The Paris Diversion

by Chris Pavone

  They disembark in a big station where three lines meet. Colette will transfer here to get home, and Monsieur Forsyth can find his own way to wherever he wants to go—home, office, embassy, police, the bar at the Meurice, she does not care anymore.

  “À demain,” she says. Now that home is within grasp, she is growing extra-impatient to get back to her husband and daughter, away from her boss, his problems.

  “Colette, wait.”

  She stops, but does not immediately turn back.

  “We should discuss this,” he says. “What we will tell people.”

  With her slight pause, she hopes to make her boss understand that she has had enough of today, does not want to discuss this, cannot. Tomorrow, that will be another day, she is planning to go to the office, they can talk then. Not now. Tomorrow.

  That would be the smart thing to do, the rational and sensible thing: go to work tomorrow. She will be able to tell the story to her colleagues, the whole ordeal, the guns, the fight, the flight, the life-or-death confrontations. People will stand around with their mouths hanging open, gasping, Mon Dieu, clutching her arm.

  Her narrative will help everyone understand, later, when she resigns. It was too traumatizing, she will say. She could not get over her fears, her flashbacks, she could not sleep, she was having panic attacks, yes she had seen a therapist, she was taking anti-anxiety medication, but the drugs left her feeling stupid, dull, tired, unable to enjoy eating, drinking, fucking.

  She has no choice, she will say. It is for her own health, and also for her role as wife, as mother. She simply cannot function this way.

  “Are you okay?”

  He takes both her hands in both of his, and she forces herself not to recoil.

  “Oui Monsieur.”

  Colette has faced many indignities in her life, an attractive woman in the business world, working in tech, every office populated almost exclusively by men. Come-ons of every type, double-entendres, sexual innuendo, lewd jokes, overt propositions. She has been massaged, she has been caressed, cornered, kissed, squeezed, groped, all manner of sexual assault short of the traditional legal definitions of rape.

  But perhaps the greatest indignity has been the ignominy of pretending to enjoy the company of this man, this sexist elitist anti-intellectual lout. His eyes always on her, his lust oozing off him, enveloping her in its suffocating stench.

  On second thought, maybe she will not go to the office tomorrow. That too will make sense to everyone. After all, it was just minutes ago when she was climbing out of that car, thinking she was about to be shot, stuffed into a rusted-out automobile, and set afire.

  Everyone will understand if she needs to take a day or two.

  She had not known exactly what would happen, or when, but she had definitely not imagined that she would end up dragged into today’s events. That was M. Forsyth’s fault—he was the one who insisted she accompany him. If he had not, she would have been left behind with Didier the bodyguard. She would have gone to the office. She would have stood around with everyone else, speculating, wringing their hands, making reports, taking ineffective action.

  “At least let me get a car to take you home,” he says.

  “Merci bien, Monsieur.” She shakes her head. “But the train will be faster.”

  Colette had also not expected that anyone would be in any physical danger. Certainly not herself. She had been well assured of the contrary. And she had continued to believe that this was the truth, right until the moment when it was not.

  But it had all turned out okay, just as the handsome bearded American had promised. No one had been hurt, at least not seriously. The two Americans had gotten the worst of it, wounds inflicted on each other, by each other.

  “All I want is to be home with my family.”

  It was just a few small pieces of information that she provided. Details about M. Forsyth’s morning routine, his bodyguards and police escort, the security code to his building, the location of the telecommunications boxes, the model and operating system of his mobile.

  The entire meeting had taken an hour, at a working-class bar-tabac out in La Villette, someplace where Hunter Forsyth would never deign to visit. Colette left that café with a thick envelope bound in a rubber band.

  “Je suis épuisée, Monsieur.”

  Then this morning she had been slipped another large sum, this time tucked inside the oversize sunglasses case that is right now sitting in the zippered compartment of the leather bag hanging from her shoulder. Twenty thousand euros cash, nontaxable.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” she says.

  She will tell her husband that this money was part of 4Syte’s settlement, alongside the actual settlement they end up paying. It will not be insignificant. She has been through a lot.

  “Okay,” M. Forsyth says, with a smile. “Good night, Colette.”

  Then she smiles back at him, it is for once a genuine smile that she gives Hunter Forsyth, because she just decided that she will not see him tomorrow, nor ever again.

  74

  PARIS. 6:57 P.M.

  He eases back into consciousness, a fade-in, the lights coming on slowly, images resolving themselves, awareness resuming…

  He’s on the Métro. He’s been riding for—how long?—who knows. He has changed trains, trudged through those tunnels, rush-hour crowds, delays, more crowds.

  And now he remembers: he has been shot.

  He fingers the lapel of the sport jacket that he commandeered from the old man in the doctor’s office, and peeks inside. The bandage has leaked, and there’s a fist-size blot of blood near the shoulder of the old man’s pink shirt.

  The pain medication is fading.

  The subway crowd has dwindled, and the few remaining passengers are giving him a wide berth. He thinks he may stink—yes, he rolled through a pool of urine in a dark alleyway, right after he was shot. His pants are filthy, his shirt and jacket don’t fit, he’s wearing facial hair that could be mistaken for a homeless man’s beard, and a large fake scar on his cheek, and crazy-person hair. He has been fading in and out of consciousness.

  He’d stay the fuck away from him too.

  He wonders what his wife decided to do. She could have stuck with Plan A, and is already in Croatia, settling into the top-floor flat with a view of the sea, feeding the baby, unpacking the bag, waiting for her husband.

  Thankfully the police have left him alone. The cops have priorities far more urgent than sweeping bums off the subway.

  He is almost positive he’s not going to make it to Croatia by morning. He’s not going to make it to Croatia ever. He’s not going to make it at all. He feels this definitively in the pain in his shoulder, in the coldness that has enveloped his body, in his inconstant consciousness, in the echoes of the doctor’s warning, “It is necessary for you to have surgery.”

  He nodded, trying to climb into the old man’s clothes, failing. She helped him.

  “This wound will not repair itself. You will bleed, and bleed, until you die.”

  “How long?”

  “Impossible to say.”

  “How about a guess?”

  She said Pfft.

  “Please.”

  “At very most, twenty-four hours.” She shrugged at the unlikelihood of this. “Probably much less.”

  Maybe his wife didn’t go to Croatia. Maybe—hopefully—she opted for Plan B, or some secret Plan C. But he doubts he’ll ever know.

  75

  PARIS. 7:19 P.M.

  Kate is growing impatient, riding this Métro, watching this man, wondering if this is futile. But he’s her only leverage. And he must be on his way somewhere relevant.

  He suddenly stands, exits the train, staggers down the platform.

  Kate lags behind to take off her jacket, to change her first-glance appearance, even though this is probab
ly an unnecessary precaution. The man she’s following isn’t aware of other people, he’s not using any countersurveillance tactics, not making any evasive maneuvers. This man’s situational awareness isn’t heightened; it’s nonexistent. He must be in intense pain, or on intense pain relievers, or both. He has been easy to monitor—moving slowly, falling asleep on a Métro seat. She thought, briefly, that he’d died.

  She follows him into the correspondance tunnel, continues round a bend, up some stairs. Then she confronts a fork in the tunnel. Which direction would he take? She has no inputs to help her choose, it’s a coin toss. She walks left.

  This transfer tunnel deposits her onto the middle of the platform, rather than at the end. From just inside the tunnel, she can’t see any of the other people waiting on the platform she’s about to enter. But she can see across the tracks, to the far side of the station, to the platform for trains heading the other way.

  That’s where he’s sitting, eyes staring straight in front of him. Straight at her.

  * * *

  No. He cannot recognize her, there’s no way. It has been years, and she’s disguised. She’s wearing a wig and glasses that cover half her face, she’s fifty yards away, the light is not great, there’s no way he’s prepared for Kate Moore to possibly appear on the opposite Métro platform.

  She glances at the arrivals board. The train on her side is due to arrive in one minute. The other one in two.

  Yes, that will work.

  She turns to face the direction from which the train will arrive, presenting her profile to the man she once knew as Bill MacLean. Profiles are much harder to recognize.

  Kate waits.

  She can see the train arriving, it should be here in seconds. At that point she’ll be shielded from his view, and she’ll spin on her heels and dash through the station to his platform, and he’ll think that this woman had simply boarded the—

  But what’s this? The train for her platform has stopped, just short of entering the station.

  Across the way, she can see that the other train is due to arrive in one minute, while the train on Kate’s side is now just sitting there, waiting for something, for the love of God what? She can hear the opposite one getting near.

  Damn.

  She can’t continue to wait. She retreats into the tunnel.

  Behind her, she can feel the rumble of the other train arriving, and she turns a curve into the corridor, and now breaks into a full sprint, up a flight of stairs, another turn, a dead sprint on a straightaway—

  Kate can hear it down there, the doors are open, people are exiting.

  Down the stairs three at a time, each jump a chance to miss, to twist her ankle, to lose balance and go tumbling down facefirst, breaking her nose, her jaw, splitting her forehead open on the sharp edge of a riser—

  She lands at the bottom, and it’s just another few steps around the corner.

  This is one of those Métro stations whose platform entrances and exits don’t use the same corridors. People who are arriving don’t need to face off against people trying to depart, no trench warfare of shoving, shuffling, bags bumping, elbows flying…

  So no one impedes Kate as she bursts onto the platform, and through the train’s open doors, and into the very same car where he is already sitting, watching her board.

  * * *

  She doesn’t make eye contact. She turns and walks away, grabbing seat backs for balance, passing empty rows. Anyone observing her closely would realize that she’s putting distance between herself and someone else, who must be that disheveled wild-eyed man.

  Does he himself realize? Did he notice that she’s the same woman who was on the opposite platform? And on his previous train? Not to mention the same woman who deprived him of twenty-five million euros? The same woman whose husband he has come to Paris to frame for kidnapping, conspiracy, insider trading, maybe even murder?

  Kate takes a seat, one that faces his side, so she can watch him unobserved but he’d have to turn to see her, it would be obvious.

  Her adrenaline is spiked. She takes deep breaths, focusing on the PA, the recorded woman’s voice announcing the next station, they always say each station name twice, the first as a matter of fact—perhaps a gentle suggestion, maybe a bit tentative—but the second with a completely different inflection, as if this woman has had enough of your shit, she’s putting an end to the whole debate, severe stress on the final syllable—Chatelet—and now shut the fuck up. This is a woman who has ample experience disciplining small children, firmly, the way French mothers do. Kate has respect for this woman.

  The train is pulling into the station when Kate’s phone rings.

  * * *

  She knows, from just the single syllable: “Kate.” According to her screen it’s no one, no area code, no country, no way to ID, to locate.

  Kate doesn’t respond.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  It’s been two years.

  This subway is relatively empty, there are no conversations going on. When mobile signals were introduced to the system, Kate worried that the Métro would become unbearable, like commuting in a customer-service call center. But surprisingly few people choose to have conversations here. If Kate starts speaking in English, it will be noticeable. She remains silent.

  “Do you have any idea how much evidence there is, Kate? The police are going to solve this so quickly.”

  Kate stands, and walks farther away from him.

  “The first thing that’s going to happen is that a Métro worker finds a duffel bag that contains a wardrobe change. Clothes that are the exact same outfit that your husband wears basically every day. Displaying the same lack of imagination today that was apparent even two decades ago, back in college. People don’t change, do they, Kate?”

  Not much.

  “This bag also has lots of visible residue from a tennis-court surface, which will be easily ID’d as from the Luxembourg Gardens. This bag, it’s obvious, is your husband’s tennis bag.”

  That’s all explainable, Kate thinks. All could have been fabricated. But she knows there’s more to come, and it will be worse. She knows how this woman tells stories, little to big.

  “But what makes this bag really suspicious—what provokes an emergency call to the police—is that it also contains disposable phones. Burners that were purchased on the boulevard St-Germain, just a few minutes from your apartment. The American who made this memorable purchase—he’s six feet even, tortoiseshell eyeglasses—was also wearing a unique article of clothing. You know what that was, Kate?”

  Kate’s mind hops around for a second before she alights on the answer. But still she says nothing.

  “A white hat with a ludicrous logo. How many American men in Paris could possibly own such a cap?”

  One.

  “The police are right now examining surveillance footage of the landmarks that were targeted today. They will notice that one person appears again and again, standing around in the place Vendôme, at the Gare de Lyon, Notre-Dame. Often wearing this navy jacket and white shirt and blue jeans and brown shoes. Sometimes wearing that ridiculous cap. And always—always—looking around, taking notes. As if what, Kate?”

  This is far worse than Kate had imagined.

  “As if casing the joint.”

  She’d thought it was going to be a few clusters of circumstantial evidence, digital footprints that could be explained away, or obliterated.

  “But wait, Kate, there’s more. Your husband also received calls on a regular basis, for weeks, from a phone that will be discovered on a dead body. Do you know what body?”

  Of course she knows: the suicide bomber at the Louvre. Those were Dexter’s daily robo-calls. Not from an insurance salesman.

  “So then, to summarize: means, yes; opportunity, yes; and what about motive?” She chuckles. “In addition to yo
ur husband’s compulsive research into 4Syte Inc., his browser history also features an obsession with the personal life of Hunter Forsyth that, frankly, looks a lot like stalking.”

  How much of this browsing history will still be retrievable, now that Kate has thrown Dexter’s hard drives into the Seine? That depends on how careful he had been.

  “A disturbing pattern. But an easy narrative to understand, isn’t it? An ex-friend, ex-employee, afflicted with debilitating jealousy of Forsyth’s gigantic success. The tech boom passed Dexter by, didn’t it? While everyone around him got filthy rich, especially this guy he hates so much. It’s almost impossible to not believe that Dexter would plot revenge. He is, after all, a master plotter of extremely complicated crimes.”

  This is mind-bogglingly thorough. Psychopathic, is what this is.

  “But don’t worry, Kate. Because although there’s plenty of evidence that implicates Dexter—though, no, it’s more than implicates, isn’t it? There’s ample slam-dunk evidence. But there’s also evidence that exonerates him.”

  Yes, Kate knows: there must be, because he’s innocent. But she can’t think of a single shred of it.

  “There are a few witnesses who saw him at strategic times this morning. People who can prove that there was no way for Dexter to be kidnapping Forsyth, or dropping off any bombs, because he was somewhere else at the time.”

  Now she understands the old man at the intersection, the attractive woman at the Luxembourg Gardens: setups, planted in Dexter’s path, for this purpose.

  “And the incriminating electronic trail, that too can be disguised. Dexter already installed the sequence to do that, unwittingly, when he opened an e-mail from the so-called inside source, forwarded to him via his tennis pal. You know what source I’m talking about, right? The one who supposedly leaked the negative intel about this merger?”