Free The Paris Directive by Gerald Jay

been there all along, boxed and gift wrapped, waiting for the right occasion. It was daring and would need a little time, which he disliked. And it lacked the anonymous casualness of chance. But it was breathtakingly neat and came ready to use with all the parts inside.
    On the twenty-fourth of June, Ali didn’t arrive at L’Ermitage until late in the afternoon. He untied the wooden planks from the top of his white VW and carried them into the barn. For a man his size, he was unusually strong. Schuyler was inside, bent over the handyman’s large metal toolbox and rummaging through it. Ali dropped the planks on the floor, sending up a cloud of dust, and asked what the hell he was looking for. Schuyler needed a Phillips-head screwdriver for the kitchen cabinet hinges. Ali knew just where it was, which was amazing given the clutter of tools, rolls of tape, drill bits, blades, and assorted boxes of nails, washers, and screws. Much to the vacationing executive’s amusement, Ali insisted that when he had finished with it he put it back exactly where he had found it.
    After several weeks of sightseeing, Sky had had enough. Lately, he’d been helping Ali renovate the barn. He loved sanding down the new doors, windows, and cabinets, the smell of sawdust. And perhaps most pleasurable of all for him was losing all sense of time. It was a quality common to many of the things he enjoyed most, like flying, sailing, cross-country skiing, and, of course, making deals. Especially big ones. Like the billion-dollar deal that had delayed his departure.
    As for the handyman, Ali didn’t mind free volunteer labor as long as Phillips didn’t get in the way and minded his own business. Thisone seemed to know what he was doing. Ali had completed putting down the new floor and Schuyler was going over it with a rented electric sander when Ann Marie came up behind him.
    “It’s really coming along,” she said approvingly. Schuyler smiled and was about to give her a kiss when he noticed that she was already dressed for dinner.
    “What time is it?”
    “A little after eight. Our reservation at Chez Doucette is for nine. Aren’t you coming, dear?”
    He didn’t feel like quitting just yet, and he wasn’t particularly starved. “If I get hungry, I’ll find something later in the refrigerator.”
    “You okay?” she asked, more concerned than annoyed. Her husband loved to eat and definitely liked Chez Doucette, the best restaurant in town, and its owner.
    “I’m fine.”
    Even though Ali was busy at the other end of the room, Ann Marie could tell that his ears were tuned to every word they said. It gave her a very uncomfortable feeling. She wondered how much English he really knew. “You sure, Sky?”
    “Tell Ben and Judy I’m sorry.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    It was a quarter to ten when Ali, complaining that he’d done enough work for one day, abruptly packed up and left.
    “À demain,” called Schuyler.
    Tired and hungry himself, after a while Schuyler too thought he’d knock off. That day they had put in the new windows and the hardwood floor was ready to be stained. As his wife said, the place was shaping up. The funny thing was that, despite the pleasure he took in the work, he’d never have thought of doing anything so relaxing at home. For one thing, he’d no time for it. And for another—wiping the sawdust off his scraped, dirty hands—that’s what money was for, and they had plenty of that.
    Schuyler flipped off the lights. He was about to close the barn door and go see what was in the refrigerator when he heard footsteps. At first he thought it was Ali returning. But Ali’s VW was gone—as was Ben’s Peugeot—and the only car parked under the ash-gray outdoorlights was his new Mercedes. He peered into the darkness, trying to make out who it was.
    From the shadows emerged someone Schuyler had never seen before. Tall, long-haired, he moved like a hunter—stealthily, on the balls of his feet—as he approached the