Accidental Joe

by Tom Straw

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Spy Thrillers; Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

A maverick celebrity chef reluctantly agrees to let the CIA use his hugely popular international food, culture, and travel TV series as cover for a dangerous espionage mission.

When the CIA approaches celebrity chef Sebastian Pike about using his award-winning food and culture travel show as cover for espionage, the outspoken bad-boy host says no. When they point out how roaming the globe interviewing foodies, heads of state, rock stars, journalists-in-exile, poets, subversives, supermodels—even the pope—gives him perfect cover, Pike smiles and says, “F@#! no.”

They push. Promising it’s only one mission. Vowing he won’t be in danger. Calling him the MVB: Most Valuable Bystander. They’d embed their top agent in his crew to do the spy work.

It’s still no. But when they hit him with the patriotism card, he weakens. And when romantic sparks crackle between him and the female agent, Pike’s all in, kicking off a romantic spy thriller in which the globetrotting celebrity chef uses his TV series to help sneak Putin’s accountant out of Russia before he’s exposed as a mole for US intelligence.

The high-stakes mission quickly puts Pike in harm’s way. So much for MVB. There’s danger, there’s double dealing, there’s torture, there’s shooting with real bullets. Plus, a minefield of complications from the hot romance that grows between Pike and his gutsy CIA handler-producer, Cammie Nova.

From Paris to Provence, this chef is no bystander. Beyond their attraction, Pike and Nova become an operational team, not only to survive the perils they face but to pull off an operation fraught with one twist after another, capped by a shocking, emotional climax.

Release date: May 14, 2024

Publisher: Regalo Press

Print pages: 304

Sample

ONE

 

 

 

 

I might be dying, but nobody will tell me. Not that I blame the docs. They’re a little busy with my gunshot wound to engage in my razor-sharp conversational French banter, so I’ll do my job, which is lie here and try not to become the next headliner at that Great Gig in the Sky.

Giving up control isn’t my strong suit. But when they hustle you in on a gurney and cut your pants off with a nasty pair of scissors, you’ve pretty much already handed the whole deal over to them. I’m not even embarrassed that I went commando today.

If I don’t seem full-blown panicked, thank the drugs. Whatever they gave me on the medevac chopper took care of that. And thank goodness. One of the doctors is poking around my nether regions like she’s searching for a lost earring between the couch cushions. She’s either probing for the slug or trying to stop the bleeding. Or she lost an earring.

Just so you know, I’m lucky to have your company. Not only to keep me from being alone, which I dearly appreciate, but somebody should know how I, a globe-trotting TV chef, ended up in a foreign trauma center riding the seesaw of life’s tipping point.

So, reader, draw near. I’m about to take you someplace you’ve never imagined. I know I never did. I promise you one hell of a ride. I’ll try to get all this out while I still can. Are you with me?

 

TWO

 

I believe there are no accidents in life. Even if we can’t see it, there’s a whole Rube Goldberg mechanism of cause and effect making shit happen. Case in point: what led to me taking a 9mm slug was an email.

It came while I was in Paris last week. Like a good little host, I’d parked my butt at the desk in my suite at Le Pavillon de la Reine to write my opening voice-over, the verbal salvo of pretentiousness and snark that starts every episode, when my inbox pinged. Incoming from my brand-new producer with the rundown of the next day’s shoot.

Her email looked pro forma: crew call times, load and roll schedule for the vans, nuts and bolts, skim, skim, skim. Until I saw her rundown of my interview segments. French film director, check. Paris cuisine author, check. Victor Fabron…? Who the hell is Victor Fabron? I fired back that exact question to Cammie Nova: “Who the hell is Victor Fabron???” I could have gone with one question mark. Cammie Nova was brand new, and I wanted to make a point. You never, ever book a guest without clearing it with the host. Especially not at the literal eleventh hour.

Back came Nova’s automated reply. Not checking email now. If it’s an emergency, call, etc. I let it go. I’d take it up with my newbie producer in the morning. Make it a teachable moment. God, I was sounding civilized. I uncapped my blue Lamy, smoothed the blank page of my composition book, and got to work.

* * *

HANGRY GLOBE

Season 4, Ep 4 / Paris

V.O. for Cold Opening

by Sebastian Pike

 

Surprise me.

That’s what travel is all about. And, since this series is a culinary adventure, that’s what cooking is all about, too. Face it, life is not a cabaret but a flatline bore, and if this particular chef is hangry for anything, it’s not the thrill of seeing Paul confer two Hollywood handshakes in the same Brit Bake Off episode. Sorry, Alton Brown, even one of your humongous pizzas, cooked onstage on your giantized Easy-Bake Oven superheated by thousand-watt klieg lights, won’t do it for me. I’m that hangry. I want a jolt. Get me excited. Make me sweat.

Gimme swelter.

If my relentless globe-trotting has taught me anything, it’s that life, like the perfect meal, is of an instant.

I want it fresh.

So, I’m in a foot race to get there quick and grab it while it’s hot. You may call me a chef, but I see myself as an explorer, although without the pillaging and heedless spreading of smallpox to the locals. You’ve seen enough of me to know I duped a TV network into paying my way to scout food as a gateway drug to culture. Shame on me if I don’t get out there and immerse myself in the naughty bits on a sacred quest for cheap thrills and the elusive surprise.

It’s no vacay. Even in Paris. Truth be told, I have a love-hate thing with the place. The hate part isn’t what you’d think. It might surprise you that I have zero problem with the tourists. Generation Selfie, pretending to balance the Eiffel Tower in the palms of its hands? Fine. Same with the hormone-dizzy, corn-fed sweethearts fastening padlocks to foot bridges before littering the Seine with the keys—I say go for it. You bought your tickets to the world.

Consider me discerning, not elitist. Albeit refreshingly judgmental.

The hate part? Well, that’s too personal to mention. So don’t even.

I said, “Don’t even.”

Let us instead focus on my love affair with the City of Light, which gets played out in fevered assignations off the beaten path. It’s in neighborhood cafés at sunup, jammed elbow to elbow at the zinc bar with Pauls and Paulettes rushing in for an espresso fix before work. It’s at a certain hole-in-the-wall crêperie, whose Marais location you’ll have to waterboard me to divulge, that performs forbidden alchemy with batter, sugar, butter, and a just-so squeeze of lemon. It’s also in the off-the-radar cultural shrines like L’Amour du Noir, a destination mystery bookstore on the Left Bank.

The other Paris you don’t want to miss is a hipper-than-thou neighborhood far from the parade of lemmings at the Louvre. Top off your personal hydration vessel and stuff it into your ethically crafted messenger bag. We’re headed for the bank of the Canal Saint-Martin in the Tenth Arrondissement.

 

THREE

 

       When our convoy reached the Tenth the next morning, I slid out of the last van, even though, as usual, I’d been first to arrive in the hotel lobby. Whatever anybody needed me for would come after the tech setup, therefore I always let the crew and gear load and roll first. That also allowed Rayna, a.k.a. the culinary coordinator, a.k.a. the Food Sarge, who took the lead vehicle, to have the espresso machine spitting and hissing in the craft services tent by the time my Merrells met pavement.

Weird, but I hadn’t set eyes on my new producer yet. I planned to get Cammie Nova aside for a private word about her guest-booking transgression, but she no showed the lobby call. Tardy on her second day. One more demerit to address.

“Did you know Balzac drank fifty cups of coffee a day?” I offered my empty for a refill. While Rayna pulled another ristretto of dark, syrupy perfection, I went on. “That’s why the man was insanely prolific. He said getting jacked on java made his ideas march, get this, ‘like the armies of a great battalion onto the battlefield.’ Of course, he died of a heart attack at fifty-one.” I raised my fresh cup. “To your health.”

I downed it at the curb and rubbernecked the film set down the street. My first segment was to interview the director of a TV police procedural for Canal Plus that was shooting on location. We planned to video an action sequence to cut into in his piece, and I wanted to see the setup, but later for that. My crew was waiting for me inside Le Verre Volé, a happening wine bar we borrowed for the day as Hangry Globe’s home base. I found the kitchen already lit, cameras mounted, and my marks set for rehearsal. “Look at you toadies, all locked and loaded.”

Latrell, the director of photography and A-camera operator, greeted me with, “Decided not to wait for the producer.” He put no stink on it, but the DP and I had spent years joined at the lens perfecting The Great Unspoken. On camera we communicated through knowing glances and silent signals. So, his benign statement about not waiting for Cammie Nova hit me like a Klaxon. It warned me the crew was miffed.

Starting from the cutting board, I pantomimed the choreography for the cooking demo we’d execute for real later that day while Latrell and Marisol, who operated the handheld B-cam, blocked their shots. My audio tech, Declan, made sure his mic boom stayed out of frame. Rayna, the Food Sarge, studied my moves to count how many backup dishes she’d need in six hours when the sautéed salmon with grapes was not imaginary. Hoss the Roadie lurked unobtrusively in the background, or as unobtrusively as a man creeping up on 285 could.

During the reset for a second pass, Declan lobbed the first volley. “Kind of a new record, isn’t it, Chef? AWOL, first day?”

Rayna joined in. “Help me out—is it Cammie Nova or Cammie No-show?” I held my mark at the mise en place and waded in. If this spread, or if they sensed I had my own issue with Nova, she’d never dig out.

I signaled a referee’s T. “A friendly word? Cammie Nova is our producer. She does not need to justify producerly business that delays her, all right? Besides, we’re ahead of schedule. Why? Because you guys are self-starters. We could do this in our sleep.”

“Like you in Singapore?” Latrell landed it. Everyone else laughed at my expense, which is what a happy family does.

I counted off on three fingers: “Red-eye, Ambien, minibar. Always read the label, kids.” Through a window above the sink, I saw a taxi pull up. When Nova got out, I called a wrap on rehearsal.

* * *

I joined her in Video Village. That’s the nickname for our HQ, the nomadic observation post, a pop-up canopy stocked with headsets, two-way radios, monitors, and Twizzlers. I didn’t coin it, although I wish I had. It’s called Video Village on every set I know of in TV and film. “Good afternoon,” I said. Nova was too smart to miss my sarcasm, but instead of apologizing or going defensive, she returned the serve.

“Problem?”

The crew emerged from the wine bar, toting gear our way. I told her we should head down to the cop show. She started to walk, but I gestured to the nearest transpo van. “Step into my office.” I got behind the wheel. Nova seemed puzzled but slid in the passenger side.

In the privacy of the Renault Kangoo, I gently but firmly schooled Cammie Nova on her unforced errors. Worthy of note: when I asked her why she was AWOL, she hesitated. When she recovered her reply was vague. “Granular essentials.” Then she switched topics by admitting that she knew she should have checked with me before booking that guest.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I needed to snag Victor Fabron or lose him. I decided, better to seek forgiveness than permission.”

“Curse you, initiative, you two-edged sword.” Our laugh cleared the air, and I was glad I addressed it openly. Two things I don’t want on my show: tension and secrets.

***

The magnitude of the police procedural’s infrastructure dwarfed ours. I stopped counting crew heads at forty. Then there was the equipment. A main camera plus one atop a serious Louma crane. Plus, a Steadicam. Plus, a drone cam. And enough HMI lights to brighten the overcast day for the first shot: a hit man’s getaway chase scene along Canal Saint-Martin. The director of Coups Criminels trotted over, gushed about being “un grand fan,” and invited me to sit in his director’s chair to watch the sequence. “Chef, I will gladly have time to devote to our interview while the company resets from the rehearsal.” My own crew was recording all this so we could edit it in later. I already knew my expression would be all kid-at-Disneyland, because some things you can’t hide.

On the director’s action cue, the doors of a townhouse across the street flew open, and a stuntman in a black sweater and watch cap burst out, hopped on a motorcycle, and zoomed off. A detective, the lead actor, sprinted out of a nearby tea salon and chased on foot. The camera on the overhead crane followed the motorcyclist, who stopped at the canal, fired two shots at the cop, and sped away, leaping the gap of water onto the open swing bridge. Then, trouble. The motorcyclist made an unscripted skid and fall. The director called “Couper,” or cut, then, how can I put this delicately, he lost his shit.

“Merde, merde, merde!” He threw his headset at the monitor and stalked over to his assistant director and the stunt coordinator issuing a tirade of merdes, dégages, and s’en foutres. When the director had made his point, he chased them away, tails between their legs, and approached me. “Désolé, Chef. No interview. No.” Nova slid in beside us and suggested maybe later. The filmmaker glared at her. “No interview.” He showed her his back, then stalked off to his trailer, slamming the door.

Cammie rested a consoling hand on my arm. “I am so sorry about this.”

“Hold that thought.” I twisted to find my crew standing on the fringes, two cams and a fish-pole mic. “You guys get all that?” Three thumbs up. I turned back to Nova. “This will make my kind of TV. This behind-the-scenes hissy fit beats any interview the auteur could have done.” I sprung out of the director’s chair. “To steal from Édith Piaf, je ne regrette rien.”

* * *

Back up at our home base, the first of my other guests had arrived. Eva Jacoby-Jobert was a dear old friend, a smart, cranky contrarian—just the way I liked ’em. She sang out, “Welcome to Bobo Land.”

“All right, Eva, enlighten me. Bobo?”

“Slang for bourgeois bohemians. This neighborhood’s crawling with them. Tell me you didn’t notice the skateboard boutique, the co-working spaces, and all the vegan bistros on your way here. C’mon, Pike, stop and smell the tofu.”

“Now that you mention it, I did get a twinge of hipster nostalgia.”

“Yes, it’s Brooklyn without the murders.” Immediately, her expression gloomed over, and the big woman threw a hug on me, whispering, “That was insensitive. I still ache about Astrid.” That happens a lot. Most of the time it irritated the piss out of me because it either picked at the scab or strangers saw it as their mission to change my life by spouting platitudes about grief. Save it for the Hallmark aisle. Or better yet, leave me alone.

Nobody knew about the Gordian tangle of complexity I was coping with over my fiancée’s sudden death. Nobody but me and Astrid. And trust me, like every tragedy, it comes with excruciating layers. But Eva, she gets a pass. Eva knew both of us, and her feelings were not only genuine, but she also knew the emotional line, and never crossed it. That’s why I pitched her to Nova for the booking and was cheered to see her.

A Chicago ex-pat who studied cinema at the Sorbonne, Eva’s first publication, a study of French noir, became a textbook at her own university. Her follow-up, An American Eats Paris, remains short-listed among the best food writing of this century.

While Declan wired her with an RF mic, I went inside Le Verre Volé and found Cammie alone, behind the bar, reading a sheet of paper. When she heard me, she quickly folded the page like I’d caught her with porn. “Day one, and you’re already prepping your résumé to bolt?” She dismissed that with a wave and grinned. It looked forced. “My first guest is here,” I said. “So at least I’ll have one interview today.”

“Victor will show. Apparently, he was up all night editing his documentary.”

“Maybe I can steal a clip from it to fill the gaping hole in this episode.”

Nova stuffed the paper into her bag. “Help me out. Do you always get pissy like this on shoots, or just today for my benefit?”

“You’re witnessing your bad-boy chef in the panic throes of wondering what to ask this Vincent guy. Call me crazy, but going into an interview I like to feel curious about something.”

“It’s Victor, not Vincent. I emailed you background prep. Didn’t you read it?”

I opened my phone. “So, you did. Ten minutes ago.”

“If you’re looking for a hook, go to the Le Monde article that called him the Michael Moore of France.”

I took that in, bobbing my head side to side. “Actually, not bad. I’ve done more with less. Thanks.”Out front I grabbed some alone time to read her packet. I caught a light whiff of smoke and looked back inside. Cammie Nova was burning a piece of paper in the bar sink.

* * *

Eva was a hit. Learned and a born storyteller, she drew connections between French cinema and the Parisian food scene starting with the 1956 noir classic Voici le Temps des Assassins to Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player to the gangster film Bob le Flambeur, which was shot in actual restaurants around the Pigalle.

She gave me an idea. “OK, smarty. Let’s play a little game I call Stump the Geek. I name the movie; you name the Paris restaurant featured in it.”

Eva pursed her lips. “Now? Don’t I get any warning?”

“Spontaneity, my friend.” I hoped my new producer was learning how I rolled, taking liberties without a net. But over in Video Village, Nova had her headset off and her nose to her phone. More than distracted, she looked uptight.

Eva showed her game face. “Hit me.”

“Something’s Gotta Give.”

“Le Grand Colbert. Too easy.”

“Midnight in Paris.”

“Le Grand Véfour. Next.”

“Crap. Rush Hour 3.”

Her eyes searched the sky. “There was a Rush Hour 3?”

“No stalling. Big Jackie Chan fight scene…? Famous restaurant…?”

While Eva pondered, a man in a crooked toupee wandered right in front of us. He stopped and wavered, unsteady on his feet. “Pardon,” he said in a heavy French accent, “but you are Chef Pike?” His Beaujolais breath knocked me back a half step. From the audio trolley, Declan signaled to Hoss. The roadie duckwalked closer to shoo the man away. But the guy ignored him and said to me, “I am Victor Fabron. I have arrived for my interview.”

Perfect. Fabron. Jammed down my gullet, late, and now composting the day’s only viable segment. I craned toward Video Village again. Nova was gone. Bloody hell? Gone during a take? Video kept rolling. It fell to me to deal. I chose the low road. To play my inebriated guest for cheap laughs. I might even salvage this as a blooper. Blotto guest crashes party. I lowered my hand out of frame and signaled Latrell and Marisol to keep rolling. “Monsieur Fabron, you’re a longtime filmmaker, n’est-ce pas?”

“Bien sûr.”

“See those things behind you, Victor? Those are cameras.”

Victor rotated to them and squinted. “Ah, bon. Then everything is in order for my interview.”

A police whistle blew two bursts a hundred yards down the street. Multiple voices, unseen assistant directors, hollered the same warning in French, “Silence, nous roulons…. (Quiet, we’re rolling).” I searched again in vain for Nova. We were supposed to get a heads-up before the cop show shot its chase scene. What could I do but shake my head and smile. The way this day was going, I could turn the entire Paris episode into a blooper reel.

The director called action over his bullhorn. I heard the echo of a front door slamming, followed by the revving of a motorcycle. All were familiar sounds from the rehearsal I’d witnessed an hour before. Tires squealed. The motorcycle raced up the street. Marisol, the B-cam operator I had poached from a news crew when we were shooting in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria, had the savvy to ad-lib. She panned her C300, tracking the action as the bike passed mere feet from us, then stopped at the swing bridge. The rider turned, fired his pistol twice, and roared off. But instead of making his stunt leap across the canal, he turned left on Quai de Valmy, speeding the wrong way up the one-way street. I couldn’t see the director, but everyone heard the meltdown over his bullhorn. “Couper, couper. Merde, merde, merde!”

It’s considered good form to button a lighthearted scene with a wisecrack. I turned to Fabron, who was still swaying in place before me. “Looks like you and I both got a lesson in humility, mon ami. There’s always somebody with a bigger budget to blow your shot.”

I wasn’t sure Fabron heard. His wobble grew more unsteady, and he sagged against me, clutching my arm to stay upright. I steadied the poor lush and turned to Latrell’s camera. “Here’s a first. I think my guest is peeing on me.”

Latrell didn’t crack a smile. Instead, I saw alarm—on him and the rest of the crew. Behind me Eva choked out a scream. Then I saw why. Victor Fabron had blood spreading from two bullet holes in his back. More spilled out an exit wound through his chest.

 

FOUR

Both sets became crime scenes. Police from the nearby Commissariat Centrale cordoned off the area to preserve evidence and facilitate the tandem questioning of the cop show’s company and my Hangry Globe crew. The investigation brought a real detective to my location, not the life-worn lead actor from Coups Criminels, but a stocky lieutenant in a nylon bomber jacket whose face looked like he came from going ten rounds at the gym. Right off I got a flutter of quakes when he shouldered past to crouch beside the body, then trace an arc upward from the corpse to me. The detective stood, then jabbed a finger at the open door of the wine bar.

In the empty dining room, he patted a corner table and kept me stewing at it while two other plainclothes flics came in for a whispered huddle over at the entrance. The Food Sarge had loaded me with a cold Evian on my way in, but my fingers were trembling, and I couldn’t muster a grip on the cap. The detective tossed his notebook on my table. “I am Detective Tirard of the police judiciaire.” He pulled up a seat. Then studied me.

Man, I craved a cigarette. I hadn’t lit one in about ten years but, you know. Nerves. I grew up in Queens, New Yawk, where ball-buster cops braced me for miscreant behavior more than I could count. Over time I took it in stride and became quite the savant at disarming them with wisecracks or ass kisses, whatever worked. Not then. I was too tweaked by the killing. The French Steve McQueen’s stare made me certain I was going down for it. The cop took my water bottle and opened it, one-handed. I took a sloppy gulp. “Thanks. Still a little shaky from the murder.”

“You call this murder. You know this for a fact?”

A touch of small talk, and already I’d dug a hole. “No, I just assumed. The bullets.” He said nothing. And waited. As a host I had used his interview technique countless times, getting guests to open up by making them feel the need to fill the silence I imposed. Knowing what he was up to didn’t help me. I blathered. “Although, I dunno, I guess it’s possible it could have been an accident. Live ammo on a set. It’s happened.” I told myself to shut up. “So I hear.”

Detective Tirard ran a finger across his pad. “Sebastian Pike, correct?” I oversold with my nod and sloshed a few drops. “My colleagues just reported that the actual motorcycle stunt driver has been discovered behind the locked cellar door of the townhouse where the scene began. He had been stripped of his wardrobe, gagged, and bound by zip ties at his wrists and ankles. His prop pistol, the one that fired only blanks, turned up in a bucket of cleaning supplies across the room. The motorcycle is at this moment getting fished out of the canal where the shooter dumped it two blocks from the Gare de l’Est train station.”

“So. Not an accident.” Still shaken, I barked a single nervous chuckle at my understatement.

“You seem amused?”

“No, no, not at all.” I felt the cool study of the cop and sobered. “It’s tragic. This is a sad day.”

“Sad, you say. Then you knew the deceased well?”

“That’s the funny—I mean, not funny, unusual—the unusual thing is, I met him for the first time this morning. On camera. Before that, I had no idea who he was.”

“This is true?”

“Wouldn’t know him from Adam. I knew he made documentaries. Investigative stuff, I hear. To be honest, I couldn’t name one of them.”

“Would you be able to tell me if Monsieur Fabron had any enemies?” I wagged no. “Help me understand, Monsieur, er, Chef Pike. On your television program, I am told you interview and…commune, shall I say…with numerous guests?”

“That’s what I do, exactly. Yes.”

“And do you make it a habit of talking with guests you know so little about?” The detective gave me the Inspector Javert stare.

This was going uncomfortable places. I irrigated with another hit of Evian. “You know, Detective, once in a while, I like to be spontaneous. Mix it up.”

“…Mix it up.”

“Exactly. Nothing beats a surprise. Except for, well, you know. What happened to poor Vincent.”

The Javert appraisal again. “You mean Victor.”

“You see? Didn’t know the poor man.” Through the window behind the detective, the coroner vehicle eased away carrying the body of Victor Fabron. As I watched it go, it passed Cammie Nova, pacing across rue de Lancry, talking on her cell phone. It was one intense conversation. She had her free hand covering her eyes while her thumb massaged a temple. From her reaction I wondered how well she knew him. Were she and Fabron friends? Is that why she pushed him on me so hard?

“Allo?” I turned back from the window. Detective Tirard was appraising me like a stink bug dragging a hairball across the parquet. I flicked him a stupid smile, probably affirming his conclusion. He flipped his spiral pad to a fresh page. “And what about you, Monsieur Pike?”

“What about me?”

“Your enemies?”

I nearly told him he would need more paper for that list until I realized what he was getting at. “Hang on. Are you suggesting someone might have been trying to kill me?”

“It is my job to explore all possibilities.”

“Well, I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You have no enemies?”

“I didn’t say that.” Not only was my mouth dry, I had sweaty hands. My body was sprouting microclimates. “What about a random act? Or terrorism? Or some nut with a grudge against Canal Plus for, I dunno, moving the Peppa Pig time slot? If you’re exploring all possibilities, what about that?”

He sniffed. “Thank you for the professional guidance—Chef.” The verbal jab didn’t get lost in translation. Frankly, it pissed me off enough to make me want to clench this gym rat in an illegal choke hold and flop his oxygen-starved, rag-doll arrogance all over the floor, belting out “La Marseillaise” until he bewailed his insolence unto me.

But I let that go. Need I remind you he opened my twist top one-handed?

Tirard stood. I dared to hope. “Are we done?”

“For now. Except I will need one more thing. Forensic evidence. I must take your bloody shirt.”

I dispatched Hoss the Roadie to hit the wardrobe trunk for my backup white Faherty Laguna plus a pair of unsullied jeans. Tirard stepped out to confer with his partners, saying he’d be back. When I met Hoss in the doorway for my clean doubles, I caught another glimpse of Nova. Still on her phone. Still intense. But now farther away from everyone.

Nova. When I slid the little dead bolt inside the men’s loo, I wondered, Was there a chance she would quit? Nobody would blame her after what happened, but damn, I sure would hate to be stuck mid-episode in Paris without a producer. By the time I hung my shirt on the door hook I dismissed that idea. Cammie Nova showed too much steel to cave. Which was one of the things I liked about her. Independent. Strong. Dauntless. Same as I present myself to the world.

Which is how I knew she must be shredded inside, too.

Changed and washed, I rolled my jeans and took my bloody shirt off the hook, wondering, Fold, roll, or finger dangle? I set my pants on the commode and folded the shirt in half. Soon as I did, something fell out of the pocket and clattered on the tile. I snapped on the overhead and scanned the floor. There, under the john. A…flash drive? I picked it up and turned it over and over, looking for a label. It didn’t have one. But, man, was it sticky with blood.

 

FIVE

 Detective Tirard wasn’t back when I came out of the pissoir. As if my head wasn’t already in a salad spinner, now came the added stress of finding him, wherever the hell he went. He was French; maybe he went on strike.

I stepped outside carrying my grim load. Nova was off her phone and seated in Video Village. She saw me coming and met me halfway. We both said the same thing at the same time. “Are you OK?” We chuckled mirthlessly, then let the shocked stupor fill the vacuum between us.

It was I who finally broke our lull. “Tell me, are you all right?”

“I called off the rest of the day’s production, of course.”

“Effing-A. And you? How are you holding up?”

Cammie gestured behind her, oblivious to my attempt to connect. Or ignoring it. “We are struck and loaded out, except for Rayna.” The Food Sarge was across the street packing the last snacks and beverages from craft services into her van. As if she knew we were talking about her, the Sarge looked our way, then resumed loading. “The rest of the crew’s en route to the hotel. I paid transpo drivers from the cop show to take them and Rayna in our vehicles. I didn’t want any of our people behind the wheel. They were pretty nuked.”

People react to trauma in different ways. Newbie or not, Cammie was crew now, and that made her family like all the others. I wanted her to know that. “What about you? Are you nuked?”

I wouldn’t call the smile she gave me brave. More like impermeable. So was her reply. “What about you, Pike? You look…well, look at you.” I’d caught a glimpse of my traumatized self in the bathroom mirror and knew what she meant. I was the Nick Nolte mug shot, minus the Hawaiian shirt. But I could deflect, too.

“Have you seen the cop, Tirard?”

“Not since he left you. Is something wrong?”

“Let’s start with weird. I was folding my shirt to turn over to the detective when something fell out of the pocket. Something not mine.” I held up a ball of toilet paper in my hand. “Go ahead, open it up.” Her slender fingers spread the tissue folds, revealing the memory stick nested within. “A flash drive,” I said.

“I know what it is. But if it’s not yours, how did you get it?”

“No idea. Well, one. It’s got blood all over it. I think it came from Vincent.”

“Victor.”

“The deceased.”

She addressed me but never took her eyes off the plastic lozenge glazed in red. “How could it have come from him?”

“I don’t know. I mean when he got hit, he ended up draped all over me. It might have come off him.”

“…From his pocket.”

“Into mine. I know, I know, beer ponging from his pocket into mine defies Newtonian physics.”

Nova sucked her teeth. “Was Victor holding it?”

“I don’t know. I was too focused on keeping him from screwing up the scene with Eva.”

“Could it be hers?”

“Doubtful. Why would Eva bring a flash drive to a TV interview?” I closed my fingers around the USB stick. “I’ll turn this over to Detective Tirard. Let it be his headache.”

“Right, right… But I don’t see him.” Nova weighed the situation. “Here’s what we do. You go back to the hotel. I’ll give it to him.”

Slipping away seemed both appealing and problematic. “No, I’d better hang here.”

“I disagree.” She put an edge on that. And transitioned to a stiffer mode. “You absolutely need to leave. I won’t take no.”

“No.”

“Stubborn much? Come on, let’s not make a scene.”

“I am standing ten feet from where my guest—your booking—got killed, holding the clothes that made me look like Jackie flying home from Dallas, and you’re worried about making a goddamn scene?”

“I think we’re already there, Chef. Come on, let me handle this.”

“Why not me?”

She gained two inches in height to answer. “Because I’m going to do my producer job here. As your producer I think it’s a bad strategy for my host to engage with the police unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.”

“We know that. But you never know how these things can turn. I’ll see that he gets the drive and your shirt and insulate you from getting your hands dirty. If Detective Tirard needs to follow up, he’ll know how to find you.” She held out her hands to take the load off me. “I am your producer. Let me produce.”

This. This was the hit-the-ground-running Cameron Nova who wowed me at her job interview.

* * *

What does a producer do on a show like Hangry Globe? Simply put, work miracles. Every logistical detail of mounting a global production is a feat. From travel arrangements to interview bookings to making sure there is electricity to charge camera batteries in the middle of a jungle, that and more falls to the producer to make it all happen. On schedule and without screwups.

Three weeks ago, my longtime producer Sheila imploded and checked herself into rehab. Good move for Sheila. For me? A mad scramble to find a replacement who could parachute in and keep us up and running. Sheila had already set up our coming episode in Laos, but I needed a kick-ass successor like yesterday. The network kept pushing someone I’d never heard of, Cameron Nova. As a man who famously does not give a rat’s ass about the network, I was not about to have one of their lackeys rammed down my gorge like some foie-gras duck. I told them no, that I would red-eye in, and they were to set me up with a day’s worth of candidates to interview. Only then would I make my choice.

Cameron Nova’s résumé did look solid. No wonder the network kept pushing her. A degree in communication, culture, and media studies from Howard, and as if excelling at one of the most respected Historically Black Colleges and Universities weren’t enough, Nova then got a degree from the New England Culinary Institute. From there, a steady rise of media credits from associate producer gigs on PBS cooking shows to three seasons on an Australian Bourdain knockoff, a food-centric travel show. She was the first finalist I saw when I dropped in, bleary-eyed, to the network’s Chelsea Market conference room for my binge day of producer interviews. Cameron Nova opened big.

“I won’t be shy. This is my dream job. I’ve seen every episode of Hangry Globe…twice. I’ve not only studied your show, I’ve studied you. I’m probably as big a fan as a person can be without getting hit with a restraining order.”

I laughed. Ms. Nova had led off with a selling point wrapped in self-effacement and comedy. A sense of humor topped my list of qualifications, and she delivered from the starting blocks. “Funny,” I said. “And with bite.”

She hitched a thumb toward the glass wall at the other candidates sitting in the waiting area. “I’d send them home now.”

“And confident. Not the kind to cave under pressure?”

She locked eyes on me, an unwavering gaze. Yep, she would find a way to plug in a camera in the Congo. Then she regarded the open duffel on the table. My clothes, a tangle of clean, dirty, and passable, spilled out like roadkill innards topped by the electric shaver I hadn’t had a chance to use in three days. “A producer would get you a hotel.”

“I’m only in New York a few hours. Tonight, it’s on to Vientiane, then—”

“Paris.”

This woman definitely had my attention. “That cannot be a lucky guess.”

“One of my old production assistants books travel for your network. I like to be informed.”

“What have you heard about me?”

Nova spread her arms. “I’m here.”

I rocked back in the ergonomic chair and sipped tepid French roast. “I can be prickly. Headstrong? Depends how you define it. Or if I slept. I don’t suffer fools or bullies, and I hate to be lied to. But I never fire inside my own perimeter. If you’re family, I’ll take a bullet for you.” I paused to appraise her reaction.

“I’m still here.”

Time I moved to the next level. “What I need from a producer is an eye for substance. That’s the sweet spot of this show. I cook and I goof, but I always look to balance it with a big dose of gettin’ real.”

“Like in Portugal. You surprised Emeril Lagasse by taking him to his grandfather’s ancestral home and made him cry.”

Pulling that one out, definite points. So far. “Exactly. Food is my gateway. Last season at Wembley—”

“Backstage with Adele. You cooked her a vegan meal…red quinoa pilaf…and got her going about privacy hounds. Then you coached her to say ‘Fuck off’ to the tabloids. That got bleeped, but hello. Like we don’t know the word?”

Intrigued, I decided to test her, rapid-fire. “Afghanistan. Season One.”

“Nangarhar Province. You surprised a unit from Texas with home cooking.”

“Specifically?”

“Burnt ends and beans.”

“Rio, Season Two.”

“Ipanema gigolos.”

“South of France.”

“Season One finale. You made brunch for Bono and the Edge at a villa at Èze-sur-Mer. When you told Bono ‘Pride (In the Name of Love)’ was the most powerful musical tribute ever to Dr. King, he sang it, and you teared up. I think it was more than just a song that moved you.”

“You know more about me than I do.”

“Count on it.”

She tempered her certainty with a smile. Natural and welcoming. Was she too good to be true? I’d find out after the other interviews. But Nova was the one to beat. “Very impressive, Cameron. I’ll be making a decision soon.”

“Excellent. And Cammie’s good.”

We both rose to shake. But when I sat down again, so did Cammie Nova. Kind of threw me. “What do you call this, déjà interview?”

The face she gave me this time came without a smile. “You’re slipping.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s subtle but I see it. Even if nobody else does. Or will tell you.”

“Am I hallucinating from jet lag, or are you critiquing me in a job pitch?”

Her unwavering look again. Nova stayed on point. “You’re having a rough time. I will watch your back.” I didn’t say anything. What do you say to that? So, I listened with a small knot cinching under my ribs. “Do you know what you always were? The guy who came on TV, and my breath caught. You had that ‘look-at-me-something-exciting-is-about-to-happen’ mojo. Until something happened.”

This shit was landing. An obligatory meet and greet had taken the most personal turn possible. It reached inside me and squeezed. She continued, taking pains to proceed gently, compassionately. “We all know what that was.” Hell, the world knew. The sensational death of my fiancée. The shock I still bear. “But what I’m talking about is how it affected you. And how it feels now. On your show. Like you’re ‘doing Pike’ instead of being Pike.” I’m rarely speechless, but this candidate, this stranger, left me holding my breath and leaning into what she would say next. “I can produce your show. But I can also help you find that charismatic contrarian again.” Cameron Nova folded her hands on the conference table. “That’s all I got.”

Strange. Invoking what happened to Astrid didn’t trigger the usual emotional crash. No mourning. No toxic taste of loss. Instead, I felt something new. That for the first time in a year, someone understood. Oddly I didn’t feel discomfort at being seen. Or that this outsider had boundary issues. I swiveled to look at the other candidates through the glass, then back to her. “Is your passport current?”

* * *

On the first season of Hangry Globe, I began a tradition of wrapping each day’s work by treating my peeps to Crew Cocktails. It’s a holdover from my days slogging restaurant kitchens when you’d blitz the dinner rush with maniacal intensity, then kick back after closing with your scullery mates, some good wine, and serial trips to the alley for some herbal restoration. Crew Cocktails is a chance to reward my show-saving artists for all their hustle. More than that, I truly like these folks. The chance to get human, if not goofy, together after the skull-whacking toil of cranking out a road show three hundred days a year is something I cherish. My group text said the hotel lobby lounge was still on, but I wouldn’t fault any no-shows after the bat-shit day on Canal Saint-Martin. Everybody showed. Everybody except Cammie Nova.

As far as I knew, she was still dealing with the La PP, local nickname for the prefecture du police. When they asked, that was my answer. Nobody pressed. All were understandably subdued. They ordered serious cocktails unblunted by mixers. This crowd sought sedation.

They didn’t seem traumatized, though. I wouldn’t say they’d seen worse, but they’d seen plenty. Over the years we’d taken warning shots from rhino poachers, ducked incoming mortar fire in Afghanistan, and gotten stuck in a UN food distribution that turned into a riot. Little by little they did what I had hoped, relaxed and talked it through. The best sign was when they were able to giggle recounting the look on my face when Victor Fabron reeled into my interview. Declan and Hoss even reenacted the scene to purifying laughter. Of the bunch, only Rayna, usually rowdy, sat in solemn contemplation of her melting ice cubes.

Latrell got up off the sofa and took out his iPhone. The library-lounge captivated his cinematographer’s eye. The room was a literal study in red. Bookshelves lined with matching leather-bound volumes in garnet and rust hues sat beside enameled vases in cherry and merlot. Dramatic accent lighting illuminated crimson walls. Leave it to my DP to call it. “I feel like we crashed a Stanley Kubrick set.” He snapped off a few pics of the decor. Then he arranged us all in a group pose and gave his phone to our server for a class photo. I wished Nova had been there. To join the family. To let her hair down. To achieve normalcy.

After I signed the bill, I asked Latrell to upload the video from the Fabron sequence to me. It wasn’t ghoulish fixation. I didn’t tell him, but I wanted to see how that flash drive found its way into my pocket. The lines in his forehead smoothed the way they do when he feels on the spot. “I can maybe do it later,” he said. “I don’t have the video now. Nova has it.”

“…Nova?”

“Yes, Chef. She came over and asked both me and Marisol for our media.” That was too weird. A definite first. I struggled not to lose my cool in front of him. But like I said, Latrell reads me. “I asked her why, not to be insubordinate, but because that’s our master vid.”

“Did she say why?”

“In case the police needed it.” My turn to read him. His look was dubious. “This was before they got there. La PP, is that what you called them?”

My suite was on the second floor. I took the stairs so I could call her on the way up without risking lost reception in the elevator. “Hey, Pike, I’m in traffic but heading back to the hotel. Everything good?”

“Well…that depends.” Our hotel kept its room keys on oversized fobs that you leave and pick up at the front desk. I paused to work mine out of my jeans as I approached my door.

“Uh-oh. I’m picking up tension. How can I help?”

“Hang on a sec.” I finally freed the key and used my phone hand to push the heavy door. I heard rustling noises when I stepped in. When I cleared the corner of the little foyer, I saw a man crouched under the stairs to the loft. The room was dark, but the mini-Maglite in his mouth shined inside my shoulder bag while he rummaged through it.

 

SIX

Quietly as I could, I started to back out. But Nova asked if I was still there. Her amplified voice carried. The man whirled. The mini-Mag blinded me, but when he let it drop, I got a flash of him charging. I’ve been in enough fights to know how to take a hit, but nothing prepared me for his. It felt like getting rugby-tackled by an Orc.

The force threw me backwards into the wall. I landed on the padded bench arranged against it, which kept me from going down. Instead of waiting for another slam, I got a fix on him in the shadows and sprung, going low, shoulder down. I caught him in the gut. He oofed out a hard groan and landed on his back on the coffee table, sending stemware crashing and an ice bucket clanging. He rolled sideways away from me toward the sofa, upended the coffee table, and used it to snowplow me across the living room onto the desk. The back of my head bounced off the flatscreen on the wall. Dazed, I brought up my forearms to defend against a blow. But it never came.

He fled. As the door closed, the hall light swept across busted glass on the floor. It twinkled like discarded stars. I rushed to the corridor, but his footfalls were already fading down the stairwell. Back inside I parted the window sheers. All I saw was his back as he sprinted through the courtyard and out into the night.

“Pike?” Nova, coming from the phone. “Pike, what’s happening?” I flipped on the chandelier and hunted for my cell. “Talk to me.” I found it underneath the steps leading to the loft.

“I’m here.” My voice didn’t sound like me. I struggled for air. “I surprised some guy when I came in my door. He’s gone now.”

“Oh my God, are you OK?”

“Going to be damn sore tomorrow.” I regained my breath. “Place looks like Mötley Crüe’s hotel room.”

“How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Although this is my second trashed shirt of the day.” I inspected a rip in the shoulder seam. “At least no blood this time. He was pawing through my bag. Been through the desk, too.”

“Did he take anything?”

“Too soon to know. I don’t have anything valuable out. Passport’s in the safe. Also, some emergency euros. Hang on, we’re going upstairs.” I trudged up and found the in-room safe wide open. “Wow, safe’s been cracked. Weird. Passport’s here. So’s the money.” I sat on the bed. “My suitcase is open, but it was already empty. But I see the dresser drawers have been clawed. And yes, I do unpack if it’s more than one night.”

“Very strange. Has this ever happened before?”

“Once in Somalia I grabbed a dude swinging one leg out my window trying to make off with my laptop. But this is a first-world first. On a day of firsts. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Meaning?”

“The flash drive.”

“But you don’t have it.”

“I’m assuming my visitor didn’t know that.”

“Pike, nobody knows about that except us.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” Even though she was pushing back, talking with Cammie settled me down. “Look, I’m only spitballing here, but what if he saw Fabron slip it to me? Or knew he intended to. Your bio said Fabron was an investigative documentary filmmaker. Maybe he unearthed something sensitive, something worth killing to keep quiet?”

“Well, he told me he was uncovering nepotism in governmental appointments….”

“Not sounding so unhinged now, am I?”

Cammie laughed. “I never called you that. You’re just grappling to make sense of this.”

“You never said it. But you thought it, didn’t you? If not unhinged, quaintly delusional?”

She cleared her throat. “You? Quaint?”

“You said you knew me. Be advised, I’m more than ruffian charm.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Nice dodge. And don’t bother, I’ll call them. Or have the front desk do it.”

“I already pulled up Detective Tirard’s number for redial. You lock your door and wait for the police, if I don’t get there first. In the meantime, you might want to do a more thorough inventory to see if you are missing anything. And Pike.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you are all right.”

* * *

 

Pain is a traveler. It’s been my companion so long I should sign it up for reward miles. I wish that were funny. There’s a term in substance recovery: taking a geographic. An itinerant cook I worked with who had a nose for blow told me that one. He learned it when his sponsor held up a mirror to tell him that no matter how many times he changed restaurants, cities, and coasts, his problems were portable. My friend pretended he got it. Later he used the mirror to do lines.

There is no geographic for me. This salaried traveler with royalty points in Hangry Globe has been outdistancing Carmen Sandiego for years, but the pain tags along. I needed to be alone when I returned from Harry’s to my restored hotel room, but pain waited up for me, coloring everything.

It even made Paris feel foreign. That may sound like an unintended joke, but I once declared myself an adopted son of that beloved city. And not based on visits. You’ve heard me mention Astrid. Well, when the two of us started getting serious, I rented a Left Bank apartment. The idea was that we share it during my series hiatus, a long break that coincided with her yacht being put up in dry dock for maintenance. By her yacht, I don’t mean she owned it. I mean the one she worked on. I can see I’m going to have to give you the highlights of how we met. It’s thrilling if you are into love at first sight. If you’re not, you can’t know my story if you miss this one.

I met Astrid on the pilot episode of Hangry Globe. This bad-boy chef was hell-bent on planting the black flag, creating a show where food and culture smacked heads, and what better opener than a leap into the profligate maw of rock-and-roll decadence? And where better than aboard the private luxury yacht owned by Europe’s wealthiest rocker? My crew and I boarded in Positano for a cruise along Italy’s Amalfi Coast hosted by Kogg, the macho superstar singer whose working-class upbringing infused his lyrics with harsh, street-level poetry. With obvious comparisons to the Boss, Kogg’s hardscrabble brand of rock excited a disenfranchised male blue-collar fan base with huge crossover appeal to women. And it made him a goddamned fortune.

Kogg put on a show for our cameras, leading me on our video tour of the Thumos, his 140-foot mega-yacht. Oligarchs would chuckle into their iced vodkas, but that skiff was tricked out. Strutting his decks in a packed Speedo, the rocker motioned to his toys with a bottle of Louis Roederer gripped by the neck: a pair of Kawasaki Jet Skis, a Zodiac MilPro, a Boston Whaler, three kayaks, stand-up paddleboards, and scuba gear for six. The appointments weren’t shabby, either. A whirlpool, a sundeck, an alfresco cinema, five staterooms for ten guests, Kogg’s master suite, and quarters for his crew of nine. He started counting them off for me: captain, engineer, first mate, bosun, deckhand…but it all went to a blur when we entered his galley and I laid eyes on the yacht’s executive chef.

My brain went to polenta. I remember fixating on the name stitched on her white tunic and uttering my first word to her. “Astrid.”

Your iconoclastic TV host fell hard for her right there on camera. The segment called for us to team-cook a lunch on the super-yacht, and by the time our scialatielli ai frutti di mare got served alongside a simple caprese with olive oil and fresh basil, I was too smitten to eat. She was too moony to do anything but.

Our romance lasted over that season in spite of travel obstacles. I was globe-trotting with my new series, and Astrid set sail for weeks at the whim of the most whimsical of rock egos. We managed to meet up for stolen weekends in her ports of call over the summer and autumn. But that winter, when my lengthy hiatus from shooting coincided with the yacht’s refitting, we took that apartment on Rue Jacob and became a couple.

Over seven weeks, when Astrid and I managed to leave the bedroom, we surrendered to the Paris trope and starred in our own rom-com montage. Mon Dieu, we ate good. I turned her on to Frenchie; she introduced me to Allard. We shopped fresh everything at the Rue Poncelet market for home-cooking date nights, picnics in Luxembourg Gardens, and day trips to Giverny. We did the zinc bars, the sidewalk cafés, the museums. We stayed in and read Dickens to one another. We even quarreled—all natural, especially for two alpha loners learning how to become a pair. But mostly, we walked, practicing the most Parisian of habits, flâneurie. Strolling was all about slowing down the motion and taking the time simply to be together in love. When the Thumos came out of dry dock and we were both about to go back to our jobs, I proposed. Astrid said yes. Actually, what she said was, “Please, sir, I want some more.” We held each other and laughed, then danced all night to our Anita Baker mix.

We parted as an engaged couple with our coming lifetime together peeking over the horizon. But things change. Sometimes they do more than change. They knock you sideways.

One morning I woke up in London, hustling to make the lobby crew call, when a Breaking News bulletin came on BBC: “Rock star and one other dead as dinghy explodes at Athens luxury mooring.”

How it went down:

Kogg had finished a sold-out concert at Peace and Friendship Stadium, and Astrid hitched a ride with him from the Athens Marina out to his mega-yacht to weigh anchor for his next gig in Istanbul. They never reached the Thumos. Forensic investigators determined Kogg had brought aboard a duffel bag packed with ingredients for making crystal meth using the “shake and bake” method, volatile chemicals combined inside two-liter soda bottles. Something screwed up. One of the bottles ignited. The flash fire set off four others, which detonated the Zodiac’s fuel bladder.

Devastating? Shattering? The word for what I felt hasn’t been coined in the English language, and believe me, I’ve hunted for it. But please spare me the condolences.

Please?

You see, there’s a secret reason I get pissed off about the sympathy blankets people bind me in. And now it’s you, dear reader, who’s going to get pissed because I won’t tell you why. I’ve never told anyone. I’ll offer only this much, but you can take it to the bank. In every tragedy there is an element of guilt. I live with it, I choke on it, I have formed my life around it. Whatever pain I am enduring reminds me that I have it coming.

I’m leaving it there for now.

At dawn I woke up still sore from the brawl with my intruder the night before. Sitting up in bed, I did some stretches to test myself out. Not too bad. I flipped my phone over to assess the incoming. Before I went to sleep, I’d turned it face down so the screen wouldn’t pester me every time it lamped up with the endless calls, texts, and emails from reporters seeking comment on the Victor Fabron killing. The morning haul was more of the same. On my way downstairs from the loft, I stopped at the landing to peek out the drape. Light rain was falling, and I felt glad I didn’t have to shoot a segment in that. I turned from the window, put one foot on the short flight to the living room, and startled.

A large man was sitting in the easy chair. He was relaxed, owning it like an athlete on the sideline bench. The picture of casual, except for the pistol resting on his lap.

SEVEN

 Topside the mâitre d’, Monsieur Laurent, swept an arm to the carpeted stairs. The boat surged slightly as it got underway. I kept a loose hand on the curved banister on the way down and arrived at a ghost room. The elegant salon of rich wood, brass accents, and windows on both sides offered views of the passing riverbanks, but the six dinner tables shrouded in white linen sat empty. They weren’t even set. “Your party is in the aft salon.” I made my way to the portal leading to the next dining room. Only a single round table sat in its center. Surrounded by acres of open carpet, it was set but also vacant. Behind me Laurent was already padding up the stairway. A middle-aged man who could have stepped out of the smart-casual page of an Orvis catalog came around the bar to my left beaming a wide grin. “Gregg Espy. Welcome aboard.”

When he went to shake, I hesitated. “Pleased to meet who-the-hell-are-you?”

Far from put off, the man tipped his head a few degrees to appraise me. “Interesting. Are you really this chill, or is smart-ass your defense default? I’m not criticizing, I’m truly curious.”

“Me first. You still haven’t answered my question, and I’ve got a few more.”

“Fair enough.” Espy gestured to one of the leather chairs at the table. When I sat, he took the one opposite. “Ask away.”

“Where do I start? How’s this? What the fuck?”

Gregg Espy laughed. “Reasonable and succinct.” He took off his tortoiseshell glasses and steepled his forefingers against his lips. I could picture Espy in a lit prof’s office at Yale. “First, apologies for the dramatics. We had a sudden need to isolate you for a friendly briefing.”

“I love that you say friendly. I say kidnapp-y. And exactly who is this ‘we’ you’re referring to?” I heard feet mushing carpet behind me, but it wasn’t Monsieur Laurent with a steamed towel. Imagine my surprise when I twisted around and saw Cammie Nova slipping in.

“Cameron,” said Espy.

“Gregg,” said Nova.

I tried to make sense of this. And of their relationship. “I reiterate. ‘What the fuck?’”

“I expected some disorientation. Let’s clear that up and we can move forward.” Nova closed the pocket doors behind her, then Espy leaned toward me in a candor pose. “I work for the US government in a certain capacity.”

“You’re a spook.”

“Central Intelligence, to be forthright. I’m director of special activities.”

I shifted toward Cammie. “One down, one to go.”

“Ms. Nova works with me as a specialized skills officer, or SSO.”

“Whatever that means. It damn sure wasn’t on your résumé.”

“It means she is trained to perform duties consistent with intelligence gathering.”

“Like this morning’s fiasco.”

Espy and Nova traded quick looks, and she said, “When did you figure that out?”

“Am figuring. It’s hardly a Mensa challenge. I drew a Venn diagram with intelligence gathering in one circle and gunplay in the other. How’m I doing so far?”

The CIA man grinned. “You’re too smart for us.”

“I dunno. You’re the dude with the fifty-meter bateau and the Paris police doing your bidding. No aspersions, Gregg. Frankly I’m relieved my Zodiac trip didn’t end up like Fredo’s last ride in Godfather 2.”

“We don’t operate that way.”

“Tell that to Victor Fabron.”

Nova snapped, “That was not us.” But her edge wasn’t angry. Defensive, like she needed me to know that she would never put a hit on one of my guests.

“But he was there because of you. More to the point, because you jammed him down my throat.”

She came back more sharply. “Victor Fabron would have made a fine interview.” Espy held a palm out to her. Nova bristled at being put in her place, even wordlessly. She flopped into the free chair and crossed her arms.

Espy sounded a conciliatory tone. “When we lose an asset, it gets emotional.”

My eyes found Cammie’s. During my interrogation when I’d spotted her out the window, I wondered if Fabron’s death landed personally. Now I saw that it had. “I get it. No harm done.” I answered him but said it to her.

“Good, good,” said Espy, “because we didn’t bring you here to lock horns. On the contrary, Nova and I want this to be the birth of an amicable relationship. By the way, manners. Can I get you anything? Name it.”

Oh, would I have loved me some wine. Or something potent from that bar. But this felt like an occasion for a clear head. I saw some bottles in an ice bucket. “Sparkling water, maybe?” I reached but Espy jumped up, eager to serve. After he poured, I said, “The flash drive. That was your deal, your intelligence gathering, right?”

Nova got a short head dip from her superior. “That’s right.” She uncrossed her arms and sounded more like the Cammie I knew. “It had sensitive information on it that Victor was supposed to brush pass to me on location. That’s why the in-person booking. When he got shot, he slipped it to you.”

“Haven’t you people heard of email?”

The director of special activities plucked something invisible from his tablecloth. “Too insecure. The intel in question is far too volatile to risk on digital platforms. Even encrypted.”

“And yet now the police have it.” As soon as the words came out, I scoffed. “Of course they don’t—you never handed it over. That’s why you insisted I leave it all to you.” She smiled sheepishly. “And why my hotel room got tossed.”

“Somebody obviously saw him pass the flash drive to you. The transfer wasn’t on our video. I checked.” Which was why she confiscated the media from Latrell and Marisol. The more I learned the more I felt used.

“Who killed him?” I clocked another Espy-to-Nova permission signal.

“That’s one answer I did get. Thanks to Marisol’s video we were able to ID the shooter. His name is Thorvald Grepp.” Regret descended on her. “Grepp’s an agent I ran back in the day. We don’t know who he’s working for now, but he was once in Norway’s E14 intelligence unit.”

Espy jumped in. “You aren’t cleared to know that.”

“Yeah, well you aren’t cleared to use my TV show for your bullshit spy games.” I stormed over to the sliding door.

For the first time Espy looked alarmed. “Pike. Please stay. Please? We need your help.”

“Doing what?”

“Exactly what you are doing. One more time, for us.” Espy pulled my chair out and waited. I felt like a dick standing there so I sat again. He patted my shoulder and retook his seat. “I’ve been in this service a long time. Rarely does the abstract model intersect the actuality. This time it exceeds it.”

I frowned toward Nova. “Your man might as well be speaking Mando’a.”

“I’m saying there’s a reason we embedded SSO Nova with you.” Her tiny smile made me look away. “We drew up a model for this enterprise. It’s perfect cover. A globe-trotting celebrity chef with outspoken views and insurgent credentials who all the world wants to meet. And not just culinary types. You know what I’m talking about. Your show—your star power—gives you all-access to the world’s movers and shakers. Popes to poets, despots to dissidents, news writers to news makers.”

“Thanks for all that. I may even steal it for a promo. But I refuse to whore out my series as some government façade.”

“Nobody would know.”

“I would. And that doesn’t sit well with my, what did you call them, insurgent credentials? No sale. Not worth it to be one of your joes.”

Espy smiled. “You even know the lingo. Somebody’s been reading his le Carré.”

“Enough to know that the le Carré joes are field grunts who do all the scut work and get banged up, tortured, or shot.” I almost cited Victor Fabron but didn’t want to tweak Nova. “I’ll miss you, Cammie. I really will.” Bittersweet’s how I felt watching her. I not only respected her professional chops, she felt like someone I’d enjoy slogging through a season of drudgery with. Unflappable, sense of humor, a rare match. “Too bad. I had this gut feel you and I would make a damn good team. But I’m out.”

A silence ate the room. Only the low purr of the bateau’s engines filled the void. The Hôtel de Ville eased by the window I was facing. Espy set both hands on the tablecloth and locked them together with laced fingers. “Here it is. I’m letting you in.” He threw a switch from congeniality to soberness. “We need to perform a rescue mission. A man’s life is at stake.”

“Oh, no, please don’t. Not the humanity card.”

“That was the message on Fabron’s flash drive.”

Nova affirmed. “A good man who has performed invaluable service to our country is in danger. You’d be saving the life of a hero.”

“And now the patriot card.”

“It’s the entire deck,” said Espy. “Because you haven’t committed yet I can’t give you a full briefing. But I’ll bend the rules to see if I can tip you over to a yes. Will you hear me out?” I flicked my brows, a noncommittal go-ahead. “We have an asset placed at the highest echelons of the Kremlin. A mole who has been operating as a double on our behalf for years. The message on that flash drive was urgent. His cover is about to get blown, and we need to get him out. We need to perform an exfiltration, and soon. Every day that passes, he’s closer to getting burned, and once he is, it would mean torture, then death for him as well as for the hundreds, literally hundreds, of our human intelligence sources in his orbit.”

“I get the urgency, OK?”

“Good.”

“And I’m down with striking a blow against the thug empire.”

“Excellent.”

“But I’m no spy. I’m more James Beard than James Bond. You say Kremlin and exfiltration in the same breath, and all I hear is danger.”

Espy adopted a lighter tone. “You won’t ever be put in harm’s way.”

“I won’t?” I tried to sound skeptical, not wavering, but Espy smelled a close.

“Because you won’t be involved operationally. Try this on.” The grin returned. “You’d be our MVB. Most Valuable Bystander. You be you. Do your show, and leave the spy stuff to us pros.”

“What about my crew? These people are family. I refuse to put them in jeopardy.”

“Same guardrails for them,” said Espy. “In fact, your crew will not only have elite protection, they’ll never have any idea what’s going on.”

“Exactly what would be going on? We’d go to Russia? If so, when? And what is my role?”

“We just got the alert today. If you give us a yes, we will be able to draw up a plan by tomorrow. Like I said, we need to move fast.” Cammie dragged her chair close on my other side. Her scent reminded me of summers at the shore and assurance.

“There’s one thing we need to make this mission work, Pike, and it’s you.”

“No pressure, right?” I was trying to laugh it off. Their stares were fixed on me. Espy’s was full of hope. Cammie’s felt like she was peering straight down the dark shaft to my guarded soul. I tried to turn away from her but couldn’t. “You’re saying it would be only this one mission?”

She counted off three fingers. “A, B, C, and out. And we’re already at B.”

I lacked enough fingers to tally all the justifications I had to say no and walk. But her presence—her bearing—tempted me to again embrace the peril of motion. Like I used to.

In a Joseph Campbell I read during my year of emotional repair, he quoted an elder’s advice to a young Native American. It went, “As you go the way of life, you will come to a great chasm. Jump. It’s not as wide as you think.” ...