Chapter 2

THROUGH THE OVAL PORTHOLE, I watched Paris unfold beneath the airplane as it completed its final holding track in preparation for landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. The constant thrum of jet engines changed, deepening as power increased. The whine of motors extending wing flaps added to the noise. Landing gear thumped open. Leveling, the Airbus started its approach.

In my lap, the file sat closed. I’d pored over it during the long flight from Dulles. At first blush, it seemed simple - protective duty for ten days. Yet, just because I speak French and know Paris aren’t reasons enough to assign me the duty. In the hierarchy of assignments, this one rated next to last; way below my pay grade.

For the next ten days I was to protect Callie Hollister, daughter of General George Hollister, a four-star serving as America’s top representative to NATO. But the question remained; why would she need protection? And why was she in Paris, not Brussels, Belgium, with her father, where NATO was headquartered?

There were more troubling questions, too. Why me? I hadn’t been part of a protection detail for three years. My skills were intelligence gathering and troubleshooting for the US Department of State. There were many other qualified candidates who speak French and know Paris. They could have transferred another body from any other American Embassy in Europe for ten days. So, why me?

The Airbus thumped down onto the runway with a screech of rubber. Engines roared as reverse thrust was applied, g-force pulling my body forward.

Thirty minutes later I breezed through passport control with a flash of a diplomatic passport, carrying a duffle bag over my shoulder. Crowds shoved and bustled as I made my way to the taxi stand. Another ten minutes and I was rocketing precariously towards Paris, the cab stinking of stale Gauloise cigarette smoke and garlic salami, the dark-skinned driver yelling at other cars as he dodged in and out of lanes in an erratic, unpredictable rush, his hand playing a musical tempo with the horn.

Paris suburbs passed in a blur. It was a rare sunny day in late May that made Paris prettier than the usual grubbiness that characterized the outskirts. The smell of Gauloise made me long for a cigarette, a nasty habit I’d quit two years ago.

Peeling off the autoroute from the middle lane to the accompaniment of a chorus of angry car horns objecting to the sudden maneuver, the cab battled through city traffic, passing Champs-Élyseés in the distance, the top of the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile visible. We fought traffic down Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré paralleling the Seine. A couple of hair-raising jigs and the cab hit Rue du Temple and, two blocks later, screeched to a stop at Paris Marais Dance School.

“Quatre-vingt six Euro, s’il vous plaît,” the cabbie announced, turning to stare at me as if I was planning to stiff him.

I handed him a hundred Euro note and got out. It was way too much, but what the hell. It wasn’t my dime.

For a moment I studied the Paris Marais Dance School. It was very French; a large u-shaped tan building facing the street, two floors, a steep, dark, lead sheet roof with narrow dormer windows indicating a third floor, and the requisite small café with outdoor tables and bright yellow umbrellas promoting Pernod in the courtyard, occupied by a collection of young people sipping coffee.

Hefting the duffle bag over my shoulder, I entered the school and immediately spotted Jeff Benton, the man I was replacing. Forty-four years old, dressed in a dark suit, hair thinning, and weight collecting at his waist, he looked like a middle-aged businessman. Except, he was standing, alert and observant, watching everyone as they passed. He spotted me and smiled.

“Lightfoot! So they roped you into replacing me,” he commented, extending his hand. I shook it. We’d worked the protection detail together years ago. Jeff never aspired to greater things.

“Yeah. Ten days. Hey, sorry to hear about your father. I hope he’s okay,” I said.

Jeff frowned. “It’s the damnedest thing. He’s never...” Jeff’s voice trailed off. He shrugged. “It’ll be good to see him. Here.”

He handed me a set of keys.

“Callie is in class. Second floor. She’ll be finished in half an hour. The car’s parked down the street; a silver Mercedes. Just hit the remote and the lights will tell you which one.”

I took the proffered keys. “Any advice?” I asked.

“Yeah. Keep a close eye on her. She’s an escape artist.” With a glance at his watch, he added, “I’m outa here.” He shook my hand again and, shaking his head, said, “So they sent the A team ... Strange.” With that, he left.

I stood in the entry hall, glanced around, and finally spotted an office. A middle-aged, gray-haired lady tapping away at a computer keyboard paused long enough to inform me, after checking her computer screen and my I.D., that I would find Callie in studio 2D.

Climbing the broad marble staircase, I noticed all the students were of a type; young, slender men no older than mid-twenties and as young as early teens, and reed-slender females of the same age, all full of energy.

Studio 2D was large with polished hardwood floors, mirrors on the wall, and brightly lit. Peering through the window inset in the door, I watched a group of teens dancing the same routine, a modern dance, the late-middle-aged female instructor at the head of the studio watching with an eagle eye and barking out instructions. Callie was easy to find. She looked like the photo in her file: fine-boned and sparrow slender making her appear tall for her age; very, very dark brown hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. I studied her. She moved with grace, her body flowing effortlessly from one pose into another, her fingers posed just so reinforcing my impression of a little sparrow. In a white leotard, with white leggings, and a colorful silk scarf tied around her waist, she looked delicate and young. Only a small bust hinted at her true age - fifteen.

Chapter 3 »