The narrow cobblestone street looked like hundreds Hart had seen in travel brochures, on YouTube(R) and numerous other media. But to be walking this particular one, he realized pictures just didn’t do these Parisian streets and alleys justice. The odor of fresh sauces wafted from every cafe along the street. Patrons sat at tiny glass tables just outside the front door forcing passers by to either walk close to the opposite wall, or simply join in the delights the kitchens had to offer.
Up ahead, Hart noticed the familiar head of grey hair seated at one such table at a bistro about halfway down the street. As he approached her table, a waiter came over to the table.
“Café allongé si vu ple,” Hart said. It was the closest thing to an American coffee he had tasted since arriving though it consisted mainly of a large shot of espresso.
“Ah, there you are,” Senator Blair said as Hart sat down across from her. “You missed a delightful crepe breakfast. They use so many strawberries, and that syrupy sauce is to die for. I do miss the morning ritual so much when I go home.”
“The French take eating seriously,” Hart said. “And thank you, but I had a lovely, albeit, Americanized French breakfast at the hotel with the kids.”
“Oh yes, you are here as a chaperone,” she said.
“Debatable, but I’m doing my best.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the sights,” she said. “Unfortunately, playing tourist has never been a thing for me. I have yet to visit the Louvre, even though I’ve been here several times. And my visit to the Eiffel Tower yesterday was business.”
“The food is likely better here anyway,” Hart said.
The Senator smiled.”Thank you for coming,” she said. “I know your duties with the students will keep you busy, but I wanted to inform you of why you’re really here.”
Hart smiled. The Senator had a hidden agenda, naturally. He had figured as much when she had sent him the invitation to the Press Conference at the tower several weeks ago. She had obviously known he would be in Paris. But he wasn’t sure how any of it could involve him. The free trip up the historic tower and a chance to taste the delicacies was too hard to resist.
“I understand Jules Bastien invited you to one of his restaurants last night, ” she asked, though it was clear she already knew the answer.
“He is a persuasive and interesting man,” Hart replied.
“Indeed. That model of a Space Elevator he displayed is actually a replica of the one he has been building just off the Côte d’Azur coast.”
“He mentioned that, yes.”
“And your home base with the school trip is Nice, I understand.” It wasn’t a question.
Hart cocked his head.
“We are hoping you can spend a little more time with Mr. Bastian,” she said. “When you have the opportunity, of course.”
“We?”
She cocked her head sideways and frowned as if it was a stupid question. “Who do you think approved the whole think with the Department of Education?”
Hart should have realized it hadn’t been the Senator’s doing. “I can see you’ve spent a lot of time around Frank Daro,” he said.
She smiled. “He is a resourceful man.”
“And I don’t work for him.”
“You can continue telling yourself that or you can accept the fact that you are a freelance asset that just happens to be closely tied to Homeland.”
Hart sighed. What she said was true though he hated to admit it. “So what is Frank hoping I can accomplish for my country while making sure the kids aren’t stealing, getting lost, or coming of age in the hallways of the hotel?
The Senator smirked. “Mr. Bastien is refusing assistance from all government entities, most notably France,” she said. “Yet, his project, if successful, will affect the entire world.”
“The space elevator,” Hart stated.
“Yes. I’m sure you’ve read a little about it prior to arriving, just so you weren’t totally in the dark during the presentation yesterday.”
Hart smiled. “Of course.”
“Well multiply what you’ve learned and seen by tenfold,” she said. “And you’ll come close to the potential that thing has on virtually every industry that exists, from logistics and satellite coverage for television, telephones, etc., to space exploration and space defence.”
“And what would Frank, ah, I mean you, Senator, wish for me to do?”
“I would like you to get closer to Bastien, maybe visit him on the platform he’s finishing in the Mediterannean,” she said. “And then I would like you to report to us as to what his intentions are once the project is completed.”
“You’re confident it will get completed?” Hart asked.
“He certainly has the resources as he is considered the Jeff Bezos of Europe, and since the French can’t seem to get him to give them progress reports, he is essentially free to complete it. It’s no secret that the Japanese will likely complete one within the next five to ten years and if that happens, the balance of power will shift from the West to the East. Technically, France is a western country and we need to ensure Bastian is playing ball on the right team, so to speak.”
“And if he has his own agenda that doesn’t include the American establishment?” Hart asked.
“Then we will have to convince him to change his agenda, won’t we?”
Hart grinned. The Senator spoke with that unmistakable confidence of a high-ranking government official. No doubt, the military and the CIA were already working out ways of convincing, enforcing, or no doubt saboutaging the project if Jules Bastian didn’t ‘play ball’.
“I will be busy with the kids once we arrive in Nice, but I will see what I can do in what little free time I have available,” Hart said. He didn’t want to be on a puppet string despite knowing there was no point arguing his involvement. Diplomatically, he had a perfect cover as a chaperone. No doubt Frank and Senator Blair had engineered this weeks ago. If Hart went too far and Bastian complained, the French government would have no recourse. Hart didn’t officially work for any government agency, nor was he an asset really. He was a restaurant owner who just happened to be related to the number one super spy in the western world. Frank was taking advantage of him…again. But despite his dislike of being manipulated, Frank’s ‘insertions’ had given Hart a few interesting adventures over the past few years. Perhaps this would be another one.
“I’m sure you will, Mr. Hart,” the Senator said. As if on cue, a black Peugeot stopped at the far end of the street. A dark-suited man stepped out and opened the back door. The Senator gathered her things, shook Hart’s hand, and headed toward the car. A couple of steps away, she turned back to Hart. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you once you’ve settled in Nice.” And with that she strode toward the waiting car.
