Page 3 of Stuart Woods' Golden Hour

“Question,” Hattie asked, raising a hand like she was in school. “What about Tom Norman’s new movie?”

Peter looked at her, confused.

“The premiere is in two nights,” she reminded him. “You’re taking me, remember?”

He winced. “Right. Um, sorry, sweetheart. Not sure I’ll be able to make it.”

She sighed. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I have an idea,” Billy said. “I was going solo, but if you wouldn’t mind the company of an old movie producer, I would be honored to be your date.”

“Billy, are you hitting on my wife?” Peter said.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“I happily accept,” Hattie said.

Peter grinned. “Thanks, Billy. If I were to choose anyone to stand in for me, it would be you.”

“Excuse me, but your best friend is sitting right here,” Ben said, pointing at himself.

“You’d be on that list, too. Just a few slots farther down.”

“A fewslots?”

Peter shrugged and stood. “Now, if you’d all excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

2

Owen Pace tugged down onthe brim of his baseball cap and adjusted his wool scarf so that it covered his mouth and nose. Once satisfied, he exited the Saint-Michel Notre-Dame Metro station.

As he’d hoped, the sidewalk was packed with a mix of tourists and Parisians on their way home from work. Melding into the crowd, he entered Paris’s Latin Quarter unnoticed.

He maintained his vigilance as he made his way through the quarter’s warren of narrow, cobbled roads, and reached his destination without any of his internal alarms going off.

Bar Dupuy was in the basement of a centuries-old building. Owen had been there many times and knew the layout well, which was why he had suggested it as a meeting place. The long, dimly lit room was about twice as wide as the narrow alley above. Booths ran down the wall on the right, and stools lined the bar on the left. At the back was a shadowyhallway, where the restrooms and an emergency exit were located.

The only customers were all sitting at the bar. Owen ordered a whiskey and carried it to the booth closest to the back hallway, sitting so that he faced the main entrance.

The meet was set up for ten p.m., but that time came and went without the other party showing up. This was not unexpected.

Tonight was to be Owen’s first meeting with a potential source. The person in question worked for the embassy of a former Soviet republic. Owen had learned that the man had become disillusioned by the corruption in his government and his president’s rapid turn toward authoritarianism. Owen’s hope was that he could persuade him to become an inside source for the CIA.

Cultivating these kinds of connections was Owen’s specialty, so he was well aware that an aborted first meeting was not out of the ordinary.

He nursed his whiskey, giving the man extra time in case he was only running late. His stomach began to rumble, and he cursed himself for not picking up something to eat earlier.

He checked his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty. He’d waited long enough. He tipped back the rest of his whiskey and pushed himself out of his booth.

But the moment he stood his bowels twisted into a knot. He doubled over and grabbed the table to keep from falling.

“You all right, my friend?” the bartender asked.

“Something I ate, I think.” Owen tried to recall what that could have been, but he was having a hard time concentrating.

“Do you want some water?”

Owen shook his head. “I just need to—”

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