The Model Spy

Chapter 10 - Got Him!

Before I was even able to develop a plan, I was back outside, frantically searching the nearby streets for any sign of Zach. The Paris nightlife was just getting started and the crowds of couples, families, and friends ready for a night out were beginning to envelop the streets.

A group of chatty girls jostled me to the side. Ignoring their rude glances, I strained my eyes, peering into the dark shadows for Zach. I just wanted to see him appear in the crowd, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his coiffed hair without a stray strand. I wanted to see him notice me, raise his eyebrows, and cast me a dark, angry look. Or see him laugh at me, at my clumsiness, my uselessness, the awful floral dress I was still wearing from the agency’s photo shoot. Anything that would have let me know that he was okay, that Andre Gaston was caught and off of the streets.

But Zach was nowhere in sight, leaving me with the sick realization that he never made it out of the flat on the Rue St. Denis.

My heart began to beat so fast I thought I would faint. The images around me blurred. My breathing became ragged. If he was hurt, I would have never forgiven myself. I was supposed to be with him, we were a team.

My feet sprinted into action, my black boots clicking against the pavement. I needed to get to Andre Gaston’s flat.

I came to a screeching halt and groaned out loud as I realized Zach had the car. He had left it at the agency. How was I supposed to get to the Rue St. Denis now? It was more than two miles away!

I searched desperately for someone, anyone, who may have been willing to help. Across the street, I saw a man cleaning his moped. I ran over to him, dodging the crazy French drivers as I sprinted across the busy street.

"Sir!" I yelled in English. He glanced up at me, somewhat apprehensive. I probably looked like a madwoman. "Can I borrow your bike?" He stared at me blankly.

Without thinking, I pulled one hundred American dollars out of my purse. Hopefully he didn't pay attention the shrinking value of U.S. currency. He grabbed it from me and stared at it, studying the green paper and the face of Ben Franklin. The French loved Ben Franklin! If this man was a true Frenchmen, he would give me his bike!

He shook his head adamantly and started yelling in French. I sighed angrily. He left me with no choice.

I gripped the collar of his black shirt and stared indignantly into his dark eyes. With my free hand I protruded my CIA badge from the pocket of my skirt. I nearly shoved it at the man’s frightened face.

“You will give me your bike,” I ordered quietly, “and you will stay silent. Do you hear me?” My fist clenched his shirt tighter.

He nodded his head up and down several times. His eyes searched for a pedestrian on the street who may have been willing to help him out of his undoubtedly startling situation, but he knew as well as I that everyone was too caught up in their evening activities to pay an ordinary adult man any attention.

“If I find out you mentioned me to anyone, the United States Government will be at your doorstep.” I struggled to keep from smiling. Zach would have been so proud!   

This man didn’t have to understand English to know he was in serious trouble. He handed me the keys to his bike and became suddenly more intrigued by the nice sum of money in his greedy little hands.

“I will bring it back!” I promised.

I had paid attention to Dylan when he was driving his bike, so it didn't seem that hard to get the thing started. I even drove something similar to it in training. It was just a really, really fast bike.

I lurched forward faster than I had intended and let out a small scream as the bike weaved into traffic. After a few tense moments, I got the feel of the bike and all of those weeks training with some of the government’s best agents came back to me. I began paying more attention to the street signs, counting down the blocks until the Rue St. Denis.