Peter Killdrew, like Richard, had been an Agency guest at another safe house and was kept on ice until the interviews with Richard began in earnest. When Richard orchestrated his escape, the ice melted.

"It would appear our Mister Killdrew had nothing of value to add to our latest information." Nathan puffed vigorously on his cigarette.

"I'm quite sure of that, sir." Murray sat comfortably at the table in the modest kitchen of the safe house where Peter had been spirited for his interview.

"Pity. I had hoped there was more to his story than what you were able to learn. I am still unconvinced about Richard; perhaps Monique should have an interview," he murmured more to himself than Murray. "It would have been nice to possibly learn something about this Council business as well."

"Should I call waste removal, sir?" Murray asked, ignoring the comment.

"Yes, Murray, and have them make it before three, we need to be well away from here by then. This place will have to go silent for a spell."

"It is interesting, sir, that Peter confirmed our suspicions about Mister Carstairs and Miss St. Croix without actually having confronted them."

"His confirmation was only an attempt at self preservation, Murray. We don't know for certain that Richard and Monique are working together now or were before, although the Toronto visit offered some evidence. There is some further questioning to do now of our friend, Roger." Nathan stubbed out yet another cigarette. "And perhaps, Pierre, if he is able. Richard has shown some bold cleverness I wouldn't have credited him with, intercepting our money that way. It almost gives credence to his story."

"Sir?"

"Well if he does have the money why risk going after Pierre and Roger? He nearly got himself killed if we are to believe them."

"I have Mister Léger located and available for pick up at your discretion, sir. We should be able to confirm that easily enough."

"Tomorrow. We'll move to our other location in San Dupres and see him there."

"And Mister Tremblay, sir?"

"Check on him in the hospital. If he can offer anything get it, otherwise see to it that Mister Tremblay has nothing for anyone."

"Done, sir."

September - 2011

Richard sat in the afternoon shadow of the little bar, a glass of beer rested on the small table in front of him catching and reflecting the golden rays of the sun. His call to a few of Monique's old numbers failed to reach her and he suspected she was erasing any trail he might follow. That was just another obvious indication that she was cutting their ties.

He had driven up the coast in his landlord's car to a small town close to the Italian border where he knew Monique once had personal contacts. He needed to find a particular one to get a lead on her whereabouts, a person he knew to be a local source of information for Monique, a person he had seen briefly with her in the past.

He watched the street out front with steady interest, checking the cars, the people and the very atmosphere of the bustle of churning life. The man he was searching for Monique had mentioned several times as her poco topo, her little mouse, and even pointed him out one time . . . a time when it seemed they were together. Now Richard needed to find him.

A couple of other people sat in the bar, regulars who wiled away their time reading leftover papers and nursing drinks. One of those papers had contained a small story on the mysterious sudden death of a patient in the local hospital leaving the authorities baffled and without direction. Relatives had not cooperated other than to pay the hospital charges and have the body removed for burial.

The name Tremblay burned in his mind. He knew who was responsible and it wasn't Jean's crowd. They had already administered their justice, short of death.

It stank of Agency work.

The sun moved around leaving the entire back part of the bar in shade and Richard checked his watch, drained his third glass of beer and left moving cautiously along the fronts of the boutiques and restaurants that dotted the seaside street. He slipped into a doorway and leaned casually against the wall, raking the street for any sign of Agency hounds.

How many times had he repeated this maneuver? Tradecraft was automatic in every facet of his life. Normal people would call it paranoia but in Richard's world it was a practiced skill.

Confident that he was clean he repeated the maneuver a few more times out of habit and then found another sheltered corner from which to survey the area. This was his only hope of finding Monique and that hinged on finding the man she used as a source. Richard knew that he was local and prayed that he was still around because he had no name or other identification with which to root him out.

Driving in each day from his base in Eze, it was two nerve wracking days of staking out the town, before he caught sight of his quarry. Small and hunched, the man seemed to scurry as he moved through the square. The beret gave the figure a comical appearance, a movie cliché.

The package under his arm stood out in its red wrapping and he constantly shifted it from side to side. Richard followed him up the street and into a side lane containing tiny shops that offered souvenirs and local crafts. The man paused, looked about then darted into one bearing a sign reading, Marc's Custom Stationery.

Richard peered through the dusty glass window and saw his man at the counter talking to a woman who was holding the red package and hefting its weight.

When he came out Richard stopped him and encouraged him to move against the wall.

"I have nothing to steal!"

"I'm not a thief; I'm a friend of a friend. Monique St. Croix."

"I know no such person." The man pulled at his jacket and tried to move away.

Richard braced a hand against his frail chest and leaned close to his face. "You do know her, my friend, and you will tell me how to contact her."

"I cannot help you! Hurting me will be a waste of time."

"Not to me." Richard's tone drained the blood from the man's face and he slumped against the wall, trembling.

"I will be in danger if I say anything."

"And what do you think you are in now? Where is she? How do I reach her?"

His hand pressed against the frail chest and Richard heard him wheeze.

"She- she comes into the village every week on the same day- tomorrow. She goes to the Hotel du Lac for lunch and meets . . . people."

"This village?" Richard couldn't believe his luck. "What people?"

"Different people each time. Sometimes the same but mostly different." The man's voice was breaking and he was slipping further down the wall. Richard hauled him back up.

"What time does she come?"

"Lunch time! One, maybe two."

"Do you meet with her then?"

"Never. I am not to let on we are acquainted in any way."

"And exactly what is it you do for her?"

"Information. I give her information!"

"Here's some for you. Either tell me what you do for her or you'll never do it again."

"I report to her on the people she meets . . . where they go and who they talk to."

"And who are these people?"

The man closed his eyes and began to whimper. "They will kill me. Please . . . "

That remark told Richard that the man didn't just follow these people he knew them and they knew him. Likely they were members of the Agency network she had transactions with. He let go of the man and stepped back, checking the street in both directions.

"If you, in any way, contact Monique before I have seen her tomorrow, I will kill you." Richard stepped forward and the man flinched.

"I won't! I swear!"

"What is your name?"

"Jacques. Jacques Dupres."

"Remember what I said, Jacques." Richard shook a warning finger then turned and walked briskly back to the main square.

The toy store had animated characters flopping around inside a small fenced portion of the window and Richard pretended to watch their antics while he checked the reflection of Jacques Dupres hurrying down the street and into the bank. After watching him for a while, Richard was satisfied that he wasn't contacting Monique and broke off his surveillance.

He found the Hotel du Lac and did a quick reconnoiter of the premises locating exits and stairways. The lounge was where they served lunches and Richard took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer while he selected the most likely table for someone in Monique's business.

Tomorrow he would see how good his guess was. It struck him odd that she hadn't stopped her transactions and bolted with the money they had stashed away.

Had he misjudged her? Something wasn't kosher.

The bartender wiped the counter next to Richard and offered some conversation to break the monotony of an empty room.

"You a guest or just visiting?"

"Yep." Richard raised his glass in a semi toast and swallowed a mouthful of beer.

"Just trying to be friendly, ami."

"You serve lunches in here?"

"Noon 'til three.

"A lot of regulars?"

"Mostly."

Richard smiled at the abrupt answers and tipped his glass again. "I'll have another."

Thirty minutes later he knew most of the regulars by description, when and what they ate, how much they tipped and who drank the most. Monique was mentioned in passing as the slinky broad that came in every week on the same day- tomorrow-and always had a variety of people eating with her.

Richard gave him a big tip as well and thanked him for the conversation then went out and rented a room upstairs for one night. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling trying to formulate a plan for the following day. Some of the other people the bartender had described as regulars set his antennae twanging; they sounded very much like Agency types, or even members of Jean Tremblay's mob.

Either way it would be dicey to make a move on Monique at the hotel. He sighed, thinking he would have to tail her, which meant more wasted time utilizing his tradecraft while he found the right moment to approach her.

He pulled the briefcase from under the bed and looked at the contents. How much did he really need? Was this about the money, the principle or Monique? He closed it and shoved it back under the bed.

It was all three.

It wasn't until he awoke to a pitch-black room and spent an anxious moment orienting himself that he realized he had slept the entire afternoon and most of the evening. The exhaustion, shoved on to the back burner had finally boiled over and overpowered him. It was not the kind of behavior he needed to stay out of the Agency's grasp. Sleep was required but only when planned.

He found another small bistro that was out of the main stream and ate a light meal letting his mind drift without fear of any unwanted surveillance. The wine was rich and smooth and the evening breeze carried the scent of blossoms from the floral arrangement on the cash counter.

He reflected on the peach scent of Monique's hair. Couples strolled past, the occasional dog stopped to give him a look and one or two cars trundled by.

Tomorrow he would know the answer . . . he hoped.