CHAPTER 29
Erik von Weissenstein stood at the hotel window, looking out across the square to the Arc de Triomphe at the other end. The traffic moved in an endless stream around the Place Charles de Gaulle but the noises from below never reached into the soundproofed room where he was. It was as if he were watching television tuned to mute.
Heavy rain clouds were gathering over Paris, and the sky was as dark as the frown on his face. He had booked in at this tourist hotel expressly to meet with the man in the room with him.
Jules Deneuve was sitting in one of the two chairs and smoking a cigarette. He was in his mid-thirties, dressed in a dark summer-weight suit, trendily cut, his face tanned and clean-shaven, his expression passive. He was a man who had never learnt to smile and one who
