It had become the background soundtrack to his daily work. Raymond only half-listened throughout the first half-hour or so, keeping up with his research at the computer while the transmitter replayed everything that the bug picked up in the apartment across the street from him. What it was picking up so far wasn' t very helpful--nor very interesting at all; what was this nonsense about pancakes? In all this time, the only useful information he had gathered concerned the absence of two of the team's members, and even that information he had very nearly missed, so brief was its mention. Terra Group was at its most banal this morning.
Then after a while things became blurred and difficult to decipher, and he had to listen more closely. It was more interesting now, but highly personal, and of little use to him in his goals.
Shortly after that it became chaos. It was pointless to try to follow voices now, so he just leaned back and let the uproar roar on, reasoning that sooner or later it would have to quiet, and he'd again be able to make out a recognizable voice.
For a moment he thought he did recognize one, the female one, but then the chaos surged louder again.
It finally died down, of course. He waited and listened. Voices he heard now, but new ones. Others among those he watched, perhaps? He listened carefully.
But gradually the truth was unavoidable. Their French was too good. And what they said just didn't fit the profiles of Raymond's targets.
He conceded defeat.
Or rather, retreat. The trackers were unreliable, the bug had failed, but there were other means. First, however, Madame must be informed of the situation. Raymond dialed the familiar number.
But there was no answer. Not on the first ring, as she had always answered in his experience with her. Nor the second, third, fourth. . . . He lost count, waiting in stunned silence as a shape of emptiness began to form in his thoughts. He hung up, tried again, but it was the same. Five minutes later, fifteen, thirty--still no answer.
The babble from the bug's transmitter grew more and more meaningless.
Through the window he watched their apartment, but it divulged no secrets to him.
This was it, then: he knew what it meant when she failed to answer. Now he would have to act on his own.
As his first act, he switched off the transmitter--then, after a moment's hesitation, sent the signal for the bug to self-destruct. No sense leaving evidence like that lying around when it had outlived its purpose.
Then he spared one more glance out the window towards 13 Rue Duvergé, and finally he left the apartment. If Madame was not now able to deal with them, it was up to him.