Number 7, Rue Jacob

by Wendy Hornsby

  “During the renovation, our workmen took down a heavy oak door in a far corner of the basement, and voilà, a great discovery. Everything was a jumble, of course. Overloaded shelves had collapsed in one area, for the rest—a general disorganization. Stacks of handcrafted books piled on tables and chairs. Adding to the clutter were crates of state documents and church texts that apparently were entrusted to the convent during the French and later Russian revolutions. Perhaps at a time when the churches were shut down and worship was suppressed, the convent was off limits to the French revolutionaries because it was an orphanage for little girls. I wonder how many of those revolutionaries had parked an illicit child with the nuns. In the meantime, the king lost his head and the church lost its luster, and no one ever came to reclaim the books and charters and decrees and official records that had been left with the nuns. The Russian documents? A mystery.

  “Isabelle turned to the Sorbonne for help to make order out of the mess. As soon as they walked in, the scholars realized what was there and advised us that the collection belonged in a museum. Isabelle, Gérard, and I agreed. We signed the library over to the rare books section at the Louvre, with the caveat that they would make it available to researchers.”

  “Jean-Paul, hold still, please.”

  “It was an exciting discovery, yes? And, ouch!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “That little stitch up in your hairline was a bugger to get out. Go on.”

  “The Louvre, naturally, sent out a press release. The papers covered it, there was a photograph. Not a good one, but clear enough about the state of things. Right away, the Louvre took away the French state papers. But, of course, the Vatican claimed the convent library, and so did the diocese. Almost from the beginning, the Louvre, the Vatican, and the diocese have been in a three-way suit for possession. At the moment, the issue sits exactly where it has been for the last eighteen or nineteen years. At impasse.”

  “In the meantime,” I said, “the library sits in the cellar.”

  “Exactly. Except that the church has demanded that the library remain sealed until there is a resolution.”

  “Why? I’d think they would welcome scholars. They must want to know what’s there.”

  “You would, Isabelle and I did. But the issue for the church is that some of the volumes are very old and may have errors, meaning that they may contradict more recent rulings on dogma. He who controls the media controls the message, yes?”

  “You said you and Isabelle invited in scholars right away. Doesn’t the church object?”

  “Of course,” he said, peeking at me through his fingers. “But what can they do? The library is on private property. They tried to get an injunction to have the room sealed, but our lawyers countered that there are holdings in the collection that Rome has no claim to and therefore, Rome has no authority to block access to the entire library. A judge wagged his finger and warned Isabelle to keep the works in contention locked up, and Isabelle, being Isabelle, smiled at him and did exactly as she pleased.”

  “She allowed researchers in,” I said.

  “Serious scholars, yes.”

  “You said that the French state papers are long gone. So, what’s there that Rome can’t claim?”

  “The Russians. The Louvre thinks that tsarist expats saved precious church documents from the bonfire, and brought them to Paris with them.”

  “And left them with the nuns at rue Jacob,” I said. “Is it possible that some Russian aristocrat had entrusted a mistress’s daughter with the nuns, and knew where to turn?”

  “Maybe so,” he said.

  “Sounds like Isabelle was as good at figuring out a work-around as her brother, Gérard.”

  “Oh, yes. The one court order Isabelle was scrupulous about obeying, was that all of the work of scholars has to be done in situ. Nothing leaves the library, except that from time to time we allow museum staff to remove volumes for restoration. Fortunately, the cellar has always been cool and dry, so the collection is surprisingly well preserved, considering the age of some of the documents. But time, bookworms, woodworms, and rot have done their work. When a volume goes out for repair, it goes out and comes back with an escort.”

  “Maybe the little book of Psalms went out for repair and somehow was left on Isabelle’s desk. Maybe they couldn’t find the keys that day,” I said, leaning my face close to his, looking for the best way to snip one of the finer sutures. “Where are the keys?”

  “I keep mine in a safe. But I don’t know where Isabelle’s are.”

  “Maybe Freddy knows,” I said.

  “Freddy,” he said. “Perhaps the puzzle is solved. Freddy is fascinated by the library. When was he at her apartment last?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.” The last stitch came free cleanly and went into the little spiky pile of sutures I had deposited on the window ledge. I used another antiseptic wipe on the wounds to clean them and then spread a thin layer of antibiotic ointment over the area. When I was finished, I leaned forward and kissed his lips. “All done.”

  Tentatively, he touched the wounds. “How does it look?”

  “Good. Healing well. How does it feel?”

  “Better, a hundred times better.” He sat up and returned the kiss. “Thank you.”

  “Prego. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t need me to do that particular favor ever again.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “Please do.”

  His phone signaled there was an incoming text. While his thumb was busy, I pulled out a phone, put in a battery, and called Freddy.

  “Maggie,” Freddy said with surprising enthusiasm. “I am so happy—so relieved—that you’ve called. I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday morning. I am so very profoundly embarrassed that Maman’s apartment was a disaster when you walked in. I had no idea it was in such a bad state because I had scheduled the cleaners to come in after the holidays. When I knew you were coming, I left a message for them to tidy up before you arrived. So, when Grand-mère told me the cleaners had not come and that crap was scattered around, I thought there might have been a break-in, though it would take a team of commandoes to get past Madame Gonsalves. I finally reached the cleaners and they told me that over the holidays there was a kerfuffle between them and my son, or one of his friends. So, they refused to go in. When I asked Philippe to explain, he promised he would make amends with the cleaners; they’ve been with Maman for years, very reliable. ­Phillippe promised me he would apologize to the ladies and arrange everything. But—”

  “The holidays: is that when you were in Isabelle’s apartment last?” I asked when I could finally get a word in.

  “Yes. I should have asked you first. But I knew you and Jean-Paul were in California with family, and our visit to Paris was a last-minute decision. I took my boys skiing right after Christmas. A couple of Philippe’s English boarding-school friends came along, nice enough youngsters, I thought. Neither of them had been to France before, let alone Paris, so we agreed to stay on for a couple of days before they had to go back to school, to show them some of the sights. Going to Maman’s when we were in Paris was the natural thing for us, so I didn’t think twice about it. In future, I shall call you first.”

  “I hope you had a good time,” I said.

  “We did. We were to leave on New Year’s Eve in the afternoon,” he said, sounding defensive. “Robert needed to get home to finish a school project. But Philippe and his friends didn’t need to be back across the Channel for school for another week. They asked if they could stay on for one more day to see the big Paris New Year’s celebrations. They’re eighteen, away at school already, responsible for themselves. With Madame Gonsalves on watch, I knew they couldn’t wander too far astray, so I allowed it. Apparently, however, they stayed more than one night, and did something to offend not only the cleaners but the downstairs neighbor when they were there. I hope that when Philippe gets home for the spring holiday he will have a better explanation
ready than the one he’s given me. But, I do ask for your forgiveness.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Freddy.”

  “I know I should have asked permission to use the apartment.”

  “I think we’re even. My coat was wet, so I borrowed yours without asking.”

  There was a pause. “What coat?”

  “Green, waxed canvas with a Barbour label.”

  “Ah, the coat. One of the boys left it. He has been very anxious to get it back.”

  “There we are, then. I was happier to have a warm, dry coat than I’ve ever been to have a tidy house. Tell Philippe’s friend we’re even.”

  He laughed a bit too hard and I realized just how worried he’d been about my reaction to the mess at Isabelle’s apartment. After all, we don’t know each other very well, my half brother and I. Sometimes I find myself walking on eggshells around my newly discovered French family, so it made sense that they would still be cautious around me.

  “Freddy,” I said. “The reason I called was, I wonder if you know where Isabelle kept the keys to the library.”

  There was a pause before he said, “Library? The library in the cellar?”

  “That one.”

  “I don’t know where they are. Maman has a strongbox in her office. They might be there. Or maybe Madame Gonsalves keeps them. Or knows where they are. Probably she does because someone has to let in the readers from the university when they come.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “Other than the readers, no one goes down there. But you’re probably curious to see it.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you in the apartment now?”

  “We’re in transit. With luck, if the weather holds we may be back by tonight.”

  “Safe travels. See you at Easter, if not before.”

  Jean-Paul had already finished his texts when I turned off the phone. I asked, “Learn anything?”

  “No word on the big blonde, but Sabri Qosja was spotted by one of our reward-seekers in Lyon twenty minutes ago, waiting for a train.”

  “Headed for Paris?”

  He shrugged. “If that’s where he’s going, and he catches the midday TGV, he’ll be there to greet us.”

  “Comforting thought.”

  “As soon as we know when we’ll arrive, I’ll alert Madame Gonsalves to watch for us.”

  “You told her Guido is coming?”

  “I did, this morning.” He slipped his phone into his pocket. “There was another message, a very interesting one. I told you that I sent the bank routing number AnoNino discovered when he hacked crouchingdragon to a friend of mine, yes?”

  “You did.”

  “My friend traced it to an account owned by a company called InterCentro, which appears to be a holding company for some Russian business interests.”

  “Have you done something to offend the Russians? Or have I?”

  “Both of us, probably. It isn’t difficult to offend the Russians,” he said. “As much as I would like to catch the first plane we can to Paris, we need to hear what else my friend has found. We’re joining him for lunch in Milan.”

  “When?”

  He turned my wrist to look at my watch. “In forty-five minutes.”

  At the exit for the Milan Linate Airport, the driver left the Autostrada and announced we would arrive in cinque minuti, which with even my very limited Italian meant we had only five more minutes in the shelter of the bus.

  “Where are we meeting this friend of yours?”

  “In the financial district. If the coast is clear, we can get out here and catch a taxi.”

  “And if the coast isn’t clear?”

  “Then we hope no one is waiting at the next stop.”

  Someone was waiting. Three of them, in fact. Boys that looked to be in the fourteen- to sixteen-year-old range lurked along the passenger drop-off curb outside the big doors of the departure lounge. They all had phones in their hands, watching people. A taxi pulled up and a man and a woman who fit our general description got out. I watched one of the boys snap their photo as the couple waited for the driver to fetch their bags from his trunk and set them on the sidewalk. On his signal, a second boy moved in closer to be in position to follow the couple into the terminal. The two boys hovered, seemed to wait for something. The kid who took the photo suddenly brightened and with an air of happy expectation, checked his screen. His face and posture showed disappointment as he waved off his friend. To us, it was clear what caused them to be disappointed: they got word that the couple from the taxi was not us. Jean-Paul had watched this little drama along with me.

  “On to Plan B,” I said as we turned our backs to the window. About half the passengers were out of their seats, wrestling with their stuff, filling the aisle as they prepared to exit. Ducking to avoid a backpack when a man turned to speak with someone behind him, I asked, “Why aren’t those kids in school?”

  “Schools close for lunch. Everyone goes home to eat with the family.”

  “I suppose that when I was their age, I would have skipped lunch to earn five hundred bucks. Even divided three ways, that’s a lot of money for a young kid.”

  “It would pay for a lot of video games.”

  The aisle cleared, the driver closed the door and announced the next stop. Central train station, Milan, in twenty minutes.

  I said, “At the train station, if all we see are kids like those, I think we should cover our faces and make a dash for the cab stand. They’re not likely to catch a cab and follow us. But if the blonde turns up, what do we do?”

  “Get a cab, and go. We’re meeting Luca at a private club; the blonde won’t get past the door.”

  “A private club?” I said, looking down at the pullover sweater and jeans I had worn for the last two days. “A posh private club?”

  “Probably. Luca is a posh sort of guy.”

  I pulled up our backpack and fished around until I found my black sweater and slacks. And my string of pearls. This I have learned: If I stand up straight, square my shoulders, tilt my chin up just a little, and wear pearls, I will never feel underdressed.

  The woman across the aisle was awake after all the hubbub in the aisle earlier, watching what I was doing because there wasn’t much else to see. I smiled at her, peeled off my sweater and the T-shirt under it and laid them across John-Paul’s lap. As I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the black sweater, she pointed at my new damn-near-perfect, and very expensive, bra and gave me a nod of approval. I nodded back, and slipped the sweater over my head. Boots and jeans came off, slacks went on. The waistband felt loose; I must have lost some weight during the four-month international trek looking for unexploded bombs.

  I unwrapped the new red purse I bought at the shop in the Rialto Bridge, and packed it: wallet with passport, the green bank pouch stuffed with cash, a fresh telephone and its fully charged battery. I brushed my hair, slung the purse over my head and put an arm through the strap to wear it across my body, and last, looped the string of pearls around my wrist a few times. I was ready for all comers.

  Jean-Paul watched all this with great amusement. As I folded my old things and put them away, he said, “Very nice. How do I look?”

  “You look wonderful. You’re wearing a button-down shirt and a very good cardigan. You could be a visiting scientist.”

  “Not quite.” He took my hairbrush and ran it through his hair. “Now I’m ready.”

  I kissed him. “And you’re wearing a very expensive coat that belongs to a stranger.”

  “Freddy isn’t a stranger,” he said.

  “That isn’t Freddy’s coat. He thinks maybe one of his son’s friends left it at the apartment over the holidays.”

  All he said was, “Hmm.”

  We didn’t spot anyone lurking when we got off the bus at the massive train depot in central Milan. That did not mean that no one was there, or that someone hadn’t hacked into the security cameras around the depot, or anywhere else along the way. It only meant th
at we didn’t need to run between the bus and the cab stand. But we did hurry. Clearly, a train had just arrived. We could see a swarm of passengers surging toward us through the wide doors of the art deco depot. Luck and speed were with us, and we snagged the first cab in the queue at the cab stand. Jean-Paul gave the driver the address, and we pulled away from the curb. That’s when I saw him.

  The big blonde bailed out of a cab that pulled up at the far end of the queue, and started off at a run toward the depot. I nudged Jean-Paul, but he was already watching. Just as our cab wedged its way into the traffic lane, the blonde checked his phone, snapped into a one-eighty turn, until he faced our way. He didn’t look directly at us as if he had a tracker on us again, but only at the stream of cabs leaving the depot and the long line of people waiting for them. Before I lost sight of him, he had tried to jump to the front of the line but was forcefully rebuffed. Last I saw, he was on his ass, shaking his head as if dazed. I snapped his picture, because why not?

  I looked at Jean-Paul, he smiled and said, “Merde. At least, now we know where he is.”

  When I thought about it, in the context of the crazy video game that we seemed to be trapped in, it made a sort of sense that the blonde would show up at Milan’s central transportation hub. We knew we were seen on the road to Parma, but we did not arrive there. If our pursuers assumed we were headed toward Paris, as we assumed they did, once we left the road to Parma where would we go, and how would we get there? If instead of catching the bus, we had hijacked or hitchhiked a ride, most likely, we would head northwest to Milan to find transportation. So it didn’t take very much imagination for the blonde to show up when and where he did. The only blip in that bit of rationalization was the message he received that made him turn our way just as our taxi pulled away. Out of an abundance of caution, I took the paring knife we bought in Bologna, still wrapped in brown paper, out from under the cheese in the shopping bag and slipped it into my handbag.

  A thought occurred to me when I saw the bank pouch in there. I asked, “Who pays for lunch?”

  “I’m sure it will be on Luca’s club account. I doubt you’ll even see prices on the menu, if you’re given a menu at all.”