by Mark Mills
“What did your friend do?”
“She fired the maid, of course.”
“Fired her?”
“She’s a respectable lady.”
The big laugh from the two girls was swallowed up in the lively buzz filling the restaurant. L’Hirondelle attracted a mixed crowd, everything from ancient widows with painted faces to skinny young men with beards, chasing the bohemian dream. Its lofty stuccoed ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and plum-colored velvet banquettes oozed a shabby fin de siècle grandeur that flew in the face of its more modish rivals in the quartier. A five-minute stroll from Luke’s apartment, it had effectively become his canteen over the past few months.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” said Amélie’s friend. She had a resolutely cheery countenance and a name he had made a point of remembering. He was fairly certain it began with a V.
“Don’t worry about the maid,” said Fernando. “She now lives in an apartment in Montparnasse, all expenses paid.” He threw in a stage pause. “And once or twice a week, she receives a visitor.”
More laughter, then a challenge from Amélie’s friend. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s as true as those sweet little dimples in your cheeks, my dear Véronique. Ask Luke. He’ll tell you.”
“I’ve never known Fernando to lie. Cheat, deceive, betray, yes, but never lie.”
It was another of Fernando’s setups, although by this stage of the evening Luke usually knew which of the girls his friend had set his sights on. He had assumed it was Amélie, but the compliment paid to Véronique’s dimples had thrown the field wide open again. Seen from the other side, the truth was the same as always: both girls wanted Fernando; Luke was the consolation prize. He didn’t mind. Who could blame them? How many men combined the brooding good looks of a young Valentino with intelligence, wit, a ribald sense of fun, and a genuine devotion to women?
“The truth is, I much prefer women to men,” Fernando had once told him. “If they ruled the world, I would happily serve under them.” He hadn’t intended it as a joke.
“Maybe they will one day.”
“Not in our lifetimes. But we can help them get there.”
The money and the status didn’t count against Fernando. Born into a family of wealthy landowners who had backed General Trujillo in his bid for the presidency, he now held down some hazy diplomatic post at the embassy of the Dominican Republic. Luke had heard from a shifty little attaché at the American embassy that Fernando was making a small fortune peddling immigration visas to Jews looking to relocate from Chancellor Hitler’s new Germany. To Luke, it sounded like money made in a good cause—certainly if the stories coming out of Germany were anything to go by. Jews were being obliged to hand over their businesses to the government for a fraction of their real worth. Cut and run? Why not? And why not the Dominican Republic? There were far worse places to start over than the Caribbean.
No, it wasn’t the sort of thing Luke could get exercised about. Besides, Fernando was the best friend ever: attentive, energetic, and loyal—so much so that one might have felt almost oppressed by such devotion if he weren’t just as quick with his ridicule. It was only four months since they had first met, through a mutual acquaintance at a mediocre production of Molière’s Le Malade Imaginaire, but Luke already sensed that Fernando would drop everything for him should the situation ever demand it. He also knew that the reverse was true, even if he couldn’t conceive of a scenario in which Fernando would require his assistance. For all the clowning and frivolity, Fernando had a shrewd and hard-nosed quality that brought to mind something Luke’s mother had once said of her flamboyant and dissolute older brother, Uncle Leo: “Don’t be fooled. Peacocks have claws, too.”
Well, right now this peacock was fanning his tail feathers at the two Belgian girls he had met at an embassy function earlier in the week, and Luke was wishing he felt more in the mood. He wanted it for himself, to help him forget. Thoughts of Sister Agnes had been haunting him all day.
At almost this exact hour tomorrow evening, he would be pulling out of the Gare du Nord on the boat train to London. The funeral was on Friday. He could picture the yew-trimmed graveyard beside the orphanage chapel, the resting place of nuns and children. And he could see the hole in the ground, the soil heaped up around it—the same soil that already held Michael’s bones. Michael, his protector, three years his elder, ungainly and rough-hewn even as a young boy, unwanted by the couples who had trooped through the place in search of other people’s children. Michael, carried off by scarlet fever a month before Luke was plucked out of the crowd by the Hamiltons. It was the one consolation: Michael had never lived to witness it.
He forced himself back to the present and topped up his wineglass. Self-restraint clearly wasn’t working, so maybe excess was the way to go. It had worked well enough in the past.
Fernando sensed the shift in him and asked, “Changed your mind? Want to come with us to the Bal Tabarin?”
“Why not?”
Fernanado turned to the girls. “I told you, he’s not as innocent as he looks.”
“Oh, I don’t think he looks innocent at all,” said Amélie. “I don’t think either of you do.”
“I can’t speak for myself, but I can tell you that Luke is anything but.”
“Not now, Fernando,” groaned Luke, guessing what was coming.
Fernando held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay,” he conceded.
“You have to tell us now!”
“You can’t not tell us now!”
“No, no,” came Fernando’s grave reply. “If Luke doesn’t want you to know about the affair he had with a fellow officer’s wife in India, then who am I to go against his wishes?”
“You didn’t!”
“Did you?”
“He’s lucky to have a job.”
Luke caught the look in Fernando’s eye. It said, Trust me, this is the way to play it with these two.
“What was she like?”
“Did you love her?”
Luke had to smile. Whenever the subject came up in male company, the first question tended to be, How did you get found out? He replied to each of them in turn. “She was unhappy. And yes, I did love her.”
A slight frown corrugated Fernando’s brow. “You never told me that before.”
“Well, maybe I didn’t want the whole of Paris to hear it.”
The girls laughed, then begged for more details.
“That’s all you’re getting. Anyway, there’s not much to tell. It didn’t end well.”
Inevitably, they extracted the story from him. It wasn’t in his nature to share the details of a scandalous incident that cast him in a shameful light, but Fernando was right: Amélie and Véronique lapped it up. He sensed them warming to him, especially Véronique, who held him fast in her large, dark eyes until she and Amélie excused themselves to go and powder their noses.
Fernando lit a cigarette and smiled.
“Enjoy yourself. It’s your last night. They won’t even be here when you get back from England.”
Luke didn’t need persuading. He could muddle his way through work tomorrow, dressing up his exhaustion as grief, and then sleep on the train.
“Just so you know, Amélie is already taken.”
“Says who?” demanded Luke.
“She does.” Fernando fired a smoke ring into the air. “Her hand has been on my thigh for the last ten minutes.”
Luke was refilling their glasses when Pascal, the maître d’, appeared at his elbow and handed him a folded note. “A message for you, Monsieur Hamilton.”
“From whom?”
“The gentleman over there.” Pascal swiveled toward the bar and frowned. “Well, he was there just a moment ago.”
The note was in English, handwritten in capitals:
do not react. do not show this
to your friends. two men in this room have been ordered to kill you. i am one of them. the other one is reading a book at the table near the door to the kitchen. do not look at him. if you want to live, make an excuse and meet me outside.
guernica
“A billet-doux from your boyfriend?” enquired Fernando.
Luke almost passed the note straight over. It was utterly preposterous, and yet, some small splinter of doubt stayed his hand. “How did you guess?”
“Come on, what is it?”
“Nothing.”
“So why have you turned white?”
Under the guise of reaching for his wineglass, Fernando lunged and snatched the note away. His look of amused triumph quickly faded. “Who is Guernica?” he asked.
“The man I told you about. Fautrier. The one at the Spanish pavilion.”
“The spy?”
“I don’t know if he was a spy.”
“Not just a spy. A hired assassin, too.”
“You believe him?” Luke asked.
Fernando gave a dismissive snort. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. Can you think of one person who wants you dead?”
“No.” He remembered the drunken threat spat out for all to hear by Alice’s husband in the officers’ mess in Risalpur. “Yes.”
“Rubbish. Someone’s messing with you. Here, I’ll prove it to you.”
Before Luke could react, Fernando was on his feet, heading for the back of the restaurant, leaving him little choice but to follow.
The man eating alone and reading a book looked like an accountant, though not quite as threatening. His lank brown hair was parted at the side, and the mustache served only to point up his weak mouth. He looked mildly startled when Fernando deposited himself in the chair opposite.
“Good evening, sir. My apologies for the intrusion. You do speak French, don’t you?”
“Yes,” replied the man timidly, removing his spectacles.
“And several other languages, too, I imagine, given your line of work.”
“Excuse me?”
“My friend here has a question for you. He’s curious to know why you would want to kill him. He can’t think of a single reason why.”
The man glanced up at Luke. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think you do.” Fernando placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “You see, my good fellow, the cat is well and truly out of the bag. We know everything.”
Fernando’s persistence was verging on cruelty, and Luke was about to speak up when the man struck like a snake: a flashing fist that caught Fernando hard on the jaw, snapping his head around.
Had he been more of a fighter by instinct, Luke would have exacted swift revenge while the man was still seated, at a disadvantage. Instead, he found himself reaching to catch Fernando as he slumped from the chair toward the floor.
Time seemed suddenly to slow, then shatter, reduced to a series of snatched impressions: the man rising to his feet … reaching inside his jacket … a glimpse of leather shoulder holster … the silver finish of the gun being brought to bear on him … the cold intent in the man’s eyes …
The end? Really? Like this? Why?
There was a deafening report, and a spray of red mist erupted from the side of the man’s head. He swayed for a moment, as if drunk; then his legs went out from under him and he crashed to the floor, toppling the table as he fell.
The screams were muted by the ringing in Luke’s ears left over from the gunshot. On his knees, awkwardly cradling his unconscious friend, he stared blankly at the detritus and the destruction. Was that blood pooled beside the man’s head, or wine from the broken carafe?
A firm hand gripped his arm. “Come with me.” He recognized the voice before he turned and found himself looking up at Fautrier. “He’s not alone. Come now if you want to live.” Luke allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and steered toward the entrance.
Diners and waiters cowered as Fautrier swept the room with his pistol, searching for an enemy. Luke’s jacket was snatched from the back of his chair and thrust into his hands. It wasn’t the last thing he registered before Fautrier ushered him through the main door. He glimpsed Amélie and Véronique in the narrow corridor leading to the toilets, pinned to the wall in wide-eyed terror.
Only once they were outside did Fautrier finally release his iron grip on Luke’s arm. “This way,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder and making off down the boulevard. “Don’t run. Walk. And don’t talk. Just breathe deeply. You’re in shock.”
It was a balmy night, and a young man wearing khaki trousers and a short-sleeved shirt was strolling toward them, hands in his pockets. Fautrier picked up the pace, leveling his pistol directly at the man’s head. “On the ground! Face down!” he ordered in French.
The young man spread-eagled himself on the pavement. Fautrier pinned him in place with a knee and searched him for a weapon, all the while keeping an eye out for anyone else drawing close. Satisfied, he finally stood up. “Go,” he ordered.
The young man took off like a rabbit in the direction of L’Hirondelle, where a small crowd of wary diners was beginning to gather out front.
The car was parked on a side street off the boulevard. Fautrier instructed Luke to lie on the floor in the back and stay out of sight. Then he fired the engine and pulled away.
“Where’s your passport?”
“P-passport?” It was the first word Luke had spoken since Fernando sat himself down at the stranger’s table in the restaurant.
“Where is it?”
“At work. At the embassy.”
“That’s good—they’ll have someone at your apartment.”
“Who are ‘they’? In fact, who the bloody hell are you?” he added, on a tide of fear-fueled indignation.
“I’m the man who just saved your life. Now, shut up. I need to know if we’re being followed.” A few moments later, something hard landed on Luke’s thigh. “I don’t think we are, but just in case.” It was a revolver, and it offered little comfort.
Another minute or so passed before Fautrier spoke again—a single word muttered in a language Luke didn’t recognize, although it sounded like an expletive. “I was wrong. There is a car following us.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” came the irritated reply.
They didn’t accelerate; if anything, they slowed down. From where Luke was lying, he could see Fautrier checking the rearview mirror every so often.
“What’s happening?”
“He’s trying to decide if I know he’s there.” Fautrier pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.
“You’re smoking?”
“Someone who is being followed doesn’t have time to.” Fautrier exhaled. “One man. Small. That is good.”
“Small is good?”
“Small is bad; small is dangerous. But one small man is better than two.”
Luke gave a nervous snort of laugh.
“Listen to me, Luke Hamilton. If anything happens to me, you must disappear. You must go far away and you must never come back. Never. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t. You must change your name, change everything. If you don’t, they will find you and they will kill you. Nothing can protect you—not your family, not the police, not your government. Go to Buenos Aires, Cape Town, Malacca … Go anywhere far away. Make a new life. Don’t ever return.”
“Why? What have I done?”
The reply didn’t come immediately. “Nothing. They think you are someone else.”
“That’s all this is—a bloody mistake?”
“People have died for less,” replied Fautrier. He glanced once more in the rearview mirror. “Keep coming, my little friend; we’re almost there.”
“Where?�
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“Les Jardins du Luxembourg.” The car took a left turn. “The park is in front of us, at the end of the street. It’s a good place for you to disappear if this goes wrong.”
“If what goes wrong?”
“This.”
The car slammed to halt. Wrenching the gearshift into reverse, Fautrier twisted in his seat to peer over his shoulder and floored the accelerator. The engine screamed in protest.
Luke guessed what was coming, and braced himself against the impact, but he still cracked his head hard against the back of the footwell. Dazed, he was reaching for the door handle when the first shot rang out. Three more quickly followed. Revolver at the ready, he stumbled from the car to see steam rising from the crumpled bonnet of the small black car behind. A man was sprawled over the steering wheel.
Fautrier lowered his pistol. “Get the bag from the front seat.”
They were on a narrow residential street wide enough for one vehicle—possibly chosen by Fautrier for that very reason, so their pursuer couldn’t swerve around them. He had tried, and you didn’t need to be a mechanic to know that the angle of impact had crippled their own car. One of the rear wheels was skewed way out of alignment.
“Is everything okay?”
The voice came from a woman peering down on them from a second-floor window.
“There’s been an accident,” Fautrier shouted up at her. “Call the police.”
More shutters were being thrown open now. Someone speculated that he had heard gunshots; someone else agreed; and with the discussion crisscrossing above their heads, Luke and Fautrier made off down the street toward the Luxembourg Gardens.
“Did you really have to kill him?”
“He fired first,” said Fautrier.
The road fronting the park was spotted with puddles of light thrown by the streetlamps. Looking for the safety of a crowd, Fautrier bore left toward the bars and restaurants clustered near a roundabout.
“Wait,” said Luke.
A woman in a cocktail dress was emerging from a smart apartment building off to the right. A tall man, also in evening wear, accompanied her across the pavement toward a car. It was a long, sleek sedan, and the woman was just settling into the passenger seat when they appeared.