Does she know me? Vance wondered. My photo's in their files somewhere, surely.
But she'd betrayed no hint of recognition. So maybe not. He'd always worked away from the limelight as much as possible. Once more it had paid off.
As the plane dipped and shuddered from the turbulence, he watched out of the corner of his eye as she lifted the fake French passport out of her open leather handbag, now nestled in the empty seat by the window, and began copying the number onto her landing card.
Very unprofessional, he thought. You always memorize the numbers on a forgery. First rule. T-Directorate's getting sloppy these days.
He waited till she'd finished, then leaned over and ran his hand roughly down the arm of her blue silk blouse.
"Etes-vous aller a Londres pour du commerce?" He deliberately made his French as American-accented as possible.
"Comment?" She glanced up, annoyed, and removed his hand. "Excusez moi, que dites-vous?"
"D'affaires?" He grinned and craned to look at the front of her open neckline. "Business?"
"Oui . . . yes." She switched quickly to English, her relief almost too obvious.
"Get over there often?" He pushed.