Free Assassin by David Hagberg Page A

said.
    â€œThat too,” she said. “But I meant here comes our lunch and I’m starved.”
    â€œYou’re not a cheap date.”
    She laughed. “You can afford it. Besides, there’s something I haven’t told you about myself.”
    He waited, an indulgent smile on his lips.
    The waiter served their filet of sole and tournedos of beef plat du jour expertly, then refilled their wine glasses.

    â€œWhat’s that?” McGarvey asked.
    â€œWhenever I have a good meal like this I get horney as hell. I’ll show you when we get home.”
    The waiter nearly dropped the wine bottle. “ Excusez-moi ,” he muttered, and he left.
    â€œThat wasn’t very fair,” McGarvey said.
    â€œParis waiters are all shits. Nobody dislikes them worse than a Parisian. Maybe next time he won’t eavesdrop.”
    â€œI think you’re becoming a crusty bastard from being around me so much.”
    â€œAnatomically impossible,” she said airily as she broke off a piece of bread and buttered it. “Crusty bitch, not bastard.”
    McGarvey raised his wine glass to her. “ Salut ,” he said.
    She raised her glass. “ Salut, mon cher .”
    Â 
    After lunch they took the elevator to the observation deck a thousand feet above the Seine, and looked out across the city. From here they could see people strolling through the park, and along the river. It was the most famous view of Paris from the city’s most famous monument, and McGarvey felt at home here as he always had.
    â€œWhen are you going to let me read your book?” she asked.
    McGarvey was a hundred pages into a personal look into the life of the writer, philosopher Francois Marie Arouet, whose pen name was Voltaire. His working title was The Voltaire I Knew , but the SDECE almost certainly believed that he was writing his memoirs, a book that no one wanted written. He wrote longhand, and kept the manuscript and most of his notes under lock and key. So far his failsafes had not been tampered with.
    â€œWhen I’m finished with it,” he said. “How about an after lunch drink at Lipps?”
    â€œYou are a Hemingway fan,” she laughed. “Let’s walk along the river first. Then afterward we’re going home.”
    â€œSounds good,” McGarvey said, and she turned to go, but he stopped her. “Are you happy, Jacqueline?”
    A startled look crossed her face. “That’s an odd question.”
    â€œAre you?” McGarvey studied her eyes.
    It took her a moment to answer, but she nodded. “Yes, I am.”
    She was telling the truth, he decided.
    They took the elevator back to street level, and headed past the sidewalk vendors and jugglers to the busy Quai Branly where they could cross to the river. Out of habit he scanned the quay; the pedestrians, the traffic, the taxis lines up at the cab ranks and the cars parked at the curb. His gaze slipped past a dark blue Citröen parked behind a yellow Renault, a man seated behind the wheel, and then came back. His stomach tightened, but he did not vary his pace, nor change his expression in the slightest. Jacqueline, holding his arm, detected nothing.

    He turned left toward the taxis, and Jacqueline looked up at him.
    â€œAren’t we crossing here?” she asked.
    â€œI want you to take a cab back to my apartment. There’s an errand I have to run.”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere without you,” she said.
    â€œDon’t be so snoopy, or you’ll spoil my surprise.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œI want you to wait for me at home. I won’t be long, and when I get back you’ll know what I meant.”
    â€œWhy can’t I wait here?”
    â€œBecause I don’t want you to.”
    â€œAre you a macho pig?”
    He laughed. “Not so long ago someone else called me that same thing. But right now you can either wait for me at my