Hopscotch Read Free

voice. It was Mikhail Yaskov. Now Yaskov spoke in English:
    â€œYou received my note then.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI should like to meet with you, old friend.”
    â€œFor what purpose?”
    â€œTo discuss a matter which may prove mutually beneficial.”
    â€œI doubt the existence of any such matter, Mikhail.”
    â€œNevertheless perhaps you will humor me?”
    Kendig’s shoulders stirred. “Why not then?”
    â€œIt must be tout de suite I am afraid. I am only in Paris another twenty-four hours.”
    â€œTomorrow then?”
    â€œTomorrow,” Yaskov said, his voice very controlled. “I shall be with the messieurs Citroën and Mercier. Do you know them?”
    â€œYes.” It wasn’t far from here: the intersection of the quai André Citroën and the rue Sebastien Mercier, just below the Mirabeau bridge on the left bank. It was a workers’ neighborhood, narrow passages leading back, their drab walls daubed with Communist slogans. Fitting enough.
    Yaskov said, “We shall meet at Number Sixteen, yes?”
    Sixteen hundred hours: four o’clock in the afternoon. Harmless enough. “All right, Mikhail.”
    â€œI assure you the transaction will interest you.”
    Kendig doubted it but he made no reply. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    â€œYes. Bonne chance , old friend.” A soft chuckle and then the line died.
    Kendig cradled it and went out and collected hisenvelope from the cashier. Jaynes waved at him eagerly from across the room but he only waved back and followed the maître to the lift; he rode down in the cage with the old Algerian veteran and went out into the night with a pocketful of money.

– 2 –
    B UT SHE WASN ’ T discouraged that easily. She was waiting by her car at the curb; she held a cigarette imperiously, waiting to have it lighted. The car was white, a Volvo 1800 a few years old—the super-charged grand-touring coupe they had stopped making in ’72. It didn’t quite suit her; she was more the Jaguar or Ferrari sort—something juggernauty.
    When he held his lighter to the cigarette she drew the smoke slowly into her mouth. Her hair was fashionably Medusan; she had a full ripe body and an earthy manner—saloons, cigarettes, cards, beds.
    â€œWell good night again,” he said and began to turn away.
    She ignored it. “You have a first name, don’t you?”
    â€œI suppose so.” Everyone always called him Kendig. “It’s Miles.”
    â€œMiles Kendig. I rather like that—it has a strong sound. Come on then, get in. I’ll drop you wherever you like. You won’t find a taxi in this quarter, not at this hour.”
    â€œâ€¦ Thank you.” He said it grudgingly and went around to hold the driver’s door for her.
    She managed the car with poor driving rhythm; it was not an implement to which she’d been born—he suspected she’d grown up amid chauffeurs and taught herself to drive at some point in orderto expand the boundaries of her independence but it wasn’t anything she’d ever done for pleasure.
    He made conversation because evidently she expected it. “You live in Paris all the time now?”
    â€œLive? I imagine one could put it that way. Living is something most of us postpone, isn’t it. We sell the present for a chance at a future where we may do our living when we’re old and we’ve lost the talent for it.”
    â€œYou don’t strike me as a woman who’s saving up for her retirement.”
    â€œWell I was fortunate. I have an ex-husband who settled my pension on me prematurely. Did you ever meet Isaac?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œTycoon, banker, merchant prince. I’m sure you know the type. They’re always terrified by their Ozymandian dreams. The future must be guaranteed forever. Ninety-nine-year leases and thousand-year trust funds. It’s bloody