Red Crystal by Clare Francis

organization.
    She said, ‘All right.’ Then added, ‘It’ll be much more convenient.’ She didn’t want him to think she was moving in because of him.
    They parked to the south of the Latin Quarter and picked their way on foot through narrow streets whose surfaces had been almost completely torn away, and whose sides were still littered with stones and burnt-out cars. Finally they entered a doorway beside a secondhand bookshop, and climbed some stairs. On the first floor was a small photographic studio. A man emerged from a back room and shook hands. He did not offer his name.
    He sat Gabriele on a stool in front of a camera and rolled down a plain black background.
    ‘Look straight at the camera.’
    There was a flash and Gabriele blinked.
    The photographer said, ‘I’ll need some details.’
    She gave him her height and age. ‘What languages do you speak?’ he asked.
    ‘English, French, a little Italian and German.’
    The photographer scratched his head. ‘At the moment I can only offer you Turkish, Dutch, or Argentinian. Perhaps Argentinian would be best. There are many people of English origin living there.’
    Giorgio said, ‘Take Dutch. It’s safer. No one speaks Dutch.’
    The photographer indicated that it was all the same to him. ‘What about names?’
    They went through some ideas, and decided upon Anneke van Duren because it was easy to pronounce. The photographer said, ‘It’ll be ready by tomorrow evening at six. Will you pick it up?’
    As they emerged into the street, Gabriele looked for the house number. Eleven. And the name of the street: Rue Vauquelin. She filed it away in her memory. She still did not know the photographer’s name.
    They walked back towards the car.
    Giorgio said, ‘We’ll go back to the priest’s and pick up your things.’
    ‘No,’ she said carefully. ‘I’ll move tomorrow. When I have my papers.’
    He shot her an angry look, and strode on ahead. He drove her back to the Porte d’Orléans in silence.
    Outside the priest’s she said soothingly, ‘We’ll have dinner tomorrow night.’ She brushed his cheek with her hand. ‘It’ll be nice.’
    He looked at her resentfully. It was his turn to be piqued. She was glad. It wouldn’t do him any harm.
    Eventually he gave a faint nod of resignation. ‘Tomorrow.’
    She got out of the car and watched him drive away. The moment he was out of sight she turned her back on the apartment and set off down the street. In the Avenue Leclerc she looked round uncertainly. She knew the buses were on strike, and probably the Métro too. She didn’t have the money for a taxi. In the end she put out a thumb and a motorist stopped. He dropped her near the Latin Quarter.
    She walked back through the narrow streets until she came to the Rue Vauquelin. She went to number eleven and looked at the name plates inside the front door. Studio Vincenne – photos commerciales et portraits .
    She mounted the stairs, and listened outside the photographer’s door. The sound of voices came from inside. She went down to the street and waited in the second-hand bookshop, browsing through the shelves near the window.
    Half an hour later two men emerged from the side door into the street. One of them was the photographer. He shook hands with the second man and walked off.
    Gabriele replaced the book she had been reading and went out into the street. The photographer had crossed the road and was walking unhurriedly away with his hands in his pockets.
    Gabriele took a brief look over her shoulder and followed.
    In the quiet embassy building on the Boulevard Lannes the Soviet Second Trade Secretary scanned the back copies of Le Monde for any last scraps of information that might flesh out his report. The report needed all the padding it could get. As the senior officer of the Paris Residency’s Directorate K (First Chief Directorate, KGB) it was his job to know what was going on. Normally he liked to think he did. He had excellent contacts in the