Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

I barely make it to the 12:30 pm Air France flight out of Baltimore. I had to get rid of my gun, which I took apart and dumped in three different trash cans outside the terminal. The multi-tool is confiscated by airport security, which I find humbling after all the subterfuge with which I'd gotten away. I'll have to buy a new one when I land in Paris. This is the most worried I've been since my suicide flight from Caracas to Colombia. I have a one-hour layover in Atlanta and then an eight-hour flight to Paris. That's too many checkpoints and too much time confined with nowhere to escape.

This sense of paranoia is enhanced when I step off the plane at Charles De Gaulle the next morning. I wouldn't be surprised if the police jump me right then and there, but nothing happens. As far as French immigration is concerned, I'm just a returning EU citizen. I've gone into the belly of the beast and survived to tell about it.

I take a train to Paris, upset about the adverse currency exchange. More rain. I watch the sprinkled window. Not much has changed since I spent a whole summer here when I was fourteen. The city is hectic with "la rentrée," their equivalent of "back to school." Paris has already awoken from the summer stupor and tourism has thinned. Yellow and orange leaves adorn the trees and carpet the ground, reminding me of a Monet painting.

I replace my tools and get some local clothes to blend in. Then, I go to the Latin Quarter, with its narrow streets and restaurant managers insistently promoting their places by their doors. There I find a small bar permeated by the smell of grilled lamb from the Greek joint next door. I order a beer, steal an unprotected Wi-Fi signal, and hack into a nearby hotel to get lodging.

Once in my room, I take a shower and shave my head bald, which I hate doing in this weather, but I'm running out of ideas for disguises. At least the beard is coming along nicely.

Later that day, I walk alongside the Seine checking out the vendors with their wooden, green boxes stuffed with used books. There's a quiet café with a good view of Notre Dame where I can sit down and check the news on my laptop with a cup of espresso; by now my body is probably 50% caffeine. The reports from the Americas appear to have little resonance in the Old World, allowing me some respite, and at the same time, making me aware that the margin for error has widened. I can't let my guard down.

A news site reports that Rafael Montenegro arrived in Caracas and is currently holding talks with the new president along with other opposition leaders. They've agreed to wait for the next general election, instead of pushing for an emergency one. For its part, the government has agreed to pardon Montenegro and other exiled political activists, and has reinstated the broadcasting licenses of any media outlets the government had censored in the past. With a new slogan "Venezuela Unida," the country starts to move forward peacefully. Any reference to me has been conveniently excluded from the Venezuelan reports. The American news is a different story.

The FBI now alleges that the shooting in my apartment involved myself and agents of the Cuban intelligence, looking to retaliate for the assassination of Castro's Venezuelan protégé. That's rich. This change of hypothesis means the CIA is now trying to adapt to my moves, instead of me dancing to its tune. The problem is, there's nothing regarding the Montenegros' arrest, which by now should have been a reality. Something isn't right.

Tony's computer and cell phone have gone dead. I have no doubt now that his bugs have been compromised. Everything is quiet on Trishna's side as well. Something is definitely not right. I'm going to need a back-up plan.

The only consolation is a message from James Sanders, under the nickname "Brand10." I recognize the reference and let out a quiet laugh. "10" stands for the Roman numeral "X," "Brand X" was the unofficial designation of the first ad hoc Air Force special tactics unit. I accept his friend request and let him know I'm online and waiting for him. I never would have thought such frivolous technology could be so useful.