A Hostile State Adrian Magson (reading e books txt) 📖

the A10 past Paris-Orly Airport. Hopefully if anyone was already on my tail they might conclude I was taking a flight out and set off to intercept me. Good luck with that.

I was feeling more lively after some sleep and a sandwich and ready to face whatever the day was about to throw at me. Following Callahan’s last text message I was heading for Épernon, a small commuter town in the Loire region about an hour’s drive from Paris. I stopped once at a pull-in service area near Janvry and took a stroll, eyes on the approach road to see if anyone came in after me.

It didn’t amount to much: a Dutch-registered transporter loaded with caravans, a small Citroën with a family of five on board all shouting at each other and looking as if they’d like to indulge in group murder, and a coach from Manchester, England, full of old folk who appeared to be having an early karaoke session.

None of the above looked like the kind of cover anybody would use for tracking me. The other traffic was fairly light and kept on going by, so I gave it thirty minutes before getting back on the road. I stopped again near the forest of Rambouillet and went through the exercise once more before continuing.

The road skirted the southern quarter of the forest, and I headed north at Abli. I’d never been to Épernon before so I was stepping into the unknown. But what else was new?

Callahan’s last text had stated the town as a meeting point but with no specific location. It was a wise move. If someone was tracking me it would be insane to allow the CIA’s local source to be pinpointed, too. All I knew was that her name was Marie-Josée Chesnais and Callahan said she would meet me at a pre-arranged spot and time of my choosing. From there I was to get her on a flight out from the nearest big airport, which would be Orly.

As a precaution I scouted out a hotel tucked away in a quiet street and checked the keyboard behind reception. It looked like there were plenty of spare rooms but I didn’t want to book one yet unless I had to.

It was an indie establishment which was a plus point. If someone with sophisticated hacking capabilities was trying to find me and knew I was in France, their first logical move would be to plug into the French chain hotels and use their corporate reservations intranet to check names, arrival times and length of stay – all details which would lead a cautious team to check out single travellers as worthy of a look. The downside of using a small private hotel was you were more easily remembered.

I went back out and scouted the town on foot to familiarize myself with the surroundings. It had a pleasant atmosphere and was built partly on the side of a hill, with narrow, twisting thoroughfares and ancient houses leaning over some of the older streets. Apart from a cluster of retail shops in the centre, the community’s advertised pride and joy was a park catering for the well-being of its citizens and visitors. This facility included a fitness trail for the jog-and-exercise enthusiasts, and a park for dogs. So cool, the French.

I returned to my rental car in a quiet side street and sent a text to Callahan stating that I’d arrived in the town and was ready to go. He came back within a few minutes.

Confirm RV.

I still wasn’t sure I trusted the system he was using, or the fact that I was being put out like a sacrificial goat to flush out a hit team. But since I’d agreed to go ahead with it, there was no point getting cold feet now.

In any case, I didn’t do cold feet.

I’d already chosen a spot where we could meet, so I sent him the general locators for the park, then took my backpack and made sure the Beretta was good to go. I didn’t like walking around a friendly country with a gun on me, but I’d have felt half naked going without one. Unless Mademoiselle Chesnais was going to turn out to be a secret psycho I figured I should be fine for the time being.

Callahan’s response came quickly.

RV 1 hour. Sending help.

One hour wasn’t long. It meant Chesnais must be fairly close by. But what was the help he’d mentioned? Had he got some Special Activities guys ready to swoop in on a helicopter? Somehow I doubted it.

I walked back down through the town, stopping at a bakery on the way for a baguette which I tucked under my arm. Then I took a different route to the park, taking my time and checking my back trail.

There were more trees than I would have liked, which was both good and bad. It made good cover for me and I could keep an eye out for any arrivals, but if they were a class act and came in numbers I’d have my work cut out to spot them all. I’d avoided choosing the dog park, since anyone walking there who didn’t have a mutt in tow or chasing a Frisbee would stand out too much.

I circled the area slowly, giving the pretence of scrolling through messages on my cellphone while looking for cars or people who looked as if they didn’t belong. People like me, essentially. Hopefully the baguette would help dispel that suspicion, and I chewed on one end, which my mother always referred to as the butt-end, because that’s what you do with such an appealing piece of bread when in France.

As I chewed and strolled along a path towards a strand of trees where I’d decided to sit and wait for Chesnais, a figure in jeans and a light jacket, and carrying a shoulder bag stepped off the grass ahead of me and walked towards me. She was young and pretty, and had honey-brown hair cut in