Girl Stalks the Ruins

by Jacques Antoine

  “Six?”

  “Rémy and Levautrin should be here soon, and they’ll probably bring a couple of heavies along.”

  “Is this where we overpower them and hit the streets?”

  “Don’t you want to hear what they have to say?”

  “Do I?” Perry examined her eyes, searching for some obvious thing he’d overlooked. “I mean, are they likely to share anything useful with us?”

  “Not intentionally, I suppose.”

  He watched her pull on black jeans, admiring her limbs, always more slender than he expected given how strong she could be when the occasion called for it. Long muscles flexed on her back as she stretched a sports bra over her head and across her shoulders. The scars were gone, but he thought he remembered where they’d been – she healed so fast – even if no one else could see them.

  “What am I missing?”

  “If we bust out of here…” she leaned over to whisper in his ear, then kissed him.“… and wind up on some ‘most wanted list,’ you might lose your commission. Or do you think the SEALs will overlook an Interpol warrant for your arrest?”

  “What about you?”

  “I already have one foot out the door.” She paused to snake both arms into a cotton sweater and pull it over her head. The whole effect, the dark pants and crimson top, and she looked almost every bit the French mademoiselle… at least a Franco-Japonaise mademoiselle. He barely had time to consider what he could pass for in this very stylish city, before she’d picked out gray slacks and a blue silk shirt from his bag, and laid them across the foot of the bed. Then she stuffed a few changes of underwear and shirts into a small, nylon backpack she’d extracted from a side pocket of her suitcase.

  “If you’re going, I’m going,” he said, with more satisfaction than he’d expected, and looked to see if there was room for his underwear in her backpack. Of course, that she’d already left room in the pack clued him in… she’d expected him to make that choice all along, and seeing the proof of it was reassuring. A knock at the outer door signaled the arrival of breakfast, and Emily went into the next room. Perry rolled off the bed and squirmed into his clothes, suddenly worried that more than a meal had arrived. Male voices confirmed his suspicion.

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” Rémy’s voice intoned. “We require you to enjoy our hospitality for a bit longer.”

  “Perhaps you could explain what else you want from us,” he heard her say, in that tone of voice that was at once bold and insinuating. “Surely the State Department has clarified the discrepancy in my military rank by now.”

  A young man with dark, curly hair, a burgundy vest, and a clean-shaven face, wheeled a room service cart in, and one of Rémy’s underlings held the door for him. Perry buttoned his shirt and tucked it in, all while observing events surreptitiously from the wardrobe mirror in the other room. The backs of two heavyset men in blue suits were visible from that angle, as well as the young man, once he’d stepped further into the room to arrange several plates, and cups and saucers on the table, before turning expectantly toward the older men in the room. When they ignored him, no doubt impatient for his departure so their interrogation could begin in earnest, Emily held out a hand to Rémy.

  “This is your hospitality. Give me some euros.”

  Rémy grumbled, and dug a few large coins from a pants pocket, and she walked the young man to the door, her hand in his. “She never misses a trick,” Perry snorted to himself.

  “We would like a clearer picture of your activities here,” Rémy said, once she’d turned back into the room, and Perry had made his presence known from the other door.

  “You mean before yesterday? Because…”

  “Oui, Madamoiselle,” Levautrin said, “…yesterday, but also for your entire itinerary. What exactly are you doing in France.”

  “Touring, with family. Please, sit. I ordered this for you.”

  The heavies Rémy had brought with him eyed the table, but didn’t dare take up any of the offerings on it. Of course, Perry recognized his cue, and pulled up a chair, poured himself a cup of coffee and helped himself to a croissant, a hardboiled egg, and some of the sliced fruit.

  “But where is your family now?” Levautrin pressed his question again.

  Perry turned to see the television still on – for once, they hadn’t switched it off when they entered – and the newsfeed flashed several faces: hostages had been taken, and an intense manhunt throughout Paris was apparently underway. A young mother and her two little boys appeared, dark hair, brown eyes, a slender chin and high cheekbones, the photos appeared to have been retrieved from official documents, a driver’s license perhaps, and school photos for the boys. Marie Louise Roussel, from the area around Fontainebleau… that was as much as Perry could guess at from the tape scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  Another face appeared in profile, blond hair and dark glasses, tall and stylish. No name appeared, but Perry recognized her instantly as Andie. The press had yet to identify her, and no official photo had been located, only a few screen grabs from a low-res video feed inside the museum.

  “There he is,” Emily said, tipping her head toward Perry. “But you already know this.”

  “Yes, that is what you told us. But where is the rest of your family?”

  “As far as I know, they are back home… in Virginia, in the United States.”

  “Perhaps this is true… now. But we have identified you from the museum security video, in association with a larger group, a family group.” A third man opened a laptop and Levautrin pointed to several still images. “Two older women, a young girl, this young man, and these two men who appear to be bodyguards.”

  “There is much you haven’t explained about your presence inside the Louvre,” Rémy said.

  “Of course, it isn’t hard to guess… from your actions during the attack, at least what was captured by the cameras… what sort of training you have received from the American military.”

  “If it isn’t hard to guess, then why are we still talking?” Emily glowered at Levautrin, and Perry watched to see if this rather cagey professional could withstand the force of her eyes.

  “If you were sent here on an operation… a special operation… by one of your intelligence agencies….”

  “There was no secret mission.” Emily stared back as she spoke. “This is my family.” She pointed to the laptop. “This is my mother, and these two are my niece and nephew.”

  “…and this woman?” Levautrin indicated a side view of Andie, with Ethan standing in the background. Perry knew there was no mistaking Ethan’s role in the family drama captured on the screen. His dress and demeanor made it all too clear.

  “I don’t know her.”

  “What about the others?” Rémy asked. “Where are they now?”

  “I sent them home,” Emily finally admitted. “When the first explosions happened, before the exits were closed… I instructed this man to get them to safety.” Her finger indicated Ethan’s shadowy bulk.

  “Why didn’t you get out with them?”

  “… and why were you so sure it was an attack?” Levautrin added.

  “If we hadn’t stayed, imagine how much worse things would have turned out,” Perry said, though one glance from Emily and he wasn’t sure his entrance into the conversation was welcome. A moment later, her faced turned to stone, and when he glanced back to the television screen she must have seen over his shoulder, he knew why. The image of Andie had returned, now as a sketch, and the likeness was not bad, certainly not as inaccurate as Emily probably would have preferred.

  “I wasn’t sure,” she said, once she’d composed her face, and turned to face Levautrin again. “But I wasn’t taking any chances.”

  “… and yet you stayed behind.”

  Perry recognized the sticking point in Emily’s story, and she must have, too. Unless she admitted knowing who the blond-haired woman on the screen was, she had no satisfactory explanation for their behavior. At best, she c
ould point to instinct, or training, but these dodges would have their costs as well.

  “Isn’t this where you say thank you?” Emily tilted her head, and placed one expectant hand on a hip. “Because I’m getting tired of waiting to say you’re welcome.”

  “Yes, of course, thank you,” Rémy said.

  “Certainly,” Levautrin said. “We should rush to thank a pair of soldiers on a shadowy mission from a foreign power. If you had actionable intelligence of an attack, you… or your superiors, should have notified us. It’s not even clear that we should call you ‘soldiers,’ since your training goes far beyond what an ordinary soldier would receive.”

  Perry listened to the back and forth, and couldn’t help feeling sorry for Rémy, who seemed out of his depth in this room. He seemed little more than a city cop, but he was swimming with the sharp-toothed fishes today. Levautrin was an entirely different story. Perry recognized the well-polished rhetoric of a seasoned bureaucrat, but also of an intelligence operative, and the combination was disorienting. His insinuations made a kind of sense – something about their actions didn’t quite fit the information Emily was prepared to give them. But Levautrin’s manner felt off as well, altogether too defensive to suit the outrage he meant to display.

  Eventually they gave up, as Emily’s combination of resistance and deflection must have exhausted them. But Levautrin issued a veiled threat before leaving: “We may have to continue this conversation later, in different accommodations.”

  The heavies remained, and once the door clicked shut behind their superiors, they set to work on the food Perry hadn’t gotten to yet. Emily reached between them to rescue two croissants, a few hardboiled eggs, and a couple of bananas before it was too late. Once she’d placed her little plate on top of the television, she motioned Perry into the other room. When one of the men turned to follow them into the bedroom, Emily reached for Perry’s neck and kissed him, and kicked the door shut behind them.

  “We’re leaving,” she whispered into his ear, before kissing him again.

  Much as he wanted to keep kissing her, Perry pulled back to consider her eyes. “You’re serious? Now, just like that?”

  “Just like this.” She kissed him again, and handed him a crumpled scrap of paper.

  “L’ascenseur á gauche est non sécurisé,” it said in scrawled block letters along the top, and underneath, a familiar name appeared: Nassim.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Emily said. “I think gauche means left…”

  “… and ascenseur probably means an elevator. There must be another elevator at the back end of the floor, a freight elevator.”

  “… and it’s not guarded.” Emily tilted her head at him. “All that really matters is that it’s from Nassim.”

  “You got this from the bellhop… and you trust him?”

  “I don’t know, and I’m not sure I care. What matters is Andie’s picture was in the news. The terrorists must have her, and I’m not waiting any longer.”

  “What about Michael? Doesn’t he want us to sit tight?”

  “He’s not on scene. We’ll get another phone on the street and update him.” Emily hefted the embassy phone in one hand as she spoke, before tossing it onto the bed. “I don’t trust this thing anymore. Get the backpack.”

  Once he’d hefted the pack onto one shoulder, Perry turned to see that she hadn’t waited for him. The door swung open and banged against the wall, and one of the men at the table dropped his spoon and rose to confront her. But she’d already chopped him across the throat before he could take a step, and he sank to his knees, and the chair clattered on the floor beside him. The second man turned to see his partner clutching at his throat, struggling to breathe, and threw his chair aside to clear a path toward Emily. One hand reached under his jacket for some sort of weapon just as Emily stretched her hand to… Perry had expected her to disable him with a sharp blow to the throat as well, but instead it looked like she only meant to caress his chin. So gentle, at least in appearance, until a thumb applied to the soft spot next to the Adam’s apple froze him, and he squealed in surprise and pain, until vocalizations became impossible. Perry moved to finish off the first man, who seemed to be recovering his wits.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she said.

  “He’s turning purple. We may have to do something.”

  Perry glanced over his shoulder and watched in amazement as she finished guiding the second man to the floor, whispering all the way down – “Softly, now. Don’t make this worse than it has to be.” – as she squeezed his windpipe. Perry turned to consider the first man and eased him onto his side, to see if that would relieve the pressure on his airway.

  “We may have a problem here,” he said. “It looks like he’s hurt more seriously.”

  Once she’d rendered her man unconscious, Emily glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, crap. He’s choking. You’d better ‘Heimlich’ him.”

  “What good’s that going to do? I think you crushed his windpipe.”

  “Help me get him up.” Emily positioned herself behind him and reached around his chest. “This is no good. He’s too big for me. You try it.”

  After a few tries, Perry finally managed to get him to expel a strawberry, which he must not have fully swallowed before Emily hit him. They laid the man out on the carpeting, and with watery, red eyes, and still breathing uncertainly, he looked up at Emily, whose face hung over his. “Shhh,” she said, a finger pressed to her lips. He seemed all compliance, and she pushed the hair away from his eyes and arranged it on his forehead. Meanwhile, Perry found the plastic zip-ties that served as handcuffs for whatever branch of the service these guys represented, and bound their hands and feet together.

  She pressed a finger to her lips one more time for the benefit of the still conscious man, then flashed him a crooked smile, and nudged Perry out the door and into the corridor. Running without making a commotion – which is a trick in itself – they found the freight elevator around two turns and next to a service staircase.

  “Stairs may be safer,” Perry said, while Emily tapped the call button.

  “Nassim’s note pointed us to the elevator. We don’t know what’s down there.”

  A new puzzle arose when the doors opened: the numbers included a zero and a one, but no button labeled ‘L.’ Perry glanced at her, and she tilted her head. “Which one is the lobby?”

  “I think we want zero, because the lobby may be watched. If zero is the basement…”

  “Good point,” Emily said, and pushed the button. On the ride down five levels, she consulted the map in her guidebook. “This is where we are, opposite the Île de la Cité. If we’re on our own, we should split up, to be less recognizable. Maybe meet up again here… at the Pompidou Center. There’s usually crowds there, I think.”

  “Then what? Do we even have a plan?”

  “We’re fluid at the moment,” she said, and leaned over to kiss him. “We’ll get a new phone… and contact Michael, and see if he’s got news about Andie… and then we go from there.”

  “I think the main thing is to get out of Paris. There’s way too many cameras here.”

  Emily was tracing possible paths for Perry when the doors opened, and the noise of a bustling kitchen got her attention. At the other end of a room in white tile, several men worked in steam and smoke, cooking, scrubbing pots and pans, and the aromas of the afternoon menu began to take shape. The same young man, with dark hair and a burgundy vest poked his head in and gestured to them.

  “Viens, viens… vite, viens comme ça.”

  Perry shrugged, and led Emily after him, down a dark corridor and through another part of the kitchen, by a pair of large refrigeration units, fresh fruits and vegetables heaped up on a nearby table. One of the cooks scowled at them, and the young man gestured to them to hurry. At the rear entrance, facing a dingy alleyway, he led them up a few steps, and opened the back of a panel truck with no windows behind the front doors.

  �
�Vite, vite,” he said, when Emily hesitated. “Montez dans la camionnette, mademoiselle… s’il vous plait.”

  “What do you think?” She looked at Perry, and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Do we have a better option? You trust Nassim, right?”

  “Oui, oui, mademoiselle,” the young man pleaded. “Nassim… il m’a envoyé.”

  Finally, and to the great relief of their guide, Emily stepped into the back of the van, and Perry followed. He slammed the doors shut, and they were off, rumbling and bouncing down rough paved cobblestones. With no seats or seatbelts, there was nothing to do but sit on the floor and press against each other and the opposite side of the van. Perry eyed the driver, whose head tilted with each turn and bump, dark hair and dark eyes, and a thin beard. “Another Morrocan?” he whispered. Meanwhile, Emily leafed through the little phrase book included at the back of her guide, and after a few minutes managed to put together a question.

  “Ou allons nous?” She had to repeat it in a louder voice to get the driver’s attention. Sirens blared and flashing lights came and went, and official vehicles sped past in the other direction.

  “Saint-Denis,” he replied after a few more seconds of sirens.

  “Must be something big happening back there,” Perry observed, innocently.

  “Isn’t that where Nassim’s restaurant was, over by Saint-Denis?” Emily asked.

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” the driver said. “On va chez Nassim.”

  Judging from the way they were bounced around over the next thirty minutes or so, and from what little Perry could glimpse out the driver’s window, they passed the Eiffel Tower at least once, and may have gone either through or around the Arc de Triomphe. After another short stretch, they appeared to have entered a forest, which he realized days later looking at a map must have been the Bois de Boulogne. The back doors swung open, and – much to his relief – no one was there to confront them.

  “Wait here,” the driver said, in heavily accented English. “Someone will come for you.”

  He drove off and left them by the side of a service road that joined a forest path. A couple of benches beckoned from a sunny spot in the distance.