Free The Paris Directive by Gerald Jay Page B

defend himself, and impaled his palm on a steel point. Though bleeding, he was so cheered to find Ali’s screwdriver that he hardly felt the wound. It wasn’t an ice pick, but it was better than nothing.
    He longed to hear Ben’s car with the three of them returning from dinner. They had been gone a long time. Instead what he heard wasthe banging of the suitcases being violently tossed aside, one after the other, and the wicker basket on the floor squeaking and rattling as the lid was opened and tugged at savagely. Then dead silence. It was as if his pursuer had momentarily lost the scent. Schuyler gripped the handle of the screwdriver so hard that the pain in his hand was excruciating, but he barely noticed as he waited for the door to move.

12
    CHAMBOUVARD FARM, TAZIAC
    G eorgette Chambouvard awoke with a headache after a bad night of dreams. She’d been tossing and turning for hours, and in the morning when her father came to wake her, she dimly remembered snapping at him and hearing the door slam, the house shake. Her dinner had not gone down well. She’d told her mother when she went up to bed that she thought it might be the mussels. And today was Friday. She knew she had to get up early to go to work.
    She squinted dubiously at the day. Behind her on the wall, the great Bernard Hinault, with a smile big as his heart, rolled jubilantly across the finish line, both hands raised high above his head. It was the 1980 World Championship in Sallanches. “Le Blaireau,” known by cycling fans the world over as the badger for never letting go of his prey, had won again. The other poster showed the irresistible Jean-Paul Belmondo in bed with a lit cigarette in his mouth, a gold chain around his neck, and Jean Seberg in his arms.
    Georgette glanced at the clock. She’d skip breakfast—wasn’t hungry anyhow—and make herself coffee at work. As Georgette got on her bicycle, a small black dog came racing toward her—tail wagging and galloping at a crazy angle—her bark a shriek as she fell down and picked herself up again. The scraggly chickens ran for their lives.
    “ Tais-toi, Mimi.” The dog gave a whimpering cry as if she’d been kicked in the face, and dragged herself away. Mimi was blind.
    Georgette raced away. The sunflower-fresh morning air filling her lungs helped her head, and she felt much better pedaling past her father’s fields as she tore along the road to L’Ermitage. There wasn’ta car to be seen, and she sprinted all the way to the turnoff, where she quickly slowed down and shifted gears. No problem for her Peugeot PX-10, which had eighteen speeds and Mafac “competition” hubs and brakes. Georgette was a triathlete and once had Olympic dreams before she was kicked off the national team. But that was bad luck and ancient history. She attacked the steep dirt road that led to the house as if it were an alpine stage of the Tour de France, her muscular legs churning up the hill like pistons. Though breathing hard, she had scarcely more fat on her thighs than the steel frame of her bike and had barely broken a sweat by the time she got to the top. Not bad, she thought, pleased with herself.
    Propping up her bike with its trademark arc-en-ciel rings against the house next to the other Peugeot’s rampant lion, Georgette wondered where Ali was. She didn’t see his Beetle. Glancing up at the house, she noticed that the white shutters were still closed. They must have gotten home late again last night. She’d like to have a vacation like that. Nothing to do but eat, sleep, and screw around, instead of wiping up other people’s slop. She cleaned for them twice a week and made extra for doing the laundry. The pay was good, the work wasn’t much, and they were nice people. As jobs go, she wasn’t complaining. But one of these days … she told herself. She was looking forward to getting paid today and buying a new dress.
    Georgette went up to the door and was surprised to find it locked. They had