Murder at the Lanterne Rouge ali-12 Page 25

  “Not what I heard,” he said. “They’re calling it a success. Weren’t you involved?”

  “René’s girlfriend didn’t make it,” she said. Bit her lip. “But that’s part of why I’m here.”

  Again he waved his liver-spotted hand. “We’re here to eat. For once. This place costs the earth.”

  “You’ve called in a favor, more like it,” she said, “or the maître d’s your informer.” She noticed the burgundy spots on the lapel of his jacket. “Killed half a bottle already, I see.”

  “I’d like to enjoy it, Leduc. Looks like you could do with some food in your stomach.”

  But she told him anyway. And about Pascal Samour.

  Morbier pulled out an unfiltered Gauloises. Cast a warning glance at a waiter, who had promptly appeared with a lighter, then lit it with a matchbox from his pocket.

  Aimée stared. Why hadn’t she seen it? Stupid again.

  “All these years you’ve worked with the DST and never told me?” she said, controlling her voice with effort. “Shame on you, Morbier.”

  Shock painted his lined brow. “Where does that come from?”

  “A little under-the-sheets time with the DGSE too? Too bad the DGSE agent success rate is only twenty-eight percent.”

  He blinked. She’d surprised him for once.

  “I thought their rate was thirty-two percent.”

  Her turn for surprise. And then it faded.

  “Your leaked report’s more current than mine,” she said. “Don’t play dumb. You’re my contact instead of Sacault tonight.”

  “The lamppost knocked you harder than you thought,” Morbier said. “Not my people at all. The opposite.” Shrugged. “There are things I need to tell you.”

  Something in his voice made her sit up.

  Two plates of white asparagus dotted with caviar appeared. He paused until the waiter backed away.

  Morbier pushed his cell phone toward the wineglass, tucked his linen napkin in his collar. A member of the proletariat like him would enjoy a three-star resto in his own way. He speared an asparagus tip with his salad fork.

  “Eat while it’s hot, Leduc,” he said, glancing at the other diners.

  “Asparagus is served cold, Morbier. So you wanted to have dinner, eh? Talk?”

  He nodded. Always a good liar.

  “Then convince me.”

  “You’re more than unusually feisty tonight.” He glanced at her untouched plate.

  “Murder does that to me.”

  “Homicide’s not my turf. Not anymore, you know that.”

  She stared at the white asparagus. Couldn’t eat. Her stomach churned. She heard a choking, looked up.

  Morbier paled. Swallowed several times.

  What was wrong with him?

  She saw an uneasy flicker in his basset-hound eyes.

  “Got a stalk stuck in your throat?”

  He shook his head.

  “Lift your hands up in the air,” she said.

  “Leduc, keep my eye contact. In a minute or so, drop your napkin. Glance at the fourth table, the couple sitting over a bottle of Vouvray.”

  She dropped her linen napkin, turned as she reached down for it.

  “Him or her?”

  “Operatives of this caliber work in couples. Better cover.”

  Now she had a lump in her throat.

  “This vintage comes from a northern vineyard,” he said, all of a sudden. “You can taste the terroir, the rich soil.”

  Morbier knew as much about vintage as a street cleaner.

  “The terroir? We’re not describing vine-growing conditions in sandy or acidic soil here, but people.”

  “Lower your voice, Leduc.” He leaned closer. “Certain branches have expressed great interest in you. I don’t know what pot you’ve stirred up …”

  “It’s what I’m doing at the Musée des Arts et Métiers,” she said. “Or not doing, as I told you. But they don’t know that. I’ve got a theory.”

  “Theory?” Surprise painted Morbier’s face. “Connected to Samour?”

  “Good, you’ve been listening,” she said. “You’re not usually so informative. Funny, since you haven’t answered your phone. Or returned my messages in weeks.”

  “Paranoid, Leduc?”

  “You’re the one seeing operatives at the fourth table.” She sat back. Noticed a high-end satellite phone poking out from the napkin on the woman’s lap.

  All the signs were there: Morbier’s evasiveness, a hurried meeting. The DST had kicked this into high gear.

  She felt him grab her hand under the table and place a piece of paper in it.

  “Read it later. Trust me.”

  Since when had she trusted him? Any favor he’d done her demanded payment. She turned her back, blocking anyone’s view, and slit open the sealed envelope. Found a small pale-blue notecard with cramped writing.

  Amy, believe no one. They’re using you to find me. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I’ve watched you from afar, tried to shield you. Thanks to your father, I found a new life. Now for once, I’m doing something right. It means I can’t protect you. Not anymore. You’re the only person who can take care of you. Remember that. I told you this when you were little and in my letters for years. Know that I care for you.

  —Mommy (DESTROY THIS)

  “My mother?” Her insides wrenched. “When did you get this?”

  “You know how your father felt.”

  Papa pretended Sydney had never existed.

  “She’s my mother.” Aimée bit her lip. “What does she mean, protect me?”

  “It’s complicated.” Morbier looked as comfortable as a hen held under a knife.

  “That’s all you can say? Diagram it for me, Morbier.” She seethed inside. “Better yet, give me her letters.”

  “I destroyed them.”

  She swallowed. Her mother’s letters and he destroyed them. “Because Papa …”

  “You’re naive.”

  “Call me what you want. I don’t hate my mother. How could I? How can you? I want to see her.” Her eyes teared. “Just once.”

  “A woman hunted, persona non grata, on the World Security watch list?”

  In the end, what did it matter? All she remembered were those warm arms that held her when she’d had a fever, the drawings scribbled on old envelopes to make her laugh. That smile, those carmine-red lips.

  “Quit putting me off, like always. You’ve never told me the truth, Morbier. When I was little I knew when you lied.”

  Morbier hadn’t answered her calls. What had changed?

  “You’ve got a red face,” she said. “The tops of your big ears are pink.”

  “But I’m not lying, Leduc. Not this time.”

  “You think I believe you?” Aimee clutched at a hope, as always. “If Maman’s life is in danger, she needs me. Now.”

  “She abandoned you.”

  That hole opened up. Wide and empty. The years of not knowing.

  “Maybe she had to.” The lie she told herself. “Not all women can handle raising a child,” she said. “I just want to see her, talk with her. Once. Then if she doesn’t want to know me—”

  “She knows you, Leduc,” he said, his voice low. “What you do, how you live.”

  Pain lanced her heart. She thought of the times she’d sensed a presence, a shadow on the quai. That hurt even more. “Why not contact me, Morbier?”

  “Try to understand.” His shoulders sagged. “They’d implicate you in aiding and abetting terrorism. Arrest you.” Morbier expelled a sigh. “Children. Always so selfish.”

  Part of her always felt eight years old, that little girl waiting for her mother in the empty apartment after school.

  “So you appointed yourself judge and jury, eh, Morbier? Decided long ago.” A terrible thought hit her. “Or you’re hiding the truth because the truth’s too ugly. And your part in the reason she left? And Papa … you lied to him?”

  “But you know what happened. The facts.�
�

  “I had to find them out years later. Myself. You could have told me.”

  “That your mother’s a convicted terrorist, served time in prison until your father worked a deal?” he said. “Deported. Banned from France. The rest she did herself. She picked the wrong horse. Had to ride it.”

  Little details, pieces fit together. “What if she’s playing both sides?”

  Morbier averted his eyes.

  “Maybe she had to. And won’t anymore.”

  “If I tell you, will you leave it alone?”

  He expected a promise? But she nodded.

  “She’s gone rogue.”

  Aimée had expected anything but that. “Rogue?” Was he lying? “That’s what she meant in the letter?”

  “She doesn’t want you in danger. Or under pressure to reveal—”

  “You think I’d turn in my own mother?”

  “Politicos, drug lords, arms dealers, old terrorists. Her speciality. Let’s call it her area of expertise, Aimée.”

  “Why can’t she tell me in person?” He glanced at his cell phone.

  “She’s going to call?”

  “Alors, Leduc, you wouldn’t believe it, like another letter from your brother. Typical Company tactic.”

  “My brother … the Company, the CIA? That’s all made up?” Morbier checked his phone again. Took her hand. “Listen, it’s important. She wants you free, not making the mistake she did. A mistake she’s had to live with. The only other choice was to compromise you. And she cared too much to do that.”

  Aimée’s hand trembled on the wineglass. Was that the real reason? “But you’re using the past tense, Morbier. You’re talking like she’s dead.”

  He glanced at his watch. “She was supposed to call ten minutes ago. Confirm. Speak with you.”

  “You mean …?”

  He shrugged. Looked away. Then leaned forward, intent.

  “Don’t believe the DST, DGSE, or Interpol,” he said, his voice urgent. “Just asses with tails between their legs. When you go rogue, no one’s in your corner.”

  The chandelier’s crystals reflected the candlelight, the hushed service. The hypocrisy of the three-star clientele. “Doesn’t the smell of what human beings do to each other get in your nostrils, Morbier? Doesn’t it bother you?”

  His shoulders sagged. For a moment he looked like the old man he was. “In my business, I never get rid of it.”

  He took her hand. Held it tight. “You have to watch your back. She disowned you so they couldn’t use you to get to her.”

  A tidal wave hit her, all the old hurt surfaced. She didn’t know which way was up.

  A patsy. Desperate, she’d fallen for it.

  “But they did, Morbier,” she said. “I took their bait.”

  “Spit it out, Leduc.” Morbier shook his head. “Or do you want to be under surveillance all your life?”

  No way in hell that would happen.

  She grabbed Morbier’s phone. Scrolled down the last calls received. A UK country code. “She called you, didn’t she?”

  The couple at the next table stared.

  She punched the call return. And waited the longest minute of her life: the ringing, the slow motion of Morbier’s pained expression, the clink of cutlery, more ringing, the long-ago image of her mother’s face floating in front of her.

  Ringing, ringing. A click. Her heart leapt.

  “Maman?” she breathed.

  “The number you’ve reached is no longer in directory service,” a clipped British accent informed her. “Please check the—”

  She put the phone down.

  “They got her, Leduc,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Who’s they?” She stifled a sob.

  He turned away. “Does it matter?”

  She flung her plate at him. Stood. At the couple’s table, she emptied the bottle of Vouvray over their laps, drenching their high-end satellite phones. Out of commission. For a little while.

  She ran past waiters with plates of food who scattered in her path, meeting the maître d’, who blocked her exit at the door. “Mademoiselle, please sit down, restez tranquille …”

  A hard kick to the shin sent him reeling into an arrangement of white roses. She was out the door, running under the vaulted arcade. Her heels clicking, tears streaming down her face, freezing on her cheeks.

  It all reeled in front of her. Her mother, the DST, Samour’s murder, Meizi, the attack that almost killed her last night, the alchemical formula, the secret to the fiber optics. She grabbed the freezing stone arcade, racked by sobs. Shaking, trying to draw strength from the ancient stone. She forced herself to take deep breaths of slicing cold. Again and again, until determination surfaced. Her mind cleared in the crystal night. Now, she knew what she had to do.

  “STORM PREDICTED, ma chère,” the homeless man said.

  Thunder shook the sky. Strains of the weather channel came from the vent under his mound near the sleeping bag. Her shoulders shook. “Too bad I don’t have my raincoat,” she said, scanning the area around the Carreau du Temple.

  “Have a dinner date?” His gaze ran over her outfit.

  “Past tense. I didn’t care for the company.” She pushed down her emotions. An entwined couple stood in front of Café Rouge by the rue de Picardie door to the courtyard of the tower.

  “Fifty francs for you if you keep an eye on them,” she said. “Another fifty if you go along with me when I get back.”

  “But ma chère, I have a new radio,” he said.

  “Then something for your daughter, eh?”

  He grinned.

  She pulled her copper-colored coat tighter, kept to the shadows. Within five minutes she had entered the courtyard and unlocked the door of Samour’s tower room.

  Saj sat on the floor surrounded by burning candles and several laptop screens.

  “Meizi’s dead, Saj,” she said, her voice cracking. If only she’d protected Meizi. Hadn’t failed René.

  “Mon Dieu. That’s terrible.” He shook his head. “How’s René?”

  “He won’t leave the hospital.”

  Another shake of his head. “We have to let him grieve in his own way, Aimée,” Saj said. “You know we’re missing a piece, don’t you?” Saj hadn’t looked up from the screens, his eyes darting from one to another. “That’s what I’ve been trying to find.”

  “Whatever Meizi had, it’s gone.”

  He nodded. Took a deep breath. “Samour left a trail of crumbs.”

  “You think so?”

  Saj sat up. “Wouldn’t a brilliant mind with his skill set back up the steps of his fiber-optic process? His notes, his formulas? He’d store it away like a squirrel.”

  Made sense. “But on Friday he was desperate, he tried to contact Coulade—”

  “Coulade’s hard drive’s a wash,” Saj interrupted. “Nothing.”

  Her mind went back to Coulade’s words in his office. “Samour left his last message for Coulade at five P.M.,” she said. “At seven P.M. Samour passed Chez Chun on his way to meet his killer.”

  “Et alors?”

  “What did he do in those two hours?”

  Saj hit a few keys on Samour’s keyboard. “His laptop shows no activity,” he said, “so he didn’t come here.”

  “Pull up the diagram copy René made.”

  Saj stared, his eyes widening. “That’s it.” More key clicks and it popped up on the screen. “See? We need to think in two directions, not just the one.

  “What?” Aimée said, frustrated. “I still don’t get it.”

  “This tower, his flat, and extend the line.”

  She took a deep breath so she wouldn’t shout. “What do you mean?”

  “Pascal followed the diagram—that’s his message. Followed it to the other end of this line. That’s where the rest of the manuscript lies. And it looks to me like …” Saj superimposed a clear street map over the diagram and traced his finger. “Here.”

  The Musée. Aimée nodded. “He f
ollowed the diagram. So will I.” She stuck her laptop in her bag. Noticed his brown wool Tibetan cap with earflaps. “Mind if I borrow this?”

  “As long as both of you come back in one piece.”

  OUT IN THE courtyard, she pulled the cap’s earflaps low, turned her metallic coat inside out to show the black lining, lit up a cigarette from the pack of filtered Gauloises that the blonde had given her. Felt the jolt of nicotine.

  Now or never.

  Head down, she stepped out of the doorway and kept to the right. A church bell chimed in the distance. A moment later she’d joined the homeless man under the sleeping bag, trying to ignore his pungent aroma. Impossible. She’d make this quick.

  “Any action?”

  “Only they used their cell phones after you went inside.”

  Just as she’d thought. Watchers.

  But chances were they hadn’t keyed in on her location. Otherwise they’d have a crew waiting.

  “What’s your name, Monsieur?”

  “Hippolyte,” he said. “Would you be interested in exchanging coats, ma chère?”

  “You read my mind, Hippolyte. But only if you take this too,” she said, handing him the last of Tso’s francs.

  SHE LEFT THE warm vent, confident no one would follow her.

  She kept to the narrow side streets below Place de la République. She felt invisible. No one looked twice at a clochard shuffling along in a Tibetan hat and moth-eaten raccoon coat—more fragrant now after a spritz of Chanel No. 5.

  She hit Martine’s number on her cell phone. Martine answered on the first ring.

  “About time, Aimée,” she said. “When can I meet Meizi?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” she said, her chest tightening. That awful taste of guilt clutched the back of her throat.

  “What now, Aimée?”

  She took a breath and filled Martine in as she walked.

  “Dead? Meizi’s dead? Poor René.” Martine exhaled. A cough. “Not to sound mercenary, but it shoots down my exposé,” she said. “Libération’s interested in a three-part series documenting conditions, Aimée. But for that I need a connection in the sweatshops. People who will talk to me. Open doors. Proof.”

  Aimée’s heart fell. Martine couldn’t pull out now.

  “She’s not the only one, Martine.”

  “Get real, Aimée. It’s a closed world. They live in fear, held hostage by their families in China. Who’d talk to me?”