Free The Paris Directive by Gerald Jay Page A

lit kitchen window of the house. Schuyler didn’t like his looks at all. Nor the gun he was toting or the furtive way he peeked through the panes, scanning the room. This guy was trouble.
    Motionless and dumbstruck, Schuyler watched as the intruder glided over to the door and went into the house as if he’d been there before. With his gun and large rubber boots, he could be the poacher Schuyler had seen the other night. Perhaps the same uninvited guest who had ripped off his friend’s money and credit card and was coming back for more.
    Schuyler was certain that it wasn’t Ali who had stolen Ben’s Visa. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the comforting bulge of his wallet. Though Ann Marie had probably left some expensive earrings and bracelets in their room, everything was insured. He wasn’t worried about that. He longed wistfully for his car keys or his cell phone, which were nestled among his silk handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the bureau. Some official tough guy like Inspector Mazarelle would be awfully good to see about now. Schuyler wondered what the creep was doing in there. Why was he taking so long? Could he have already left by way of the back door or the terrace?
    When the intruder finally came out, he looked across at the barn. Schuyler’s heart sank. Even before the guy started toward the barn door, Schuyler had begun feeling his way into the darkness of an interior whose layout was by now familiar to him. Although there was no other way out of the barn, he knew of a perfect hiding place. It was in the rear storage area where they kept old boxes, barrels, cartons, and trunks. And as Ali one day had shown him, it also contained a secret room that once, long ago, had been a granary. Laughing, Ali had suggested that maybe during the war when the Vichy cops came looking for Jews, the owner hid them in there. It was even less funny to Schuyler now than when he first heard it.
    Outlined in the doorway, the stranger stood for a moment framedby the ghostly light behind him, his face lost in the shadows as he entered the barn. Either he couldn’t find the light switch or had no desire to turn it on. As fast as Schuyler could go, he groped his way to the back of the barn where the air was damp and musty. Moving quickly, as much with his hands as his feet, he felt along the wall until he came to a pile of suitcases stacked atop a huge wicker basket and, grabbing the handle with both hands, pulled the basket slowly toward him so as not to knock over the loose tower of luggage. Nothing fell as the large basket, which was bolted to the wall, inched forward, pulling with it a section of the wall behind. The wood scraping on the stone floor squealed like the steel wheels of an elevated train rounding a curve.
    Shit, he thought, that’s all I needed. Without a moment’s pause, Schuyler hurled himself into the utter blackness and pulled the wall closed behind him with a second high-pitched, agonizing sound. It wasn’t until he’d shoved the thick wooden bar into place on the back of the door that he felt momentarily safe.
    Then came the stealthy approaching footsteps. Followed by the noise of barrels being shoved lightly aside as if some powerful stalking animal were hunting for its frozen prey. Who was this guy, Schuyler asked himself, and why me? What the hell did he have against me? What was he doing now? There wasn’t a sound. Straining to catch the slightest hint of movement, Schuyler, barely breathing, pressed his ear against the back of the door.
    From the other side of the wall, a low voice called softly, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” There was a sudden hammering on the wall, furious blows as if someone was trying to punch a hole through it to get at him.
    Was the man crazy? The thought was as frightening as the surreal situation in which Schuyler found himself. How do you charm a madman? His chest pounding, he reached into his back pocket searching for a weapon, something with which to