by Sam Waite
Nevertheless, betray I did, despite the haunting memories of soul-saving rituals evoked by the cathedral. I should have been born a Calvinist. Then I might have left Norte Dame with no other thought than "awesome building."
Whether it was the reprised battle between mystics and logic or just the shift of mental gears, I couldn't say, but when I stepped out of the cathedral into the sun, I felt my senses were more acute. I crossed the Pont Notre Dame to the Right Bank and strode uphill along narrow winding paths. A prickle along the back of my neck caused me to look back. When I did, a man about thirty yards behind me took a sudden interest in a menu posted outside a café. I turned and walked back the way I had come. He was still reading the menu when I passed and got a look at his face. No one I'd seen before. An intersecting path provided a detour. I turned on to it for several steps then went back and looked at the café. The man was gone.
The prickle on my neck was not.
I headed uphill again, toward the closest Metro entrance I knew. A car drove from a cross street and stopped in my path. The passenger opened the door and got out. Even though I'd only seen a photograph, at a distance of less than twenty yards I recognized him.
Cervantes.
I stopped. If it hadn't been for the prickle, I would have walked straight to him and started asking questions. Instead I turned to look behind me and, at a flash of movement, jerked my head to the side.
The brass knuckles just grazed my ear.
I staggered off balance and swung my arm in a wild arc. My forearm slammed into the wrist of my assailant as he backswung at my head.
The man I had spotted at the café stepped in, with a pistol aimed at my chest. He was just beyond arm's reach, a dangerous distance to try to disarm him. If Brass-knuckles attacked again, I could use him as a shield.
I glanced from one to the other. If someone didn't move, they had me.
I glared at Brass-knuckles.
Cervantes said, "Get in."
I didn't look toward him.
Pistol took a step back. Too far for me to attack without getting shot. Brass-knuckles also stepped back.
I feinted with my eyes toward Brass-knuckles.
Before I could charge Pistol, he was struck from behind. His eyes rolled in his head, and his knees buckled. I snatched the pistol out of his hands and pointed it at Cervantes.
He ducked away from the truncheon flying toward his head.
I fired.
Brass-knuckles ran.
The only ones left were a few people wondering what the "pop" had been and Marie, the muscular circus pro.
"Where'd you come from?" I was glad to see her regardless of the answer.
"I've been following David on Pascal's orders. He's been on the mainlander's trail ever since you sent him to watch their meeting. He said you're paying, but left vague direction. He was curious about a China connection."
I needed to think of an excuse to get a bonus for those two out of Oddsson's budget.
Chapter 28
"There's a lot of blood. Take off your shirt."
Marie had not only rescued me, she'd taken me to her apartment to bandage me.
The brass knuckles had raked the side of my head. The wound wasn't deep, but it was long. The left side of my shirt was blotched in red.
"Cold water and soap will wash it out in a couple of minutes. In the circus, someone was always getting a scrape. I'm good at this."
She was. The shirt was spotless when she finished washing. Her first aid skills were also good. She gently cleaned the wound with a soapy wet towel and applied an antiseptic and a styptic salve.
"Lie down." She pointed her chin toward the bed.
"You take it. You're the hero today."
"You're the victim."
Ouch. That hurt worse than the brass knucks. I reclined in bed with my back against the headboard and called the hotel room where Alexandra and I were staying—no answer. I tried her mobile phone. There was no reply from that either. An icy fear clutched at my gut. "I have to go."
"Where? Why?"
"Alexandra doesn't answer."
"Where will you go, if you go?"
"To the hotel."
"Where did you call just now?"
"The hotel."
"If she didn't answer, she isn't there."
"She could be hurt."
"Give me your phone. Where are you staying?"
I told her. She rang the front desk and told them there might have been an accident. With one hand over the mouthpiece, she said, "They're checking now."
A few minutes later, she said, "Merci," and hung up. To me she said, "There is no one in the room."
I sat up. My breathing was short and shallow.
"There is no point in anxiety. You can do nothing until she contacts you."
"That's easy to say, but..."
But what? I lay back down and tried to sort through a rush of thoughts. I couldn't just wait, but what could I do? Who could I ask for help? I smiled thinly at my own inadequacy.
"Do you want me to call Pascal?"
"Yes. Please."
She dialed.
"Hi Boss, Mick's at my apartment. I'm patching him up after a fight. Can you come? I'll explain after you get here."
She cut the connection. "He said thirty minutes."
Marie advised me to get busy on whatever I would have been doing if I hadn't been nearly abducted or killed, and if Alexandra had not been out of touch.
I felt Marie was taking the concept of cool to an unreasonable extreme, but admitted she was right. No point in wasting time. I called Houston to see if my friend had received the vial. He said no. It should have arrived by now. I asked Marie to call the delivery service. They said the package had been delivered and signed for.
I called my friend again.
"Can you check whether anyone else has signed for a package?"
"I run a one-man business. Who am I going to ask?"
I cut the connection.
"Sorry Marie. Would you contact the delivery company again?"
This time she got the address it was sent to and who had signed for it. She said the address aloud to confirm it.
After she hung up, I asked her to repeat what she had said.
"It was sent to Jason Parr, at the Houston office of Winchell and Associates. He's the one who signed for it."
It was no easier to comprehend the second time I heard it. I don't know how long I sat in silence.
When I looked up, Marie was staring at me. "Did someone help you send the package?"
"Alexandra."
"She's beautiful. I guess I shouldn't have, but once or twice I followed you." She shrugged. "For practice."
Yes, she was beautiful. She was also young, successful and brilliant, too far out of reach even for my daydreams. I thought back. Somehow she had made it all seem plausible. During our first dinner together, she had flattered me by saying that noir tough guys were sexy. Then came an excuse to move in with me and all the rest, with the inevitable consequences.
After claiming to have made an error on the first mailing label, she had filled out another one, which she showed me. She must have given the other one to the delivery man. While David was looking at one oil sample in his lab, she had excused herself to make a call. Not long thereafter, the sample was stolen, probably by the mainlander Wu.
As David had asked, "How did he know to steal it?"
I'd swallowed the bait like an adolescent guppy. That wasn't the worst of it. Alexandra was the only one who knew where I was going to meet David.
As much as I had learned, I still didn't know what the bait was for.
A buzzer sounded. After checking through the window overlooking the street, Marie buzzed Pascal in.
"What happened to you?" he said.
I was still shirtless and oozing blood.
He kept glancing at Marie and clicking his tongue as we filled him in on our encounter. When she fell silent, he said to Marie, "You have no business putting yours
elf in that kind of danger."
I agreed, but with the silent caveat that I was glad she had.
We rehashed events. Alexandra was somehow connected to Wu and to Cervantes, who was part of her client's team in name only. He had another agenda, which we still didn't know. Cervantes was seen meeting Gatineau and Oddsson. The Venezuelan was connected to everyone, and he and Cervantes had been seen with the Saudi and several others who, I supposed, were Arab oil chieftains.
Scenarios involving those groupings played out a lot of different ways, but no matter how we looked at it, Oddsson was the odd man out. If I was the fly in the ointment, he was the one who put me in it. He and his lawyer credited me with helping clear Oddsson of suspicion in Sabine's murder, but even after that he had agreed for me to keep nosing into the affair.
Pascal was particularly concerned about Oddsson's role. When he found out the husband was the client, he started to worry about his fee. He wanted to call him right away to confirm payment. "I don't do pro bono," he reminded me.
"I don't either, but calling Oddsson is a bad idea."
"Yeah? He's paying the bills, isn't he?"
"I have an advance that covers your end."
"I'd feel better if it was me who had it."
"You'll get paid before I do. Can you trust me on this, Pascal? We don't have a lot of time."
In fact, we had less than I had thought.
We had decided it was too dangerous for me to return to the hotel and that Marie should not be alone.
When we got to Pascal's apartment, we ran through a few more suppositions and a few bottles of wine. It was late when we went to sleep, me on the floor and Marie on the sofa.
The respite was short.
My mobile phone rang at some dark hour. It was Burroughs.
"Guess what Sanchez, it's tomorrow morning in China."
From Burroughs' Colorado perspective, it was tomorrow morning in Paris too.
I looked at my watch. "It's after 2:00 a.m. here."
"Huh, early evening on my side. You might want advance notice on this. The work day has begun in Beijing and a government announcement says that Sinopec and Petroleos Venezuela have reached an agreement to develop bitumen and extra heavy oil in the Orinoco. They say they have perfected a cheap liquefaction process."
"It doesn't work."
"There are a lot of officials and experts explaining that it works just fine. News bulletins are already out. The global petroleum market is about to be restructured, they say. The initial take is 'yippee, we're free from the Mideast.'"
"What's your take?"
"First, the U.S. isn't that dependent on the Mideast, anyway. We import about a quarter of our oil consumption. Second, Venezuela is a loose cannon, whose leader has no particular love for America. Third, China has its own ambitions that could make the world a scarier place. I don't see us coming out ahead on this."
"The news releases about the liquefaction are wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"I told you, the process doesn't work. That information comes from someone in the office of the president of Venezuela. I think it's a ruse to trick the Saudis."
"Into doing what?"
"I have no idea."
Burroughs's guffaw hurt my ear. "No matter what anyone says about you, Sanchez, it can't be denied that you are a distinct entertainment."
But not one of lasting value. His laugh died as quickly as it had exploded. "I apologize for waking you, but I'm glad I did. If you're right about this being some kind of oil market con game, we need to make sure souls in Washington are covering that possibility."
"What about your SEC contacts?"
"They're finding some irregularities, but no screaming alarms so far. Maybe your oil scam theory will nudge them to get outside help."
"When?"
"Who knows? They're the government. They move with the alacrity that they deem appropriate."
"So do glaciers."
"Right, we might have to help things along on our own. You remember Bizet. We've been in contact. I think you should call him at a decent hour. He's in Paris now."
Chapter 29
I finally managed to get back to sleep, but not for long. At 7:10 a.m., my phone rang. It was Burroughs again.
"Turn on your TV, there's got to be an announcement on some channel."
"It's in French."
"You don't speak French?"
"What is it, Jim?"
"At the end of this quarter, OPEC is going to start pricing oil in euros."
"So?"
"That's what this is all about, Sanchez. At least, I think it is. I just talked to Bizet. He's expecting your call."
"All right."
"Sanchez, the live feed from your secret LIFFE computer chief is critical. Bizet will explain."
"There is someone I need to discuss that with, namely the guy who will plant the bug. Which do you want me to take care of first, the live feed or Bizet?"
"The live feed, above all. Bizet will be instructional. I haven't been able to get all the details on the instruments they are using for the dollar trade. I don't know what the target range is."
"I thought the target was a thirteen percent fall."
"I believe that is only a goal to prep the market, to get it close to the target. The other strike dates in Trevor Jones' notes indicated an upper and lower range. The only way we can determine how to trade against them is to monitor their moves. If we can keep the dollar's value against the euro outside the range then we can beat them."
"Why do you care?"
"Two reasons. First, anytime a market, any market, is manipulated it ceases to function. If that happens in foreign exchange, world trade is skewed, and I lose a good part of my livelihood. Second, Bizet and I and a few others will be betting against the fix. We don't have enough cash right now, but I'm working on it. It's a long shot, Sanchez, but if things work out, you'll get an advisory fee. Ten percent."
What would Gavizon say? "Que tacaño, make it fifteen." I mulled that over and said, "Thanks, Jim."
I called McNulty as soon as Burroughs rang off. He sounded as alert as a squirrel in springtime.
"Can you plant a bug on Hall's person tomorrow morning, before he goes to work?"
McNulty chuckled. "There's one for a trickster, isn't it? I like it."
We discussed tactics briefly, but nothing seemed viable. He said he would think it over and call me back.
Marie sat up and gave me a questioning look.
"I need to see someone," I said. "If you or Pascal leave before I get back, call me."
She closed her eyes and turned to face the back of the sofa. "Does that mean I can get some sleep now?"
I washed up as quietly as I could and tiptoed out. Bizet gave me directions to his home in the city. I felt vulnerable on the street in the open air, as though Cervantes could see every move.
This situation wasn't strictly business anymore. Things had gotten personal. He'd had me in his power, and I escaped. By now I should have either been under interrogation in someone's cellar or lying at the bottom of the Seine. As it was, one of his men may have been questioned by police. That is if he had recovered adequately from his concussion. Beaten by a patsy and a pixie, Cervantes had lost face with his driver.
If I had more of an ego problem, I might have felt ashamed to duck like a scared rat into the first Metro entrance I came to. After two stops, I got off, walked up to the street, and went into the lobby of a random hotel. I tipped the concierge two euros to call a taxi for me. It wasn't until then that I felt ashamed.
Get a grip, Mick.
Grandma Fitzgerald emerged in my mind and gave a little "tsk." "Some Irishman you are," she said.
Bizet was waiting in style. A maid escorted me to a parlor furnished in baroque elegance. "Monsieur will be with you momentarily."
A minute or two later, Bizet and I were shaking hands, and the maid was back with a tray of fruit and pastry and a pot of coffee. With any luck, our consultation wou
ld last until lunchtime.
Bizet cut to the chase. "Quite a shock wasn't it?" He smiled and sipped coffee. "This news from OPEC. Under other circumstances, it would be good news for us—for the EU that is—but as things stand, it is a bit worrisome. Don't you agree?"
"I might, if I had a better understanding of what's happening." I braced for a condescending lecture.
Bizet was borderline gallant. "First, I salute you." He raised his coffee cup. "Without your observations we might not have been able to realize what was..." He fluttered his free hand in the air. "...being done to our financial institutions, to the world's economy."
I'd have to take his word. I still didn't get it.
"You were concerned with more, ah, visceral crimes. I believe that it is imperative that you continue that pursuit. Our friend Burroughs agrees. However, there is the issue of someone tampering with the foreign exchange market. Did Burroughs mention compensation?"
"He said that if you could keep the dollar out of the target range, he would profit and I would get ten percent. He didn't say what it might come to."
"You suggested that you could provide advance information on trades. Is that correct?"
"It isn't done yet, but that's my intention."
"If you succeed and if we manage the necessary funding, I will match M. Burroughs offer of ten percent."
"Of...?"
"Whatever I earn from your information."
"I have a few people on contract. I would need to—"
"Pay them, of course. I can't say with any precision what ten percent would come to, but in rough numbers I would expect some odd hundred thousands."
I gave myself a few seconds to let that sink in. These men were obviously big players. Bizet had just described a payoff of millions dollars each for himself and Burroughs in the course of a day. That was wild speculation, but I supposed a few thousand or so might be feasible. It might be enough to convince Pascal to stay on.
"I won't know until we actually start getting data whether or not we can get the live feed. You said the OPEC decision to price oil in euros was a shock. Is that because it will make the dollar fall?"