Free Covert One 3 - The Paris Option by Robert Ludlum Page B

foreigners, yes? Since his friend was the victim of violence, Smith may have come for revenge. In any case, Americans always seem to feel less vulnerable when they have a weapon. Rather silly of them.”
    Which left Captain Bonnard with the distinct impression that the enigmatic and occasionally treacherous terrorist chief did not think Bonnard was right at all.
    On high alert, Jon Smith strolled toward the boulevard Pasteur, all the while pretending to look for a taxi to hail. He kept turning his head left and right, apparently studying the traffic for a potential ride, but really probing for whoever was out there watching him.
    Automotive exhaust filled the air. He looked back toward the institute's entrance, where the guards were checking identifications. Finally he decided on three potentials: A youngish woman, mid-thirties or so, dark-haired, no figure to speak of, lumpy face. Altogether unremarkable in a dull black skirt and cardigan. She had stopped to admire the gloomy brick-and-stone church of Saint-Jean Baptiste de la Salle.
    The second potential was a middle-aged, equally colorless man, wearing a dark blue sports coat and corduroy jeans, despite the warm May weather. He stood before a street vendor's cart, poring over the items as if he were looking for a lost masterpiece. The third person was a tall old man, leaning on a black ebony cane. He was standing in the shadow of a tree near the curb, watching the smoke at the Pasteur drift upward.
    Smith had close to two hours before the meeting President Castilla had arranged with General Henze, the NATO commander. It would probably not take that long to lose whoever was interested in him, which meant maybe he could get some information first.
    All this time, he had continued to pretend to be looking for a taxi. With a dramatic shrug of disgust, he walked onward toward the boulevard Pasteur. At the intersection, he turned right, sauntering toward the bustling Htel Arcade with its glass, steel, and stucco facade. He glanced into store windows, checked his watch, and finally stopped at a cafeacute;, where he chose an outside table. He ordered a demi, and when the beer arrived, he sipped and watched the passing parade with the relaxed smile of a recently arrived tourist.
    The first of the trio to appear was the tall old man who had been leaning on his cane in the shadow of a tree, watching the smoke from the bombed building, which could be suspicious in itself. Criminals were known to be drawn back to the scene of an attack, although this man looked too old and disabled to have taken on the duties of a sneak bombing. He limped along, using the cane expertly, and found a seat at a cafeacute; directly across the street from Smith. There he took a copy of Le Monde from his pocket and, after the waiter brought coffee and pastry, unfurled it. He read as he sipped and ate, apparently with no interest in Smith. In fact, he never looked up from his newspaper again.
    The second to arrive was the lumpy-faced young woman with the dark hair and nondescript appearance, who suddenly was walking past the cafeacute; not five feet from where Smith sat. She glanced directly at him and continued on without showing the faintest interest, as if he were simply empty space. Once past, she paused as if considering stopping for a drink, too. She seemed to dismiss the thought and moved on, disappearing into the crowded Htel Arcade.
    The third person, the man who had been shopping with such concentration at the street vendor's cart, did not appear.
    As he finished his beer, Smith replayed his observations of the tall old man and the nondescript womantheir facial features, the rhythm of their movements, the way they held their heads and used their hands and feet. He did not leave until he was certain he had memorized them.
    Then he paid and moved briskly back along the boulevard toward the Pasteur meacute;tro station at the intersection with the rue de Vaugirard. The old man with the cane soon appeared