it. Two, it fit his new plan of action: To stick it to his ex-employer in a way they would most feel the pain. For this, he needed to be outside the United States and beyond the reach of U.S. law enforcement. Furthermore, he knew his choice would be particularly worrying to CIA because he had been comprehensively briefed on all CIA personnel, assets and operations inside the French Republic.
Richardson knew the French had already clicked to his presence, and that they were intrigued by it. Two watchers followed him wherever he went, and Richardson presumed these were not American agents, but officers with the Direction du Renseignement Interieur (DCRI).
Earlier, while Richardson was still at CIA, the U.S. Government had notified the French of his imminent arrival to work as a diplomat at the U.S. Embassy—and then, without explanation, annulled his posting.
Yet here he was, in Paris, without a diplomatic passport and unattached, it appeared, to the U.S. Embassy. Something would seem amiss to the French.
Richardson walked briskly along the Seine until he reached Jardin des Tuileries, where he cut through the beautiful park, past the Louvre, and on to the elegant Rue de Rivoli.
At one o’clock precisely, Richardson arrived at Angelina’s, adjacent to the luxurious Hotel Meurice. Immediately, he recognized Derek Priddle, having seen the editor’s photograph on the website maintained by Priddle’s publishing house, The Woodpecker Press.
“Hi, I’m Tom.”
Priddle looked into Richardson’s eyes and smiled while he shook his prospective author’s hand. “This way, they’re holding a table for us.”
Priddle had trained in by Eurostar that morning especially for lunch with Richardson after having a week earlier read Richardson’s book proposal. Normally, he did not travel for a first meeting with a new author—they came to him, if so invited. But Richardson’s proposal both intrigued and excited him. He had invited the American for lunch in London, but the American demurred, not wishing to avail himself to MI5, the British Security Service, which would be more cooperative with its cousins in the United States than the French.
In Priddle’s mind, this stance made Richardson all the more credible. And a day away in Paris—away from the office—was certainly no hardship.
The book publishing industry, as Priddle knew it, was a dinosaur, and unlikely to survive another 20 years.
Nobody read books any more, yet more books were published than ever in history—100,000 alone in the United States. New statistics suggested 40 percent of Americans read one book a year. And 70 percent of all books published lost money.
The future, pure and simple, was digital e-books. And those who dominated the market with such, notably Amazon.com, had realized they could cut out the middleman i.e., book publishers.
The Woodpecker Press was in crisis, as were all independent publishers that had not been swallowed by a conglomerate. And even the conglomerated ones were suffering.
So all Priddle wanted was one sensational book, whose rights he could sell to the United States, and place foreign language rights with houses in France and Germany and elsewhere. One big score.
Then he’d leave Woodpecker and launch out on his own as a consultant, maybe pen the novel he’d been thinking about for years. And if that went nowhere he was still young enough, at 46, to start new career in PR instead of fossilizing with a failing industry.
The two men sat, measuring up one another.
Priddle wore a navy blazer over a Thomas Pink shirt with French cuffs and gold cufflinks, and a gold signet ring on the pinkie of his left hand.
Richardson’s immediate impression of Priddle was that he might be an officer of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, posing as a publisher. He expected such antics not from paranoia but experience.
Richardson wore khaki trousers and a blue oxford cloth button-down, and classic white Nike sneakers. He had chosen Angelina’s over a swankier restaurant because Angelina’s served the best croque monsieur in Paris. But the best part was what came after: their famous hot chocolate with fresh whipped cream.
“So,” said Richardson. “Tell me about the publishing biz?”
Priddle put on a brave face and focused on the positive side of the enterprise he once loved. There was nothing like holding a book in one’s hands and losing oneself in it. So, when called upon, he could speak lovingly about book publishing, and about The Woodpecker Press, where he’d already spent 16 years acquiring, editing and marketing nonfiction, the department he now headed.
Richardson watched him, studying his body language, and decided to give him the benefit of any doubt. When he finished, Richardson put down his knife and fork and looked Priddle in the eye. “All I care about is one thing: How much of an advance will you pay me?”
The senior editor sighed before attempting to explain the complexities of book publishing along with financial constraints now placed upon publishers. “We can allow foreign and first serialization rights to flow immediately through to the author…”
Richardson waved him quiet. “Once the U.S. government knows about this book, they will take legal measures to freeze any monies due me. And they will succeed. So, all that matters to me is the advance. I don’t expect to see any money after that.”
“How much are you looking for?” asked Priddle.
“A lot.”
“I’ll need a figure to discuss with my marketing department.”
“A million dollars,” said Richardson.
Priddle shook his head, chuckling. “That’s over 600,000 quid.”
“That’s what I’ve been offered by another publisher,” said Richardson with the smugness of someone telling the truth.
Priddle registered disappointed surprise. “For what kind of rights?”
“World. Maybe you could deal with them to publish in Britain.”
Priddle shook his head. “The value for any publisher these days is dealing the rights elsewhere. As such, we would also want world rights. May I ask which publisher is offering a million dollars?”
Richardson grinned. “You can ask.”
Priddle saw by the glint in Richardson’s eye he was being toyed with. “I see. I don’t think we’re going to be able to compete…”
“I’d rather make a deal with you,” Richardson interjected. “Why don’t you make me an offer as near as possible to a million.”
“Do you know how many books we would have to sell to recoup our investment?”
“Uh-huh,” replied Richardson. “And paying a high advance will ensures that you protect your investment by printing that many along with a serious marketing strategy to sell them.”
Clearly, Richardson had done his homework.
“I’d guess you’re speaking with a French publisher, since much of your revelations pertain to France.”
Richardson shrugged, poker faced. “Before I was tasked to train for Paris I worked on the European Division desk in Langley. My proposal is just a teaser. There is much I know that will be of interest to readers in Britain, Germany, Italy and Spain, as well as in France.”
Just then, Richardson’s cell phone chimed. He pulled it from his pants pocket and scrutinized Caller ID, which came up as withheld, a word that never failed to pique his curiosity. “Excuse me,” he said to Priddle. “Hello? Yes, this is he.” He listened, smiling to himself. “How did you get my number?” He listened. “And how did you hear about me?” He listened. “Well, if you can make it to Paris… good. Just let me know when.”
Richardson disconnected, beaming. Won’t hurt to lay this on Priddle. “That was Josh Penner, the movie star.”
Priddle’s eyes widened.
“He says,” continued Richardson, “he wants to make a movie about me and my book!”
13.
Hollywood star Josh Penner disconnected his call to Tom Richardson in Paris and tapped out a local number. “He’s hooked,” Penner breathed into the phone.
Sitting in his office in West Hollywood, Mulberry smiled to himself. “Location A, 4:30 tomorrow.”
Penner pocketed his phone and looked down the bar in Spago in Beverly Hills. his eyes settling on a female figure. I know her.
Sitting three stools down, without anyone in between, was Jennifer Jones, sipping a soda.
Earlier, this FBI special agent had followed Penner’s red Ferrari from his house in the Hollywood hills—and slipped onto a stool at Spago’s bar while he was distracted on the phone.
Penner caught her eye. “You again?”
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t I see you at The Ivy yesterday?”
“Did you?” said Jones. “Yes, I was there. Oh, I remember, you gave me your card.”
Penner eased closer. He normally wasn’t attracted to women of color, but this lady was something else. “Josh Penner,” he said, offering his right hand.
“Jenny Jones.” She shook.
“You from around here?”
“I work down the road, in Westwood.”
“Really? What business are you in?”
“I work for the government. FBI.”
Penner stiffened, but only for a second. “You following me?”
She smiled. Beautiful teeth. “Should I be?”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” Penner smirked. “But usually it’s scumbags from TMZ or the tabloid press.”
“I’m going to be super honest with you,” said Jones.
Penner smiled indulgently. Here goes, I’m a huge fan and it has always been my destiny to meet you. He had heard this more than a hundred times.
“I’m interested in the Venezuelan you had lunch with yesterday,” said Jones.
This was bold, very bold, for a government bureaucrat. But the secret to Jones’s success, so far, was her willingness to take risks in a generally risk-averse culture
Penner froze, unsure how to proceed. “So you are following me?” He chuckled. Does CIA know about this?
Jones nodded, her sparkly, clear brown eyes smiling. “Would you like to sit at a table for greater privacy, join me for lunch?”
Penner considered this, mesmerized by her eyes. Wouldn’t hurt. He caught the maitre ‘d’s eyes, waved him in. “I’m ready to sit.”
“Of course. This way Mister Penner.”
The movie star turned to Jenny Jones. “You coming?”
“So let me guess,” said Penner after ensconcing himself in his regular banquette. “You didn’t just see me by accident at lunch yesterday?”
“No.”
“You were spying on me?”
“Not you,” said Jones, fluttering her eyelids, all innocence. “Your lunch date.”
“You don’t like Venezuelans?”
“It’s my job to monitor certain Venezuelans.” She paused. “We at the FBI want to learn more about this Venezuelan.”
“So you want to know what our lunch was about?”
Jones fluttered her eyelids. “That would be a good start.”
Penner studied the special agent’s face for several seconds. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all.” Jones shook her head earnestly. “We’re hoping you can help us.”
“With what?”
“With whatever you can tell us about Jose Hernandez.”
Penner recoiled. “Who the hell is Jose Hernandez?”
“The man you had lunch with yesterday.”
“I think you’ve made a mistake,” said Penner. “The name of the guy I met is Alex.”
Jones shook her head slowly, a patronizing grin on her face. “I know that’s what he called himself when he made the restaurant booking. But his real name is Jose Hernandez. We think he is deputy chief of station and will replace DISIP’s current station chief.”
“DISIP?”
“Venezuela’s intelligence service.”
Penner looked Jones in the eye, trying to discern if she knew anything about his work for CIA. He could not detect a thing. “Why should I help you?”
“Because you are a patriotic American?” said Jones.
Penner snickered. “You know my stance on the ridiculous foreign policies of the United States and that nitwit in the White House.”
Jones indulged Penner, blank-faced, nodding. Then she gave him her warmest smile. “I’d like you to get to know Hernandez. Get him to invite you to his home, meet his family. Get him talking about his background. Anything and everything.”
Penner threw his hands up in the air. “You don’t think I have enough to do making movies?”
“I wouldn’t want it to interfere with that,” said Jones, eyes wide. “I love your movies. What did Hernandez want?”
“He wants me to line up some of my celebrity friends to visit Hugo Chavez.”
“And that’s what you’re going to do?”
“Probably. I like Hugo.”
“Why?”
Penner squirmed.
“Never mind,” said Jones. “I’m not interested in Chavez. I’m interested in Hernandez. Will you go see him for us?”
“See him where?”
“Washington, D.C.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
Penner grinned. “What’s in it for me?” He attempted to pierce her pupils with his own.
Jenny Jones had no intention sleeping with Penner. But she knew how to flaunt her looks, her smile, and make men want her, and even believe they had a chance getting her into bed. “You never know,” she winked. “I realize that you aren’t motivated by money.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Penner. “I just made an easy five mil for a 30 second whiskey commercial that will only be seen in Japan.”
14.
Tom Richardson awakened to a pounding on the door. He glanced at the digital alarm clock upon the bedside table of his hotel room on the Isle-Saint-Louis in Paris: 6:01.
As he rose, the door lock clicked open and four uniformed gendarmes, guns-drawn, burst into the room. Quickly, they subdued Richardson, trussing him onto the floor and handcuffing his wrists behind his back.
Richardson turned his head sideways, trying to look upward. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked calmly.
A plainclothes officer dressed stylishly in blue jeans, white shirt and a sport coat sauntered in and leaned down. “Thomas Richardson?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“Bon jour. My name is Armand Chantelot. I am an officer with DCRI.”
Richardson smirked, France’s internal security service, Direction Centrale du Renseignement Interieur.
The uniforms went to work searching the room and compiling an inventory of all electronic devices, especially Richardson’s Mac Book Pro and iPhone, which they placed into a vinyl sports tote.
Richardson caught some of this out the corner of his eye. “What are they doing with my things?”
“We confiscate,” said Chantelot. “Maybe only borrow.”
“Am I under arrest for something?” asked Richardson.
“I can arrest you, if necessary,” said Chantelot. He spoke fluid English, with barely any accent. Chantelot had been trained at the FBI Academy in Quantico, and it was this knowledge of things American and excellent English that had positioned him on DCRI’s crack counterintelligence squad dealing with espionage threats from the United States. “And with our Napoleonic code, I can hold you for three weeks in a very unpleasant prison before we interview you.” He paused. “But I prefer to speak with you.”
“Okay,” said Richardson. “How can I help?”
“You will accompany me to my headquarters. I will ask questions.”
“But I’m not being charged with anything?”
“Not yet. It will depend on your answers.”