Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 8 – PATHS CROSS IN PARIS

  Meanwhile, Richard's longtime friend Leandre Durand had been in Paris, killing time by browsing in a neighborhood bookshop, one that sold both new and used books. He was surveying the current events section, bemoaning the attitudes and ignorance on display.

  "Hallo, perhaps I could buy you an early lunch," a young man said quietly, from off Durand's right shoulder.

  Durand shifted his attention, to see his friend of the candy, Nason the sniper.

  "Or a late breakfast. Or just coffee, if you'd rather," Nason added.

  Durand bit back a smile. Young men were hungry enough for a meal at all hours, in his experience. Offering just coffee was likely a polite gesture that would involve sacrifice on the young man's part.

  Nason managed to convey that he'd fade off and go away if there was any reason to get out of the way and let Durand go on about his business. Also, for a wonder (SWAT team members were not so often very subtle, were they?), Nason had so far managed to make his body language stay neutral. Depending on Durand's response, it was possible to appear as friends or, alternately, just two men who'd struck up a conversation over a controversial book.

  Durand grinned. "I think it is my turn," he said, opting to appear as friends.

  "That reply I do not understand."

  "You have fed me once. That is all. Allow me to return the favor, in a more civilized way now that we are in more civilized circumstances."

  Nason puzzled this over. "Oh. You don't mean the candy? Surely?"

  "My friend, I was ready to faint, if you wish to know the truth. And Castelneau, with all due respect, was so busy trying to score points off the British that he would have let me drop dead and hardly noticed it."

  At the mention of Castelneau, Nason smiled. It was just a small smile, and he wiped it off quickly, but Durand was intrigued. It was almost as if the younger man knew something that he, Durand, did not know, but was holding it close to his chest. Or perhaps he only wished to appear to be in the know. Youngsters did so often like to bait their elders; that was true. And this boy, why he was, what? Twenty years old perhaps? Perhaps a few years beyond that? In any case, he was the perfect age for pretending to be more than he was. It was not something a mature Christian should do, of course, but that was another matter.

  Nason grinned openly, a different grin, companionable instead of knowing. "I cannot let you consider that candy as a social obligation." He held up his hand. "And, if you please, I am the one who invited you to lunch. My mother didn't raise any sons to wheedle food from their own guests." He raised his hand higher, to fend off a heightened sense of objection on Durand's part. "If your pride cannot bear it, I will agree that we could buy our own meals. But really, I should consider it proper to treat you. I will be ready when you are, I guess."

  "I am done. These books! There is nothing here that I would buy," Durand said.

  "Excuse me, just a minute then. There is one book I had hoped to pick up today. It will only take a little moment, if it is still on the shelf," Nason said. He ducked into a back room devoted to used books.

  Durand rarely went back there. It was the sort of used book room that carried mostly 'popular' fiction, which he did not like at all – with a few exceptions (mostly authors long dead, or an occasional live author who unaccountably did not write in French). Durand supposed the bookseller merely took in trade anything that he thought might sell – or perhaps even took in titles he didn't expect to sell, if the trade was with a cherished customer. In any case, there was no sense to the back room as far as Durand could see, and he didn't usually waste his time browsing there.

  He tried to imagine what sort of book a young sniper would go in for, and was prepared to forgive the youngster for succumbing to the allure of the worst sort of space-travel opera, or something which featured an impossibly-strong solitary hero in some improbably-inhabited jungle, who found it no trouble at all to rescue an impossibly-beautiful woman and save the world at the same time.

  "Ah, was that young Bertin I saw with you just now? He has not gone out, has he?" the bookshop owner inquired of Durand. "I saw him just a minute ago, but Mme Taillefer cannot wait two minutes to find out if her favorite author's book which is scheduled for next month has, by any miracle, arrived early." The bookseller sighed. One could guess that Mme Taillefer provided money to the shop, but could not otherwise be excused for coming in and making everyone's life unpleasant.

  Durand didn't want to admit it, but he didn't know Nason's first name. Besides that, he was naturally inclined to feign ignorance of Nason's whereabouts, on the grounds that Nason was a sniper, and the whereabouts of snipers should be their own business. Theirs was a dangerous enough life without bystanders accidentally giving aid to their enemies. But this bookseller was someone Durand had known and trusted for a long time, and so he said, "If it is Nason you want, he has gone into the old treasures room."

  The bookseller laughed. "Oh, my friend. I know you despise most of what is back there. I do, too, to tell you the truth. But sometimes a real treasure does get through, and for a young upstart, Bertin finds his share of them. He has a head on him, that one." The bookseller clapped Durand on the back and headed for the back room. Just then Nason appeared in the doorway with two books in his hand, but not looking very excited about them. The bookseller turned grandfatherly. "Oh, my young friend. Do not mourn. Your precious book is under the counter. I have hidden it away for you."

  "But I told you not to do that."

  "I know. I know. But you will give it the best home. I could not resist." The bookseller led the way to the front counter, and from a shelf hidden from view he gently produced a smallish hardback, bound in leather that had seen better days. "Now, Bertin. You know you are not obligated to buy this. I, for my own sake, thought it would be enjoyable to let you have a second look at it. That is all. It has not hurt me in the least to keep it here for a few days. Indeed, I have enjoyed looking at it when trade was slow."

  "You are too kind to me," Nason said. "I have friends and relatives in retail, you know. I understand that to put something aside has its costs. I would hate to have you miss a sale for my sake."

  "I was not prepared to hold it much longer, it is true. But, I could not resist this once." He leaned over and spoke low. "Especially since that cretin Janvier wishes to cut it up for decoupage. If I do not sell it to you, I will keep it under the counter until another likely candidate comes along who will treat it like a book and not something to be torn apart for fourth-rate crafts by a fifth-rate craftsman. I promise you that."

  Nason took the book and opened it for one more appreciative and discerning look before he handed over his cash. Durand was astonished to see that it was a book on astronomy. On second glance, perhaps it was more about fables and legends behind constellation names. But it was certainly not heroes surviving in the jungle. The woodcut illustrations in it were wonderful. Durand unobtrusively peeked at the two books Nason had brought from the back room. One was a book on St. Denis, the patron saint of France. The other was a short history of the worldwide significance of the Edict of Nantes.

  The bookseller retrieved another book from under the counter. Motioning Durand to one side, he handed the book over and shrugged. "Probably you have it already or are not interested, but it made me think of you, and so I decided to give you first shot," he said.

  It was a book written by a Frenchman who had worked on the Panama Canal project, back when France was in charge. It was, in fact, a book about heroes waging mighty battle in a jungle. Durand, possessed of the ability to laugh at himself, bit back a grin, thanked the bookseller, and happily bought the book.

  -

  It was a beautiful day. Feeling mutually generous (and a first lunch with a new friend ranking as something of an occasion), they settled on an outside table at a small café that neither of them knew, and ordered coffee and a light lunch. By unspoken agreement, they chose a spot that had nothing but deaf-looking oldsters sitting nearby.

&n
bsp; Durand agreed to let Nason pay, on the unstated grounds that it was beneficial to society to encourage the good manners of the young.

  He noticed young women queuing on the sidewalk, but thought little of it at first. Young women, after all, pull into gaggles and whisper among themselves from time to time regardless of where they are or what they are doing. This time, though, they seemed to be sneaking glances in the direction of himself and Nason. Especially, Durand noted after careful (but discreet) observation, at Nason. Durand relaxed. Young women wishing to flock around a young man was entirely natural, not to mention amusing.

  Nason was trying to ignore the women, but it would not do. One by one, as the old people decided to move on, the nearby seats were taken by young women who had spent their queue time making adjustments to their hair and otherwise preparing to make a good presentation. Some of the bolder girls invited themselves to sit at a table that still had an old person. Some of the old men thus favored puffed up with importance – until they figured out the game. Then they huffed and left, annoyed that they had reached a stage of life when even girls could play them for fools. The girls still standing would laugh, and one would break off and fill the empty seat. Before long, Nason was surrounded by curious young women.

  "We've not seen you here before," one of them said. Although she tried to politely include Durand in the statement, she was clearly most interested in Nason.

  "That's because I've not been here before. I'm a bonehead, I guess, but I wanted a chance to talk to my friend without interruption, so I chose a place I thought no one knew me. Looks like it's backfired, what?" Nason said.

  The girls giggled. Durand bit his lip to keep from laughing. Half these young women were more sophisticated-looking than the average female, but still, they had not outgrown group giggling. It was funny, this.

  Durand took a more appraising look at his companion. Nason had a certain vitality about him, certainly, but Durand was not sure that he could be classified as handsome. In a photograph, one guessed, he would come across as only average. No, perhaps less than average, if all you considered was the face. His body was well-enough formed and certainly well kept, without being overdone as with some body builders. But mostly, Durand had a hunch, it was something in the boy's personality, or in the way he held himself. He had perhaps something of the same type of appeal as a baby donkey or a puffin. It couldn't be the grooming, in any case. Bits of Nason's hair kept getting loose and falling out of a hairstyle that was up-to-date and well cut but not especially Nason's style. His shirt was slightly too big, and managed to sit somewhat sideways on his shoulders. This struck Durand as anomalous. Most snipers, in his experience, were fussy about details, including personal details – either that, or completely the other way, with no attention to anything but the finer points of weapons' use: slobs, really. This middle of the road presentation was-

  "Oh, stop looking at me like that," Nason protested. "It's bad enough I'm being stared at by strangers, without you trying to make a catalog description of me, too."

  Durand was chagrined. He hadn't meant to get caught out, and he certainly hadn't meant to embarrass his host.

  The girls loved it, though. Embarrassment was like blood to a shark to this group. "Now, why can't you talk to us, too?" one of them said, pouting outrageously.

  "Because I came to talk about work, and to get some advice, and I could use the advice before something I have to do this afternoon, that's why," Nason said. He fixed a look on Durand. "I could die, really. I've never had this many pretty girls paying me attention at once, and it's the one day I can't spare the time for it. Perhaps I should just kill myself and put myself out of my misery?"

  "Or perhaps you could just promise to come back sometime when you have time to devote your attentions properly?" Durand said.

  "I knew you had a head on you," Nason said appreciatively. He looked around at the girls, much relieved. But then he sunk into himself. He ran a hand through his hair. "But it's no good, is it? I mean, you girls haven't any idea what you're in for, and it wouldn't be fair. I'm not such a… I mean… well, you'd better steer clear for now, that's all."

  "I just adore modest men," one girl said.

  "What do you do for a living, anyway?" another asked.

  Nason shot a glance at Durand before answering, "I'm a cop."

  Some of the girls backed off, ever so slightly.

  "It's worse than that, really. I'm a police sniper."

  More of the girls backed off, and more decisively. Others, though, leaned in.

  "You mean you kill people?" one girl asked.

  "Well, not if I don't have to, of course," Nason said.

  "Oooh," sighed a couple of girls, utterly smitten.

  Nason looked them over and shook his head. "You see what I'm up against," he said to Durand. "When girls find out what I do, mostly the good ones are horrified and the bad ones come all starry-eyed for all the wrong reasons. Maybe I will go jump off a bridge or something."

  "Have we just been insulted, or what?" one girl asked another.

  "I'm not sure, exactly," her friend replied.

  "Now, now, ladies. Please do not take offense," Durand said. "We are in a hurry today, and had hoped to do a little talking here. That is all. Forgive us our impatience. We will just finish up and go and find a better location for our chat. Our unfortunate planning is not your fault, and certainly you are welcome to sit nearby while we finish up."

  "If they'd only buy something, that is," a waiter put in, fixing the girls with an impatient eye.

  "Here. I will be happy to buy a round of colas or coffee, or something like that," Durand said, happy at the thought of hosting instead of being hosted.

  "Who are you, anyway?" one of the girls asked.

  Nason asked, via eye contact, to be allowed to make the reply. Durand assented. "He's my chaplain," Nason said.

  "Come, ladies. We will be late for the show if we are not careful," a leader of the little group said. She headed off, followed by her obedient flock.

  After the waiter was out of earshot, Durand looked his companion in the eye. "So I am your chaplain, am I?"

  Nason grinned. "The fellows say you're as good as one. Best sermons in the service, they tell me."

  Durand grunted. "Probably they don't mean in it a good way."

  "Probably not, but I don't mind if you don't," Nason said. He got serious. "And really, I did ask you to join me because I could use some help working something out. I hope you don't mind."

  Durand assumed his best caricature holy man air. "As a chaplain, I can hardly pick my own hours, can I? If a member of the service under my care is in trouble, I am there."

  "Well, I think I'm in trouble, and that's a fact," Nason said. A look of impatience flitted across his face. He nodded at people moving to the tables vacated by the girls. None of the newcomers seemed even remotely deaf.

  "Let us enjoy what is left of our meal and then take a walk, shall we?" Durand said.

  Nason's eyes flashed dangerously. "No, I think we will leave now," he said. He signaled the waiter.

  Durand's neck hair went up. The boy had noticed something, perhaps across the street. Very well, they would leave.

  He carefully, discreetly, surveyed his surroundings as they walked away. That one man directly across from the café, why did he seem so important? Why did he look so familiar? Durand decided that the man reminded him of someone else, but could not, for the time being, think who it was. Further down the street, Durand asked what had prompted such a hasty, yet still decorous, exit.

  "It was nothing," Nason said.

  "Oh, not you, too," Durand said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have a British friend who is fond of saying 'It is nothing,' that is all."

  Nason didn't reply. Clearly, he had no intention of saying what had spooked him, at least for now. Durand was surprised. Nason, he decided, was deeper than he looked. It was not so common to find a young man such as this – one who so clearly li
ked to think things through. Durand was intrigued.

  -

  …Well, you see, I worked at an airport for a while, but didn't like it," Nason was saying, as he laid out a rambling background as he and Durand ambled along. "Security work, armed, standing about looking intelligent and dauntless until you think your face will be permanently damaged, not to mention your feet and your legs. I don't know how people do it, really. I used to work at an inn, up in the mountains, while I was still in school. I liked that. Although you have to be on your best behavior with customers, at least you can let your hair down now and then, or at least duck behind closed doors and say to your friends what you really think. In any case, working in the airport was not for me."

  "That does not surprise me," Durand said.

  "Eh, what do you mean?"

  "Nothing, perhaps. I was just being agreeable, or perhaps I was just trying to move you along to the next subject. I get the impression that you are skirting the real issue, whatever it is."

  "You're right, and that's a fact. I think I am just not sure what it is that Castelneau expects of me."

  "Is there something specific?"

  "Well, yes, but.... Now see here, I'm smart enough, I think – although of course I am plenty green yet – so I'm sure I can figure it out eventually. It's just that I am so green, so new to this department, and the man so often unnerves me. And even when he doesn't unnerve me, I find myself feeling confused after I talk to him. If I could just feel I had someone at my back until I get my feet under me…" Nason got a gleam in his eye. "No time like the present, eh?" he said, as he steered Durand into a store that had a hidden underground passage to headquarters off its basement. "Come on and stay with me as far as the old man's office. I need to talk to him and could use the moral support," Nason said.

  They went to the store's basement, down the hall to the restrooms, past the restrooms through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, and on to an Emergency Exit Only door on the far side of the room. There was an emergency exit to the north once you got past the door, but they went west, after properly resealing the secret entrance and resetting the alarm system. They surfaced inside the grounds of headquarters, near a guard station full of ill-tempered security officers, any one of whom could tell you precisely how long he had until retirement.

  "I suppose it ceases being fun at some point," Nason said. "All this burrowing about, etc.?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Durand said, noncommittally.

  That young Nason knew about the secret passage, and the proper procedures to use it, was beginning to gnaw at him. In the past, snipers were not amongst those given such information.

  The chief's chief secretary, Vivi Herriott, quite naturally wanted to know why Nason and Durand were there to see the chief jointly, and Durand didn't know. Of course he didn't want to admit that he didn't know. Nor did he wish to confess that he had thought Nason had invited him to accompany him to the office, but not into the chief's office for a meeting, for pity's sake. He tried to look relaxed, even bored, but he had the dreadful suspicion that the secretary wasn't fooled. He tried to look mysterious. The effect was worse, if anything. It didn't help that Nason was clearly enjoying his distress. He was being discreet about it, giggling up his shirtsleeve (so to speak) instead of openly, but Durand was sure Nason was obtaining a fair amount of amusement watching him squirm. Young men could be such brats.

  Mme Herriott was an average looking woman by nature, but she knew how to display what she had, Durand thought. All in all, a pleasant woman to look at, not cheap in any way, was his opinion. The uninitiated would take her for a pleasant housewife-at-heart, contented by nature, with not a dangerous bone in her body. Durand, however, had long since been initiated. He had a theory that quite probably the woman was, in her own fashion, the most dangerous person in the building, when she chose to be. For that matter, Florentin Castelneau, like the late unlamented Justin Blondet before him, had tried to get her replaced with someone younger and less principled, but had failed in the attempt. No one knew how she held on to her post like she did, but most people with intelligence did not wish, really, to find out. Like most other seasoned agents, Durand generally tried to be invisible around her when he could, and congenial when confronted.

  When Castelneau finally called them in, Durand felt a wave of relief. Castelneau was formidable, thanks to his rank if nothing else, but he was not as intimidating as his secretary.

  "Now, then, this is, ehm, unexpected," Castelneau said as he waved the two agents into uncomfortable chairs facing his desk.

  "It's quite simple, really," Nason said. "That super-secret anti-subversive work I'm on – I'd like Durand added to the team."

  "Yes, I see," Castelneau said. "Refresh my memory. Who else is on this team – that Durand would be working with, I mean. Don't give out more than you need to," he said with a touch of sarcasm, since, clearly, Nason had already given out more than he should in front of someone not duly appointed to the project.

  "No one else," Nason said. "As you undoubtedly remember, I am the only person on it so far. But you said to let you know if I needed help, and who I wanted. I need help. I want Durand. So here we are." He tried to look like he believed he had done everything in the right order, and was otherwise a good little boy.

  Durand wasn't fooled, and he was astonished to realize that he didn't think Castelneau was fooled either. He silently called himself out for being an idiot. It had been too easy to think that Castelneau was nothing more or less than the sniffy, pretentious elitist he pretended to be.

  Castelneau told Vivi to cancel his appointments for the next couple of hours or so, since he would be out. He nodded at Nason and Durand to follow, and they went out a back door.

  As they walked down the street, Nason took the occasional small detour, buying bread and cheese and fruit. Castelneau stepped into a small shop and purchased a bottle of wine, before crossing the street to walk parallel to them for a while. Durand asked Nason if he was expected to contribute to what appeared to be an impending banquet.

  "Only if you'd like, my friend. There is plenty already, and it will not be held against you if you don't. You mustn't think that," Nason said.

  Durand ducked into a meat shop and came out with sliced ham. Nason inspected the small package, took an appreciative sniff, and smiled. "Really, you didn't need to, but thanks. I like ham. Is this ham from the Vosges, by any chance?"

  Durand nodded and marveled. A nose for wine was common enough, but to be able to identify one ham from another? (Or perhaps it was a lucky guess. How many regions were famous for hay-roasted meats?)

  They ended up at a moderately nice hotel Castelneau seemed to pick by chance. He went in first, while Nason and Durand bided their time separately. Durand browsed a window display and kept tabs on activities reflected in the glass. Nason dawdled openly, hanging about on the sidewalk and ogling girls who invited ogling, until he saw the chief signaling from a second story window. Then he retrieved Durand. "How nice," Nason said, "He's remembered the sign language for telling us his room number. Considering that I forgot to ask which name he'd be registering under, it saves a phone call, yes?"

  Durand hid his annoyance that such a young pup seemed to have established such a strong working relationship with such a new boss – not to mention a boss who was acquiring a reputation for holding himself aloof from senior agents. He followed Nason inside, keeping the young pup where he could watch him.

  As they passed the front desk, Nason held up his food parcels for the desk clerk to see. "Do not fret. My mother raised tidy eaters and considerate hotel guests. You'll see," he said.

  The clerk giggled. She held up her hand to show that it had no significant rings.

  "Ooh," said Nason, stumbling to a halt. "Ooh, you're a temptation." He leaned over and whispered in Durand's ear. "Get me out of this, quick, will you? We haven't time right now."

  "Come, son, we haven't time right now," Durand said, loud enough for the desk clerk to hear. He grabbed
Nason, who seemed determined to make a good show of resistance, and hauled the young man after him.

  The clerk called out a phone number. "Got it!" Nason called back. Halfway up the stairs, Nason asked, "You don't think she thought I was serious, do you? I should hate to break her heart, when all I meant was to have a flirt in passing."

  "Well, I tell you. If she were my daughter, I would expect a sharper distinction between your playing and your courtship behaviors," Durand said.

  "If she were your daughter, I wouldn't have dared," Nason assured him. "That's if she let me know she had a papa. It's girls like that clerk, so forward you know, and acting like they've got no papa and no brothers or uncles, that bring out the worst in me. It is easier to treat the honorable ones better. To be clear, though, I don't misuse any of them, even the bad ones who advertise for men to misuse them. Cross my heart and hope to die."

  Castelneau was peeking out his door, watching for them.

  Nason sighed. "As if he doesn't think I can read his sign language through a window," he said.

  -

  Castelneau took immediate and self-important, over-dramatic charge of the little gathering.

  This was the Castelneau with which Durand was familiar, but he wasn't reassured by the apparent return of normalcy. He assumed his 'meeting with superiors' face and body language, modified ever so slightly to make Castelneau wonder how much he knew about whatever Nason was up to.

  He decided to leave Nason twisting, too. No sense letting the boy know what he knew or didn't know. A certain amount of mystery all round, that seemed to be the ticket, at least for now. Certainly, Nason deserved a little sweating, for pulling him in like this.

  "Well, then, we might as well get straight to business," Castelneau said, after fussing with the food and after some careful and obvious assessment of Durand. "It's simple, really. As you may know, Durand, I used to be quite active in the radical communist movement here in France. Before I saw the error of my ways, of course. But, of late, there have been people trying to draw me back into it. Of course, as a high government official, I would be of supreme importance to them, but, well, those days are past for me. But I should not pass up a chance to discover who is who and what is what, now should I? But I needed someone they would not suspect, and so Bertin here…"

  Castelneau talked expansively for more than half an hour.

  Nason answered a few direct questions, with as few words as possible. Durand allowed himself a nod or a shake of the head when pressed, but didn't utter a word he didn't have to.

  Castelneau asked Durand to help Nason in his quest to ferret out modern-day communists inside the government. Not the usual kind, of course. The usual kind was out in the open, and did not need ferreting. Besides, some of them were good enough as government officials – and better than some of the alternatives, yes? One had to admit that the less ideological communists sometimes had their good points, no? No, what was needed were reports on the communists who were working undercover, or at least deceitfully, especially those who considered themselves neo-Marxists since those were likely the most dangerous overall, not to mention less predictable. Especially the post-neo-Cohn-Benditist faction of the neo-Marxists, but of course there were other groups that bore watching.

  Of course, Durand would be especially useful because so many of these cancer-like communists – leukemia in the flesh, chewing the very bone marrow of French society – were outsiders, brought in for the job: Germans, British, Americans, Australians, etc. Durand's specialties, you see. Outsiders. It was marvelous how Durand's prior experience suited him to be able to spot – not only to spot, but also to understand! – these people. Many of them were ex-socialists, drawn dangerously and precipitously the other way, and were therefore notoriously unstable. The danger could not be overestimated!

  Durand and Nason were each of them to report directly to Castelneau if they turned up anything. But this was not to supersede other duties. This should not look like a direct investigation. But, certainly, they were to keep their eyes and ears open, and report whatever they came across.

  -

  "What do you think?" Nason asked Durand, after they left the meeting and were off by themselves again.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Oh, no. Please. This is not the sort of thing where leading questions will do me any good. I want a totally fresh impression, from someone who has been around the block more times than me. I have done my homework. People think you are funny…"

  Durand fought to keep his eyebrows from moving. The young man was in deadly earnest and ought not to be sidetracked.

  "…but really, you are best for what I need. I am sure of it," Nason concluded.

  Durand considered. "Well, you are disciplined and have experience, and there is nothing to be said against you that I know about-"

  "But it makes no sense for me to have been given such an assignment and by myself. I know. That is what has me wondering if it is a real assignment or if I am being fed to sharks no one has told me about."

  "No offense, but the same confusion has crossed my own mind, now that you mention it."

  It dawned on Nason that he'd spilled the beans despite himself. He blushed bright red.

  "To be honest, I cannot point to specific sharks, Nason," Durand said. "But I do not think you are crazy to worry that they may be circling your boat. Something feels funny about this situation."

  "A lot feels funny about this situation. I mean, who worries about pathetic splinter groups of communists anymore?"

  "Just because a person diverts himself by hanging onto unworkable political models does not mean he cannot be dangerous, Nason. I think you should remember-"

  There was a commotion across the street. A group of boys was pestering a girl of perhaps ten. The girl said nothing, and seemed to be trying to make herself simultaneously invisible and indomitable, as she sought to make her way forward. Certainly she wasn't looking for help from any of the passers-by. One of the older boys waved a scarf at her and taunted her, loudly. "Wanna get it back, you little ya-rab? Huh? Wanna get it back?"

  Durand and Nason moved as one man. A very observant person would have noticed that they scanned their surroundings and watched each other's back, but a casual observer would have only seen two compassionate citizens running to the aid of a helpless child in distress.

  By unspoken consent, Nason took a defensive position beside the girl and Durand assumed the role of authoritative uncle. He wordlessly held out his hand for the scarf. The boy started to smart-mouth him. Seeing the look in Durand's eyes, he clammed up and handed the scarf over.

  "Hey, what did you do that for?" another boy asked, disappointed in what looked like too fast of a surrender.

  "We've got better things to do anyway," the first boy said, in a wild bid to save face.

  Durand turned his gaze on the second boy. The boy backed up, muttering frantic apologies.

  "Police coming. Run for it," a boy sang out. Within seconds there wasn't a gang member in sight.

  A pair of policemen sauntered up as Durand returned the scarf to the girl. She couldn't get her arms to work normally, and gave up trying to put it on.

  "A nice gesture, gentlemen, coming to the girl's aid like that. But you're lucky to be left standing with that bunch," the older officer said.

  "Why, then – if it is not too much trouble to tell an honest citizen – why are they loose on the street?" Durand inquired.

  "Ah, well, the world's hardly perfect, although we'd like it to be, of course," the policeman said. "The courts know that group, all right, but consider them anti-social instead of criminal, and right now it is suicide to go after anti-socials. You know how the pendulum goes. Right now they are in favor with the news people, who have no end of fun portraying them as poor, put-upon honest rebels who can't help themselves. They know their rights well enough, and also have some creative ways of getting revenge. Besides, they mostly bother just the immigrants, and the neighbors mostly don't care. It makes for
a nasty business, but until the courts change course, there's no reason to break our backs taking in people they just turn loose with an apology, is there?"

  The younger cop gasped. "You cannot talk like that! Not to citizens!"

  The older cop looked at Durand, and shrugged. "You see how it is. An old man cannot even speak the truth these days, or he gets into trouble. Probably the young fellow will turn me in when we get back to the station."

  "No, no, I wouldn't," the younger cop protested. "But, please. You must not say such things. You will get us in trouble, and the citizens, they will not understand anyway."

  "Oh, I suppose we can understand some of it, Sandre," Nason said.

  The cop, stung by the unexpected use of his first name, took a closer look. "Oh, now, I know you. You're that Bible fellow, always going on about how everyone ought to convert to Christianity. I didn't think you had much use for Jews or Muslims, the way you work to change them."

  "Sure I share the gospel with them. After that I leave conversion or non-conversion up to them and God, like I'm supposed to. Do I look like someone who would tell a shepherd which sheep are his? But why would you think I had no use for them? If I care about their souls, it's only natural to care about their earthly lives also, don't you think?"

  "Not if you was Muslim, maybe. I hear they kill people who don't convert to their ways, or pretend to convert at least. For that matter, they have a pretty strong history of killing anyone who comes around trying to preach anything else. Seems like you jumped into the frying pan with this little rescue. If I were you, I'd stick to Jews. They know how to make jokes, at least. Can laugh a little. This lot, well, nothing but heartless, if you ask me."

  Nason bit back what he felt like saying. Instead he said, "Let me worry about that, will you?"

  "Gladly," the younger cop said, nudging his partner down the street.

  Now it was just the three of them: Durand, Nason, and the girl. There was a circle of onlookers, but they circled at a distance, most of them trying to look busy with other things, their curiosity tempered by fear of getting mixed up in something that might cause them trouble, or, for that matter, that might make them appear out of step with someone else.

  Nason knelt in front of the girl. "Now, little one, do not be afraid any more. We will see you to your home, or wherever it is that you are going. Or you may use my phone and call someone, and we will wait with you until they come. I promise you, we are men who fear God and we will not desert you. Now, then, first of all, I cannot remember ever seeing a Muslim girl out without an escort. Have you run away or is there, perhaps, someone else who may need help?"

  The girl fixed Nason with a look that confused him. Before he caught himself, he rubbed his arm, trying to fend off a sudden chill.

  Durand had seen the look before, and dreaded what it hinted at. "Here, put your scarf on. That's a good girl. Now we're more respectable," he said, relieved that the girl's shock had worn off enough that she could do the job herself. He was willing to wrap it around or drape it the best he could, but was afraid he might accidentally insult someone. His memories of travels in the Middle East were all too full of accidentally insulting all sorts of people. For that matter, perhaps it was an insult for a man to help arrange clothing on a girl, regardless of how well and respectfully he did it, and no matter what the circumstances, and regardless of the fact that in this case it was merely a scarf. He set his jaw more firmly. Regardless of whether it might insult someone, he intended to take this girl by the hand. She definitely looked in need of someone holding her hand.

  "Now, precious little one, my name is M. Durand. I want you to show us," he said, just as if he and she both quite naturally knew what he was talking about. He took her hand. She seemed confused at first about the hand, but then the instinct of a child to cling to an adult in times of trouble asserted itself, and she gripped tightly. "Show us," Durand repeated.

  The girl looked him in the eye. Seeing something there that she hadn't seen in Nason's eyes, she steered him down the street, hanging on to his hand with a fierce dignity. At the entrance to a dingy, cluttered side alley, the girl stopped and pointed.

  "Stay here with our friend," Durand said to her, as he handed her off to Nason.

  "No, she trusts you. I'll go," Nason said.

  "Thanks, but no," Durand said, insisting, intent on retaining command. A few seconds later, he almost wished he had let Nason do the investigating. Durand had seen corpses, including younger ones, and including battered ones, but there was simply no getting used to seeing such an outrage as this. He judged the boy to be perhaps seventeen. The boy's face was nearly a copy of the girl's, excepting that it was wholly male. There was just a hint of beard, of the fuzzy type of youth, carefully unshaven for all the world to see. Durand felt very sick indeed.

  -

  The cops who responded to the murder scene were all too familiar. The younger one, Sandre, acted embarrassed at first, but soon switched to being rude to everyone – everyone except the murdered boy's little sister, that is. Her, he just avoided.

  The older cop wanted to kick himself for being a fool. He'd seen the girl was terrified. But he had dismissed it, since most of the immigrant girls on his beat looked terrified half the time. It made a man blind, sometimes, if he let his focus get stuck on futility. It was bad, but there it was. There was nothing for it but to muddle ahead once you could finally see a specific tragedy sprout from the landscape of tragedy that this part of the city had become. He wished he could change the landscape, but, well, there it was, pockmarked with evils as far as the eye could see.

  "It's a good thing you two took the little one in hand, my friends," he said to Durand and Nason. "This is bad enough, and more than bad enough. But how much worse if the girl had been left to those savages? It does not bear thinking about."

  He bent down to ask the girl if she spoke French. Having him bend over her made her cower, and so he backed off. He scratched his head. He hated speaking French to someone, only to find out after a while that they hadn't learned the language. It was almost worse when they knew a little of it, but didn't know it properly. Oh, well. There was murder done, and if he made a bloody fool of himself in front of the little girl and the increasing crowd of bystanders, well that couldn't be helped.

  Or could it?

  In the crowd, he noticed people he didn't want to overhear his questions or the little girl's answers, if she turned out to have the courage and the language skills to answer. Well, it was no good getting information out of a little girl if you got her killed by it. He would have to think of another approach, obviously. But it was touchy, taking one of the immigrants from this particular group to a station even for safety reasons. A young man, or a middle-aged man, you could usually get away with it. But a girl? They would scream dishonor and burn the place down, likely, no matter how hard you were trying to help them. And then they might kill the girl, to finish the matter. You just didn't know with foreigners, did you?

  Durand sensed the difficulty the cop was having, and he also didn't like the looks coming out of the crowd. "A word, please," he said quietly.

  The two of them stepped to one side. Durand handed over credentials. "I cannot tell you what I am working on at the moment. But there is a chance that this may tie in. I would like to talk to the girl. Perhaps later, tomorrow perhaps, we could secure the street and keep away the crowds and she might be able to point things out to us if that is necessary. But for now, if it could be arranged, if you can see to the forensics side of things, I should like to see her home."

  The cop assured Durand it could be arranged, he was sure of it. Indeed, if M. Durand only knew, it solved a host of problems, he said. He handed the girl across, if only figuratively. No way in the world was he going to be seen touching an Arab female if it could be helped.

  Durand didn't admit that he was calculating the chances of this murder tying in to something he was working on at about ten million to one. That was good enough, he thought, under the
circumstances. He gathered the little girl to him, and took off down the street with Nason dutifully serving as an extra pair of eyes, and obviously ready to fight if the need arose.

  "Nason, if you will let me do the talking on this? When we get there? Unless I ask you to come into the conversation?" Durand asked.

  Nason nodded.

  "Good," Durand said. "If I did not think I might need you, I would send you on your way. But I have had a history of sticking my foot in my mouth with Arabs. I understand some of the language but it eludes me to speak it. And the customs! I think every tribe has its own customs, and gets easily offended in its own ways. I try my best, but on the whole they baffle me. Somehow it always works out in the end, though."

  Nason looked to be having second thoughts about the arrangement. After careful consideration, he asked the girl, in Arabic, if they had much further to go and if she was holding up all right, because he could get a taxi if she needed one. Or they could stop and have her family come to pick her up. Whatever was best for her, they would do it.

  Durand lifted a hand in a gesture of surrender. "All right. All right. I am now educated. I know police technique better, and you know these people and their language better. Perhaps together we can manage. Let us just try to not stumble over each other. It is not unusual for these peoples to work strangers off of each other, no? And they will not trust us."

  "Why should they? Especially if even the police have given up protecting them, out of plain discouragement?" Nason said.

  "A little question?" Durand said, with the air of someone changing the subject.

  "Let me guess, you are going to follow up on what Sandre said about me earlier? So… yes, in my own time I have done missionary work in the Muslim community – when I am not in the Jewish neighborhoods, or pounding my head against the wall trying to deal with atheists at the universities, that is. Actually, I prefer working with Jews, or I did until that wimp Sandre suggested today that it would be better for me. He almost makes me want to change my mind. No, I do not recognize the little girl. I have never worked in this part of the city. Is there a chance I will be known to her family? Probably. I think the mosques all hand out wanted posters on people like me. Will they shoot me on sight? They haven't yet. Will they hate my guts? Possibly. They do it all the time. It does not matter. I have a thick skin and laugh at myself easily, and I trust to God to protect my soul, which in the long run is all that matters. Have I forgotten anything?"

  "No. It was a nice briefing for a young man. It covered everything I wanted to know before we got where we are going."

  "If there is one thing I am getting to learn, it is reporting. We must file reports on everything," Nason groaned.

  "Almost everything," Durand said, in a tone of correction. "There is no point in drowning our superiors with information they do not need to know."

  Nason grinned. "I'll try to remember that, oh my wiser elder," he said. He started to say something else, but looked at the little girl. "I'm sorry," he said to Durand. "It doesn't feel right, joking with each other in front of her, while on such a mission." The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were mostly blank. "Oh, little one, I cannot tell you how sorry I am," he said.

  Her face stayed blank, but tears spilled down her face.

  "I can tell you that I will not rest until the killers are caught and punished. I promise you that," Nason said to her.

  She clearly did not believe him. A flicker of hurt flashed across Nason's face. The little girl seemed bewildered by it. She turned her face away to hide her confusion.

  "God have mercy," Durand thought, "what monsters she must think Frenchmen are." The little girl tightened her grip on his hand. "Well, except for me, perhaps," he thought. "She would not cling so to a monster." It was not much consolation.

  A few minutes later, Durand said, "Here, Nason. I am guessing you are Protestant?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Because we Catholics have got ahead of you on the Muslims. As I understand it, the Pope says that we can leave them and the Jews alone for the most part, because they're close enough to right that there is a good chance they will get fixed up in Purgatory and make it to heaven – if they are God-fearing Jews and Muslims, of course. My advice is that we work on the atheists and agnostics, because they are really, without any question, on the wrong track, not to mention trying to destroy what our people have built up."

  "Thank you, but on that first point, I cannot join you. I have a horror of false hope. I do not want it on my head if someone feels safe when he is damned, so I will stick with what Jesus said to Nicodemus, if it all the same to you, and call out warnings when it is appropriate to call out warnings. If they do not listen, it is on their own head. On the second point, in my experience, some atheists and agnostics are civilized, at least, and do not try to destroy others. They are not all bad."

  "Perhaps they are not bad, by man's standards," Durand said. "But all of them are presently lost, I think."

  He looked down at the girl. When she looked at him, he smiled at her. "You, my little package of courage, I am proud of you, I assure you," he said.

  She wrapped him in a hug and sobbed, before she caught herself and became stony dignified again. The only concessions she made to her emotions were that now she wanted to walk faster than dignity had suggested to her before, and she tightened her grip on Durand's hand.

  Durand wished that he'd flattened every boy in the group that had done this to her. It did not seem nearly enough, merely to be taking her safely home. Not that he intended to stop with that, of course. But it definitely did not seem nearly enough even for the moment, merely to be taking her safely home.

  "Maybe I will go after the New Agers," Nason said.

  "By all means, they need more help than most agnostics and atheists, I think," Durand said. "But be careful."

  "I can watch out for myself."

  "They have space aliens and UFOs on their side," Durand said, straight-faced but with a twinkle in his eye. He sobered. "Of course, if they were paying proper attention, they would notice that the true home of Christians is not of this world, and would be asking us to supply their need for aliens. Alas, the devil keeps them steered toward phony or evil aliens – which, of course, is frustrating for us, and probably fatal to the people chasing after the phonies. Unless, of course, they come to their senses in time."

  "I do not want to talk anymore," Nason said. "We are clearly trying to think of everything but that boy, and I am ashamed of myself."

  "You are being human, that is all," Durand said, soothingly.

  "Why do people only say that when someone is being some sort of an animal?" Nason groused. "Now I feel twice as dirty."