Bill Meilen
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“Then it's pretty accurate.” Leatherman toyed with a scrap of paper. “Anything else?”

”Sealed orders to be collected at Tulle, that's all. Contents unknown. Compiled by Steka and D.S.T. brass and Big Zee himself.”


Quince grunted. “I'm hard put to find an answer there. One of their ‘Operations ponctuels’ maybe? Or kind of like their cells in Quebec? Deep sleepers, the disinformation guys, like that Steka guy Phillipe de Vosjoli who led the big fish here to believe Quebec was ready to break away from Canada at the snap of a finger?”

Leatherman shook his head. “Anything’s possible. They have definite colonial ambitions about their lost territories, just like the goddamn Hispanics—they could make a play for Louisiana—places under the Napoleonic Code, but I don't think so at this time. Then we can't be sure of anything Steka does except when our firm stringers are directly involved. Frogs keep a tight ship on security—tight as a duck’s butt, and that’s water-tight. We could learn a lot from the Frogs. Maybe Obispo can give us a lead on French covert activities north of the border in Canada.”

Quince grinned. “Not for a while he can't.”

“Oh?” quizzed the lean Leatherman.

“Not until he gets back from Tulle.” Quince flipped a Camel into life. “As luck will have it, he's one of that Steka party.”