Where Dead Men Meet

by Mark Mills

  “We need your car,” said Fautrier in a low voice.

  The man seemed remarkably undaunted by the sight of Fautrier’s pistol pointing at his midriff. He peered down his long nose at it with amused disdain. “Well, you can’t have it.”

  “Which leg would you like me to shoot her in? You choose.”

  “Lucien …” pleaded the woman, not nearly as sanguine as her companion about having a pistol pointed at her.

  The man fired a foul look at the two of them, then helped the woman out of the car. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “It’s not personal,” Fautrier replied, holding out his hand for the key.

  “I’m a government minister. And it has just become personal.”

  Fautrier didn’t bother to reply; he simply handed the key to Luke.

  “Drive.”

  Chapter Five

  Luke savored the feel of the steering wheel in his hands. After the blind panic of the past half hour, it felt good to be in control of something, even if it happened to be only a car passing through the streets of Paris. The sensation vanished when Fautrier folded back his jacket and examined his side.

  “Is that blood?” asked Luke.

  “I told you, small is dangerous.”

  “You’ve been shot?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  It was bad enough for Fautrier to pull a shirt from the holdall at his feet and press it against the wound.

  “We have to get you to a hospital.”

  “No hospitals. I know a man.”

  “Where? Tell me where.”

  “It can wait. Your passport can’t.”

  Fautrier thought it unlikely, but there was a chance the embassy building was already being watched. It was a risk they would just have to take. “Unless there’s someone who can get your passport for you.”

  Luke thought on it. “I know someone who can help. And she won’t ask questions.”

  “Your passport?” said Diana. “Why? And why can’t you fetch it yourself?”

  She had just gotten home from the cinema, and Luke could picture her standing in the hallway in her bare feet. On the two occasions he had spent the night there, she had made him remove his shoes, too, because the elderly woman in the apartment below was obsessed with the noise of people walking around above her head. Even when they had made love, Diana had warned him not to be too vigorous, in case the feet of her bed scraped against the parquet floor.

  “I really need you to do this for me, Diana.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Honestly, I’m about as far from all right as I’ve ever been in my life.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  He told her to take a taxi to the embassy. He told her where to find the key to his desk, where in the desk to find his passport, and where to bring it once she had it. He was about to hang up when he remembered what Fautrier had said.

  “Oh, and I need a suitcase.”

  “You don’t have one?”

  “Not one I can put my hands on right now.”

  There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “I can’t wait to hear what this is about.”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. And, Diana …”

  “Don’t go all gooey on me, or I’ll change my mind.”

  “You’re a brick.”

  She gave a soft chuckle. “I should have known better.”

  Luke slipped the barman a couple of francs for the call. His generosity earned him a top-up on the house. He swirled the cognac around the glass. It was filthy stuff, but it was hitting the spot. Fautrier was still in the loo, tending to the wound in his side, and Luke was struck by a sudden impulse to slide off the bar stool and walk out of the place.

  Yes, he had just fled the scenes of two murders in the killer’s company, but he was an innocent man caught up in a situation not of his own making. How hard would it be to convince the police of that? Fernando would testify to the mysterious note delivered to their table at L’Hirondelle, as would Pascal, the maître d’. Moreover, there was the hard evidence of the note itself, which at this very moment was probably being examined by some detective or other.

  He needed to stop the situation in its tracks before it escalated further, and throwing himself on the mercy of the authorities was the obvious way to go. Only one thing slowed the onrush of these thoughts: Fautrier’s stark warning that no police force could protect him from the people who wanted him dead. Why should he doubt the word of a man who had saved his life twice in the past hour, in the process taking a bullet for his trouble?

  He wished his mother were here, not only for her comforting presence, but also for the clear, calm logic of her thinking. Women were supposed to be emotional, instinctive, even irrational, but these were traits far more evident in his father than in her. How many times had he seen her pick apart a complex dilemma, methodically unraveling the arguments until she got to the nub of the thing?

  “Don’t believe Keats,” she had once told him. “Beauty isn’t truth, and truth isn’t beauty. Leave that romantic nonsense to your father and his friends. Beauty declares itself to the world, whereas truth prefers to lurk in the shadows. You have to coax it into the light, and it comes blinking like a bear out of hibernation. That’s how you recognize it.”

  His father liked to joke that she was a chip off the old block, the old block being a no-nonsense Scotsman who had recently retired from a physics professorship at Cambridge University. Where else had she picked up her Newtonian approach to life? For her, human beings were simply objects in motion, continually exerting influences on each other; and the force of intellect, if properly applied, could decipher the cat’s cradle of cause and effect.

  Luke knew from his father that she hadn’t always thought of the world in such mechanistic terms. It was the crutch she had reached for after Douglas’ death. Her way of coping with the unthinkable: that the son she brought into the world had been vaporized in a blaze of high explosive on a hillside near Béthune—reduced to a bloody pulp in the sucking mud. Luke sometimes wondered if she replayed the scene in her head, toying with the vectors that had determined the parabola of the German shell: the length and elevation of the barrel, the gravitational acceleration, the strength of the crosswind. There were other considerations to be factored in, such as Douglas’ friendship with Roland, the fellow officer he had gone to assist when the shell struck, obliterating them both. A myriad of variables, and if each of them could be explained, then maybe so could Douglas’ death.

  If these were the kind of calculations that plagued his mother in her private moments, she never shared them with Luke. He had never been made to feel that the ghost of Douglas stalked the corridors of the big house, or that they had adopted Luke as some kind of stand-in for their thwarted affections. Though they talked freely about Douglas, he was never idolized. The silver-framed photograph on the grand piano in the drawing room was the only image of him on display in the whole house, and when they marked the anniversary of his death each year, they did so openly, without awkwardness. If anything, Luke was the one with a tear in his eye, at the thought of the older brother he would never meet, snatched away by the Fates well before his time.

  This was the sort of language his father employed: the ill winds of fate, the fickle wheel of fortune—phrases his wife would have dismissed as twaddle while recognizing her own part in their usage. She had swung one way, her husband the other. It was Newton’s Third Law of Motion: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

  By nature, Luke leaned toward his father’s more whimsical take on the world. What he needed right now, though, was a strong shot of his mother’s inductive reasoning.

  A case of mistaken identity? she would have asked. Who do they think you are? Could it be that the man they’re really after is known to you, even involved in misdirecti
ng them? Is he sacrificing you to protect himself?

  “I didn’t expect to find you still here.”

  Luke swiveled on his stool. There was a clamminess to Fautrier’s face that one might have ascribed to the close heat of the bar, if it hadn’t been for the accompanying pallor.

  “I thought about it,” said Luke.

  “You were right to stay. What did she say?”

  “She’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  “She lives nearby. She won’t be long.”

  They took their glasses to a table at the back of the bar. It was an unprepossessing place, small and shabby, its painted walls stained yellow with decades of cigarette smoke, but it fit the two criteria Fautrier demanded: it was just around the corner from the British embassy, and neither of them had ever frequented it before.

  “How is it?” Luke asked, meaning the wound.

  “Worse than I thought. The bullet is still in there, but I’ll be okay.”

  “And if you’re not?”

  “Then remember what I said before. Disappear.”

  Luke took a moment to digest the line. “Who do they think I am?”

  Fautrier savored a sip of brandy. “A German agent.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I happen to agree with you.”

  “Why?” Luke demanded. “You said in your note you’d been ordered to kill me. What changed your mind?”

  Fautrier hesitated, as if questioning the motive himself. “It was Guernica, Picasso’s painting … the look in your eyes … the disgust. You’re not working for the fascists.”

  “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound very plausible.”

  Fautrier dabbed at his sweat-beaded brow with the back of his hand. “Twenty years ago I would have done it, taken my money. You got me at a good moment.”

  “A killer with a conscience?” said Luke, ladling on the skepticism.

  “No,” came Fautrier’s terse reply. “A killer who questioned his orders, only for them to send someone to kill him.” He paused. “That’s right, I was lucky.”

  Luke stared at his drink, suddenly chastened. There was no denying the evidence of his own eyes: the deceptively meek-looking man at L’Hirondelle had been on the point of putting a bullet in him when Fautrier intervened.

  “I would tell you more if I knew it. The best I can do is try and convince them they’ve got the wrong person—not just for you, for me, too. Until then, you do what I say if you want to stay out of their way.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I only know who I get my orders from, but that means nothing. He deals with anybody, as long as they pay.”

  Again, it didn’t ring entirely true, but what else could he do?

  “Why the passport? Where are we going?”

  “I’m not; you are,” said Fautrier. “Konstanz.”

  “Germany?”

  “Only just. The border with Switzerland runs through the town.” He made Luke memorize a name and an address, testing him on both until he was satisfied.

  “And who is this Pippi Keller?”

  “Someone I know. Someone they don’t know. You’ll be safe with her.”

  Fautrier drained the last of his cognac, then announced he was going to make himself scarce before Diana turned up, in case she had company.

  “I told you, I trust her.”

  “That is your choice.” Fautrier grimaced as he levered himself to his feet. “Don’t tell her more than you have to.”

  Luke watched him leave the bar, impressed that there was nothing in the way he moved to suggest he was carrying a lump of lead in his side. His back was straight, his head held high.

  When Diana appeared fifteen minutes later, she had something of the same composed dignity about her, even though the suitcase she was carrying made her look like a refugee. Luke rose to greet her and was rewarded with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

  “This better be good.”

  He already had a glass of red wine waiting for her. She took a sip. “Brouilly. You remember.”

  “It wasn’t so long ago.”

  She produced his passport from her jacket pocket and handed it over.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m waiting,” she said.

  He held her gaze for a moment. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  She was going to hear it soon enough anyway. The news would rip through the embassy tomorrow morning.

  “Someone just tried to kill me at L’Hirondelle.” Diana was acquainted with the restaurant; they had dined there together several times before strolling back to his apartment. “Another man stepped in and shot him—shot him in the head.”

  “Not funny,” she said.

  “There’s more. Another killing.” He told her about the showdown near the Luxembourg Gardens, and the hijacking of the government minister’s car.

  “Luke …” she pleaded feebly, still wanting to believe he was pulling her leg.

  “It’s true. It’ll be all over the embassy tomorrow.”

  “Oh, God,” she muttered.

  “I’ve got nothing to do with it, I promise you. It’s a mistake. They think I’m some kind of spy.”

  “Are you? I’ve sometimes wondered. I even hoped …” She glanced off, embarrassed by the admission.

  “What?”

  “Oh, you know, something exotic to tell my grandchildren.”

  “Diana, I’m a nobody, Wyeth’s lackey, his boy Friday.”

  “I thought that might be a front. You’re so much smarter than he is.”

  “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you. Listen, you have to stay out of this, keep your mouth well shut, for your own sake.”

  “That might be difficult. Tweedledum was very surprised to see me just now.”

  It was their nickname for one of the two portly guards who shared the gate detail at the embassy. “Pity it wasn’t Tweedledee,” observed Luke. “Still, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer; he may not put two and two together. If he does, you’d better have a story ready.” He thought on it for a moment. “Tell them I decided to head back to England a day early for Agnes’ funeral—yes. But I realized too late that my passport was at work and I’d miss the train if I went and got it, so I asked you to grab it and meet me at the Gare du Nord.”

  “It’s not very convincing.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. I asked you to run an errand. I am your boss, remember?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Outside on the pavement, Luke hailed a passing taxi. Diana planted a kiss on his cheek, her body pressed close enough to stir memories. “Where are you going to go?” she asked.

  “You know I can’t tell you.”

  She looked downcast. “I wish I could help.”

  “You’ve done enough already.” He was about to close the taxi door on her, then paused. “Actually, there’s one more thing you can do for me. Call my parents and say I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  She nodded.

  “And tell them I love them.”

  For a worrying moment, Luke thought Fautrier was dead. He sat stooped, head hanging, in the passenger seat of the stolen sedan. He was, in fact, counting out bills on his lap. Luke slid the suitcase onto the backseat and got behind the wheel.

  “She is beautiful,” said Fautrier.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “You are lovers?”

  “Were. Briefly.”

  “Why did she end it?”

  Judging from the faint smile, the presumption was intended in jest.

  “She had never felt such desire before. It was so overwhelming it scared her.”

  Fautrier laughed, then winced. “Poor girl.”

  �
�It petered out. The spark wasn’t there. We both knew it.”

  Fautrier handed Luke a bundle of cash. “Reichsmarks and some dollars. Now, drive.”

  “Where?”

  “The Gare de l’Est.”

  They parked near the church on Rue Saint-Laurent, just south of the station. Fautrier rummaged in the holdall at his feet and produced a semiautomatic pistol fitted with a silencer. “Do you need me to show you how it works?”

  “No.”

  “There are six rounds in the magazine.”

  “I thought a Browning took seven.”

  “I used one at my apartment.”

  The briefing then began in earnest. It was as thorough as any Luke had received during all his years in the Royal Air Force. Fautrier spoke fluently, concisely, backtracking every so often to check that some instruction or other had been properly logged.

  They parted company at the end of the road. “I’ll see you safely onto the train. Don’t look for me. I’ll be there. If you hear a gunshot, it is a warning. Run, and keep running. Find another way to get to Konstanz. There is a café in Zurich, in the old town, in Hirschenplatz—Café Glück. I’ll meet you there next Tuesday at four o’clock. If you can’t make it, I’ll be there at the same time every day after that. What is the name of the café?”

  “Glück,” said Luke. “Luck.”

  “Easy to remember, because you have had a lot of it today.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “You will need more of it before this is finished.” Fautrier offered Luke his hand. “Be careful. It is good to trust others, but better not to.”

  “Does that go for you, too?”

  Fautrier smiled. “You’re learning.”

  Chapter Six

  “It’s me.”

  “Is it done?”

  “No.”

  Petrovic was left hanging with only the crackle of the telephone line for company. The voice, when it finally came, was laced with menace. “Was it Borodin?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many dead?”

  “Two for certain, probably four.”