by AD Davies
Thanks, I thought. I also noted Patricia was using the name “Sarah,” not “Thandy” as per the passport.
I flashed up a photo of Gareth. “This him?”
“I think so, yes. He was staying here, always paid cash, but I never saw him and Sarah together.”
Sarah and Gareth were pretending to be alone. One going about things like any other tourist, using her forged credit card to pay for things, while the other was a cash-only guy. If the card got flagged, it would be Sarah who found herself being questioned through an interpreter in a stale room with a two-way mirror.
I said, “You tipped off the sister on Facebook.”
She nodded. “Anonymously. There was a thing about her having stolen some cash, and I didn’t want to bring any trouble, but … she seemed nice. They didn’t reply, and then all these trolls started attacking me, so I closed the account before some nutter worked out my address or something.”
I wrote as fast as I could, hoping to decipher my handwriting back at the Grecian. “Did you speak to the other Brit at all?”
“Only to tell him to piss off earlier that week. He wanted to know where someone might obtain what he called ‘no-questions-asked’ documents.”
“A passport?”
“I guessed that was it. But I didn’t want any part of it.”
“You couldn’t give him a name?”
“No. But Domi might have.” She nodded again at the owner-cum-receptionist. She called, “Domi!” and took him my photo of Gareth. “This guy. He asked you about…” She caught herself and reverted to French, asking—as far as I could tell—about a name and a time.
He replied, “Non.”
To me, Patricia said, “You’ll have to pay him.”
This man had information about a missing girl, and he’d lied to me earlier. I should’ve dragged him in the back room and hit him until he told me the truth, but I’d supposedly grown out of that sort of thing.
I opened my wallet, revealing another hundred euros. I asked Patricia to explain it was all I had.
He took it and said, “Sammy LeHavre.”
“Sammy LeHavre,” I said. “Where do I find him?”
Patricia translated, “He doesn’t have Sammy’s number, but he sent Gareth to a place called Suzie’s Tabac. Sammy takes breakfast there every morning.”
“And this Sammy, he provides passports for people?”
“Non,” Dom said. “He know people who make passport for people.”
“Thanks.” I moved out of earshot of the man who knew more English than he’d let on. “Is there anything else you can think of? Anything about where she might have gone?”
“No.” She slung her handbag over her shoulder. “Oh, yes. One thing. I tried calling her phone. It rang and rang. On my third try, this guy answered, so I asked if Sarah was there.”
“What happened?”
“The guy laughed for about five seconds and hung up.”
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, I showered first thing, but in my haste to leave the UK I’d forgotten that damn razor, and my chin was already rough, my neck itchy. I made a mental note to buy one later, although I thought I was beginning to look stereotypically French, so maybe it would help for a while. I was on the Metro by seven, joining Parisian commuters for their daily crush, ascending into a smog-tinged street by half-past. Unlike the sculpted stone and pointed roofs in the Latin or Gothic Quarters, it seemed like every other building in the east of the Opera district was a garage operating from gaping segments of larger properties. The banging of hammers and screech of power tools dominated the air. Traffic was light and the longer I walked the sparsely-populated streets, the more the cosh in my waistband served as a comfort.
Suzie’s Tabac was a cramped affair with enough space for three booths along one side and half a dozen tables packed so close that, once it was full, you’d have to dislodge the patrons from the outside ones, in. The barista was tall and hairy and wore a clean white vest. He didn’t look like someone who’d be named “Suzie,” but I wasn’t there to judge. Today saw only one customer.
Sat in the far corner by the fire door, filling in a crossword, the man I assumed was Sammy LeHavre could have been any Frenchman on any normal day, except for one thing. Like England, France had years ago instigated a smoking ban, yet Sammy puffed away on a truly pungent cigarette.
Two broad-shouldered, broader-stomached men, who hadn’t been visible from the street, ate nothing a couple of tables down. They looked soft and overweight, but I knew the baddest of the bad men were not necessarily muscular. This Michelin Man and Butterball pairing watched me all the way down the narrow aisle. They stirred as I asked Sammy, “Parlez-vous Anglais?”
Without looking up from his paper, he signaled the men to settle. Like he’d been expecting me. A skinny white man in his twenties, with his slicked-back dark hair, tan skin, and dressed casually in black, it was like he’d crafted his whole image to scream “pimp.” He even sported a gold ring in one ear.
I squeezed into his booth across from him and he exhibited one of those droopy, faux-bored expressions. I said, “Sammy LeHavre?”
He scribbled on his crossword before looking up. “Is polite to say ‘excusez moi’ before interrupting.”
“Your English is excellent.”
“In my business, it pays to speak the language of the tourist. Ich habe auch Deutsch zu sprechen.”
“German, too? Jolly good.”
He dragged on the cigarette. “I hope you are here to either make me slightly richer. Otherwise, I may get grumpy.”
“I was told you may be able to provide documents to people wishing to leave France without detection.”
“You think I am a criminal?”
“I could check with Gardien Bertrand.”
Michelin Man and Butterball shifted, but Sammy smiled, which seemed to calm them.
He said, “Ah, our fallen hero. Such a shame about him.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “You think he has anything over me? He is just some bitch for the press.”
“Okay.” I slid out of the booth. “Bet he can still make trouble for you though.”
“Hold on, mister,” Sammy said, and the two large men stood and allowed their bellies to flop over their belts. “How you know Pierre Bertrand?”
“I’m not police. I’m looking for someone. And I believe most of you know Vila Fanuco. I’m pretty sure he’ll be annoyed if you don’t speak to me when he’s so eager for me to do my job.”
Sammy sighed. “Sit.”
I slinked back onto the booth, the cosh resting hard in my back. “So can you help or not?”
Sammy lit another cigarette. “What help you needing?”
I brought up a photo of Sarah on my phone and laid it on the racing paper. “English girl. About three weeks ago. She was staying in the Opera district. You’d hear if she got herself in trouble. Or someone like him.” I flicked to the next photo: Gareth’s rodent smile.
“And why would I know this?”
“You can tell me or speak to Mr. Fanuco.”
Sammy narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“I told you, I’m working with his permission around here.”
“What business do you think I am in?”
Over the next five seconds I considered about thirty of the more polite euphemisms. In the end I settled with, “You’re a lowlife who exploits desperate women.”
Sammy’s smile through the smoke was wide but humorless. “And if I do know something, what is it you will want?”
I held his eye. Watched as his smile flickered slightly. “You’re no poker player, are you, Sammy?”
“I make sure I am always the house. That way, the odds are always in my favor. I only ever back winners.”
“That why you’re loyal to Vila Fanuco? Because he’s the power here?”
“I am a survivor. Remember that … if he ever commands me to hurt you.”
Okay, time to change tactics. Go on the offensive. “Your Eng
lish is virtually perfect, Sammy, as good as Gardien Bertrand. Which means you’re educated.”
“I was not always.”
“But you are now. Thanks to Fanuco, I’d bet. But guess what? I know, Sammy. I know you’re taking money on the side, money you don’t declare to your boss.”
He sucked on the cigarette and extinguished the near-stub in his empty cup.
I said, “You see, what these two people are carrying is valuable to Mr. Fanuco, and to folk back in England. They told me all Fanuco’s people are on the lookout for Sarah and Gareth, which means you must have sold them something. But that was before this kicked off. Before you knew Fanuco needed them. Am I right?”
“Keep talking, Englishman.”
“Thank you, I will.” I switched tactics again. I’d done the accusations; now I needed empathy. “You found someone to make the passports, you took your profit, but you didn’t include Vila Fanuco’s cut. So when he comes along saying he needs you to be on the lookout, you can’t risk him finding out you short-changed him.”
Sammy’s face drained of color in small increments until his skin developed an off-white shade close to grey. I could virtually see the brain-cogs turning, each facial tic charting my progress. He lit yet another cigarette and forced a grin.
I said, “You have that ‘street’ swagger, Sammy, and you have that look, and you pretend to be this vile piece of crap who uses women for his own ends. Really, though, you are running a business, no matter how disgusting it is. And you need to squeeze every ounce of profit you can.”
He nodded. Empathizing with his wrong-doing, becoming his confidant, inviting myself into his secret and promising to keep it, sometimes this is more effective than direct threats.
Third class psychology degree, my arse. I deserved at least a 2:1. Or a B-grade.
I said, “I don’t care about Fanuco, or your internal politics, but if I have to go directly to the big man, it could land you in a ton of shit. I don’t want to place you in danger. I don’t want to get you hurt. So if Sarah got in trouble, you either tell me right now, or give me the name of the damn forger. Because I’m sorry, but if you don’t, you’ll force me to go to Mr. Fanuco directly.”
Even though I framed it as an apology, Sammy’s face progressed from grey to slightly pink, and one of the two giant men might even have growled. Also English-speakers?
“Okay.” I locked my phone screen and tucked it back in my pocket. “That’s no problem. No hard feelings. Gonna see if Mr. Fanuco fancies splitting a croissant down by the Seine.”
I stood and, for some instinctive macho reason, I winked at Michelin Man before making for the door. Sammy’s twins eyeballed me as I went and I readied myself to whip out the cosh at the first quiver of the first lump of flab.
“Wait,” Sammy called.
I stopped, turned, but did not approach.
Sammy said, “Okay. I am a businessman. Times are not good, and sometimes yes, I must act outside the rules. I do not wish for anyone to think I am betraying them.” He placed his hands flat on the table. “What is the deal?”
“The forger,” I said. “I want him.”
Sammy shook his head. “My forger has no fear of Vila. A forger is just a tool. A valuable tool. If I requested the passports—if I saw your man here—Vila will punish me, no one else.”
“If I can meet him, Vila won’t find out.”
“You must be more persuasive.”
Roger Gorman wasn’t good for much, but he taught me the best possible conclusion to any negotiation was both sides walking away having achieved something, even if one of you ultimately gained more than the other. I thought about why I was here. What I could realistically take away. If Benson tracked down the forger Gareth had used, he and Sarah would be caught quickly, so they had to obtain new documents. The lack of recent activity on their card suggested they were both probably dead, but if they procured new passports, new cloned cards, there was a good chance they did indeed leave France. To learn one way or another, I needed a deal that benefited both me and Sammy, and would endear me to this unnamed forger.
“I want documents,” I said. “Good ones. Passport, credit card.”
“A transaction?”
“I will pay your forger for them, he gives you your usual cut. In exchange, you tell me what you know about Sarah and the man she’s travelling with. That way, you don’t force me to mention your dishonesty to Mr. Fanuco.”
He shook out another cigarette, his third since I arrived, but did not light it.
I said, “You know him better than me. Maybe he’ll be chilled about it—”
“Okay. But I did not meet the girl. The same person at L’Hostel Centrale who sent you to me, he sent the man to me too, the picture on your phone.”
“Gareth.”
“I did not ask a name.”
“How many?” I asked.
“I am sorry?”
“How many passports?”
Gareth. Alone. If it was only him, it could mean the worst had happened. Sarah had gone out drinking with a girl who snogged a random Irishman, so if he learned this it may have been too much.
Sammy waved his unlit cigarette toward my phone. “Two, of course.”
I quickly agreed to Sammy’s terms and instructed him to send the so-called “craftsman” to my hotel at two p.m. If the forger was willing, of course. He tried to negotiate the appointment time, but I didn’t even acknowledge his effort. I had to get moving again, the notion that Sarah might still be alive supplanting the pessimism I’d harbored since I first read her file. I could not afford to let anything dampen that.
Chapter Sixteen
I left the cafe knowing there was something else I should have asked. Something important. It slipped around the outskirts of my brain, just out of reach, so I took a cab to the Grecian, skipping the Metro so I could call Jess en route to update her on my progress.
She said, “Be careful, Adam. These aren’t the everyday thugs you’re used to, and they sure as hell aren’t greedy accountants in suits.”
I knew this, of course, but I had little choice. They were bad people, hurting good people, mostly women and girls, as men had hurt women since what felt like the dawn of time.
“Jess,” I said. “Be honest with me.”
“Always.”
“Am I reading too much into this? Do I make women into victims too easily?”
“Do you see me as a victim?”
“No. I see you as essential.”
“Then there’s your answer. I’m a woman, and mixed-race. If I was a disabled lesbian, I’d tick all the liberal guilt boxes that you agonize over. But you’re not one of those guys. If I had a problem, you’d kick my backside to solve it, because you know I can handle it. Right now, you’re looking for real victims. Just because you want to help them and punish those responsible, it’s not liberal guilt. You’re a decent human being, and I know if you get the chance, the action you take will make the US military look like an Oprah love-in.”
I couldn’t reply, as I was actually welling up. Like a teenage boy, I heard a mantra rocking through my head: She gets me. She really gets me.
She said, “Just be realistic, Adam. These people will hurt you first if you let them. Heck, they’ll do more than hurt you.”
“I know,” I said with a cough. “It’s actually a greedy accountant in a suit I’m calling about. Did you get me back onto the PAI mainframe?”
A pause, then, “No. I did get a backdoor in, but all you can do is watch my screen. Here, I’ll sync you up.”
“Not necessary. I’ve got a whole morning to kill until I get to the forger. Is there anything else? Any activity I can look into?”
“I’m sending you some links about that guy Benson made you call. It’s not much. Background on his name, rumors, and I think he pops up a lot on the dark web.”
“You think?”
“He’s well-hidden, and it takes a lot of digging but he’s there. Information-gathering, provision of servi
ces, covert access to countries.”
“Covert access to countries,” I said. “Smuggling, in other words.” And if he was operating down in the bowels of cyberspace where shiny happy Google and Microsoft and Apple feared to tread, he clearly had a reason to dwell there.
Jess said, “Nothing concrete, but yes, smuggling is an option. Weapons are mentioned, people too. But I haven’t managed to find a way into his network. It’s all recommendations, warnings, praise—depends who’s encountered him.”
“Still, it’s something. Be careful in the servers at PAI. Especially on a Sunday.”
“I’ve come in on the pretext of diligence,” she said. “I’ll complain and moan about my extra hours so no one’s suspicious. What’s next for you?”
“Lunch, I suppose.”
“Need company? Want me to pop over?”
“Nah, I don’t think you want to be hanging around these people. Or me.”
“Hey, I can play Felicity Smoak all day, but a bit of excitement never did a girl any harm.”
Although I didn’t feel like it, I laughed, assuming Smoak was some comic book sidekick—did I mention she was a nerd?
I said, “Thanks, Jess. I’ll be in touch,” and hung up the phone, collected the iPad from my room and strolled down the street to the Metro.
In my backpacking days, I was one of those oddities. I planned to steer clear of tourists as often as possible, but for the first couple of years I lacked the skills and confidence to neglect the guidebooks’ must-sees. Then, one day, all that changed. I don’t know what day that was precisely, and in truth it must have happened over several months, but one day, suddenly, I was simply there—shopping in a souk, living in a spare room above a cycle shop, taking my meals amongst brown-skinned turban-wearing locals, and growing a tad jealous whenever a fellow Brit or a Yank discovered my private corner of the world. It was somewhere in Turkey, I seem to recall. From that day on, I viewed wandering the most obvious places as tantamount to failure. The major attractions, of course, were still required viewing, but I comforted myself that the native people also frequented those sites. Thinking that way, touring Ankor Wat and the Great Wall of China and Tabletop Mountain, I wasn’t a tourist in those places; I was a traveler.