The Paris Directive (20 page)

26

BENIDORM, SPAIN

T
he weathered kiosk near the beach in Benidorm—open only summers—sold newspapers from all over Europe and lottery tickets for anyone feeling lucky. Reiner gathered up copies of the
International
Herald
Tribune, Le Monde, La Dépêche,
and
Las
Provincias
from Valencia. Three of the four carried stories about Ali Sedak: “Handyman Named Prime Suspect in Taziac Murders.” He’d been taken into custody by Inspector Paul Mazarelle, head of the police special task force investigating the crime.

That was all Reiner needed. With the papers under his arm, he blew into the lobby of the Gran Hotel Delfin and hurried to the phone booth, pulling the door closed behind him. Now the Frenchies would pay, or he’d close their account permanently. Either way, Reiner knew it’d be his last call to this Paris number.

He recognized the voice that came on instantly. Pellerin wanted to know where he was.

“Did you see the papers?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“It’s all over. Now you’ve got what you asked for, and they have their murderer. Time to pay up.”

“That’s not what I ordered.”

Reiner didn’t care for his peevish, constipated tone. “As I told you, I had to make some adjustments.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your money.”

“Today.”

“That’s impossible.”

“How long does it take to make an electronic transfer of funds? A few seconds?”

“The banks are already closed for the weekend. It’s too late. Besides, we have some unfinished business to discuss with you.”

Reiner didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Unfinished business?”

“I’ll meet you halfway. Bourges. The Hôtel de Bourbon. It’s convenient, right near the railway station. How’s Sunday for lunch?”

The Frenchman seemed to assume that he was still in the Dordogne. “What about the money?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it. Then we’re on for lunch. Good. They have a splendid restaurant, the Abbaye Saint-Ambroix, with the best foie gras anywhere. One’s mouth fairly drips.”

Pellerin, the gourmand. As usual, the French flaunting their stomachs like jewel boxes. Reiner had no pretensions about food; he kept his machine running smoothly even if it meant yogurt and nuts. Though by no means eager to return to France so soon, and fully aware that this might be a trap, Reiner was willing to meet him halfway. Especially for the money.

“D’accord,”
he said, and proposed one small change in their plan. They’d meet in the cathedral rather than the hotel. He preferred a large public place and Saint-Étienne at the top of the hill was one of the largest Gothic cathedrals in France.

“But it’s huge. There’s no privacy.”

If Pellerin assumed that its size eliminated the church as a choice, he was wrong. As far as Reiner was concerned, it was just right. He promised he’d be in the Jacques Coeur chapel of the cathedral at noon and, before Pellerin could say anything, hung up.

On his way to the front door of the hotel, Reiner breezed past the manager, who greeted him warmly. “No tennis today, Senor Kämpe?” the manager asked.

27

ENCOUNTER AT THE OLD MILL

R
eluctantly, Favier gave Molly directions. He seemed to disapprove of Thérèse as much as Duboit hated her Arab husband. Were they all racists around here? Molly wondered. In any event, it was none of the hotel manager’s business where she went or why. Anything she could do to aid the inspector with his investigation, she was eager to do. And the wife of Ali Sedak seemed a good place to start.

It was a short, pleasant drive, showy crape myrtle trees lining the road, their leaves shimmering gloriously in the sunlight. The old stone water mill she was looking for struck her as charming rather than what Favier called
délabré,
and, as she drove up and parked next to the dusty white VW, the butterflies fluttering across the shallow stream added to the quiet, picturesque scene.

When Thérèse came to the door, she stood there with her blouse open, nursing her baby, and sized up her visitor. Molly introduced herself, asked if she had a few minutes to talk. The name at first meant nothing to the young mother until Molly explained who she was. Thérèse’s eyes shifted about uncomfortably as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

She finally nodded and went back inside with the baby.

Molly reached into her shoulder bag, switched on her tape recorder, and followed her into the house. Sitting down opposite her at the table, she admired the mother’s cute, black-eyed child in his blue blanket.
“Quel beau bébé!”
Molly gushed, by way of warming her up, and asked his name, how old he was. She congratulated Thérèse on her baby’s beautiful disposition.

Sometimes, Thérèse told her. She asked for the diaper on the back of the chair next to Molly. Tossing it onto her shoulder, she placed the infant on top and patted him on the back. Her uncombed hair, which covered the side of her face, parted as she straightened up and Molly noticed the large purple bruise on her cheek. Her husband had left her a going-away present. In Molly’s job she’d seen too many women who had been turned into human punching bags by the creeps they loved. With a temper like that, maybe he
was
the murderer.

Thérèse wanted her to know she was sorry about Molly’s parents and their friends, but Ali was innocent. Completely innocent. He didn’t even know about the murders until she told him. And at the commissariat in Bergerac, they’d refused to let her see him, talk to him. She couldn’t even give him a comb, a toothbrush, anything. Thérèse had no idea how long he was going to be kept there or what to do next. They had hardly any money. She couldn’t afford a lawyer. Her eyes reddened, and with a corner of the diaper she wiped away the tears.

Molly, despite her carefully cultivated professional caution, was touched and she sympathized, but didn’t know how far she could trust Thérèse. Molly asked about the events of the night of the murders and Thérèse told her what she’d told the police. Ali came home late that night—around 9:30 or 10:00—with a bad back. He had a couple of beers, ate hardly anything, and went right to bed.

It wasn’t until later, when Molly asked if anything else had happened that night, that Thérèse remembered the telephone calls. Two of them maybe twenty-five minutes apart. The first about 1:00 a.m. She’d been sound asleep, and when the phone rang it was like an electric finger touching her heart. Each time she picked up the receiver no one was there. Some breathing, that was all. No, she’d no idea who it was or whether it was important. But Ali had heard nothing, never budged, and, going back to sleep, she forgot.

There was a vulnerability about Thérèse that Molly liked. They talked softly while the baby slept, and time slowly slipped away until they were interrupted by the sound of distant motors growing louder. The sleek machines roared up into the front yard amid swirling dust, and the riders, revving their thunderous engines, shut them
off. Friends, Molly supposed. Time for her to go. Thanking Thérèse for her help, she opened the door.

Three motorcycles. Two Yamahas and a Scout. The three riders in black boots, faded jeans, helmets. The big, bearded one had a bull neck with a chain draped around it from which hung an Iron Cross. The two in black T-shirts were thin, wiry, and had tattoos all over their skinny arms. They might have been twins. All three helmets were stamped SHARK, as colorful as fireworks with flashy streaks of white, green, red, and yellow. France loved her athletic clubs, she thought, bicycle clubs, football clubs, sailing clubs. They were members of a motorcycle club—a bit oddball perhaps, like the Stanford marching band. What troubled her was that they didn’t take off their helmets, and because of the tinted visors she couldn’t see their faces.

Molly looked again. What at first glance had seemed amusing wasn’t funny at all. These guys were grief. And if Ali Sedak wasn’t there, they’d settle for the Arab son of a bitch’s French squeeze or anyone else on the premises.

Without actually running, street-smart Molly began to walk quickly to her rented car, fumbling for the car keys in her shoulder bag. The three of them shouted after her, calling her a
melon
lover and telling her to slow down, not so fast. They wanted to know if she still had something left between her legs for a Frenchman. Molly pulled the car door open and was about to jump in when she felt herself being grabbed from behind. It was one of the thin ones. His bony fingers clamped around her waist, he yanked her away from the door. Wheeling around, Molly raked his neck with her car keys and he began to bleed. His
copains
howled. As for him, he seemed surprised, then smacked her across the side of the head, slammed her against the car.

Thérèse screamed as she stood in the doorway clutching her howling baby.
“Casse-toi, vous fils de merde!”

The three of them turned. “Look who’s there. The bitch herself.” They began walking toward her. “And that must be her boyfriend’s bastard. Willya look at that kisser on him? How can a kid with a mug like that be French? And living off us too on welfare. It’s disgusting!”

Before they could grab her, Thérèse slammed the door and bolted it closed. The bearded bruiser pounded on the wooden door. Its
frame shivered. Hinges groaned. He picked up a rusty lead pipe and joined his buddies, who were smashing the headlights of Ali’s white VW. Hovering over the front trunk, he beat on it viciously, as if Ali were trapped inside.

Molly snatched up her fallen keys, threw herself into her car, and locked all the doors. Though the engine started up almost instantly, it seemed to take forever. The three bikers suddenly looked up, and Molly, wide-eyed and scared out of her wits, shoved the car into gear. Slamming the gas pedal to the floor, she held it there as she raced down the road, her eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror. Once after rounding a bend, she glanced back over her shoulder and thought she saw them coming after her, pitiless as Nevsky’s knights, their helmets glittering in the sun.

As soon as she was safely back in her hotel room, Molly dialed Mazarelle. The inspector was glad to hear from her. That is, until she told him where she’d been.

PART THREE

28

DARGELIER’S IOU

T
he Emerald City. Ringed by water and bathed in light, Montreal glowed green as the Boeing 747 broke through the clouds at eighteen thousand feet and descended for a landing at Dorval International Airport. With only carry-on baggage, Pellerin and Blond breezed through customs and were soon checked into the InterContinental, near the Vieux-Port and not far from the world headquarters of Tornade. Booked for a quickie overnight stay. Their first step after getting the job had been Berlin and the accident artist. Now came step two—Montreal and the multinational’s new broom. It was time to collect on Dargelier’s IOU.

The front of the Tornade building was a skyscraping wall of tinted glass surmounted by a massive green letter
T
. Security wanted to know who they were. Pellerin showed him a copy of the e-mail they’d received in Paris with the time of their appointment. After checking his clipboard, the guard labeled them each Guest, and in they went. Blond asked the woman behind the information desk what the green circles were on the huge map of the world covering the lobby wall. Malachite, she explained, marking the dozen cities in which Tornade had plants. The company, a diversified giant with more than sixty thousand employees worldwide, was organized into four divisions: aerospace, trains, ships, and finance.

Pellerin asked, “And Jean-Paul Dargelier?”

She said, “Our new CEO. You’ll find him on the thirty-third floor, the top of the Tornade.”

The new CEO was waiting for them in his office. On a bright day like this one, the windows—even through tinted glass—were filled
with crystal blue skies and a glittering view of the St. Lawrence River. There were Oriental rugs on the floor, soft leather chairs, a wide-winged diptych computer monitor, but no clocks. The place reeked of power. At forty-five, Tornade’s new CEO was the youngest in the history of the company.

Dargelier, as he came out from behind his heavy mahogany desk to welcome them, might have been a bit of a letdown if they hadn’t met him a few years earlier at the Paris air show. He was in his early forties then and already in charge of Tornade’s aerospace division—the third largest builder of civilian aircraft in the world after Boeing and Airbus. Clearly a young man on the make, his brilliant career rising like a rocket.

On the short side, Dargelier had a quiet manner and a thin, dark, ferret face that by six o’clock would probably require a razor before he took it out for cocktails. Not too impressive, if you failed to see the steel beneath his saturnine exterior. Pellerin was not one to make that mistake. He could even feel the ambition in Dargelier’s handshake.

“Congratulations,” Pellerin said. “We knew when we last met you in Paris that it was just a matter of time.”

Dargelier sighed. “But how could you know? Schuyler was still such a relatively young man.”

Blond corrected him. “
You’re
a young man.”

“I mean out of the blue like that. Totally unexpected. His death was quite a shock to everyone here.”

“I’m sure,” Pellerin said coolly, anxious to get down to business. “The good news is that even the darkest clouds often bring the needed rain.” He glanced about the room, admiring the CEO’s large corner office with its spectacular view. “This is all yours now. Didn’t you tell us it was time for a Canadian to take over the reins of Tornade?”

“Did I say that? I suppose I did. Though that was probably only the gin in my martini talking. But even then there were people here who thought so. In any case, Schuyler left behind a full plate of projects for his successor. First of all, there’s our unmanned aerial surveillance vehicles being made for the Canadian military, then there’s the new ultra-long-range corporate jet to compete in the U.S. market with Gulfstream, and add to that our latest high-speed train for Chad—a country without any railroads and few passable roads of any kind.”