Exposure

by Alan Russell

  He began to slowly bring the line in. This wasn’t a fish that was going to get away. He let the line play out a little, applying the brakes every few seconds. His prey would tire soon. Ivan didn’t want to chance losing the hook.

  There. He could feel it weakening. Ivan reeled in the line. The fish was getting closer. Soon he would be able to see it. He reeled some more and leaned over the hole. Ivan thought he saw a flash of silver. The fish was almost his.

  The silver came closer, but the line suddenly went slack.

  “Shit!”

  Ivan pulled hard. He was sure he had lost the fish, but then something broke through the water’s surface, something silver. His head was only two feet from the hole when the silenced pistol clicked.

  The spray of blood woke up the redheaded whore. Bleary-eyed, she looked around. The assassin leveled his pistol at her, and then she dropped back onto the furs, a hole in her head. Even in death, she managed to hold on to the bottle of Cristal, never spilling a drop.

  Not my brand, thought Jaeger. He made a point of only drinking Veuve Clicquot.

  Jaeger removed his diving mask and looked around. The blood was soaking into the ice, but it would take some time before the red flow spread outside the fish house. Ivan’s underlings wouldn’t act until then. They would be afraid to interrupt their boss, especially when he was entertaining. Jaeger would be long gone by the time they found him, even though his car was more than two kilometers off. Proferov’s goons had cleared the other ice fishermen from anywhere near their spot on the reservoir. Ivan had been careful, but not careful enough.

  The second woman was still snoring. Jaeger couldn’t chance her waking up in the next few minutes, so he raised his gun and fired. Something between a snore and a sigh escaped her lips, then she died.

  The hole in the ice was too small for Jaeger to surface. But he had come prepared. There was a small grappling hook in his pack threaded with heavy fishing line. Jaeger swung the hook and tossed it beyond Ivan the no-longer Terrible. He snagged Ivan and brought him forward to the hole. With a fishing knife, Jaeger removed the mobster’s pants, cut off his dick, and stuck it in Ivan’s mouth. The mob liked to leave calling cards like that. They would figure a larger shark had come calling, even if they didn’t know which one.

  Jaeger always practiced misdirection with his hits. No two kills were alike. Staying anonymous had extended his career, as did having the right contacts. His employer had told him that he wasn’t “even a blip on any of the intelligence radar screens.” His employer, Jaeger was sure, should know.

  He took a last look at Proferov. Jaeger had served as a middleman between his employer and the Russian. The relationship had been very profitable, but then the Russian had started bragging about his “silent partner.”

  The silent partner had decided on the best course to stay silent.

  The assassin opened up a special fold in his dry suit and slipped his gun inside. He spat into his mask, rubbed the spittle around, and then rinsed it with water. He had to get going. His employer had another job for him, one he had labeled “most important.”

  A moment later, Jaeger disappeared under the ice.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Graham stared down at the waters of the Bay of Biscay. The sea was turbulent below. The water’s visibility was poor, boiling and roiling as the waves pounded the rocks. There was no beach, no access to the water by any path. The rocks were too sharp and the drop too steep.

  It was a good place for something—or someone—to disappear without a trace.

  There were only a few radio stations Graham could pick up, a combination of the Citroën’s substandard radio and his being in an out-of-the-way area. But no matter what voice came over the radio, or what language, there was only one story: the deaths of Le Croc and the Lady.

  Witnesses to the accident described what looked like an escalating case of road rage. The gendarmes were already looking for a driver of a “white car” that was suspected of having had a run-in with the rented Peugeot. It would just be a matter of time before tests determined the make and model of car they were looking for.

  The net was closing in.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, Graham had fled the scene of the accident. The scene of his crime. Even if he was judged innocent of everything else, he was guilty of leaving the accident without helping. In France that was a crime. On their books, everyone in France was required to be a “Good Samaritan.” Authorities were using the accident to remind citizens of their responsibility to offer assistance to the hurt or injured if at all possible. If convicted, he could be sentenced to up to five years in prison.

  Five years, Graham thought. Even if he was sentenced to only a year or two, he probably wouldn’t live out the time. The French prisoners wouldn’t forgive the death of Le Croc. Around the world, there was a universal outpouring of grief for the deaths of Lady Godwin and Georges LeMoine. He would be a marked man in prison.

  I could ask for solitary confinement, Graham thought. I could do my time that way.

  But if he lived, there would be the prison sentence when he got out. He’d forever be the notorious paparazzo who had helped kill two beloved figures. There would be no peace. He would be hounded—hounded by people like him. He would be on the other side of the camera. “Stalkerazzi,” they were called. People regarded them as parasites, not realizing that the stars and the star-catchers had a symbiotic relationship. Neither could exist without the other. It was the photographers flashing cameras that made the light that made the stars, but the stars forgot that once they were established in the firmament.

  Maybe he would be lucky. It was possible no one could place him in the car. Rousseau had never seen it, and the Thierrys hadn’t even known he was in town. He needed to destroy the evidence, and hope for the best.

  Graham got back in the Citroën. He drove off the dirt road and steered it up a rocky pedestrian path, pushing at the accelerator until the Citroën’s wheels were toeing the edge of the precipice.

  He sat in the car longer than necessary, then finally put the car in neutral, pulled the hand brake, and got out. Graham placed some large stones under the tires. He wished the Citroën were an automatic. He could have put it in drive and let it commit suicide on its own. The stick meant he had to push it over the edge.

  Graham released the hand brake and then put his shoulder into the vehicle. He only needed to push it maybe four feet, but it was an inch-by-inch turf war. Twice he pulled the brake and rested. Once, his foot almost gave. He caught himself, but just in time. He stopped and laughed over that one. Part of him seemed to be observing this crazy man laughing. The car that killed the Lady and Le Croc had almost killed him as well. For some reason it seemed funny.

  Gravity finally took over, and the Citroën plunged into the sea. Graham lay down in the dirt, his head resting over the cliff’s edge. The car didn’t sink right away. It listed for a few seconds before stubbornly giving up the battle and dropping from sight. For several minutes Graham stared into the angry water. The spot seemed well chosen. The sea would be his coconspirator. It would hide his secret.

  Finally, Graham got up. He had a long walk back to the main road. Once there, Graham would use his thumb. He didn’t care what direction his ride was going. His only plan was to go somewhere and get drunk. He needed to get shit-faced and forget everything that had happened.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The copy of the International Herald Tribune was only a week old. News didn’t reach Graham easily these days, and for the longest time he had been grateful of that. He had chosen isolation as his way of coping. Getting out of the news habit had been like kicking a drug addiction. It was different, though, being a part of the story. It was as if he had been eaten by the beast. If that was the case, he was now only its remains, its scat.

  For the longest time, Graham had expected to be arrested. But
now, if he could believe the story in his hands, he no longer needed to be afraid.

  MYSTERY CAR INVESTIGATION ENDS

  PARIS—Police investigating the deaths of French international football star Georges LeMoine and English philanthropist Lady Anne Godwin have decided to terminate their search for the so-called mystery car that is believed to have played a role in the crash that killed them.

  Eyewitnesses to the crash reported seeing two cars engaged in a reckless race along the boulevard Périphérique, a throughway circling Paris. The fatal accident occurred just inside the entrance to the Lac Supérieur Tunnel.

  Police lab technicians analyzing paint traces found on the Peugeot that LeMoine was driving believe the scrapings came from a Citroën C3 manufactured in 2006. Other car debris found at or near the accident scene was also linked to what is thought to be a Citroën.

  Since the accident, Paris authorities have done physical inspections of thousands of Citroëns. Records indicate that in the Paris area alone there are tens of thousands of Citroëns that qualify for what one police official described as “the years in question.”

  Critics of the police investigations have questioned how such a high-profile car could just disappear. The police have defended their efforts, describing them as “exhaustive.” Authorities say they have been hindered in their work by incomplete and misleading car registration records.

  The driver of the Citroën is described as a white male with brown hair between the ages of 25 and 45.

  Intense speculation has surrounded the deaths of LeMoine and Godwin. The two were believed to have been carrying on a secret short-term romance. Speculation was further fueled when Godwin’s autopsy revealed she was in the early stages of pregnancy.

  Police say that though they will not be conducting any more physical inspections of Citroëns, their investigation continues.

  Graham read the article again. It didn’t bring him the relief he thought it would. Now he had to get on with his life, a prospect he found more tiresome than exciting. His mind was made up, though. It was time to leave.

  Months before, Graham had received permission from the Abbot to stay at the Poblet Monastery in Spain. Now he was attempting to take his leave on a light note.

  “So one celebrity photographer is talking to another,” Graham said. “He says, ‘I have this moral question for you.

  “‘Brad Pitt is doing this scene in a raging river. Instead of using a stuntman, he’s decided to be macho and do it himself. Well, things go wrong. His safety line snaps and he is holding on to this tree limb for dear life. You can see he’s weakening. If he lets go, he is facing certain death because the whitewater is raging straight toward this killer waterfall.

  “‘So,’ this photographer says, ‘you can either drop your camera and save Brad’s life, or you can take this million-dollar picture of him losing his grip and being swept away to his death.

  “‘Now your moral dilemma is, what kind of lens do you use?’ ”

  The Abbot laughed. Mirth became him, but if Graham thought he was going to let him leave without a final session of soul-searching, he was wrong.

  “So tomorrow your pilgrimage comes to an end?” The Abbot’s question came with a smile.

  “It never was a pilgrimage,” Graham said.

  “What would you call it then?”

  Prison? Penance? A hideaway? Graham rejected the easy answers. “A walk that resulted from a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Maybe that old woman knew what she was doing.”

  Graham shook his head. “She needed glasses.”

  “There are times when eyes can get in the way of truly seeing.”

  “She was blind as a bat. And I was as drunk as an Irishman at a wake.”

  “Sober, were you?”

  The Abbot was Irish. In his time at the monastery, Graham had gradually told the Abbot about the accident. The story had been related in bits and pieces. Now he was at its beginning—and its end.

  “After ditching the Citroën, I hitched a ride and ended up in Roncesvalles. I don’t think the place has changed too much since Roland and his horn put it on the map.

  “I started drinking as soon as I arrived in town. In vino veritas. That was part of my problem, Irish. The more I tried to escape their deaths, the more they seemed to follow me. Even in Roncesvalles they were in mourning. They were burning candles for them. Stores were draped in black.”

  “And how did that make you feel?” the Abbot asked.

  “Angry. Guilty.”

  He looked around the Abbot’s study, did his best to avoid his eyes. The room was old. Much of the Poblet Monastery had been built in the Middle Ages. The cloister and chapel of Saint Stephen, and the infirmary, dated back to the twelfth century. The abbey had stood the test of time. Behind the Abbot’s desk was an old wooden bookshelf. Its bookstands were ancient as well; seven elaborately carved figurines depicting the deadly sins, or what the Abbot called the “cardinal sins.” Staring out from the books were the embodiments of pride, lust, envy, anger, covetousness, gluttony, and sloth.

  Reminders of the real world, thought Graham.

  The Abbot said nothing, waiting on Graham to continue. “Even in that sleepy Spanish town I found reminders of them everywhere. I decided I wasn’t drunk enough, and I went in search of my cantina, but it seemed to have moved. I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was going.

  “Earlier I had picked up a backpack, a hat, and some clothes. That’s what I was wearing when the old woman stopped me. You’ve heard my Spanish when I’m sober. I can halfway carry on a conversation. But I was drunk, and shell-shocked, and it was all I could do to stand up straight.

  “The old woman was very serious. She kept talking about her son Hernando. I dutifully repeated his name several times, and did a lot of nodding as if I understood what she was saying, the drunk pretending to be on top of his game. Only at the end did I realize that I was agreeing to pray for her sick son at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela.

  “I was thinking too slowly to clarify the situation. I let the old woman believe I was something that I wasn’t. She kissed my hand a few times and gave me these penitent bows as she shuffled backward. Me.”

  The Abbot nodded. “You were the pilgrim she chose.”

  “I was the drunk she got, Irish. How was I to know that Roncesvalles was the kickoff point for the Camino?”

  El Camino de Santiago—the Way of Saint James—is a five-hundred-mile path that pilgrims have walked for more than a thousand years. It begins in Roncesvalles and continues west almost to the Spanish coast.

  “The old woman needed someone to carry her prayer, and there you were.”

  “And I needed an excuse to drop out of the world. What better way to do it than a five-hundred-mile walk?”

  “You could have dropped out by vacationing on some tropical island.”

  “But I was in Roncesvalles. I figured a long walk would clear my head, but not even forty days of walking could do that. Someone on the Camino mentioned this place, so I ended up here.”

  “We made an exception by taking you in. We don’t usually accommodate outsiders.”

  “Why did you?”

  “I had this sense that your pilgrimage wasn’t finished. And I could see your heart was still troubled.”

  “You must have X-ray vision then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People who know me would tell you I have a heart of stone.”

  “You mislead them.”

  “If I have misled anyone, it’s you. I stare at those seven sins on your bookshelf, and they wink at me, and tell me it’s time to get back to my work. I’ve had enough of sackcloth and ashes, Irish.”

  “Are you sure that’s a raiment you ever wore?”

  Graham shook his head. “No. I’m not sure of anything. I wish I could say
that this experience somehow changed me for the better, but I’d be lying if I did.

  “My walk, and my playing at monkdom, were just ways of killing time.”

  “And now you’ll leave and act as if nothing ever happened?”

  “If I’m lucky. The French police are still on the case, but it looks like I fell through the cracks.”

  “So it’s back to work?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  The Abbot didn’t hide his skepticism: “I wish you luck with your plan.”

  “People do get on with their lives, you know.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “What’s my alternative? Would I be better off in a French prison?”

  They had always skirted that subject. Graham had been afraid of hearing the Abbot’s answer.

  “Maybe you should be asking yourself how you should spend your time,” the Abbot said, “instead of asking where you should spend it.”

  He paused for a long moment before continuing. “But I think you can better pay off your debt outside of prison than inside it.”

  “What debt?”

  “Your actions contributed to lives being lost. You need to acknowledge that.”

  “It was his driving that killed them.”

  “Then why do you sound so angry?”

  Graham confronted the face of anger among the bookshelf figures. His eyes were popping out, his cheeks red, his mouth pursed. The contorted face seethed hatred. I’m looking at my face, Graham thought.

  It was too late to explain to the Abbot about Rio. Graham couldn’t shake this feeling that Rio had been a warning. Intellectually he knew that was a lot of superstitious bunk, but there it was. Death had tapped him on the shoulder and he had ignored it.

  “Because now I’m the one with the dirty secret.”

  “Is that what they had? A dirty secret?”

  “I suspected the romance, but not that she was pregnant. Usually I have all the angles figured out. When I think back, it should have been obvious. I even heard them talking about the baby, though I didn’t make the connection at the time. It was difficult hearing what they were saying, and I didn’t fill in the blanks until later.”