Zaharia did not have any difficulty finding the train for Orleans. He got on that train and again climbed onto a luggage rack. Again he pulled the suitcases together to conceal himself, but a few moments later a policeman pulled them aside and ordered him down from the rack. The policeman asked Zaharia for his ticket, but Zaharia did not have one. The policeman asked the boy where he was going and why he did not have a ticket. “You cannot travel without a ticket,” he said.
“I am going to see … my uncle,” said the boy.
“Your uncle?” said the policeman. “Really. Well, I think you had better come with me.”
The policeman and Zaharia stepped down from the train. The policeman kept his arm across Zaharia’s shoulder and walked him out of the station.
“Please,” Zaharia said, “my uncle will be waiting for me in Tours at the station.”
The policeman did not speak. Instead, he steered Zaharia to a blue police car. He opened the door and waited while the boy got inside. “Have you ever been in a police car?” asked the policeman, and smiled at the boy in what was meant to be a friendly manner.
“No,” said Zaharia. They drove a short distance to the precinct station. “Please,” said Zaharia again, “my uncle is waiting for me. He will be worried if I don’t arrive.”
“So,” said the policeman, “what’s your name?”
“Zaharia Lefort,” said Zaharia.
“And where do you live, Zaharia? Where are your parents?”
“I’m going to live with my uncle,” said the boy. “My parents are … at home?”
“Your uncle? And where does your uncle live?”
“In Tours,” said the boy. “I already told you.”
“And who is your uncle? What’s his name?”
Zaharia thought for a while but did not answer.
“If you tell me his name, Zaharia, then we can take you back to the train, and you can go see him.”
“Louis Morgon,” said Zaharia. “His name is Louis Morgon.”
“And do you have a telephone number or an address for him?”
“He is waiting for me in Tours. At the station. He has a big car and a big house. With servants.”
The policeman opened the door of the police car and got out. He stood there leaning on the open door while he kept one hand on the steering wheel and one foot in the car.
“Jean!” he called to a colleague who was having a smoke on the front steps of the precinct station. “Jean! I’ve got a runaway. Would you watch him while I go in and check out his story?” Jean, the man on the steps, dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. He took a step in their direction. The first policeman released the steering wheel, stepped around the door, and started walking toward the station house. As soon as he did, Zaharia slid across the seat, put the car in gear, and spun the car away from the curb and out into traffic, the open front door still flapping. The shouts of the two policemen running after him were lost in the sound of squealing tires.
Zaharia wove his way through traffic and circled back to the train station the way they had come. He left the car in an alley behind the station and ran inside. The train for Orleans had already left, and the next one was not leaving for another fifteen minutes. But the fast train for Paris was just about to leave, so Paris would have to do.
The police soon found the police car parked neatly against the curb, the keys still in the ignition. Four policemen ran into the train station. Two stood by the tracks watching the crowds pass, while the other two got on the next train for Orleans. They walked through all the cars and checked all the baggage racks, but they did not find the boy, so they got off. The four continued searching the station for some time. They walked up and down the aisles of those trains scheduled for imminent departure, scanning the crowds, watching people come and go, before they finally gave up.
Back at the precinct, the policeman named Jean and the one who had first arrested Zaharia did a computer search on the name Louis Morgon. Jean, the officer at the computer, let out a low whistle. “What is it?” said the other policeman, and leaned toward the screen.
“This kid’s uncle? Take a look.”
Now the other policemen let out a whistle.
“Do you think that’s where this kid is really heading?”
“I think it probably is. I scared him. I think he was telling the truth. Not the whole truth, but some of the truth. Call headquarters. If they can find this kid, they might just be able to follow him right to his ‘uncle’s’ doorstep.”
“Do you think Morgon is really his uncle?”
“Who knows? I doubt it. The kid’s North African; Morgon’s American, it says here.”
“Maybe the kid’s a courier or a messenger or something.”
“No. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have given up Morgon; he’d have known to lie. Besides, he’s too young. What do you think, twelve maybe? I could tell he was just plain scared. And especially of the police.”
“Maybe so. But I’ll tell you this: that little bugger sure can drive.”
The first policeman did not find this amusing. “Call Paris,” he said.
Louis went to the café by the Pen’noch harbor every morning. And every morning he bought The International Herald Tribune at the bar, whose proprietor now greeted him as though he had lived there his entire life.
“Et un café, Monsieur Bertand?”
“Oui, Pascal, un café noir,” said Louis. He sat at a table by the window and looked out on the boats dipping and bobbing in the harbor while he sipped his coffee. He opened the newspaper to the employment wanted advertisements. When he did not find what he was looking for, he read the rest of the paper. He read with particular interest about the American presidential campaign, about the back-and-forth accusations, the outrageous charges and countercharges, the appeals to patriotism and religious righteousness. “To think that I once thought I understood all this,” he said to himself. Pascal was already accustomed to Monsieur Bertrand’s occasional muttering and no longer looked up.
One morning—it was cloudy and cool, and the ocean had all but disappeared behind a bank of fog—Louis turned the pages of the newspaper and found the advertisement he had been waiting for: Well-qualified international traveler in search of executive banking position. Specialty: import, export, tax law. Contact IHT Box KH4472.
In Saint Leon, Renard saw the advertisement too. He folded the paper, took a last swallow of coffee, and stood up. He left the Hôtel de France and walked to his car. Three hours later, when he arrived in Quimper, Louis was waiting for him in the small park near the train station, just across from the Café Brezh. The two men shook hands and took a small table at the back of the café.
“I am sure,” said Louis, “a lot of people are watching this particular advertisement. It is being scrutinized by those to whom it was not addressed as though it were a sacred text. The French Sûreté will certainly respond to the ad, trying somehow to entice the Americans to let them in on the game. I am not sure, but the Algerians may well know what is going on as well. And who knows how much al Qaeda knows. Or cares.
“It would be amusing,” said Louis after a thoughtful pause, “to be able to see it all from above. It is like a game of Chinese checkers.”
“I still don’t know how you are able to do that,” Renard said. “How do you stay so detached from such a deadly business? You’re still a mystery to me, after all this time.”
“I know, Jean. You don’t like my calling it a game,” said Louis. “You want me to take it more seriously. But you understand—don’t you?—if I did, I would be overwhelmed by it. The only hope I have of solving things to my satisfaction is to remain fascinated.
“Of course, that is the great seductive fallacy, isn’t it? The truth is, it can’t be solved; there’s nothing to be solved. Every mystery, even the most obvious, is too complicated and too simple to ever have a solution. An outcome, maybe. But an outcome is never a solution. It’s just an outcome.”
Renard
reached for a cigarette.
Louis smiled at his friend before he continued. “Be that as it may,” he said, “the Americans will almost certainly try to do things entirely on their own, without notifying the French, without notifying anyone else. I am certain Hugh Bowes does not want French special forces interfering with his assassins. The French, in turn, will not be keen on seeing me, or any other ‘terrorist,’ for that matter, gunned down on a beautiful French beach while they stand idly by. That is certainly in my favor.”
“If that is in your favor,” said Renard, “then that is all.”
Louis smiled again in Renard’s direction. “I think we can improve the odds,” he said. “For instance, I’m depending on you to see that Pénichon is informed somehow, and that he figures out where and when this will all occur. The trick will be to make certain that he notifies his superiors, and that they organize a French presence.”
“On the beach?”
“I’ve told you too much too soon,” said Louis.
“Well, you have said it, and you can’t take it back now,” said Renard. He understood why Louis did not want to say very much, but he did not like it.
The two men stared across the table at one another. Finally Louis spoke again. “The great beach just north of Pen’noch. The one with the German bunkers. That’s where I’ll meet them.”
“And why the beach?”
“Because it’s wide open, so they can see that I’m alone. And because they’ll have a clear shot. They’ll love that about the choice. I want them to be happy.”
Renard looked at his friend to be certain he was serious. “If you promise to explain yourself to me,” Renard said, “I will figure out how to notify Pénichon.”
“When it begins to unfold,” said Louis, “if things go as I hope, the reasons for my choice of the beach will become obvious. If I am unlucky, well, … it won’t matter.”
Renard did not like the direction the conversation was taking, so he changed it. “If you could give me a letter or something for Pénichon, that would help.”
“I had the same thought,” said Louis. He reached inside his pocket and withdrew an envelope, which he handed to Renard. “Say that you persuaded me to send you a copy of my response to the advert. Mention my despondency again as a reason, if you like.” Louis smiled thinly and added, “It would not be entirely untrue.”
The two men ate the rest of their meal in silence.
XIX
It was barely five o’clock when Renard arrived back in Saint Leon, but it was already nearly dark. The time had changed from daylight savings time the week before. “Winter is coming,” said Renard as he drove down the last hill. “The night season.” The village was shrouded in dusk. Curtains had been pulled and shutters had been closed. The only light to be seen came in thin shards poking their way out into the evening from around the edges of shutters.
As he was passing on the road below Louis’s house, Renard thought he saw a light showing through one of Louis’s windows. But that was impossible. Still, he stopped, backed up, and looked again. He had not been mistaken. Someone had been inside and had left a light on. Or they were inside now.
Renard stopped in front of the house that had been Solesme’s. It was shuttered and dark. The property had been sold, but the new owners had not taken possession yet. Renard left his car there and walked back up the hill to Louis’s driveway. He could not see the house from the bottom of the drive. He stood for a while and listened, but he did not hear anything.
Slowly he climbed the hill, walking on the grass beside the drive to avoid making any noise. Where the drive crested the hill, Renard finally got a good view of the house. There was no car in the drive, so he stopped and listened again. Then he moved closer. The light he had seen was coming from a half-open shutter on the kitchen window. He had just about convinced himself that no one was there and was reaching into his pocket for the key when a shadow flickered across the window.
Renard stood against the wall and tried to look inside. But he could see only a narrow section of the kitchen. Then he heard the sound of water running; he moved sideways and the edge of the kitchen sink came into view. He saw an arm. The arm moved, and whoever it was turned toward the window. Renard ducked back out of sight.
After waiting a moment, Renard stepped to the door. Slowly he tested the handle. The latch was still broken and the door was open. He took a deep breath, held it, threw open the door, and lunged inside. A figure dove past him and was almost out the door, but Renard reached out and grabbed at its arm. He missed the arm, but his hand struck the person’s shoulder squarely and knocked him onto the floor. Before he could scramble to his feet, Renard had a small, ragged boy firmly in his grip.
The boy kicked and struggled mightily. “Let me go! Let me go!” he shouted, lashing out in every direction. Renard wrapped his arms around the boy, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted him completely off the floor and staggered backward into the living room, where he managed to get one leg around the boy’s flailing legs. With that, the two of them collapsed onto the couch. The boy continued to struggle, but Renard held him tightly. The water was still running in the kitchen sink.
“Let me go,” said the boy. “Please let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He had a strong North African accent. “I wasn’t hurting anything,” he said. “Let me go.”
“Who are you?” said Renard.
“Let me go,” said the boy.
“What are you doing here?” Renard demanded.
“Let me go.”
“Don’t you know this house belongs to someone? It is private property. You are trespassing on private property. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, I know,” said the boy. “Of course I know. It belongs to Monsieur Louis Morgon, doesn’t it? I know him. I am waiting for him. For Monsieur Morgon.”
“You are waiting for him? You know him?”
“Yes, I am waiting for him. I must see him.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Since yesterday. I have been waiting since yesterday. Are you the police?”
“How do you know Monsieur Morgon?”
“I knew him back home. He is my father’s friend. My father said, if I need help, I should find him. Where can I find him? Please tell me.” The boy had stopped fighting. Renard loosened his grip. The boy hesitated, then gestured toward the sink. “The water,” he said, and backed toward the sink to turn off the water—looking at Renard as he went. It looked as though he might bolt again, so Renard rose and stationed himself by the door. The boy was defiant. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting for Monsieur Morgon. When will he be back?”
“Sit down over here,” said Renard. In their struggle, Renard and the boy had knocked over a chair. Renard set it upright, and only then did he notice that the house was no longer in its ransacked state. The furniture had been set upright and straightened. Drawers had been replaced in the buffet, books had been stacked on the bookshelves.
“Did you clean all this up?” asked Renard.
“Are you the police?” asked the boy again.
“Yes, I am the police,” said Renard. “I am the policeman in this village. Now you tell me who you are.”
“Zaharia Lefort,” said the boy.
“Lefort?” said Renard. “Are you related to Pierre Lefort?”
“Yes,” said the boy. He suddenly looked very small sitting on the chair. “He is my father,” he said, and began to cry. He turned his head so Renard would not see his tears. “They killed him,” said the boy. “Did you know my father?”
“I knew him … only slightly,” said Renard. “They killed him?”
“Did you put him in jail?” said the boy.
“Yes, I arrested him. He stole some things, so he had to go to jail. Who killed him?”
“When is Monsieur Morgon coming back?”
“He is away for a while. Who killed your father? Do you know?”
“No,” said the bo
y. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.”
“Have you eaten?”
The boy had been eating whatever he could find in Louis’s house, mostly canned goods. Whatever had been in the refrigerator had mostly spoiled. In fact, the boy had cleaned the refrigerator and had washed the dishes, which now stood in stacks by the sink.
“Monsieur Morgon is my friend,” said Renard. “He will be very grateful that you have cleaned his house.”
“Who made such a mess?” said the boy. “Was it Monsieur Morgon?”
“I think it was maybe the same people who killed your father. They were looking for something. That is why you are not safe here.”
“But I have to stay and wait for Monsieur Morgon.”
“I live nearby,” said Renard. “My wife has made a nice supper. You can wait for Monsieur Morgon at my house.” They walked down the hill to Renard’s car. Renard carried the boy’s bundle under one arm and rested the other arm lightly across the boy’s thin shoulders. Zaharia wondered whether the police always put their arms on your shoulders to keep you from running. They drove the short distance to Renard’s house.
“Isabelle, this is Zaharia Lefort,” said Renard. “Zaharia, this is my wife, Isabelle.” Zaharia looked at Isabelle then looked at the floor and murmured, “Bonsoir, madame.”
“Bonsoir, Zaharia,” said Isabelle.
Isabelle put supper on the table, and she and Renard watched the boy devour a heaping plateful of food and then a second plateful. They made up Jean Marie’s bed and carried Zaharia’s things into the small bedroom. They showed him where the bathroom was and wished him a good night. When they got up the next morning, he was gone.
“He went straight back up to your house,” said Renard to Louis the next day. They talked regularly now, from various phone booths, at prearranged times. “I knocked and he opened the door,” said Renard, “like he lived there. ‘I have to wait here for Monsieur Morgon,’ he said. ‘I do not want to miss him when he comes back,’ he said. And that’s where he is. He won’t stay with us, but he can’t stay there. It isn’t safe.
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