She stepped back into the street and walked to the south end of rue du Dragon, crossing rue de Sèvres on to the much wider thoroughfare of rue de Rennes. As she reached the corner, she heard the rumble of a car starting somewhere behind her, and as she walked north on rue de Rennes, she risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the grilled nose of the vehicle emerging on to the same street. The car rolled forward until the cab was in full view, but the sunlight flaring from the windscreen prevented her from making out the driver. Auger quickened her pace, and when she allowed herself another glance back, there was no sign of the car. But there were many similar cars parked along the roadside, and it would not have been difficult for the driver to lose his amongst them.
Auger continued along rue de Rennes, stopping every now and then to try to flag down a taxi. But either it was the wrong time of day, or there was some Parisian knack she hadn’t yet grasped, for the taxis sped on in an indifferent blur of black metal and chrome, leaving her muttering under her breath. Auger glanced back once more and thought she saw the same car again, inching along at walking pace, but no sooner had her suspicions begun to build than the car swerved away down a side street.
Auger told herself sternly that she was being just as paranoid as Susan White’s fictitious persona. The trick was to see things from Floyd’s point of view, not hers. The detective could have no possible idea of the significance of the paperwork in the box. Her story was entirely reasonable, and Floyd should have no grounds to doubt her word. Susan White had even mentioned that her sister would be coming for her belongings.
Still nervous, but forcing herself to act a little more calmly, Auger realised that she had arrived at the entrance to the Métro station at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She would have preferred the speed and safety of a taxi ride, but the train was the next best thing. She fished money from her purse, still not completely familiar with the coinage, and bought a one-way ticket. A train was grinding into the underground station as she cleared the turnstile.
Auger got aboard, moving along the compartment as the doors closed themselves and the train lurched away. She found a seat next to two young women who had their faces buried in fashion magazines. The train burrowed its way south, slowing into Saint-Sulpice, the station’s walls plastered with faded sepia-tinted advertisements for perfume, stockings and tobacco. As people moved on and off the train, Auger checked them out in her peripheral vision, searching for anyone who looked like Floyd or the figure she had seen descending the stairs. But she recognised no one, and as the train pulled away into the darkness of the next tunnel, she allowed herself to relax a notch. After a minute or so, the train slowed into the next station on the line, Saint-Placide, and Auger once again kept an eye on the passengers coming and going. This time, however, it was with less apprehension and more a guarded interest in the private lives of these unwitting prisoners. It was then that Auger noticed a woman stepping out of the train two carriages ahead of the one she was in. The woman had a pretty face framed by very black hair, and it took Auger a moment to place her as the girl who had been cleaning the stairs in rue du Dragon. She had removed her headscarf and apron, but her features were unmistakable. Rather than heading for the exit, the woman walked alongside the train until she reached carriage next to Auger’s, reboarding just as the doors hissed shut and the train hurtled back into darkness.
Auger clutched the handbag tightly against her stomach, resisting the urge to open it to make sure that the paperwork was still safe and sound. Presently, the train began to slow into Montparnasse. Auger made sure she was standing right next to the door as the train pulled to a stop, and was relieved when a surge of people followed her from the train, enveloping and jostling her towards the tiled corridors and stairs that led to the number six line. She pushed ahead of them, all the while clutching her handbag against her like a living thing that needed protection. Climbing stairs, she glanced back and saw the black-haired woman behind her, but almost lost amongst the faces and hats of the other passengers. The number six line ran on an elevated section of track, and when Auger reached daylight she was relieved to see that a train was already in the station, on the point of departure. She ran for it, nearly tripping in her painfully tight shoes, and just managed to get aboard as the doors slid shut. As the train pulled away and Auger caught her breath, she saw the black-haired woman still waiting on the platform.
Auger checked her watch. It was just before ten. Barely an hour had passed since she had walked into the detective’s office.
Floyd picked up the telephone on the first ring. “Greta?”
“It’s me,” she confirmed, sounding a little out of breath.
“I lost her,” Floyd said. He was sitting in the sad, shuttered spare room in Montparnasse. Sophie was upstairs with Marguerite, and the house had a peculiar kind of Sunday-morning calm about it, even though it was only Saturday. “I expected her to get into a taxi as soon as she left the office. But she was on foot, and there was no way I could keep up with her in the car without her getting suspicious. I don’t think she recognised me, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. Better to lose her this time and hope we can pick her up again near Blanchard’s apartment.”
“You think she’ll go back there?”
“She might have unfinished business, especially when she gets a look at what’s inside the box.”
“Maybe she will. In any case, we haven’t lost her yet. I know where she’s staying.”
Floyd brightened. Now and then a piece of unexpected good fortune dropped into his hands like an early Christmas present. “You managed to keep up with her?”
“Not exactly,” Greta said. “I followed her on foot until she reached the station at Saint-Germain. I skulked in the shadows while she bought a ticket, then bought one for myself while she headed for the train. I got on the same train as she did, but made sure I wasn’t in the same carriage. I moved up the train in Saint-Placide, then followed her as she changed on to the number six line at Montparnasse. Luckily, I know that station pretty well: I spent most of my childhood changing trains there. I saw the direction she was taking, but she managed to get on to a train before I reached the platform.”
“Then you lost her.”
“Only for a couple of minutes. I caught the next train out of Montparnasse. We were on the elevated line, moving west, and you have a good view of the street from those elevated stations, so I kept my eyes peeled. It paid off. I saw her walking away from the station at Dupleix, just as we were slowing down. I got off the train, hared down the steps and followed her all the way home, always hanging a block behind her.”
“I’m impressed,” Floyd said. “Did she look as though she thought she was being followed?”
“I’m not a mind-reader, Floyd, but she seemed a lot less twitchy than before. My guess is she thought the change of trains had thrown anyone following her off her scent.”
“I’ll make a detective out of you one of these days, just you watch.” Floyd reached for his notebook and pen. “Tell me where she’s staying.”
Greta gave him the address of a hotel on avenue Emile Zola, a short walk from Dupleix Métro station. She was calling from a brasserie frequented by change-of-shift car workers from the nearby Citroën factory. “I can’t tell you her room number, or how she likes her toast done. And I can’t stay here all day, either.”
“You don’t have to. I can be there within the hour.”
“There’s no way you can get here sooner?”
“I’ll have someone on my tail as well, remember,” Floyd said.
“Another of those horrible children?” she asked, nervousness creeping into her voice.
“No, just Belliard’s goons. They followed me to Montparnasse. I think I can lose them if I cross the river twice, but that will take time. I don’t want them thinking I’m taking an interest in Verity Auger. If they do, awkward questions might be asked.”
“What do you mean, ‘awkward questions?’ ”
“The kind that will invo
lve a heavy dental bill.”
“Be here as soon as you can. This is as far into this as I want to go, Floyd. I never had aspirations to play the girl detective, and I’m not on your payroll.”
“You did a good job,” Floyd said as she hung up. He set his receiver down and began to plot his route across Paris, incorporating as many sudden turns and reversals as he dared.
Auger turned the key, locking the door from inside, and crashed on to the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by relief and exhaustion.
She closed her eyes for a few minutes, then hauled herself to the pea-green washbasin and splashed some cold water on to her face. “Stay sharp,” she said aloud. “The hard part might be over, but you still need to make it back to the portal. Don’t get too complacent, Auger. And don’t talk to yourself, either. It’s the first sign of madness.”
She removed her horrid, tight Parisian shoes and dialled down to the front desk for a pot of coffee. Then she called down to the lobby again and asked to be connected to an external number.
“Just a moment, madame.”
Someone picked up on the third ring, answering in poorly enunciated French. “To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Auger,” she said.
“Good,” Aveling answered, slipping immediately back into English. “Do you have—”
“Yes, I have the items. Can you get a message through to Caliskan?”
“Not possible, I’m afraid.” He was speaking from the safe house, a rented room a minute’s walk from Cardinal Lemoine. No direct telephone connection existed between the surface of Paris and the concealed chambers underground. “We’re having some technical difficulties with the link.”
“Tell me it isn’t serious.”
“It’s being worked on. It’s not the first time the link has become unstable, and it’ll most likely sort itself out within a few hours. It’s probably not related.”
“Not related to what?”
“Anything you need worry about.”
“Tell me, you patronising…” She tried to insult him, dredging her repertoire for something suitably nasty, but it was as if a mental roadblock had been installed between her brain and her mouth.
“There’s political trouble back home,” Aveling interjected before she could continue. “That Slasher offensive everyone was expecting? It’s begun. But don’t you fret. Just bring the box and let us worry about the bigger picture. We’re all very happy with the way you’ve handled things so far. It would be a shame to spoil things now, wouldn’t it?”
“I could just burn the papers,” Auger said. “Or throw them away somewhere where no one will ever find them. What’s the problem with that?”
“We’d rather you returned them to us. That way we can make sure nothing has gone astray.”
“I can make it to the portal,” she said, “but I’m not certain that’s such a great idea at the moment. I’m pretty sure someone followed me here, from the detective’s office.”
“What kind of someone?”
“Someone working for him, I think. He seemed very willing to hand over the box. With hindsight, it looks as though he always intended to have someone tail me.”
“And he’s just a local detective?”
“Yes, the one I told you about after I spoke to Blanchard.”
“He’s probably just curious. Do your best to shake him off your tail, but don’t worry about him.”
“There’s more going on here than you’ve told me,” she said.
“Listen carefully,” Aveling said. “It’s exactly ten-forty now. Check your watch and synchronise.”
“Done.”
“At exactly noon we will arrange for a two-minute power interruption on the Métro line running through Cardinal Lemoine. I’ll be waiting for you inside the tunnel, at the door, and for obvious reasons, it would not be good to be late. No excuses, Auger—we’re all counting on you. I’ll see you in eighty minutes, with the paperwork.”
She said nothing.
“Will you be there?” Aveling asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course I’ll be there.”
Room service arrived with a knock on the door. She hung up on Aveling and opened the door as far as the security chain allowed before letting the boy enter and place her coffee service on the bedside table. She tipped him generously and then locked and chained the door from the inside. The coffee was on the lukewarm side of hot, but it was considerably better than nothing. She spooned cream and sugar into it and had drunk half a cup before she began to feel calm again.
She was definitely not being told everything. Auger supposed that this suspicion had always been lurking at the back of her mind, but now she was certain of it. And there was something else, something even more troubling that had been nagging at her quietly since she had first learned of Susan White’s involvement in this whole business.
Why had White made such a point of involving Auger when they were little more than professional acquaintances? Auger could understand White being concerned about her own safety and wanting to make sure that the papers didn’t fall into the wrong hands. She could understand the requirement for someone from the other side of the portal to come and retrieve them. But why Auger, specifically? Sure, she had the necessary background on Paris, the deep knowledge of the city, but there had to be more to it than that. At first glance, it looked as if White was playing a posthumous trick on Auger, setting her up for a hazardous job out of professional spite. But they’d been cool rivals rather than enemies, with no mutual animosity that Auger was aware of. In truth, they were rather alike.
So it had to have been something else. White was clever and calculating—she’d have done nothing without an excellent reason. And the only explanation Auger could come up with—the only one that seemed plausible to her, given what she knew of the woman—was that it was a matter of trust.
Auger was an outsider. She had ties to Caliskan—that was unavoidable for anyone with an Antiquities background—but they weren’t exactly thick as thieves. More important was the fact that she was not part of Aveling’s operation. A little more than a week ago, she’d had no knowledge of E2 whatsoever. Which meant, presumably, that Susan White had decided that she couldn’t trust Aveling or his people.
All of them? Auger wondered. Or did she just suspect that somewhere in the organisation there was someone who couldn’t be trusted?
Auger preferred the second hypothesis. It made more sense to her than the idea that the entire organisation, from Phobos to E2, was compromised. If that was the case, then they would surely have found a way to avoid bringing in an outsider, no matter how much it inconvenienced their plans.
Auger thought about what she had already learned for herself. Everyone agreed that there was something important about those papers. Susan White had gone to the trouble of passing them on for safekeeping and making arrangements for their return to the other side of the portal. Caliskan, Aveling and all the others involved in the Phobos operation seemed to agree on the significance of the documents, or else Auger would never have been co-opted to retrieve them. And there was someone else who considered them to be significant: whoever had killed White and now Blanchard. Whoever that was, they seemed less than keen to see those papers return to Phobos. Which implied—unless Auger’s imagination was running away with itself—that the person or persons who had committed those two murders were in some way linked to the contents of the papers.
Which brought her to the papers themselves. What did they have to say on the subject?
Auger took the bundle of documents from her handbag and began to arrange them on the maroon bedspread, eventually covering it completely. She laid each item out neatly, but imposed no sorting methodology on the papers other than the order in which they emerged from the bundle.
She stepped back from the bed and looked at the dead woman’s legacy.
“Talk to me, Susan,” she said. “Give me a hint as to what all this is about.”
Auger poured herself another cup
of coffee, added cream and sugar and set about rearranging the material on the bed, hunting for some meaningful combination. But no permutation of the papers looked any more or less significant than the last. Unless she was missing something subtle, the message must be in the content of the documents rather than any pattern they formed. None of these papers would have had any particular significance to a local. They might have struck someone as rather an eccentric collection of documents, especially if they had been traced to a young American tourist, but there was no smoking gun, no one document that shrieked of an otherworldly origin. There was, in fact, nothing in the collection that could not have been acquired by an ordinary person with access to the usual libraries and bookshops. There were no top-secret blueprints or duplicated documents from E1; nothing even remotely hinting that Susan White was an explorer who had arrived in Paris through a quasi-wormhole link from some unguessably distant part of the Milky Way.
Auger scrutinised the papers once more to make sure she was not missing something, but barring the use of invisible inks, microdots or some other such subterfuge, there was nothing intrinsically destabilising about any of the items Susan White had acquired. There was, in short, nothing that would have caused any obvious difficulties had it fallen into local hands. In all likelihood, the documents would have been thrown out and the biscuit tin kept instead.
But Caliskan and his organisation had staged a high-risk operation to recover these documents. And the emphasis had indeed been on “recovering” them: there had been no talk of simply discarding or destroying them. No: Caliskan wanted them back, and that meant that the documents were themselves suspected of being important.
They knew that Susan White had been on to something. They just hadn’t wanted to tell Auger, knowing that it might have scared her off. She had been foolish not to ask more questions about the significance of the lost property before she agreed to recover it. But Caliskan and his people had counted on her clutching at any straw to avoid the disciplinary tribunal, and they must have known that she would not think too deeply beyond the immediate objective. The fact that they had been right, that she had played so willingly into their scheme, only made her feel more foolish.
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