Brandenburg Read Free

finished a six-month temporary posting at DSE—Direction de Sécurité Européenne. Created eighteen months earlier by the European Union, the intent had been to form a European equivalent of the United States’ FBI, with investigation and enforcement powers that crossed national frontiers. In practice, DSE didn’t quite live up to that intent. Despite the European Union, nationalism had not withered away. Still, her time in Strasbourg had been fascinating. But now it was time to go home, a week’s leave in London before her posting to New York.
    During her time at DSE, Joe Volkmann had been her teacher and mentor. He had been friendly and warm, intense at work, but today when he offered to help her pack, she was a little surprised; still, she knew the offer was genuine and not a come-on. She got the feeling that he didn’t push things, so the man was a challenge.
    He’d spent the afternoon in the apartment in Petite France, helping her fill the wooden packing crates with her belongings and the small items of antique furniture she’d bought. When she suggested a meal to repay him, he countered with tickets to the opera and dinner afterward.
    The opera was The Magic Flute, music she loved. As she watched him throughout the performance, she saw that he listened to it attentively. And though he smiled at her a lot and the evening had a romantic flavor, he didn’t try to make a pass. That was usually a specialty of the Italians if you ventured near their DSE offices.
    His apartment on the Quai Ernest Bevin was on the first floor, and the balcony entrance overlooked a tiny, paved courtyard. It was a small, two-bedroom affair, and he kept it pretty neat for a guy. A TV in a corner, as well as a Sony sound system. Several books lay around and lots of CDs. Classical mostly, but she saw some jazz and rock. On shelves above were some photographs in frames, and more books.
    Choosing a disc, he inserted it into the CD player. Edith Piaf, Sally soon noted with approval. “How about a drink, Sally?”
    She went to sit on the couch and crossed her long legs. She saw him look at them briefly, and she said, “How about scotch?”
    “A girl after my own heart,” he said, smiling.
    “With ice and a splash of water,” she added, echoing his smile.
    She watched him go into the kitchen. He was tall, dark-haired with a touch of gray, and well built—not handsome in a conventional way, but he was attractive. He looked more French than British. And he had something, only Sally Thornton couldn’t figure out what. Maybe something in his sensitive brown eyes, the same eyes she had seen in the woman in one of the photographs on the shelf.
    He looked like the kind of guy who could protect a woman . . . But then, all the men she worked with looked like that—trained soldiers and intelligence officers and hard-nosed narcotics specialists masquerading as policemen.
    She figured out maybe what it was. Here was a man she couldtrust. He was a hard man, but he didn’t come on hard. And his smile gave him away . . . he was vulnerable, she reckoned, under the confident exterior.
    He came back into the room carrying their glasses. He handed hers across and sat on the couch opposite. He loosened his tie, and as he sipped his scotch, he let his eyes fall on her, and she was conscious of his stare—and of his gentle, unthreatening smile. In the background, Edith Piaf was singing. Je ne regrette rien .
    “You’re going to miss me, Joe?”
    “Sure. There’s a lot to miss.”
    “Then why are you smiling?”
    “Because they’re going to love you in New York.”
    “Who? The people at the embassy?”
    “Those, too. But I mean the Americans. The guys will be beating down your door.”
    She smiled, swirled her glass. “Why, thank you for the compliment. You’ll come visit me sometimes?”
    “If you like. But the truth is, you’re better off over there, Sally. Things are turning bad in Europe, and I think they’ll get a lot worse before