The Blacklist--The Dead Ring No. 166

by Jon McGoran

Chapter 8

  Keen and Ressler had gotten on the next plane from Dulles to El Paso, but the drive from the airport to the bridge took longer than the flight itself, in no small part due to the traffic clogging the tiny rural roads, trying to find alternate routes to the bridge, which was closed indefinitely.

  “I guess that would be it,” Ressler said, nodding over the steering wheel at the mess that appeared in front of them as they rounded a bend in the road.

  Keen let out a sigh. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  The bridge was a charred ruin: bits of concrete and rebar hanging from the bottom, blackened metal hulks all burned and twisted clogging the top. The streambed that ran underneath it was littered with pieces of bridge and vehicles blackened from the burning fuel that had spilled.

  Yellow tent cards showed where the bodies had been found, scattered under the bridge and carpeting the tarmac itself. Keen thought of dandelions taking over a neglected lawn.

  The scene was surrounded by local cops from several jurisdictions, clustered by their different uniforms and mostly just watching as the state officials worked the scene.

  A news van from a local network affiliate was still parked alongside the road leading up to the bridge. It was probably the biggest local story in the last twenty years. She hoped the coming days wouldn’t bring any bigger ones.

  Ressler parked just past the news vans and just before the long line of patrol cars. As they walked up to the bridge, one of the local cops turned around with his hands up in front of him and an exasperated look on his face. Keen got the sense he’d probably been turning away gawkers for the past two days.

  But Keen and Ressler held up their badges before he could even tell them there was nothing to see.

  “FBI,” Ressler said, drawing looks from the other cops milling around.

  Keen could hear the buzz of conversation double in volume and intensity.

  The cop who had been waving them off stepped closer and asked, “Do they think this is a terrorist attack?”

  “No,” Keen said firmly. “We just wanted to take a look.”

  “Oh,” the cop said. Disappointed, he waved them through and rejoined the cluster of cops in the uniforms that matched his.

  The scene was under the control of the Texas state forensics team. Half a dozen techs in bright yellow protective overalls were combing through the wreckage.

  A trio of agents in shirts and ties stood at the end of the bridge looking on. “Who’s in charge of the scene?” Ressler asked as they approached.

  They turned around and one of them said, “Who’s asking?”

  Keen held up her badge. “FBI. Agents Keen and Ressler.”

  “Deputy Barker. You guys asserting jurisdiction?” He seemed almost hopeful.

  Keen felt bad for him. She shook her head. “No, we’re looking into a case that could be related. We’re hoping to get some info, maybe take a look around.”

  Barker let out a sigh. Instead of shrinking, his workload would be growing. “Yeah, all right.”

  “What does it look like?”

  He let out a tired laugh. “It looks like a goddamned mess. Looks like the tanker truck malfunctioned and released its load. They shouldn’t have been transporting gasoline in that truck, anyway. We’re thinking the load may have been stolen. The truck, too, for that matter. Whatever it was, the back opened up, released a couple thousand gallons of gasoline, and the whole thing went up. Burned so hot it’s hard to determine what else went on, if anything.”

  He handed them booties to put on over their shoes and masks to wear over their faces. “I’d say don’t mess up my crime scene, but I can’t imagine it any more messed up than it already is. Just watch your step and mind the spots where the decking melted through. We’re all out of body bags.”

  Keen and Ressler booted up and walked out onto the bridge. The smell was overwhelming: gasoline, burnt plastic and other materials, and the lingering smell of charred flesh.

  Visually, it was even more overwhelming. The bodies had been removed, but the bridge was still packed with the twisted, blackened hulks in which so many of them had died. The place was haunted.

  Keen and Ressler slowly weaved their way between burned-out vehicles, the techs collecting evidence, and the gaping holes where bits of bridge had collapsed.

  Keen spotted something on the railing and Ressler followed her over to it.

  “Is that one of those cameras Aram was pointing out when we watched the video?” she asked.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  She called over one of the evidence techs and asked him to collect it and bag it for her. He took a few pictures of it, then gently pried it off the railing with a screwdriver. He put it in a bag and logged it in, then held it out for Keen to look at.

  “It looks like a camera, all right,” she said, turning it over in her hands. “And it looks like it was clamped on with a plastic clip, not permanently attached.” She pointed at the melted and charred clip on the bottom of it.

  “It’s got a battery pack, too,” Ressler added, looking over her shoulder. “No cables at all.”

  “So it had a wireless connection.”

  Ressler looked around. “Makes you wonder what it was wirelessly connected to.”

  Chapter 9

  Red had watched the video a dozen more times. Each time he felt more certain he was right. But not a hundred percent certain. That’s why he and Dembe were on his plane headed to Paris. If it had been anyone other than Marianne LeCroix—Le Chat— there would have been people he could have called, things he could have done. Ways he could have confirmed her identity without leaving the country.

  But that wasn’t possible with Le Chat. The woman was a cipher. A ghost. Red was one of a small handful of people who had seen her in the flesh. And one of a much smaller handful who had touched that flesh. He closed his eyes at the memory of the taut, supple strength in her slender body.

  As the plane began to descend, Reddington closed his eyes and pictured LeCroix—not the LeCroix from the video, but the one he remembered from so long ago.

  It made no sense that Le Chat would be involved with anything like the Dead Ring. But there she was.

  And if it was indeed her, that was a lead.

  * * *

  Louis Jarette was a tiny troll of a man whose outsized charm more than made up for his physical shortcomings. He was a lover of life and the better things in it, and Red had long considered him a kindred spirit in many ways. As Dembe drove him expertly across Paris, Red smiled at the thought of seeing the little man.

  It was Jarette who had introduced Reddington to Marianne LeCroix years earlier.

  Red had put together a complex and potentially quite lucrative deal that hinged upon a letter of credit from the president of a large, multinational bank; a man whose financial acumen was matched only by his carelessness in regards to his ingeniously original sexual peccadillos.

  As so often is the case, there were photos. The bank president was being blackmailed.

  Red needed the blackmail to end, which meant he needed the photos, which meant he was looking for the best second-story man out there, who, as it turned out, was a woman.

  Red insisted on meeting her before agreeing to terms, and it was early enough in her career that she agreed. He had expected someone dangerous and seductive and highly secretive, an elite international cat burglar with the unique brand of effortless elegance that only the French possess.

  To his surprise, she was American, although of French descent, and now living in the City of Light. Everything else was exactly as he had pictured.

  They discussed the job, exchanged some banter along the way. Two days later, she returned with the photos of the bank president, as well as several of the blackmailer himself, souvenirs of a sort that were incriminating enough they could put the blackmailer under Red’s thumb if it ever came to that.

  It was the kind of bold move that caused Red to look at LeCroix in a new light—and he had already been looking at her with
a certain radiance.

  It was a Friday. Red concluded his business with the bank president that afternoon. He had dinner with LeCroix at his hotel that night. Dinner turned into a weekend.

  They both knew the whole time it wouldn’t be more than that. It couldn’t. But they lived every minute of it as if they would last forever.

  At dawn on Monday, she left. Red was awake, but he didn’t let on. She wanted to slip out, so he let her. Why let the memory of a glorious weekend be sullied by an awkward and pointless conversation on a Monday morning?

  He never saw her again. Almost no one did. He nearly hired her several years later, again through Jarette. By then she was using the nom de crime, Le Chat. Jarette told him sadly there would be no face-to-face. Jarette seemed unaware of the contact they’d shared that went considerably beyond face-to-face.

  Red had wondered briefly if their tryst was somehow the cause, but he knew it probably had nothing to do with him. Just good business sense. He ended up not hiring her again after all. He told himself that was just good business sense as well.

  Chapter 10

  Jarette held court in a watchmaker’s shop in Paris. He actually did fine work on antique watches, but it was just a hobby and a front. His job was go-between for an assortment of high-end providers of criminal services. For a time, he had tried to get people to call him The Watchmaker, but it didn’t catch on. Red had referred to him that way once or twice, to be a good sport, but no one ever knew who he was talking about. He was Jarette, and that was enough.

  “Monsieur Reddington!” Jarette said with a broad crooked smile when Red walked into the shop. The place looked exactly the same, muted golden light, rich upholstery, and ancient polished wood. Red knew it concealed the latest in monitoring security, and very possibly automated defense technology, as well.

  Jarette had been sitting on a stool at his counter. He stood when he saw Red, and gained an inch of height at most as he did. He crossed the room and they embraced, Red leaning forward for the customary French air kisses.

  Dembe remained in the car. Jarette did business strictly one on one.

  “Good God, man, it’s been years,” Jarette exclaimed. “I thought maybe I’d seen the last of you. So nice to be proven wrong. Cognac?”

  “Why not?”

  Jarette produced a bottle and two tulip glasses from under his counter. He poured an inch into each, then handed one to Red.

  They swirled their glasses with identical motions, coating the inside of the glasses with the brown liquid and warming it with their hands, then simultaneously raised them.

  Red closed his eyes, letting the fumes rise into his nose and sipping at the same time, rolling it over his tongue and letting it take over his senses.

  It was a fine cognac, delivering a moment of concentrated bliss that was as intense as it was brief. Which reminded him of LeCroix, and the reason for his visit.

  Red opened his eyes to see Jarette lowering his glass, returning, perhaps from a similarly transportive experience. He smiled awkwardly, as if embarrassed at the unguarded moment.

  “It’s very good,” Jarette said, apologizing for his reaction more than bragging about the quality of the cognac.

  “It is indeed.”

  Jarette resumed his swirling, at a slower rate. “What brings you here, my friend?”

  “I’m looking for an old acquaintance.”

  Jarette raised an eyebrow then sipped his cognac. This time his eyes remained open and pinned on Red.

  “Not all old friends want to be found.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, then Jarette looked away.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  He put down his glass. “I don’t. I wouldn’t tell you if I did, but I do not. She is gone, I can tell you that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s in trouble. Greater trouble than even all her precautions could protect her from, than I could protect her from.”

  “What happened?”

  “She took a job. Just a regular job: jewels and artwork.” He shrugged and picked up his glass, draining it in a gulp. “Tout s’est passé sans anicroche. Without a hitch, no?”

  Red sipped his cognac and waited for him to continue.

  “She robbed Claude Corbeaux. Do you know him?”

  The cognac soured as it went down. Corbeaux was the powerful and vindictive head of La Compagnie, a brutal European crime syndicate.

  Red nodded. “I do. He is not a man to be trifled with.”

  Jarette laughed sadly. “Indeed, he is not. Now Corbeaux’s men are after her, and they always will be. He has a reputation for that.”

  “I know.”

  “Le Chat was desperate and scared. She told me she was disappearing. She asked me to liquidate what assets of hers I was holding, which I did. She said she was doing one last job, and then she was going to disappear forever.”

  “One last big score?” Red shook his head. “Good lord, has she never read a crime novel?”

  Jarette smiled. “She made it sound like this would be something very different. I cannot imagine what.”

  Red’s mind immediately went to the Dead Ring, but it was still so unlikely, still such a stretch. “I need to speak with her.”

  He shook his head. “She is gone.”

  “Did she leave anything? Any clues?”

  “You know I wouldn’t give them to you if she did, but no.”

  Red’s eyes hardened as he tried to determine if Jarette was telling the truth, or if he was simply trying to protect Le Chat. If so Red was going to have to be more persuasive. He raised an eyebrow, conveying this to Jarette, who seemed to accurately perceive the situation.

  Jarette held up one finger, then stood and retreated to the back room of the shop.

  It was a delicate moment. Red wanted information that Jarette wanted to withhold. If the impasse could not be resolved, they both knew the next step might involve more than polite conversation. But Red was confident that Jarette knew better than to come at him with force.

  Jarette knew the consequences, he knew he would fail, and that just wasn’t his way. Dembe, waiting in the car, would be there at the slightest hint of trouble. But Red knew he could easily handle anything Jarette was capable of throwing at him.

  He returned a moment later and held two keys on a ring. “Marianne’s apartment. Everything she left behind is still there. You can search it for clues if you wish, but I doubt you will find anything.”

  Red smiled, relieved that he wouldn’t have to harm his friend. As his fingers closed on the keys, he said, “Thank you.”

  Chapter 11

  LeCroix’s home was actually two conjoined apartments located in adjacent buildings: identical gray structures, solid and heavy but with the slightest Gallic slouch, honestly acquired over many, many years. One faced south, the other east, with a door installed between them.

  Red and Dembe approached quietly from the east. The door was locked but opened easily and silently with the key.

  Dembe waited at the door and Red entered, his gun drawn and equipped with a silencer. The interior was a mess. Magazines, clothes, and books were strewn across the floor. No matter the haste with which LeCroix had left, she would not have left it like that. As Red entered further, he could see it had indeed been ransacked. The sofa and chair had been slit and the stuffing pulled out of them.

  The place had been so thoroughly searched, Red knew the slim chance of finding a clue about LeCroix’s whereabouts had been reduced to none.

  Luckily, a clue found him.

  It emerged from the closet, leveling a gun at Red’s face, and said, “Qui es-tu?”

  He had a bulk around his chest and shoulders that his cheap sport coat couldn’t conceal. His face was hard and his eyes were the kind of dead that looked like they might liven up for violence.

  Red smiled and wiggled his gun, making sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Well, that depends. Who are you?”

  “You are American?” he
said with a heavy accent.

  “Citizen of the world, I like to think. But American enough.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for Le Chat.”

  “Why?”

  Red laughed. “Same as you, I imagine. To kill her.”

  The other man relaxed, just a bit. “You work for Corbeaux?”

  “I work for whoever pays my fee. This time, yes, it is Corbeaux.”

  The man spit a string of French curses.

  “You thought you were the only one.”

  The gun came back up.

  Red shrugged, unfazed. “Looks like you did a pretty thorough job searching the place. Any clues about where she has gone?”

  He shook his head, quickly, vigorously, and with the enthusiastic certainty possessed only by liars. “How about you? Any ideas?”

  “Actually, yes,” Red said, leaning closer.

  As the other man leaned closer, too, Red shot him under the ribs and took his gun. He stepped out of the way, letting the man fall unimpeded. It had been clear from the first moment that only one of them would leave the apartment alive.

  Dembe rushed in, but Red held up his hands to let him know everything was under control. He knelt down next to the man, whose groans were already fading.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know about where she is, so I can get you some help,” Red told him.

  He looked up at Red. There was blood on his lips. “Screw… you.”

  One hand clutched his wound. The other was out to his side.

  Red stepped on his wrist and put the silencer against the man’s palm. His eyes widened. Red pulled the trigger.

  He let out a sound that was a cross between a snort and a moan, as if he would have screamed if he had enough life in him.

  Red tapped the fresh wound and the moan rose in pitch. “Where is she? Tell me and I’ll help you.”

  “I… I don’t know. I found nothing. Please… help me. I have a picture, that’s all.”

  “A picture?”

  “In my jacket.” He coughed, a minor eruption of blood that made his eyes go round as he choked on it.

  Red reached inside his jacket and pulled out a three-by-five photo. As he looked at it, he felt a hitch in his breath. It looked more like the woman in the video than the one from his memories. Clearly, though, it was both.