by Cara Black
“They work for someone, René.”
“Evidemment, but you don’t think the DGSE staged this, do you?”
She shook her head. “The DGSE are even more in the dark than I am. This mec has an employer.”
René tugged his goatee as he played with the tracker. “Bien sûr, doubt the accomplice is the brains behind a two-man operation. Any ideas?”
“It smells like a contract job.”
She recalled Yvon’s recounting of his conversation with Gérard, how the man on the run had felt he couldn’t trust anyone.
A minute later a music ringtone trilled from the tracker in René’s hand.
“Crocodile Rock,” she said. The third crocodile reference that day.
“My favorite Elton John,” said René.
“Why’s music coming from the tracker?”
“Je ne sais pas! The song is set up as the ringtone for the only contact.”
“Can you geolocate this person? By responding?”
“He disabled those functions.” But René grinned and held up the tracker. “This contact is called ‘The Crocodile.’ Any idea why?”
“We’re about to find out.”
Thursday, Early Evening
The peach-pink band of a fading sunset settled on the zinc rooftops and pepper-pot chimneys. As dusk descended on rue Montgallet, people scurried from the Métro, shoppers clogged the boulangerie and épicerie, parents pushed strollers from the crêche. At the corner on rue de Reuilly bike riders competed with cars.
“A light’s on upstairs,” said René. They’d parked, keeping the Renault’s motor running and the heat on, in front of the pavilion at Sainte Clotilde’s gate. “You really think Gérard’s hiding there?”
“He’s on the run and out of options.”
She’d caught René up on her earlier visit and suspicions that Sainte Clotilde’s caretaker was hiding Gérard.
René shook his head. “In Gérard’s shoes, I’d get the hell out of Paris. Hop it to Côte d’Ivoire.”
“Not until he has what Germaine wanted to give him—money for his coup, map to some kind of valuable cargo. He must desperately need it—otherwise, what’s he risking his life for? He knows it’s here. We wait.”
“What’s to say the caretaker even gave him your card?”
Her nerves tingled. “Nothing. You’re right.”
Saj answered on the first ring.
“What can you find out about a Baptiste who works as the caretaker at Sainte Clotilde’s school?” Aimée asked. “I need to get him out of his loge.”
“Namaste to you, too, Aimée.”
She heard the clicking of Saj’s keyboard. She put speakerphone on so René could hear.
“Need me to flush him out?” Saj said as he searched. “Fire alarm, bomb scare, burst water main? An evacuation?”
“I like how you think, Saj, but we’ll go low-key.” For now.
More clicking.
“Et voilà, Baptiste Cornu, born in Paris, fifty-three years old, employed twenty years as caretaker at Sainte Clotilde, lives on the grounds in the pavilion. Served as a lieutenant in the French military in Côte d’Ivoire, volunteer at l’Armée du salut, head parishioner at Saint Éloi church. A veteran with connections to Côte d’Ivoire and a religious man.”
“Any family?” Aimée asked.
“Widowed.”
Lonely. That gave her ammunition. But how to fire?
“Merci, Saj.” She hung up.
A postal truck pulled up on the street, blocking her view of the pavilion fronting the school.
“Come on, René. Can you run interference, deflect the caretaker? Say you’re interested in volunteering at the school’s chapel; think of something.”
“What about you?”
“I need to get inside that pavilion.”
Snapping her black leather jacket closed and looping her flea-market vintage Hermès scarf around her neck, she joined René on the pavement behind the postal truck. The postman was coming out of Sainte Clotilde’s gate. A woman—a teacher, judging by the notebooks poking out of her bag—hurried out behind him.
“Now, René.”
Just before the gate closed, Aimée slid inside and held it open for René. Not even a backward glance from the postman or the teacher, who’d crossed the street toward the Métro. So far, so good.
Across the grass the caretaker, Baptiste, stood in conversation with the school receptionist. Aimée motioned toward him, and René took the hint. Aimée tried to melt into the ivy on the pavilion’s wall as René trotted forward and interrupted their conversation, pointed toward the chapel, drawing Baptiste’s attention. A minute later the two men were walking toward the chapel, the receptionist turning toward the office.
This was Aimée’s chance.
Thursday, Early Evening
At the pavilion’s side service door under hanging ivy, she got to work with her lockpick set from her LeClerc compact. Thank God there was more than one entry. A minute later, she was in a faded yellow pantry with an ancient laundry press.
Stepping into the kitchen was like stepping into the past—beveled glass cabinets, a cracked porcelain sink, a half-drunk bowl of café au lait with a brown skin on top. A rock-hard baguette sat on the stained red-checked tablecloth. The air held an odor of grease.
She took advantage of the dim light in the foyer with its cracked marble tiles to stop and listen. A faint voice . . . a radio or someone on the phone?
She took the staircase, cringing at every creak. No one stopping her so far. Her hand closed around the DGSE burner phone in her bag, ready to dial Lacenaire.
A door opened on the landing, and she squinted in the bright light. She stuck the phone in her catsuit’s back pocket.
All of a sudden a hand clamped over her mouth. She stumbled and tried to resist. A strong arm pushed her into a room, and the door slammed shut behind her. Perspiration broke out on her neck.
The hand released her. She whirled around to stare into a probing pair of deep black eyes. She recognized Gérard from the photo, despite his shaven head and cap. This was the charismatic young Ivoirian who’d rallied so many to his cause. Relieved she’d found him, she caught her breath. “Gérard Hlili, I’m Aimée Leduc.”
“Should I know you?” he said in a deep rolling accent. Those watchful eyes were set under thick knit brows. He had a muscular, tall frame encased in jeans and a T-shirt under a work coat.
“You’re a difficult man to find.”
“I like to keep it that way,” he said, sizing her up. “Who sent you?”
“Desolée, but didn’t Baptiste tell you to contact me?” It could have been easy; instead she’d had to hunt him down.
“You broke in here,” he said. “Why should I believe you spoke with him?”
Understandable that he’d be suspicious. She had to gain his trust. Finish this.
“Germaine’s documents are safe,” she said.
“Then show me.”
“No way I’d carry them on me.”
“Use gifts for good, not evil, or . . .” His words hung in the air. A test.
“Suffer their curse,” she said, finishing the saying from the page torn from the book.
“Apologies, I realize this is no way to get acquainted,” he said. “But I have to be careful.” Then Gérard smiled, a radiant smile deep in his eyes, emanating a magnetic force. Even knowing this warm, personal smile was a politician’s cultivated tool, she felt special, felt her pulse speed up.
“What does that saying mean?”
“Mean?” Gérard parted the curtains, glanced out the window, and shook his head. “Do right or suffer—that old saying paralyzes our people.” Now his dark eyes burned. “We need clean water, decent roads. Schools that are part of a modern educational system. French companies suck us dry by convincing
us our duties lie with them. Abidjan teems with the Parisian educated elite, like I was once,” he said. “Spoiled, full of attitude, wearing Hugo Boss suits, and blind to the struggle around me.” He shrugged and shook his head again.
“I heard you lost your mother to a cholera epidemic. I’m sorry.”
His eyes closed a moment. When he reopened them, she saw deep hurt. “It’s called the blue death. Your skin turns blue from severe dehydration. My case wasn’t severe because when we got sick, my mother insisted I drink all the bottled water. She thought she’d be able to survive with the water from her own village. But she died in my arms.”
He stopped and turned his face away to stare at his hands. Long fingers, palms calloused.
“Just a simple thing for the government to provide clean water, sanitation, and hygiene. Basic, right? My father and I contacted the World Health Organization to organize a clean water project and combat the epidemic. Corruption prevented that. It forced me to wake up. But I’m a realist; I know that to make meaningful change, we need to heal political and ethnic conflicts. Many of us want the same thing—a system that works for everyone.”
He crackled with intensity. She was drawn in by his passion, could see how people followed him.
“Côte d’Ivoire was France’s pet,” he was saying. “A tool of their colonialist policy until we gained independence in 1960. We became one of the most stable countries in Africa. But today, we can’t control the price of the cocoa bean, our national crop, because of corrupt politicians and the Paris elite. Recently, the IMF, World Bank, and European Union have suspended all our aid. We’re in crisis.”
It wasn’t her fight, but she understood.
“But what is it that brings you here? Where’s Germaine?”
He hadn’t heard.
“Desolée, but she didn’t make it,” she said.
Gérard’s hand went to his forehead, and he turned to the window. She gave him space to grieve, looked around. The room had a high ceiling, curlicue wood boiserie, and faded floral wallpaper. Stained-glass windows were covered by dingy lace curtains. A bed bore a crumpled sleeping bag and was strewn with political pamphlets; the whole room gave off a musty smell.
When he turned back, his face was creased with worry. “Terrible. They want to ruin everything we’re trying to achieve for our country . . . Germaine, her brother—they killed him, too, covered it up as an accident. So what do you have for me?”
“Documents,” she said, keeping it vague. “Names, lists, diagrams, a kind of map. Nothing made sense to me. I’m just carrying out Germaine’s promise to get them to you, Gérard. Look, the legionnaire who was chasing you is dead. You knew he was coming. That’s why you escaped from the safe house, right?”
“How do you know about that?” He was suspicious again.
She looked at her Tintin watch. “I’ve got a car waiting for us outside.” She held out the grey tracker. “Who’s the Crocodile?”
“Maybe you’re one of his thugs.”
He moved and stood in front of the door.
“Why doubt me, Gérard?” She didn’t like his edgy reaction. Her heart pounded; her brain was on high alert.
“Who are you, really?”
“Someone who didn’t want to get involved.”
“So why did you?”
“Does it matter?” She was tired of having to prove herself. Wasn’t she there to help him? Aimée had taken on Germaine’s mission because her mother’s safety was at stake, but she wasn’t even sure her mother was alive. She had no choice but to work with the DGSE. Would explaining that to Gérard help anything, though? “Let’s go. We need to leave now.” She wished she could see out through the dingy lace curtain.
“You still haven’t explained who you are or why I should trust you.”
“Talk to your friends at the DGSE.”
“Those clowns? They’ll sell me out to the highest bidder. Or try to buy me to continue French influence. You think I trust the generals competing for power, forces like the CIA?”
Did her mother? A vision of Sydney sitting with Chloé, drinking chocolat chaud . . . from cocoa, his national crop.
“Gérard. I’m trying to get you the documents—and the money—you need. For your cause. To get you out of here, out of danger. Do you even have anyone besides Baptiste in your corner?”
“I trust him. I still don’t get what’s in it for you.”
She bit her lip. “I’ll explain later. Let’s go get the documents from my office.”
A double knock on the door. Gérard opened it, and Baptiste, the caretaker, stared at her.
“That’s the one,” he said.
Where had René gone?
The caretaker shook his head. “Don’t believe anything she says, Gérard.”
“What?” Aimée blinked. “I’m trying to help you. Can’t you understand?”
“I do,” Gérard said. “But you’re a wild card. We didn’t expect you, and I still don’t know that I can trust you.”
The caretaker nodded. “She sent someone to distract me.”
Her heart jumped. She didn’t like how the two men were blocking the door. “Where’s my business partner?”
“The little guy you’re in cahoots with? He’s wrapped up in the chapel. Literally.” The caretaker smiled. “He pretended to be interested in volunteering. Saw through him right away.”
Her heart thudded as guilt filled her. She’d sent René into danger.
What the hell were these two up to?
None of this had gone the way she’d thought it would. She should’ve called the DGSE as soon as she’d discovered Gérard’s whereabouts and let them take over. She could’ve gotten her mother back, if they’d made good on their promise. She felt as if all she was doing was treading water between massive waves hitting her.
“Please let him go,” she said. “I’ll take you to my office right now.”
In response, Gérard grabbed her bag. “Get the keys, Baptiste. Go yourself.”
Terror filled her. “Look, why can’t you trust me?”
Gérard’s arms folded in a defensive position. “If I trusted others, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”
“You say you’re a leader for peace and change for your people. Germaine died trying to get this to you, and I’m only trying to help.”
The caretaker’s eyes burned. “Lies. She murdered Germaine, Gérard. She’s their agent.”
Gérard’s dark eyes flickered in hesitation.
The caretaker took Gérard’s arm. “What if she’s planning to hand you over?”
“I’m on your side, Gérard,” she said desperately. “I’ve put my life on the line for this. The Crocodile’s men have tried to kill me twice. They blew up my friend’s car.” She’d taken a guess about the Crocodile, didn’t know for sure. “Who is he? Why is he trying to stop you?”
“I think you’re CIA,” said Baptiste. “I saw enough agents in l’Afrique to recognize you. You’re the new generation.”
“Moi?” She almost laughed. “No way.”
“See? She thinks she’s smart,” said Baptiste.
“I’m telling the truth. Why listen to him?”
Gérard was gripping her shoulder. Tight. “Baptiste knows Côte d’Ivoire.”
“And how does that help you here and now? How does that get you the information in my office, which is protected by an alarm? Why won’t you trust me?” Perspiration dampened her collar.
“I trusted the DGSE, and look where that landed me.”
“I thought you were working with them.”
“I did, too, until . . . I realized they were using me.”
“So use them back, Gérard. Play their game.”
He smiled. He was still holding her bag. “Right now, Baptiste and your partner, who will disable the alarm, will go to your office and
pick up the documents. If they’re there, that is.”
Thursday Evening
Before she could react, the caretaker had grabbed her hands and tied her securely to a chair with her own cashmere scarf. So fast—the old codger moved like lightning.
“Your partner will drive Baptiste.” Gérard hung her vintage Vuitton bag on a hook on the door, high out of her reach. “If your partner doesn’t cooperate, things will go badly for you.”
Mon Dieu. René was in even more danger now. All her fault.
The door slammed behind the two men, and her bag bounced against it. She heard the lock click from the other side.
She’d walked into this like an idiot. Wanted to kick herself. What had happened to Gérard the charismatic good-guy patriot? If he’d acted that part with Germaine and her brother, he was sure displaying other colors now.
Never assume, her father had always said.
She thought back to the documents. Remembered Saj hitting a major firewall blocking access to a cargo manifest. What if what the cargo plane carried wasn’t meant to get into Hlili’s hands? Contraband? Arms?
She struggled in the chair. Wished she could get at the Swiss Army knife in her bag. Fat chance. The scarf was cutting into her wrists, causing her hands to go numb. Somehow she had to break these ties and reach the DGSE phone. Get the hell out and alert the DGSE to everything that had happened.
Gérard could return at any moment.
Perspiring in this hot, high-ceilinged room, she scanned for something sharp to saw apart the scarf. Nothing.
Hurry, she had to hurry.
She pushed with her feet, rocking the chair until it fell over. A loud thump.
Great.
Pain sliced up a rib. Still tied to the chair, she scooted in her heels over the parquet to the bed. Dust balls caught on her favorite last-season find, the agnès b. catsuit.
With her head, she pushed up the not-so-fragrant mattress. Thank God it was the thin cheap kind. She twisted her back, angling around and lifting her aching arms behind her to try to catch the scarf on a spring. After the third try, one of her bound wrists finally made contact with a sharp, rusty-feeling spring.
