by Chris Pavone
Phares? He left the headlights on? “Ah,” Wyatt says, looking at the van, sure enough. “Merci.”
Fuck. Was that on the checklist?
He doesn’t have a choice, does he? He can’t ignore this. That policeman might still be up on the street, it would be easy for this guy to approach him, almost inevitable. “Pardonnez-moi, officer, there’s a man acting strangely, he left his headlights ignited and then he fled—look! There he is, running!”
“Vous êtes très gentil,” Wyatt says. He starts walking toward the van, which is also in the direction of this couple. Their paths will converge. In three seconds. In two.
The man has stopped walking.
One.
“Ça va?” The man looks concerned.
“Oui,” Wyatt croaks, a bundle of exploding nerves now, his mind increasingly muddled, looking from Monsieur Cooper’s face to Madame’s, she too is staring at him with a furrowed brow until she realizes she’s staring so looks away, not wanting to maintain eye contact with this possibly crazy or dangerous person in a dark garage three levels underground. She even takes a step away. It’s just a tiny step, but not unnoticeable.
These people are scared of him, of course they are. They should be.
These people are going to walk upstairs, they’re going to see the policeman, make a report. They will not hesitate, especially if they are aware of the larger situation in the city. Maybe they were sitting in that car listening to the radio, news reports, Police warn everyone to be on the lookout for a white panel van, GOUPIL ET FRÈRES ÉLECTRICIENS on the side—
* * *
“You understand that you cannot allow yourself to be caught?” That’s what the man with the big beard asked, the man who has run this op. “Not under any circumstances.”
It was a beard that could look like many things, depending on context. A rugged mountain man. Or a hipster. Or an orthodox Jew, maybe a rabbi. Or a devout Muslim. Or a jihadist planning to blow up Paris. A lot of competing types.
Wyatt accepted the familiar handgun.
“But do not use this unless absolutely necessary.”
“Sure,” Wyatt agreed reflexively, the instinctual response of a trained soldier to an order. But he didn’t understand this one, didn’t see why he should restrain himself from freely dispensing with witnesses, with obstacles, with challenges, with inconveniences. Many innocent people were going to die anyway. Wasn’t that the point?
At the very first meeting, Wyatt suspected that the big beard did signify jihadist. That’s the thing that would’ve made sense, given what it seemed they were planning. But the more he learned, less so.
Wyatt still wants a full explanation of whatever the hell this is, but he doesn’t really need one, and doesn’t expect one. “That,” the man told him, “is what all the money is for.”
The man was serious, the type who exudes competence, confidence. A man to be reckoned with. Even in repose, clearly a dangerous man, a lethal man. A man with a scar on his cheekbone that looks like a memento from a knife fight.
Wyatt has spent his life with such dangerous men. His father was one, the sadistic fucker. Wyatt himself is one. You either are or you aren’t, and you know it. Though some men turn out to be mistaken, and don’t discover their error until it’s too late.
But not Wyatt, he’s not mistaken: he’s definitely a lethal man. An untrustworthy man too, an untrusting one, a man who takes his own precautions. Wyatt is a double-crosser. Which makes him always ready to be double-crossed.
* * *
He clears his throat, says “Oui” again, trying to sound soft, trying to reassure these scared people. “Merci, ça va bien.”
Wyatt musters something that he hopes approximates a smile, aiming his bared teeth in the general direction of M. and Mme. Cooper. He probably looks like a snarling wolf.
He’s not going to assuage these people, it’s too late for that. All he’s trying to do now is prevent them from panicking too early, from running, from making too much noise, too much commotion, before he has time.
18
PARIS. 9:39 A.M.
“Do not engage.” This is what Ibrahim hears in his headset, a blanket order delivered to everyone, to Ibrahim and the other sniper atop the opposite wing, to the four-man patrol closing in on the bomber’s position, to the plainclothes officers, to the uniformed police.
“Repeat, do not engage.”
Nearly every soul has fled the cour Napoléon, except a couple of guards, the guys who manage the crowds at the ticket queues, at the doors, more like ushers than security, empowered to prevent only the most casual of disturbances—line cutters, aggressive panhandlers. This situation is well beyond their pay grade; they do not even wear badges, just laminated ID cards. They exchange looks, a quick conversation—“Should we get the fuck out of here?” “Definitely”—and back away, into the big glass pyramid and down out of view, out of the most obvious harm.
The only other people who are still in the courtyard are the four members of the tactical patrol team, wearing body armor and combat helmets, assault rifles at the ready.
“The target has no visible firearms, but is wearing what appears to be explosives.”
The crowd had dispersed quickly, giving these soldiers a clear view of the man before they were anywhere near him. They immediately understood that it was not advisable to simply shoot him, which would neutralize only one part of the threat, a possibly insignificant part compared to that vest, that luggage.
The four soldiers separate from one another, form a staggered line of advancement, different angles. They close in carefully, their target always sighted at the ends of their weapons. Fifty meters away, one of the soldiers holds up a fist, and they all stop.
For a few seconds, they are all absolutely still.
Then the two soldiers on either end begin to move laterally, not getting any nearer to the target, but skirting him. Then the other two also begin to reposition, everyone walking slowly, maintaining ready stances. It takes a couple of minutes before they establish a full containment ring at the four cardinal points.
The bomber is surrounded.
* * *
First things first: all the exterior doors are secured, the main doors at the pyramid, the ones under the place du Carrousel, the employee entrances, the supply routes.
Wings are sealed off from one another, rooms locked down, like a ship hit by a torpedo, or crashed into an iceberg: you isolate the compromised sections to prevent water from flooding everywhere, killing everyone.
Guests are instructed to stay calm, take seats on the floor, make themselves comfortable.
The authorities are called, so many different authorities: the army, the national police, the mayor, the president, ministers, senators. Plus museum staff, foreign ambassadors, the director of the Métro, on and on, like a phone tree for an international football league, canceling dozens of games at once, due to natural disaster.
The surrounding streets are closed, the nearest Métro stations too, bus service, river traffic. None of this is simple to effectuate.
The museum’s président directeur–général leaves his office facing the Seine, and crosses to the other side of the building, to a window that overlooks the courtyard. He stares with wide eyes in broad daylight at his worst nightmare.
They run annual drills. Not just abstract plans that are debated in meetings, modeled on custom-designed software, but real-world real-time simulations using live human beings to test response rates, logistical controls, unanticipated challenges. Some tasks have proven easier than expected; some harder. There is a lot that must be mobilized to secure this capacious site in the middle of the most visited city on the Continent.
No, this right now is not the director’s worst nightmare. Just the prelude.
The Palais du Louvre is relatively well protected from attack by vehicle, by car
or truck, even armored military vehicles would be thwarted by the layers of hardened bollards. Attackers would need a tank to get through. And if anyone rolls a tank into central Paris, the Louvre is not their target.
But the exercise is like whack-a-mole: you close off one method of ingress and others pop up. There are virtually unlimited locales where crowds gather, and so many options for killing large numbers of people. There is no way to make people safe everywhere. The only thing you can do is make them feel safe, with the metal detectors, the security guards, snipers, enabling everyone to go about their lives believing that every precaution has been taken.
But there has always been this, and always will be: you can never entirely protect against a person who is willing to sacrifice his life in order to kill others.
Ibrahim keeps the target squarely in his sites, finger on the trigger.
19
PARIS. 9:40 A.M.
Dexter steals a glance behind him, the street, the bins, the cars, the hotel on the corner…Everything is still, except a small garbage truck passing at the far end of the block, the sanitation workers’ outfits in different shades of vibrant green that match the green bins with yellow lids all in a row, looking like the Green Bay Packers offensive line.
Paris is an empty sort of place in the mornings, without people jogging everywhere, scurrying to and from gyms, twenty-four-hour delis and overnight shifts, the morning convergence of enterprise and exercise that you see in American cities. Not here.
He’s startled by movement over his shoulder, and spins to see a crow—a huge one—fluttering onto the roof of a parked car. The big black bird seems to stare at Dexter for a second, then herky-jerks its head down to peck at something. That’s one scary bird.
Dexter shifts the shopping bag and flowers to his other hand, his tennis bag to his other shoulder, a double-switch.
“Can you take this home?” Kate had asked, in front of the café. She was headed to whatever passes for her office. Dexter doesn’t know where it is, or what goes on there.
A few months ago, when curiosity had gotten the best of him, he attempted to follow her; he could no longer live with his failure to even try. Unsurprisingly, Kate was difficult to tail, changing Métro platforms, doubling back on sidewalks, and eventually striding through the wrought-iron door to the Galerie de la Madeleine, one of those marble-floored passages that smell of musty old paper, they all do, the covered arcades strewn around the Right Bank, lined with tiny boutiques and artisan workshops and cozy cafés, all with giant plate-glass windows, nowhere to turn, no way to hide.
The galerie looked like a trap, set to catch a tail.
Dexter gave up, walked back to his side of the river, dejected. Wondering if he’d ever again know what the hell his wife did for a living. Wondering if it mattered.
He never did find out if Kate realized it was her husband following her that day, or anyone; maybe she went through that evasive rigmarole as a matter of everyday habit. He was too ashamed to ask; she was perhaps too restrained to mention it.
There are some things best left unsaid, even in a marriage. Perhaps especially in a marriage. The dirty things, the shameful things, the taboo sexual fantasies, the fleeting suicidal tendencies, the petty jealousies and juvenile revenge scenarios, things you’re more likely to admit to a drunk stranger in an airport lounge, someone you don’t have to wake up with for a half-century, don’t have to worry if she’ll now look at you in a new, horrid light.
Secrets are not unusual. But what is unusual is that “What do you do for a living?” and “Where is your office?” are questions that can’t even be asked, much less answered.
Whatever it is that Kate does, at the moment Dexter is thankful for its steadiness, its reliability, the wire-transferred paychecks that replenish their account twice per month.
Dexter thinks of himself as a modern man, a progressive man. He’d be absolutely thrilled for his wife to earn more than he does. But the burden of providing for the family has always sat on his shoulders, and they’re not especially macho shoulders—no big muscles, no tattoos, no MBA. It’s a heavy weight, uncomfortable. Failure to provide for your family is a pretty big failure. Maybe the biggest.
Kate doesn’t know it, but her income is what’s keeping them afloat.
* * *
Dexter never loops his wife into his trades. Sometimes afterward he’ll share wildly positive results, he’ll come home with vintage Champagne and a small tin of caviar. He has learned to celebrate, not just the regularly scheduled annual dates, the anniversary, the birthdays.
He was even less inclined than normal to mention this 4Syte position, so reluctant that he stopped talking shop entirely a couple of weeks ago, when he made the decision. Because if he avoided the subject of work entirely, he’d have plausible deniability, later. “Why didn’t I mention it? I don’t know, Kate. We weren’t discussing any of my work.”
Dexter knows that his wife never, ever stops worrying that it can all be lost in an instant, any instant, tomorrow, today. She grew up with even less than he did, and she can’t escape feeling that they don’t deserve this life. That it’s only temporary, the world will come to its senses and take it away, everything. And the way that Dexter earns his living makes Kate plenty anxious.
It’s for her own good that he keeps her in the dark about the details, that he occasionally—very occasionally—needs to lie to her. Mostly lies of omission. Such as: Dexter had been monitoring 4Syte’s stock long before Luc’s tip. For a decade, in fact.
Also: this short-sell is definitely a hugely risky endeavor, and it is without question an emotional decision. Yes, Dexter has a perhaps unhealthy receptivity to nefarious gossip about Hunter Forsyth, to vicious rumor, to illegal inside information. Some of which have been copious. Because the more success Hunter achieves, the more people want to take him down, want to see him taken down, want to benefit if his take-down eventually happens.
Dexter is one of them.
It’s not because there’s a sizable population who are so envious that the guy is so successful. No, it’s because Hunter Forsyth is an unremitting bastard. There are plenty of successful people who don’t step on everyone else as they climb their ladders. And Hunter does it with so little humility, so much arrogance, entitlement. Born on third base, believing he hit a triple.
So many people are defined by their bootstraps, by the lowliness of their origins, people who have no choice but to try to climb out, climb up. Dexter. Kate too. But by the sheer luck of birth, Hunter had been afforded the choice to do absolutely anything. Instead of using that immense good fortune to do something positive for the planet, for mankind—or at least something creative—the guy chose as his goal simply to get richer, to slide through life with the greased ease of an aristocrat.
Dexter hates Hunter’s guts.
No, this trade is not entirely rational. It’s not unemotional.
* * *
Yesterday, in anticipation of today’s press conference, 4Syte’s stock hit its all-time high. This was exactly what Luc’s inside source had predicted. It was real, and it was now.
While the kids did homework and Kate did dishes, Dexter closed himself into his office. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the information, its circuitous route from somewhere inside 4Syte to that German trader to Luc to Dexter. Not to mention the discomfort endemic to any short position, which entails unlimited downside: if the share price rises dramatically instead of falls, it’s even possible to lose more than your original investment, to swing past zero. Way past.
But that’s the nature of risk, isn’t it? That’s when risk is most worthwhile, most profitable: when the outcome is least certain.
This was what Dexter had been working toward for years, this type of move based on this type of info, betting against this particular person. A perfect storm. It was irresistible.
He took a deep
breath, then executed the trade. Twice.
* * *
Dexter punches in the security code, pushes open the heavy red door. There’s always an extra chill in this breezeway, a dampness that clings to the stone walls. He walks past the bicycles into the courtyard, a little garden with a wooden shed that houses the supplies. It’s a simple garden, not much in the way of direct sunlight, but well tended by the concierge. Last Christmas, the residents chipped in to buy Madame a chic set of tools from that exorbitant place on the rue du Bac, she was nearly overcome. Madame hasn’t been able to bring herself to sully this gift with soil; she gardens with her old tools, while the new ones hang in their canvas belt from a wooden peg on the shed’s door, pride of place, like the university graduation picture of a grandchild.
As Dexter hustles through the courtyard, he catches a glimpse of something white peeking from behind a corner of the shed.
He strides over. Peeks around and down, and—yes. He kneels, picks up the missing cap from his Luxembourg tennis club. He looks around, hoping his eyes will stumble across some explanation of how it got here. He’ll have to ask Madame.
Dexter rides up the slow, loud elevator, clanging and groaning, forever suggesting imminent breakdown. At his apartment door, he pauses, uneasy. He leans over the railing, looks down the stairwell…
Nothing.
He stands still, listening for footsteps, for breathing, for anything…
Nothing.
He unlocks his front door, and steps into the darkness.
20
PARIS. 9:52 A.M.
Kate has many rules.
One is that she alternates the routes she takes across the river. Some days she’ll walk the pont des Arts, other days the pont Royal or pont du Carrousel. Or she’ll ride the 68 or 69 bus up the rue du Bac. Or take the number 12 Métro, get off at Madeleine, melt into the maze of correspondance tunnels, up and down the stairs, pause at an exit, double back.