by Cara Black
Nothing.
But that pine scent . . . why had it lingered? Had he really been wearing such a distinctive scent on the run?
In the bathroom she found a small snowball of stiff lather under the sink ledge. In the bin a few crinkly hairs.
He’d shaved off his beard, or his hair.
Disguised himself.
Outside, she returned the key to under the geranium pot. That was when it hit her.
She found the old man by the dumpster.
“You’re very helpful, monsieur. Almost too much so. How could the man who escaped have put the key back under the geranium pot?”
“I did.”
“He asked you to put the key back and . . . ?”
The man nodded. “Another thousand francs covered me threatening to call the traffic flics on the Renault driver if he didn’t move his car.”
She believed him.
“But wouldn’t that put you in trouble with the driver?” she asked. “Or in danger for helping the young man escape?”
“A man my age? No one gives two eggs from the same hen about old people.” He looked at her. “We’re invisible.”
Thursday, Early Afternoon
She tried to look on the bright side: still one step ahead of the DGSE. But several behind the legionnaire’s accomplice.
Not good.
She speed-dialed René. “You all right, partner?”
“We’ve got things to catch up on.”
René’s code for a problem.
“I know.” Vigilant, she looked around for a black car. Only women pushing strollers, a boy feeding the pigeons under the falling autumn leaves.
“Meet me at Marché d’Aligre,” she said. “The corner café. You know the one. Ten minutes.”
She’d get off the street, take a shortcut through a passage.
The oldest market in Paris sighed with a spent tiredness in the autumn light. Apart from the stallkeepers sweeping cauliflower leaves and the flattened persimmons squishing below her feet, it was mostly empty. Only the legal and illegal brocante did a brisk business. With a few minutes before she was supposed to meet René, she stopped in the Graineterie, a North African spice haven, for the lentils Chloé loved in her puree.
The outdoor café tables and the counter were full. So Aimée kept walking, stretching out a cramp in her leg, taking deep breaths to clear her mind. The wine bar, le Baron Rouge, was jammed as usual, patrons choosing oysters from the shucker on the street. A few leaned on car hoods, an oyster in one hand, un verre de rouge in the other.
Her eye caught on a man standing inside at the counter. So familiar. That corduroy jacket, those patched sleeves, his stance, his arm gestures. She saw his reflection in the dimly lit mirror—thick stone-white hair, those basset-hound eyes.
Morbier. So this was why he hadn’t answered. Out drinking. Typical. But hadn’t she encouraged him to get out and go to cafés, the market?
Before she could call out to him, her phone trilled.
“Where are you?” said René.
She looked up. “Outside the café, but I see Morbier—”
“No time for that, Aimée. It’s important. I’ve snagged a table; hurry.”
When she looked back, a group had entered le Baron Rouge, and she couldn’t see Morbier anymore.
Thursday, Midafternoon
She found René at a back table sipping a steamy herbal tisane.
“René, the car that chased us last night was seen at dawn outside Gérard’s bolt-hole nearby. Alors, he escaped. He’s got more lives than a cat.”
“Where’d he go?”
“I’m working on it,” she said, gesturing to the waiter. “Un expresso, s’il vous plaît.”
“Work on this,” said René.
He unzipped the roller bag as he began updating her on the pool hall, Nestor, the legionnaire’s roommate at the hotel, and Réserve la Luxe, the chauffeur service with the new Paris address. He showed her the contents of the legionnaire’s bag.
“Impressive, René.” On a mission, he got things done all right.
“Saj checked,” said René. “From what he could make out, this address is probably a front, just a mailing address. And it’s Jean Moulin’s address, too.”
“Jean Moulin? The Resistance hero?”
“Mais non, this Jean Moulin’s the legionnaire’s accomplice who doubles as a chauffeur,” said René. “An alias? Anyway, the business address is part of the viaduc, with garages behind it.”
Wine-fueled conversations and the whoosh of the milk steamer made a din.
“But how does that help us find Gérard?” she said. “How important can this be?” Aimée unwrapped the sugar cubes. Plopped them in and stirred. The sweet jolt woke her up.
“For one thing, he’s after us, too, remember?” said René. “Takes out anyone in his way. Moulin and the legionnaire tracked Gérard down—”
“That’s it,” she interrupted. “Somehow, the accomplice knows where Gérard goes every time. So we follow him to find Gérard.”
René raised his hand to stop her. “Zut, I want to bring him down. No one gets away with blowing up my car.”
“How, then? Got an idea?”
“We use this burner phone,” said René. “Draw him out.”
Aimée downed the rest of her espresso. Put down five francs. “Let’s go.”
And then she froze as the truth finally hit her. What kind of an idiot was she?
Why hadn’t she registered what she’d been seeing—what had been wrong with that picture?
Morbier was standing at the bar.
Thursday, Midafternoon
But Morbier was gone.
When she asked, the bartender shrugged. “Just came on shift.”
She joined René on the pavement, where he stood with the roller bag.
“Aimée, I’ve got a taxi waiting.” René looked at her, eyes blazing. “This guy murdered those homeless men and blew up my classique.”
She’d never seen him like this.
They made a plan to flush out the legionnaire’s accomplice as the taxi sped the few short blocks down rue de Charenton and turned onto Avenue Daumesnil, which paralleled the Promenade Plantée.
“Ici.” René had pulled out the legionnaire’s cell phone with its fading battery. The address was a vacant storefront in the rose brick with limestone lintels.
“Let’s settle the tab, monsieur,” said the young taxi driver. “I’ve got to get my wife to le dentiste.”
Aimée pulled out a wad of francs. Got a receipt. “Business expense, René.”
“Would be great if we had a paying client,” said René, lips pouting in a moue of disgust.
With an eye on the Réserve la Luxe storefront, they waited out of the wind in an archway. Behind them was a tunneled street and a switchback of stairs that led to the walking path above.
“Look.” René pointed to a narrow driveway near the storefront. A tight squeeze for a delivery truck or car. On the burner phone, he hit redial on the only number it had ever called. Put the call on speaker.
It rang and rang. Finally a rasping voice: “I know where you are.”
Who did the accomplice think was calling him?
René knew what he was supposed to say, but he stood frozen, his eyes wide. A choking sound came from his mouth instead of what they’d rehearsed. Their plans hung in the balance.
Aimée did the only thing she could think of—leaned down and tickled behind his knees. René sputtered and burst into surprised, nervous laughter.
She grabbed the phone and put her finger to his lips. Shook her head.
“Think it’s funny?” said the rasping voice. “You won’t think so when I find you.” He thought he was talking to Gérard Hlili. “Your pal, the old caretaker, he likes the bottle, non?” Pause. “I�
�ll drop by.”
The scene in the schoolyard came back to her: the caretaker’s reticence, his flushed face and spider veins, the way he’d looked up at the pavilion.
Aimée hung up the phone.
I’ll drop by.
They knew where to find Gérard Hlili. But they didn’t have wheels.
“You know I hate you tickling me, Aimée.”
“If you’d said the wrong thing, our lives might have been in danger, René.”
He pointed to the white glow of lights reflecting off the rose brick. A black car. “They still might be.”
Thursday, Late Afternoon
“He’s getting away,” said Aimée. The black Renault was backing out of the driveway they’d spotted earlier. She pulled out the spare outfit she’d packed in her bag. Slipped the dark blue cowl of a nun’s robe over her head.
“Monsieur, monsieur?” she said, waving. The car kept reversing. She jumped aside and pounded on the trunk. But the Renault edged into the street—any minute, it would have space to nose out and shoot away.
Merde.
She ran around to the front of the car—couldn’t see through the smoked windows. Reached for the handle and pulled the driver’s door halfway open. The driver accelerated in reverse, the gear whining. With a loud dull crunk, the car crashed into a Mercedes behind it. The door whipped back, and she stumbled into the street and fell.
René was running. “Mon Dieu, Aimée, are you hurt?”
Stunned and embarrassed more than anything, she picked herself up. The driver, a wiry mec in a black suit, had squeezed out the passenger door and sprinted into the tunnel. The car’s rear had crumpled into the Mercedes’s engine grille.
Sirens wailed as a blue-and-white police car pulled up at the corner. Had René called the flics? Talk about quick. Then she realized the commissariat itself was at the corner of the street in front of them.
The accomplice was taking the stairs up two at a time. No way the flics would catch him. She took off, lifting her trailing robe as she followed up the metal stairs. “Which way did he go?” she yelled down at René when she reached the top.
“Wait for the flics; it’s not safe. He’s armed.”
Cherry, linden, and hazelnut trees and lush bamboo lined the old rail line’s Coulée verte, stretching along the viaduc from near the Bastille to Jardin de Reuilly and beyond. Above the bustle of the city, she was surrounded by green. No time to enjoy that.
Where the hell had he gone?
To her right, a couple sat smoking on a bench. A father and his laughing son zinged by her, kicking their trotinettes.
“Did you see a man in a black suit run by?” she called. But her words were lost in their wake.
Every second, the accomplice got farther away.
Which way to go?
Sunlight sparkled off the rustling leaves. Her gaze caught on a black-suited figure weaving among several white-haired men wearing matching red Bayern München windbreakers. She caught phrases of what sounded like German.
“Stop him!” she shouted. No one paid any attention to her. She took off again, nun’s habit flying, every step accompanied by leg cramps. Tried to remember some German from school. “Bitten sie halt!”
To a person, they all turned. She blinked in surprise—she’d forgotten how these people obeyed orders. “Können wir helfen?”
“Ja,” she panted, pointing at the man. “Mein koffer.”
She’d meant to say “bag,” but the closest word she knew was the one for “suitcase.” Oh well.
Meanwhile, the man had pushed his way through the tourists and darted ahead among the trees.
The German men sprinted to her aid, and one grabbed the accomplice’s arm, managing to slow him down. The man shook him off, launching him against another helpful tourist, who tripped. Before her eyes, the German tour group fell like dominos.
Habit flying, she jumped over sprawled arms and legs. No time to help them, unfortunately. The accomplice dodged among planters, appearing and disappearing from her line of sight behind tall decorative grass. Ahead she saw another set of stairs down to the street. Lungs on fire, she pushed herself to catch up with him. She was so out of shape, and this heavy robe got in the way. She struggled out of the habit as she ran, pumping her legs. He was turning toward the stairs. Getting away.
With all her might, she spurted forward, whipped the nun’s habit at him. It lassoed his head like a net. His arms shot out, trying to bat it off, grabbing the stair handrail. But in the nanoseconds he was blinded by the cloth, she tackled him. Landed on hard muscle, a wiry frame. Just as suddenly she was shoved away, flying through the air. Her thigh smacked into a wall. She tottered on the staircase, about to fall headfirst down the stairs. Grab his arms, his ankle, something. Shielding her head with one arm, she lashed out and caught the cuff of his pants just before he could kick her down the stairs and to another concussion.
“Waah . . . what the . . . ?” he yelled.
She heard a thunk. The crack of bone on the steps. The accomplice sprawled against a planter as René administered kicks to his head.
The man was out cold.
Catching her breath, she grabbed the railing and pulled herself up. “Good timing, partner.” Too bad they’d get no information from him. White bone and gristle stuck out of a hole in his suit-jacket elbow. A nasty fracture—he’d be lucky if the doctors could get that bone back in. Not her concern. “Let’s get him behind the bushes.”
Together they dragged the unconscious man from view. René grunted, checking his pockets. “We need to find out his tricks.”
“Doubt there’s anything there but his wallet and keys,” she said, catching her breath. “Whatever tricks he uses are probably in the car.”
Aimée took the accomplice’s keys as René rifled through the wallet, tossed it. “Let the flics chew on this.”
“Good thinking.” Then she noticed the panting men in red jackets straggling toward her.
“Sind-sie polizei?”
She grabbed the habit. “Hurry, the Germans are coming.”
She needed to end this. Find Gérard. Return the money.
Save her mother.
They backtracked a block to the corner where the accomplice’s Renault stuck out like a sore thumb. The rear end was crinkled like an accordion. The owner of the Mercedes the accomplice had backed into was involved in a heated discussion with a tow-truck driver.
“What do we do now?” said René. “We’ve got to get into that car.”
Aimée’s lungs burned, and her sore legs protested her every step. “Stay here . . . Non, walk toward the mairie.”
“Look, Aimée, forget whatever you’re thinking. That Mercedes owner’s seen you.”
“He’s seen a nun. Do what I say, René.” She stuck the nun’s robe back in her bag, and smoothed down her catsuit.
Thursday, Late Afternoon
“What’s going on, monsieur?” Aimée asked, her tone brisk.
“What’s going on?” the Mercedes owner said, bristling. “I’m told the idiot who crashed into my new Mercedes is involved in a police investigation.”
Aimée thought quick. “Correct.”
“What’s it to you?”
She flashed her faux police ID. “My orders are to take this vehicle to police impound,” she said, gesturing toward the Renault.
“Quoi? Wait a minute wasn’t that you… a nun?”
“Undercover operation.” She pulled out the car keys from the pocket in her catsuit.
“But, er . . . Officer, you can’t do that . . . I need details for my insurance.”
“Bien sûr, meet me at the impound lot.”
“I insist we do this now.”
“It’s a safety issue, monsieur. This vehicle’s blocking traffic.” She nodded to the tow-truck driver. “Meet you there.”
> “I thought Traffic handled this?” Not stupid, the tow-truck driver squinted in suspicion.
“Not when there’s an ongoing police investigation,” she said.
“Where did the flics go?” the Mercedes owner asked. “They were here one minute—”
“It’s a manhunt, monsieur.”
He blinked.
“I’d suggest taking cover.”
With that, she opened the driver’s-side door. Inserted the key into the ignition and prayed the damn car would drive. An answering hum from the engine. Good. She pressed her foot on the clutch pedal, shifted into first, her nerves taut as wire.
The car responded.
She turned left, keeping an eye on the Mercedes owner and the tow-truck operator in the rearview mirror. Half a block down, she pulled over.
René got in, hiking himself up onto the seat. Pulled on his seat belt.
“How many lies did you tell just now?” he asked.
“Enough to get you in here so you can find the tracer or whatever he’s been using.”
“I hate this car. The bumper’s about to fall off.”
“If that’s all that happens, we’re lucky. At least it’s running.”
René searched the glove compartment while she circled the Place Félix Eboué roundabout three times. Convinced no one had followed them, she entered rue de Reuilly for the second time that day.
Her phone buzzed. Keeping her eyes on the road, she reached into her bag by the gearshift. The screen was blank.
“It’s your other phone, Aimée.”
Merde. The DGSE burner phone.
“Going to answer it?” René asked.
“Not yet.” Her hands trembled on the steering wheel. “Find anything, René?”
“Spare car keys…hold on.” He held up a dark grey metal widget. “Sophisticated tracker. But the batteries are dead. He turned off the GPS.”
“Can you activate the thing to see his trail?”
“I’ll try.” René took a cord from the glove compartment, plugged the tracker into the lighter socket. Fiddled with buttons, muttering as the tracker charged.