Enemy of My Enemy (15 page)

At ten o'clock he put on a suit and tie, making himself look like a visiting businessman. Then he set off on foot, heading toward the river. Periodically he stopped and pretended to be window-shopping to make certain he wasn't being followed.

Two blocks from the river he found what he was looking for: an open-air drug market. Sensing that he had cash, three vendors hustled over to Moreau. He waved them away and continued walking until he reached the building with the number twenty on the dilapidated brown-brick exterior. In the doorway stood a large, beefy man with a red face marked with blemishes. His right hand was concealed in the pocket of his black leather bomber jacket.

Moreau stopped and stared at the man. "
Du
c," he whispered, using the code that had been arranged. When the man nodded, Moreau reached into his pants pocket. As he did, the beefy man pulled out his right hand with a plastic bag containing a white powder. In the flash of a second, he exchanged the plastic bag for a roll of Canadian dollars. Moreau moved away.

It was a mile to Le Club. Moreau covered it on foot, again making certain he wasn't being followed. He had been in Montreal only once before, but he had committed a street map of the area to memory.

Le Club was a dingy, sleazy bar in a seedy part of the city. The walls were covered with red velvet wallpaper to make it look like a bordello. The material was stained and peeling away from the wall. Next to the bar was a small raised platform. On it, an emaciated blond woman gyrated and unhooked her bra to disclose a set of improbable breasts.

A couple of the dozen male customers leered. Most looked bored and sipped exorbitantly priced beer. Off on one side of the room, a couple of other men ignored the show and shot darts into a board on the wall.

Two women in short, skimpy brown skirts and white halter tops, a redhead and a brunette, sitting together at a table, eyed Moreau when he walked in and let his eyes adjust to the dim light of Le Club.

He headed toward the bar, overpaid for a Molson, and carried it to a booth in a corner, isolated from other patrons. The redhead got up and walked over to him. "Will you buy me a drink?"

"I want to see Roni," he replied.

She gave him a contemptuous glare that said,
You'd be better with me,
but Le Club had its protocol. She moved away and nodded to the brunette.

Watching her approach, Moreau, who grew up in a well-off Paris family, thought of an expression his mother frequently used: "shopworn." As Francoise moved closer, he changed his characterization. "Down and out" seemed more accurate. The former actress had short hair and bloodshot eyes. She swung her hips in an undulating motion. Heavy makeup was caked on her face, covering bruises.

When she slid into the booth across from Moreau, he noticed the tracks on her left arm. "I drink champagne," she said. He smiled. He knew how the game was played. She'd get a glass of colored water, he'd pay twenty bucks or so, and she'd get a cut from the house.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. "I was hoping we could go somewhere more intimate."

She looked at him warily, trying to decide whether she could trust him. That German who had treated her like a punching bag two weeks ago said something similar. Her gaze went from his face to the money in his hand. That made up her mind.

"A hundred," she said. "And you wear a condom. The whole time. Even if I blow you. You got that?"

He nodded.

"We'll go to my place."

She got up, grabbed a fake-fur coat from a hook in the back, and headed toward the door. Moreau was two steps behind.

"What are you doing in Montreal?" she asked as they walked two blocks to a dilapidated twelve-story building that reminded Daniel of public housing built for Arabs in Marseilles.

"Trying to make some money."

That was good enough for her. "Tell me about it."

When they got into the elevator, heavy with the stench of urine, she pressed the number twelve. "I have the penthouse," she said, cracking a smile.

She was missing a tooth, but it didn't matter. That smile lit up her face and confirmed what he had known from the dossier: Twenty years ago she had been a beautiful young woman. The apartment was a chilly, tiny mess—a kitchen and two rooms with a balcony that ran along the outside of both rooms.

Once they were inside she held out her hand. He peeled off a hundred dollars, which she placed in a cabinet in the living room. In a couple of seconds she stripped off her halter top, skirt, and underwear. Around her neck she was wearing a tiny gold cross. She had shaved all of her pussy hair. She had small breasts that sagged and an incision across her stomach from the cesarean. He knew from the dossier that the baby had been born with a heart problem and died at two months. She returned to the cabinet, where she had stashed the money, and pulled out a package of condoms.

When she saw that he wasn't undressing, she said, "Let's go. Speed it up. I don't have much time. I have to be back for my next shift."

Without responding, Moreau reached into his pocket and extracted the bag of white powder. Her eyes bulged. Her whole body began trembling.

He opened the plastic bag and held it up to her nose so she could smell it. Perspiration dotted her forehead.

"Let's do some business," he said.

"All I have is the hundred you just gave me. You can have that back, and I'll do whatever you want." She was pleading with him. "You don't have to use a condom. You can come in my mouth."

He looked at her with contempt. He hated junkies.

"Or anywhere else... I'll do Greek."

"I want information," he said. "You give me what I want and the whole package is yours."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You didn't come here to fuck me, did you?"

What he wanted to say was, "There's no way I'd put my cock into that sewer," but instead he said, "Let's talk first, Francoise Colbert. Later we'll fuck."

At the sound of the name she had been given at birth, she looked at him in stunned disbelief. She hadn't used that name in years. She had legally changed it shortly after coming to Montreal, hoping to start a new life. Suddenly a light went off for her. "You're a cop. Aren't you?"

"Not exactly," he said.

"The accent is from Paris. I had trouble picking it up. Now I know."

He nodded.

"You bastard."

He looked at her with indifference and stuffed the plastic bag back in his pocket. "If you don't want to talk, that's okay with me." He turned toward the door.

"Don't go," she begged, desperate for the white powder.

She grabbed a threadbare blue terry-cloth bathrobe from the sofa and pointed to a table in the living room. He sat down across from her with the plastic bag on the table in front of him.
Let her look at it,
he thought.

"How do you know my name?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I ask the questions."

"What do you want to know?"

"In 1981 you were seeing an engineer from Lyons by the name of Jean Pierre. Weren't you?"

She was shaking. It had been more than twenty years, and she had heard nothing. She and Jack had been so young. She was certain it was ancient history. Now this man came out of nowhere.

"Maybe I was, and maybe I wasn't," she said in a hostile voice.

As he studied her face, he knew that she was the woman he had been looking for all these years.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

He ignored her question. "Did you know that valuable French government secrets were given to the Israelis by Jean Pierre each time he came to Paris to meet you?"

She looked down at her veiny hands without responding.

"You can help yourself," he said, trying to gain her confidence. "Tell me what you know, and I won't charge you with being part of the conspiracy."

When she still didn't answer, he said, "What's the matter? The sisters taught you not to lie at Sacred Heart?" He smiled broadly. "That's rich."

"Go fuck yourself," she said.

"They also taught you not to use foul language."

"What do you want?" she said, now concluding that her chances of getting any of the white power were between slim and none.

"The name of the Israeli agent who put you up to it, how the operation worked, and how much he paid you. Let's start with the name."

"He never told me," she said.

Her answer was truthful. When she had first met Jack Cole, he called himself Gregory Walsh. She had fallen in love with him, and not just because of the money he was giving her. He had been so idealistic and so mysterious about his life. Once, after they had made love and he had fallen asleep, she had rifled through his wallet and found the French driver's license in the name of Jack Cole. She had laughed to herself. He was so new at what he was doing that he had kept his identity with him. She never told him about it. A month later, when he had asked her help with Jean Pierre, she had done it to please him because she loved him. She hoped he would marry her.

And there was something else. She was an innocent in those days, a holdover from the youth culture of the seventies, a believer in the dream of world peace along with free love. Jack had a dynamic personality. He was inspiring. When he explained to her that the point of this operation was to block the proliferation of nuclear weapons, she was enthusiastic. Then there was the sense of danger. It was the most thrilling thing she had ever done. The excitement was intoxicating. In bed with Jean Pierre, she went through the motions each time while Jack copied documents in the next room. The next night she and Jack made passionate love, intoxicated by "her role in history," as Jack explained it.

Once the operation was over, she knew that Jack would never marry her. But he was wonderful and concerned about her. He gave her all of the papers she needed to resettle in Montreal under a false name, and enough money to last for ten years. He had been good to her. She had loved him. She couldn't betray him.

"You're lying," Moreau said sharply.

"I don't lie. He never told me his name."

Moreau extracted a picture from his wallet: a five-by-seven black-and-white. It was an older version of Jack.

"Is this the man?"

She didn't respond.

"How did the operation work?"

She stared at the ceiling with a sullen expression on her face. This cop was like a hungry dog with a bone. He'd never let go. She was in deep trouble.

"Suit yourself," Moreau said in a hard, cold voice. "I'm taking you back to Paris with me. I think you'll talk there."

She knew exactly what he had in mind. When he got her to France they'd put her in a prison cell and withhold the heroin until they broke her and she talked.

They'd force her to testify against Jack. Afterward they'd put her in jail for life for her role in the operation. Never mind what this bastard said now.

A great wave of depression enveloped her. She was disgusted with herself, with what she had become. She remembered those days of glory. She knew what she had to do.

"I kept a notebook," she said, sounding reluctant, "the whole time of the operation. It lays out all of the details. Exactly what you want. I thought I might need it one day to save myself."

Moreau was elated. This was what he had hoped for. "That day has come. If the notebook's as good as you say, you could escape with your freedom."

She nodded.

"Where's the notebook?"

She pointed to the bedroom. "In the dresser. Third drawer down on the right. Under my lingerie."

"Get it," he ordered.

She gave him the finger. "Do it yourself. I'm not your slave."

Thinking about the notebook, Moreau was too excited to argue with her. "Don't move, bitch," he barked. "I'll be right back."

She watched him jump up and run into the bedroom. Then she crossed herself for lying, took a deep breath, slipped off her robe, and ran toward the door leading to the balcony.

As she hoisted herself up onto the waist-high, ice-cold wrought-iron railing, finally she felt joy. At least this way she would be saving Jack. Without her testimony, this prick of a detective would never have a case against him. That was why he was practically wetting his pants at the thought of the notebook.

Long before this French detective had arrived, the reality of her situation was smacking her in the face every day. She had squandered her life, which had turned to shit. By doing this now for Jack, she would at least be doing something useful with what meager little she had left. Salvation for Jack. Redemption for herself.

The railing was cold on her bare feet. Using what little strength she had, she willed herself to stand up. For an instant she was precariously perched, her arms spread out for balance. Then she closed her eyes and leaped into the void. "I love you, Jack Cole," she cried out. "I love you."

In the bedroom Moreau cursed as he searched frantically through the drawer, tossing her smelly lingerie to the floor. There was no notebook here. He raced back into the living room. Then he stopped in his tracks and gaped at the open door to the patio. By the time he reached the railing, she was already splattered on the street below.

Furious at himself for leaving her alone, Moreau left the building quickly through the rear, before anyone could see him. Disheartened, he gained no solace from the fact that she had confirmed what he had deduced from reexamining the transcript of Jean Pierre's interrogation. He needed a live witness to testify against Jack Cole.

On the cab ride to the airport, Moreau became even more determined. If he couldn't charge Jack Cole with this crime, he'd redouble his efforts to charge him with another. Meantime, he had distributed Jack Cole's name and picture to passport control at all the French airports. It had been given to gendarmes who patrolled the Paris train stations, and it was pasted on bulletin boards there. Monique, Cole's secretary, had said he was out of the country. Sooner or later he'd come back to Paris. Then they'd nab him.

 

 

 

Chapter 12