swallow when Rand Dunbarton, Annabelle’s ex-fiancé and client, had moved to Salt Lake from Phoenix and had ended up marrying her. He was a lucky man and Gerard envied him.
“My problem is, I haven’t been to Switzerland since the accident.”
Roman folded his arms. “The trip will definitely stir up memories. For that reason I’m not pushing you on this one.”
Gerard was pensive. “Maybe it’s time to face my ghosts.”
“Only if you want to. Interpol will probably pay any fee you ask within reason to obtain your help. I’m told they’ve looked at other private detectives in the area, but naturally you’re their first choice because of your excellent work record with them, not to mention your fluency in French and German and your knowledge of Europe.”
“Spare me the litany,” Gerard interjected. “Even I have to admit I’m a natural for the assignment.”
“You are. No one else on this staff or any other would begin to qualify.”
“Tell me what my cover would be.”
“A divorced high school French teacher.”
“You must be joking. A sort of glorified Kindergarten Cop?”
That drew another chuckle out of Roman. “According to Brittany, and I quote, you bear ‘a superficial resemblence to Arnold Schwarzenegger, only you’re much better looking.’”
Gerard’s brows lifted. “Your beautiful wife said that about me?”
“She did.”
“Were you jealous?”
Again, the two men shared a quiet laugh.
“Interpol has decided that only a teacher on the same tour can monitor this guy’s movements day and night without suspicion. He uses a local company called STI, Student Teacher International.
“This agency flies a busload of Utah teachers and students to Paris where they connect with their European tour guide. Your job would be to help chaperone the students and get chummy with Bowen at the same time.”
Gerard sat forward. “I’ve gone undercover in hundreds of ways, but I don’t like the idea of using kids to get the job done.”
“Your target has no such compunction. That’s one of the reasons why Interpol wants to get the goods on this traitor so they can put him away permanently.”
“When is all this going to happen?”
“The tour leaves June fifth from Salt Lake International Airport on a special charter flying to Paris. You’ll be gone ten days for a tour of Eastern France and Switzerland.”
“I assume Interpol has done all the paperwork?”
“Take a look.” Roman pulled a passport out of an envelope sitting on the desk and handed it to him.
They stared at each other. “I was their first choice? Hell, I was their only choice!”
“That’s because you’re the best,” his friend said with convincing sincerity.
Gerard didn’t have to peer inside to know his own picture had been put there along with all the false identification. Deciding to get this over with, he opened the cover and saw his image staring up at him. Hank Smith, age thirty-eight, male from Utah, issued by the San Francisco office.
“Hank Smith? I wonder which idiot came up with that one?”
“Hank suits you, and there are more Smiths living in Utah than any other name. It all makes sense.” Roman winked. “According to the rest of the documentation, you’re a French teacher from St. George, Utah, who decided too late to sign up your own students. You’re willing to take any other teacher’s overflow and will pay full price for the opportunity so you’ll know how to organize for next year’s tour.”
“High school kids, huh?”
Roman flashed him a wry smile. “From what I understand, foreign language students are the better, more well-behaved bunch, but I have no doubts it will still be a challenge.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Gerard bit out
“There’s a meeting next Wednesday night at the Salt Lake Library downtown where the students and teachers get acquainted. Then there will be a final meeting a week from Wednesday night at the same place to go over last-minute instructions and give out tickets. It’s all in here.” Roman handed him the thick envelope.
“That next meeting is only four days from now.”
“I won’t assign you anything else to give you time to prepare.”
“I don’t know, Roman.”
“If you can’t make a decision yet, then don’t. I’m still giving you the time off. Go rock climbing for a couple of days. That’ll clear your head. Call me when you know what you want to do. I’ll deliver the message to Interpol, whatever it is.”
“Thanks, Roman. I’ll think about it.”
“Next, please. Your name?”
“Whitney Lawrence. Union High School.”
“I don’t see... Oh, yes. You’re one of the students wishing to travel with Mr. Bowen, but he’s full. We’ve assigned you to Mr. Smith’s group.”
“But I have to be with Mr. Bowen! One of my friends was on tour with him last year and loved him. That’s the only reason I signed up.”
That was the whole point of the situation in which Whitney had purposely placed herself.
“Everyone wants to be with Mr. Bowen because he’s such a popular French teacher. But you signed up too late. His students were already organizing for the trip last fall. Fortunately, Mr. Smith has room. He’s a fine French teacher, too. Don’t worry,” she said when Whitney made a long face. “You’ll all be on the same bus together.”
“Oh. Okay,” Whitney sighed out loud dramatically, hoping her reaction was that of a typical teen. Inwardly, she felt instant relief at the news.
“Everyone is meeting in the room at the far end of the hall. Here’s your name tag. Put it on so you’ll be recognized.”
“Thanks.”
Whitney took the tag and pinned it to the vest she wore over her short-sleeved blouse. Wearing sneakers, white socks and thigh-length cutoffs, her outfit resembled those of every teenage girl lined up in the hall of the library.
With her hair falling to her shoulders, the top portion caught near the crown with a clip, her hairdo blended with all the other hairdos which were more or less the same. Minus any makeup and blessed with her mother’s young skin, Whitney prayed she looked the eighteen years she was purporting to be. Only her passport would betray her, and she wasn’t letting it out of her possession for any reason.
She’d
