Page 57 of Out of Control

Thankfully, Drago spent most of the time watching his rearview mirror. At least one of them was doing his due diligence to take a circuitous route to their destination and check their tails. As for him, he was too busy sightseeing.

Drago drove west along the Champs-Élysées, and Spencer gaped like a tourist at the designer fashion houses lined up one after another on the broad boulevard that rose gently toward the Arc de Triomphe. They reached the madhouse that was the massive traffic circle around the monument where twelve boulevards met and merged, and Spencer gripped the dashboard with white knuckles.

“The trick,” Drago commented dryly, “is to attack the traffic circle like a lunatic. Scare the other lunatics into staying the hell away from you. It doesn’t hurt that I’m in a vehicle I clearly wouldn’t give a damn about totaling.” He flashed his lights furiously at other drivers and shook his fist out his side window a few times for emphasis before they finally popped out of the whirling insanity and into a posh, and blessedly calmer, neighborhood.

Drago’s “modest” flat turned out to be a spacious two-bedroom apartment decorated to the hilt with gorgeous Louis XV antiques, only one block off the Boulevard St. Germain in the 6th arrondissement. Even Spencer knew it was the most expensive and prestigious district in all of Paris.

Spencer asked incredulously, “Why do you bother with some lousy government job if you own this? Federal employees aren’t paid any better than soldiers.”

Another shrug. “Same reason you’re not pulling down $400K a year working for some private security contractor. I believe in what I do.”

There was that.

“It has crossed my mind to leave the military, actually.”

Drago turned to stare at him. “Get out. You? Bail on your precious career? Damn. You really do need to get laid more often, don’t you?”

Ignoring the question, Spencer asked, “Where do you want me to put my gear? I don’t want to break anything.”

Drago’s brows twitched into a frown. “Beautiful things are meant to be enjoyed. Put your bag in one of the bedrooms, and I’ll see what my property manager has stocked in the kitchen. I asked her yesterday to make a grocery run for us.”

“Dear God, how terribly bourgeois it all is. I’m not sure I can handle it,” Spencer commented dryly.

“You soldiers live to slog around in the mud. We CIA officers know how to live.”

“I’ll bet you’ve had more than a few lousy missions to muddy places.”

Drago grinned. “Indeed. Which is why when I can live like this on a mission, I do.”

Spencer emerged from the second bedroom in time to hear Drago speaking quick French on the phone to someone.

As he came into the kitchen, Drago hung up. “I have the address of the dry cleaner from the receipt in Khoury’s wallet. Shall we go have a chat with the employees there? See if they recognize our guy? Maybe they’ll tell us if the address on his driver’s license is real.”

“Let’s go.” The faster they got this mission over with, the better. Although he didn’t know if he was antsy to get away from Drago or to be with him more. Maybe both.

They rode the Metro across the city to a very different neighborhood. As they emerged from the subway, it looked as if they’d entered a Middle Eastern slum.

“How in the hell does this kind of poverty exist so close to where you live?” he murmured.

“Not easily or peacefully,” Drago replied. “Stick close by me. You’re clearly an outsider in this place. On the other end of Paris, I’ll be the one getting suspicious looks, while your Northern European beauty will have women throwing themselves at you.”

“Thanks. And no, thanks.”

“Take it for the compliment it is, bro. Parisian women have high standards.”

They walked into an increasingly poor and increasingly less French and more crowded neighborhood with crumbling buildings, more trash, and a vibe of frustration and despair. In spite of his lingering bruises from the beating on the beach, Spencer did his best to move loosely, his body relaxed and ready to react at a moment’s notice to a threatening move by anyone.

“Here’s the dry cleaner’s,” Drago announced.

They stepped into a narrow space with a counter across its width. A bored-looking woman glanced up as they stepped inside. She did a hard double take, and a glint of appreciation entered her gaze. Spencer allowed that he and Drago together probably made for a rather striking pair.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in heavily accented French.

Drago replied in Arabic, “I hope so, madam. I heard that Fayez Khoury uses this business for his clothing, and I’m hoping that means he lives near here. I’m in town for a couple of days, and I’m hoping to surprise him by dropping in on him.”

“Ahh, Monsieur Khoury. I do not know exactly where he lives, but he walks to my business from his home. Perhaps if you ask some of the other shopkeepers, they can help you.”

“I’m close to him, then. Perhaps I shall just step outside and shout his name very loudly,” Drago teased.

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