The Enemy

great city.
    “How did Willard find our car?” Summer said. “How would he even know where to look? The United States is a big country.”
    “He didn’t find it,” I said. “Not until someone told him where it was.”
    “Who?”
    “Vassell,” I said. “Or Coomer. Swan’s sergeant used my name on the phone, back at XII Corps. So at the same time as they were getting Marshall off the post they were calling Willard back in Rock Creek, telling him I was over there in Germany and hassling them again. They were asking him why the hell he had let me travel. And they were telling him to recall me.”
    “They can’t dictate where a special unit investigator goes.”
    “They can now, because of Willard. They’re old buddies. I just figured it out. Swan as good as told us, but it didn’t click right away. Willard has ties to Armored from his time in Intelligence. Who did he talk to all those years? About that Soviet fuel crap? Armored, that’s who. There’s a relationship there. That’s why he was so hot about Kramer. He wasn’t worried about embarrassment for the army in general. He was worried about embarrassment for Armored Branch in particular.”
    “Because they’re his people.”
    “Correct. And that’s why Vassel and Coomer ran last night. They didn’t
run,
as such. They’re just giving Willard time and space to deal with us.”
    “Willard knows he didn’t sign our travel vouchers.”
    I nodded. “That’s for sure.”
    “So we’re in serious trouble now. We’re AWOL and we’re traveling on stolen vouchers.”
    “We’ll be OK.”
    “How exactly?”
    “When we get a result.”
    “Are we going to?”
    I didn’t answer.

    After lunch we crossed the river and walked a long roundabout route back to the hotel. We looked just like tourists, in our casual clothes, carrying our Samaritaine bags. All we needed was a camera. We window-shopped in the Boulevard St.-Germain and looked at the Luxembourg Gardens. We saw Les Invalides and the École Militaire. Then we walked up the Avenue Bosquet, which took me within fifty yards of the back of my mother’s apartment house. I didn’t tell Summer that. She would have made me go in and see her. We crossed the Seine again at the Pont de l’Alma and got coffee in a bistro on the Avenue New-York. Then we strolled up the hill to the hotel.
    “Siesta time,” Summer said. “Then dinner.”
    I was happy enough to go for a nap. I was pretty tired. I lay down on the bed in the pale blue room and fell asleep within minutes.

    Summer woke me up two hours later by calling me on the phone from her room. She wanted to know if I knew any restaurants. Paris is full of restaurants, but I was dressed like an idiot and I had less than thirty bucks in my pocket. So I picked a place I knew on the Rue Vernet. I figured I could go there in jeans and a sweatshirt without getting stared at and without paying a fortune. And it was close enough to walk. No cab fare.
    We met in the lobby. Summer still looked great. Her skirt and jacket looked as good for the evening as they had for the afternoon. She had abandoned her beret. I had kept mine on. We walked up the hill toward the Champs-Élysées. Halfway there, Summer did a strange thing. She took my hand in hers. It was going dark and we were surrounded by strolling couples and I guessed it felt natural to her. It felt natural to me too. It took me a minute to realize she had done it. Or, it took me a minute to realize there was anything wrong with it. It took her the same minute. At the end of it she got flustered and looked up at me and let go again.
    “Sorry,” she said.
    “Don’t be,” I said. “It felt good.”
    “It just happened,” she said.
    We walked on and turned into the Rue Vernet. Found the restaurant. It was early in the evening in January and the owner found us a table right away. It was in a corner. There were flowers and a lit candle on it. We ordered water and a
pichet
of red wine to drink while we thought about the food.
    “You’re at home here,” Summer said to me.
    “Not really,” I said. “I’m not at home anywhere.”
    “You speak pretty good French.”
    “I speak pretty good English too. Doesn’t mean I feel at home in North Carolina, for instance.”
    “But you like some places better than others.”
    I nodded. “This one is OK.”
    “Done any long-term thinking?”
    “You sound like my brother. He wants me to make a plan.”
    “Everything is going to change.”
    “They’ll