The Last Good German

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The flight from Washington had taken seven hours and nineteen minutes. Now a standard black Cadillac sedan was waiting for him at the curb, in a no-parking, no-stopping zone. There were no other American cars at Charles de Gaulle Airport that morning.

Devereaux stood on the walk outside the terminal for a moment, looking up at the leaden morning clouds, feeling the threat of rain in the air. Then he looked down at the Cadillac sedan, and he shook his head. It was a bad joke, all of it.

The driver got out of the car and walked around the hood to the rear passenger door and opened it.

Devereaux paused a moment before entering the car. He looked at the driver and said, “Why don’t you have American flags flying on the front fenders?”

The driver blinked and said nothing.

Devereaux crawled in and dropped his bag between his knees.

The other passenger was a black man with honey-brown skin and large blue eyes. A sprinkle of freckles bridged his nose and cheeks.

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