The Confessor

by Mark Allen Smith

  ‘Listen . . . Maybe it works best for you – but it doesn’t work best for Ezra.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘His iChat is Zman. One word, Z – M – A – N. It’s in here, with his address and cell. You saved his life – but he thinks you sacrificed yours to do it. He needs to know you’re okay. So . . . Either you tell him, one way or another – or I will when I get back.’ Harry stood up. ‘Time to go. Got things to do. I’ll be in touch when I get back.’

  Geiger nodded, once – and watched Harry walk to the door and step out of sight. His eyes shifted and fixed on the shiny nebula of oil that floated on the surface of the coffee left in his cup. The diner suddenly seemed louder, and each clink and uttered word etched its distinctive mark on the aural swirl. Some tiny filament fired in the part of his brain that sheltered its unremembered secrets – and he heard a sigh, dulcet, mournful – but couldn’t be certain whether it came from a nearby table or booth, or a place that defied concrete definition. Then the waiter was at his side.

  ‘Would you like something else?’ asked the waiter.

  Geiger’s right forefinger started a solo tap on the table, as if he had found a beat within the sound. He closed his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’

  10

  The early morning lines for non-Europeans at Paris Orly passport control were long. Harry still had half a dozen weary travelers in front of him while Matheson had already breezed through the section for nationals with a phony French passport, a perfect accent, short gray hair and a salt and pepper goatee. Harry had a carry-on duffel, and his laptop and private software – on disks sporting labels of albums by the Allman Brothers, R. Kelly and Coldplay – were in the scuffed leather portfolio he’d had since he was a reporter at the Times.

  He looked at the ‘Thomas Jones’ passport in his hand. Six years ago, Geiger had taken a gig in Cancun – some bad blood in the luxury condo business – and they had acquired quality forgeries for the trip through Carmine. He remembered Carmine handing him the documents, patting him on the back and saying, ‘Harry . . . take good care of my boy . . .’ – as if Geiger, the man who broke the wills of killers and kings, was a naïf who needed looking after. And Harry remembered looking at Carmine’s hard, cobalt eyes and thinking – If anything happened to Geiger, this guy would rip out my liver and make me eat it.

  The immigrations official was a woman in her twenties – pale and stiff-backed in her crisp blue shirt, with a short frown she clearly hadn’t had much time to earn. Maybe they taught you how to wear it at border police school. Harry handed the passport to her.

  Her eyes went from his picture up to Harry’s face, then back down.

  ‘Monsieur Jones . . . visit in France why?’ she asked in poor English.

  ‘To see an old friend.’

  ‘In Paris?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. For a few days, maybe a week.’

  He faked a yawn and sneaked a glimpse at the security camera on the cubicle wall behind her.

  There was a fuzzy squawk that seemed to come from a few spots simultaneously. Harry’s head did a ninety and saw a uniformed man across the area put his two-way radio to his ear. Then Harry picked out two other blue-shirts doing the same. The men looked up as one – directly at Harry – and started walking toward him. He tried to turn off the spigot flooding him with fear.

  ‘Ne bougez pas, monsieur,’ said the police woman. And she made a gesture commanding him not to move.

  Harry turned back to her. The frown did a little twitch, and caused Harry’s internal screws to tighten from head to foot.

  The trio were five feet away and there was no place for Harry to go. He watched them coming for him, one stride quicker than the last, and the tallest brushed against him as they went past. Harry turned and watched them stop at the next line and kneel around a silver-haired old woman who was lying on the floor. She might have been a fainter. Or maybe she’d suffered the heart attack Harry was certain he was about to have. The men exchanged comments, then gently helped the woman into a sitting position.

  ‘Bon,’ said his official. Harry’s sweat had glued his shirt to his back.

  ‘Bien, monsieur . . .’ She stamped the passport, held it out to him, and her lips curled upward into one of the sweetest smiles Harry had ever seen. ‘Paris! Ah, Paris!’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, took the passport, grabbed his belongings, and walked through. Matheson was leaning against a wall twenty yards away waiting for him by the baggage claim area. He picked up his bag and they headed for the exit through the ‘nothing to declare’ customs gate.

  ‘We check into the hotel, then I’m going out to look at places for us to meet him. Give him some options, let him choose – so he doesn’t get spooked.’

  The anonymous e-mailer had responded within an hour to Matheson’s message. He would meet them in Paris. Matheson had made plane and hotel reservations – coach and three-star. Not that money was scarce – nine years ago Matheson had inherited sixteen million dollars when his hedge fund manager father suddenly dropped dead – but except for Ezra’s child support every penny was considered part of the Veritas Arcana budget, and first-class seats and luxury suites were not only expensive, they were conspicuous.

  Glass doors sensed their approach and slid apart, and the two men stepped outside toward the long line of cabs. Matheson checked out the sky. The early morning sun was a white smear behind a slow-marching phalanx of clouds.

  ‘Sixty percent chance of rain tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘It might.’ Matheson moved on towards the cab at the head of the line. ‘Taxi!’

  The man lowered the Herald Tribune’s crossword puzzle and watched the men get into the back of a cab. He brought his cell phone to his lips.

  ‘They are getting in a taxi. Come up, not too fast.’ His English had a creamy gloss of a French accent on it.

  ‘On my way,’ came the reply.

  As the taxi pulled out from the curb a silver Citroen DS4 glided up past the row of cabs and pulled over, and the Frenchman slid into shotgun.

  ‘You have them?’ he asked.

  The driver nodded. ‘Blue Opel. License number BD – 611 – AX.’ His accent was flat and nasal, an echo from a Bible-belt wheat field, and his face was straight out of a Boys Scouts poster. ‘There’s two of them?’

  ‘Yes. Not sure how that will sit. I will call. Go.’

  The driver cracked his knuckles, curling each finger inward toward his palms, and then swung into traffic, three cars behind their quarry. The cab was following signs that read ‘PARIS – A6B’.

  The Frenchman tapped at his cell, and while he waited glanced at the driver, who was less than half his age. It seemed they were all half his age these days. This one was two years out of the army, a year into freelance, full of brass and questions – gung ho, as they liked to say in the States.

  ‘We are leaving the airport,’ he reported to the cell. ‘Matheson is here. Disguised. And he has another man with him.’ He drew the edge of his thumbnail slowly up and down the deep cleft in his chin. It was an old habit, proof of deep focus. ‘All right,’ he said, and clicked off. ‘If they split up we each take one.’

  The driver kept his gaze on the road. ‘Yessir.’

  The Frenchman took a pen from behind his ear and looked at the puzzle in his lap.

  ‘Dewey . . .’ he said. ‘A favor, please. Do not call me “sir”. You are not in the military anymore – and I feel old enough as it is.’

  The driver gave a quick nod. ‘Right,’ he said.

  The Frenchman checked his watch, and wrote the time down on the newspaper’s margin. Dewey glanced over.

  ‘That is one excellent watch, Victor.’

  Victor raised his wrist. ‘A Zannetti Dragon.’ He looked at the large facing – a gold and green Chinese dragon made up of thousands of tiny impressions. He thought back. Milan . . . 2003 . . . the race car driver who raped the girl . . . delivered to her family. ‘When a job is d
one, I always buy something in that city before I leave. A ritual, I suppose.’ He looked back down to the puzzle.

  ‘I get that,’ said Dewey. ‘Cool.’

  Dewey was jazzed to the max. The job was a real step up – the money, the action – and working with the Frenchman was like winning the lottery. The dude was the pros’ pro – he could teach him a lot – and if Dewey didn’t screw up maybe Victor would hook him up with another gig. It was as good as it gets. Put some more coins in the jukebox, ladies. Dewey’s gonna dance with every one of you tonight.

  ‘Question,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you ever killed someone in the job?’

  The Frenchman filled in an answer with neat, block letters. The only ability that had improved in the last ten years was his crossword puzzle skills. Everything else was in a lessening mode. Not at a high enough rate or degree that anyone else was aware of it – it was still his secret, and cunning and experience still masked a host of things – but in his profession, the first time someone noticed would likely be the last. C’est la vie.

  ‘Why would you want to know that, Dewey?’

  ‘Professional curiosity, I guess. I mean . . . You being a heavy hitter so long . . . I was just wondering about it – what it feels like. That’s all.’

  ‘I’ll give you two answers. Yes, I have. And – it doesn’t feel like anything. That’s why I’ve been able to do this for so long.’

  Dewey nodded. ‘Right. I get that.’

  The Frenchman doubted the declaration. Dewey was a kill virgin who probably assumed there was little or no difference between lobbing a grenade into a dark, open door – and putting the nose of a gun to the back of a skull and pulling the trigger. The Frenchman knew the difference, and he also knew the folly of trying to describe it to someone who didn’t.

  Harry stood on the thin mini-balcony of his room at Hotel Littré, leaning on the wrought-iron railing, looking down at Rue Littré – a narrow, one-way, single-block street. Except for two riders on motor-scooters, there’d been no traffic for ten minutes. The hotel, off Rue de Rennes, was a small, gray-stone, five-story accommodation. Their adjoining rooms were on the second floor – high ceilings with ornate molding, bathrooms with cream-colored pedestal sinks, and a mini-bar with Bonnat chocolates, half-bottles of red Bordeaux, and some packs of flatbread and brie.

  ‘Harry . . .’

  Harry leaned back inside. Matheson was in the doorway that linked their rooms, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

  ‘I have to get going. I’ll be all over the city looking for spots. And I’ve been thinking . . . It might be better if you aren’t at the rendezvous – so it’s just a one-on-one. Keep his stress down.’

  ‘Well . . . He doesn’t have to see me – but I want to be there. I can be nearby.’

  Matheson played with it. ‘Okay. That’ll work. You staying in or going out?’

  ‘Probably out. Wander around. Be a tourist.’

  Matheson headed for the door. ‘I’ll call when I’m heading back.’

  ‘David . . . Wait.’

  Matheson glanced back. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Geiger’s alive.’

  The words pulled Matheson to a full stop and spun him around like a top.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I found out two days ago.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  ‘He’s in Brooklyn. Making furniture. The feds know too.’

  ‘Jesus Christ . . .’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Jesus – fucking –Christ . . .’ Somewhere in Matheson’s astonishment was the start of a thought . . .and then it kicked in. ‘Does Ez know?’

  ‘I told Geiger he had to tell him – so Ezra knows by now or I’ll tell him when we get back.’

  Matheson was nodding very slowly, like a man getting a first, sweet taste of clemency. ‘This will change Ezra’s life.’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Harry.’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have – but I figured Ezra would tell you, eventually – so . . .’

  Matheson took in a deep breath, to keep things from spilling out. ‘Gotta go. See you tonight.’

  ‘Right.’

  Matheson stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  Harry turned back to the view. He’d stayed awake the whole flight but wasn’t sleepy. His body’s clock had adjusted itself – not to the time difference, but to the anticipation of events. Harry had a picture in his mind, of his passion – shattered long ago, pieces flying like shrapnel, embedded in him all these years – and now some magnet was alive at his center, pulling the shards free and drawing them back together . . .

  The concierge looked at her computer screen. ‘Pour une nuit?’

  ‘Oui.’ The Frenchman handed her a credit card.

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’

  He didn’t turn around when Matheson came out of the elevator into the lobby and headed for the front door.

  ‘Bonne journée, monsieur,’ said the concierge, but Matheson either didn’t hear her or was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to answer – and went out the door.

  Harry watched Matheson come out of the lobby and head toward Rue de Rennes. Overhead, the clouds were sliding by in blockish clumps, and every so often the sun’s rays slipped through and lacquered the buildings with the diaphanous shimmer that had brought thousands of painters to the City of Light like believers trekking to Mecca.

  11

  The café was on Rue St Jacques, the street-level space of a three-story residence whose apartments’ tall, white shutters were in serious need of a coat of paint. The last time Harry had stood here, the place had been a noisy, family-run boulangerie in its third decade, known for its croissants and brioche. The tinted-glass frontage and red door were the same, but now there was an oval, wooden plaque above them with an engraved name: SOLEIL COUCHANT. On his last night in Brooklyn, Harry had gone on Google Maps, found Rue St Jacques and strolled digitally down the street till he found the storefront. He was an amateur with the language but he knew the word – ‘Couchant’ was French for ‘sunset’ – and he knew why it had been chosen.

  He stepped to the door’s glass to get a better view inside. Half a dozen patrons sat at tables beneath the spill of pin-spot pendants hanging from the high, pressed-tin ceiling.

  ‘Excusez moi . . .’

  Harry turned to a man in a turtleneck and winter vest. The Frenchman had raised one patient brow.

  ‘Après vous?’

  Harry’s mind stuttered for a moment at the decision.

  ‘Oui,’ he said.

  The Frenchman made an elegant after-you gesture. Harry turned the knob – and when he opened the door a sweet, crisp jingle of an overhead bell sounded. He went inside.

  The smell of rich, potent coffee was as seductive as the nymph Calypso. Renovative sleight of hand had created extra space without any actual expansion. There were fifteen small tables with beige granite tops and deco-style bistro bases. The floor was dark slate, the walls paneled with old-fashioned wainscoting. On the left was a mahogany bar with leather and brass stools, and Miles Davis floated through the air leaving a honeyed aural coating on everything. The overall effect was as close to time travel as one could achieve, and the owner’s opinion was clear: If you were looking for coffee and a few moments of peace, or sought a stronger libation and a state closer to thoughtlessness – the past was preferable to the present.

  Harry sat down at the bar. The bartender and the waitress – in their twenties, lean and attractive in black dress shirts and gray slacks – were huddled at the wide, three-tap espresso machine. She pushed a square white button and they waited. The machine began to grumble unpleasantly, then gave out a wet belch and went silent. The pair looked at each other and frowned, then noticed Harry. The bartender came over.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur . . .’

  ‘Café crème, please.’

  ‘Très bien.’ The bartender turned round and
went to work, pouring coffee into a large cup. ‘Where are you from in America? New York?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The bartender grinned over his shoulder. ‘I like to try and guess.’

  ‘Merde! Je m’en fous, Marcel! Il est encore foutu.’

  It was a woman’s voice, ripe with righteous anger. Harry had always felt French made cursing something of an art form, and he knew a few. ‘Shit! I don’t give a fuck, Marcel! It’s fucking broken again!’ she had said.

  A slim woman in an oversized, long-sleeved, cream-colored blouse and pleated slacks marched out of a back room, cell phone to her ear. Her hair was the color of a penny and rested in waves on her shoulders. Her face had striking, wide planes. If someone saw her, they would remember her.

  ‘Faut résoudre le problème, Marcel! Fix it! Now!’ She punched off the call, sat down at the end of the bar, and slammed her palm down. Her two employees flinched. ‘Trou du cul!’ she growled, elevating ‘Asshole!’ to a poetic realm.

  Then she glanced up and saw Harry staring at her. The sudden outbreak of so many feelings at once made the woman’s expression a spectacle – shock striking the forehead and etching three stiff lines across it . . . recognition widening the pale blue eyes as the pupils flared . . . something lighter-than-air raising the ends of her lips up an infinitesimal degree – and ruling over it all, a sorrow instantly rekindled.

  ‘Hello, Chris,’ said Harry.

  He’d always been able to read her moods, no matter how subtle, but not now. And she seemed to be in the same state – caught up in the swirl of her feelings and uncertain where she was going to land. She stood up and walked to him, close enough that he could smell the single drop of Chanel No. 5 she always dabbed behind each ear.

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ she said.

  The inches between them could be measured in years. They could be measured by the slow, crawling ebb of intimacy in spite of love and want – and by the unstoppable, off-kilter turning of lives – when winter had come but never left, and the chill and inescapable shiver finally became too much to bear.