by Daniel Kalla
He dropped out of his chair and onto his knees. Scanning under the desk, he spotted the purple bookmark where it had fallen behind the far leg of the desk. He patted the carpet until his fingers grasped it. As he brought the clip to eye level, he remembered marking his page right before racing off to meet Duncan and Elise. The bookmark could not have fallen out on its own.
Someone had gone through his notes.
Noah examined every page of his notebook and each loose paper but noticed nothing else missing or displaced. He got up and combed the room, looking under the bed and scouring the drawers and closet, uncertain what he was looking for and doubtful he would recognize it if he saw it, but still compelled to look.
Once he finished his search, he walked empty-handed back to the desk and reached for the phone. He began to dial Elise’s room number, but stopped before punching in the last digit and placed the receiver gently back into the cradle.
How did the truck driver know where to find me? he thought again. And how would anyone have known I would be in Paris for a day? The only people who came to mind were Jean Nantal, Elise Renard, and Minister Javier Montalva y Casas. And Jean was beyond suspicion.
Noah glanced at his watch and calculated the time zones. Distrusting the room’s phone, he reached for his cell. As he was about to dial, he saw the MISSED CALL text message on the screen, though the voicemail indicator light was not on. He pressed the LIST button and scrolled through the numbers. The last two calls both came the previous evening from the same phone number, between 9:15 and 10:15 P.M., when he must have been in the bar with Duncan. Though he didn’t recognize the number, he realized that the area code was local. Who in Limoges would call twice but leave no message? He tried the number, but the line rang repeatedly without answer. Finally, he hung up.
Studying his phone’s screen, he chose the fourth number down on the speed-dial list. The line rang five times before Noah heard Gwen’s familiar voicemail greeting. He almost hung up, but after a moment’s pause, he said, “Gwen, hi. It’s Noah. I just…um…wanted to run something by you. Nothing urgent. Call me back when, or if, you have a chance.” He clicked the END button and tossed the cell phone onto the bed in disgust. “Smooth, Haldane!” he groaned.
Feeling confined in the small hotel room, he paced the floor. He considered going for a walk, but he did not want to chance another rendezvous in the dead of night with the truck driver or anyone else, so he fought off his claustrophobia and stayed put. It occurred to him that help might not come soon, if at all. Duncan was gone. And he no longer fully trusted Elise. There was no one left to turn to.
Determined to find more answers in his stack of papers, Noah hurried back to the desk. He laid the papers out in sequence and picked up the first article. He reread every word on the subject of BSE and vCJD as he scribbled through several more pages in his notebook. Finished, he carried the book over to his bed. As he lay in bed reviewing his own chicken-scratch, he could not escape the prickly sense of violation, knowing that someone else had read the thoughts and ideas intended only for himself.
Eventually fatigue overcame him, and he drifted off with the notebook on his chest.
He awoke before dawn, still dressed, though the book had fallen to the floor beside him. After his shower, he changed into a sweater and khakis and went downstairs to the dining room.
Relieved not to have run into Elise in the restaurant, Noah sat alone at a table and read the International Herald Tribune while waiting for his breakfast. On page two, a detailed article updated the Limousin outbreak under a headline that dubbed it: THE VIENNE UNKNOWN. Noah snorted when he read that “unnamed sources” within the E.U. claimed that the investigators had located “with confidence” the source of the prion. He could imagine the insincere smile and Spanish lilt behind that anonymous tip.
The waitress deposited a bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of him. Noah downed another coffee and picked at the food for a while before he pushed it aside and picked up the second newspaper, Limousin Matin, Limoges’s local daily. Scanning the pages for any more information on the situation, he stumbled across an article on Dr. Louis Charron on page six. But he struggled to translate the French. As best he could tell, the article lauded the man’s academic accomplishments and read more like an obituary than a report of a car accident. Near the end, Noah made out a brief mention that both alcohol and high speed were involved in the single-car collision that killed Charron.
“Tu lis en français aussi, maintenant?” a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
Noah lowered the paper to see Elise standing over him in a black blouse and gray slacks. Her smile was radiant. He was filled with a conflicting mix of wariness and familiarity. “Hello, Elise,” he said coolly.
Without invitation, she slid into the seat across from him. “May I?” she said, taking the newspaper from his hand.
He pointed to the article on Charron. “I was trying to read this.”
She began to read and translate aloud on the fly. “‘At 11:30 P.M., Dr. Louis Charron—the head of neurology for CHRU in Limoges—lost control of his Jaguar, drove off an embankment, and slammed into a tree. The sixty-seven-year-old physician died instantly….”
Noah listened in silence. Though her translation was far more fluid than his, he learned nothing new. Finished, she put down the paper. “Sad, isn’t it?” she said.
“Hmmm,” Noah agreed. He consulted his watch. “What time is Benoît Gagnon’s partner expecting us?”
“Ten o’clock.”
Noah rose from the table. “I’m going for a quick walk. How about I meet you in the lobby at a quarter to?”
“All right.” Elise squinted, seemingly taken aback by his abrupt mood.
Noah left without another word to her. As he wandered through downtown Limoges, he reflected on the science of prions. The more he had read about the rogue proteins, the more contradictory their nature seemed. Not alive by any scientific criteria, these proteins mimicked the fundamental mechanism of life—self-replication—solely to accomplish one purpose: the destruction of life. They were nature’s perfect Trojan horses.
Despite Dr. Gellier’s assertions, Noah was more convinced than ever the prion that killed Philippe Manet, Benoît Gagnon, and Giselle Tremblay was not one the world was familiar with. Yet. And from the tampering in his hotel room and his run-in with the skittish truck driver, Noah strongly suspected that people outside his own team had taken a deep and troubling interest in this prion, too.
Walking without a specific direction, Noah found himself standing at the foot of the St. Étienne Cathedral. No longer did he view the church’s looming tower as an architectural marvel. Now it struck him as foreboding and somehow symbolic of the many mysteries and unanswered questions that this city and its surrounding province concealed.
Chilled and uneasy, he turned and headed back for the hotel.
He reached the entrance at 9:40 A.M. Elise was already waiting outside. She hailed a taxi, and they drove wordlessly through the downtown area. The taxi slowed on a cobbled street that boasted a row of distinguished heritage buildings. The driver let them off in front of the corner building, and they walked up to the entryway’s decorative glass door. Elise pressed the intercom button that read DIEPPE ET GAGNON.
Inside, the smell of fresh flowers and potpourri in the lobby followed them up the grand staircase to the second-floor apartment. Michel Dieppe was leaning against the doorjamb of his apartment. Lean with short hair, Dieppe had a goatee and faint acne scars. He wore a bright checkered pullover with black pants, but despite his colorful outfit, Noah noticed profound sadness in the man’s blue eyes.
“You must be Mlle. Renard and Dr. Haldane,” Dieppe said in flawless English. He led his guests into the stylish apartment, decorated with warm furnishings and colorful oil paintings—an eclectic mix of landscape, Postimpressionist, and abstract art.
After they were seated on the leather divans in the living room, Dieppe leaned back against a pillow and rested a h
and behind his neck. “You want to know more about Benoît?”
Noah nodded. “I understand you and Benoît Gagnon were partners?”
“He was my husband, Dr. Haldane,” Dieppe said with a glimmer of defensiveness. “We were together for over eight years. That is a long time in our community.”
“In anybody’s community,” Noah said, making Dieppe laugh softly. “Michel, were you with Benoît when he first showed signs of sickness?”
Dieppe bit down on his lip and looked away. He didn’t answer for a few moments. “You must understand, it came out of nowhere.” He sighed. “One day, I will never forget it. A Sunday morning.” His hand plucked at the threads on the pillow beside him. “Benoît had slept in. I was making breakfast when he marched into the kitchen and accused me of spying on him for the police. I thought he was joking. I laughed. And he…” He touched his cheek. “Benoît hit me in the face. And then again. He just attacked me…punching, kicking, spitting…” He shook his head and his gaze fell to his lap. “He was normally so gentle. This was nothing like him.”
“Of course.” Elise reached out as if to touch him, but her hand stopped short of his, and she withdrew it. “What happened after?”
Dieppe cleared his throat. “My neighbors heard the screams—mine and his—and phoned the police. It took three officers just to contain him. They wanted to take him to jail, but I convinced them that this was not Benoît, so they took him to the hospital.”
“And then, Michel?” Elise asked gently.
“The doctors thought that Benoît was crazy. Schizophrenia, they told me. And I believed them, too. He really was acting insane.” He shook his head again. “Nothing like my Benoît.”
“But then he had a seizure?” Noah prodded, remembering Dr. Charron’s description.
“Not just one, Dr. Haldane!” Dieppe sat up straighter. “It was two days later. Benoît was in the psychiatric ward. I was sitting with him in his room, reading to him. He was much calmer by then. Even making sense. Much more like the old Benoît. Then suddenly, he collapsed in his bed and his arms and legs began to jerk and shake. His face turned dark blue. Spit and blood flew from his mouth…. It was so awful. He had convulsion after convulsion.” Dieppe reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at his eyes before continuing. “It took hours, but finally the doctors managed to stop his seizures.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “It was too late, then.”
“Why too late?” Noah asked.
“By that point, Benoît was already damaged.” He touched the side of his own temple. “He was confused. He didn’t recognize friends…his own family.”
“And you?” Elise asked.
“He seemed to recognize me almost to the end.” Dieppe shrugged. “It was hard to tell because soon after the seizures, he stopped talking. The doctor called it, how do you say, cata—”
“Catatonia,” Noah offered.
“Yes. They said he could no longer speak, but I don’t think that was it.”
Noah leaned closer to Dieppe. “What do you think, Michel?”
His lips cracked into a smile and his eyes welled up. “I think he was so afraid of the nonsense that came out of his mouth every time he tried to speak that he just stopped talking altogether. I think it was less painful for him.”
Noah nodded sympathetically.
“It was such a terribly cruel way to go, for both of us,” Dieppe said wistfully. “It was like watching him dissolve, piece by piece. Sometimes, I would go for a coffee—or even a smoke—and when I came back there was less of Benoît than before I left. It happened that quickly.”
They lapsed into a few moments of silence, broken by Elise. “Michel, did Benoît eat much red meat?” she asked.
“Not in the hospital. He would have choked.”
“No, before he became ill.”
Dieppe chewed his lip, thinking. “Not too much. We both liked a steak now and then, but we ate far more seafood and vegetable dishes than red meat.”
“How about beef delicacies like calves’ liver, sweetbreads, or cow’s tongue?”
Dieppe scrunched his face in disgust. “Definitely not! Neither of us would touch those.”
“Okay, in the months before Benoît became ill, which butcher did you use for your meats?”
“I’m very particular about my meat,” Dieppe said. “I only buy from Boucherie Lebeau.”
“In Limoges?” Elise asked.
“Of course.” He waved at the window. “Right down the street.”
“And you and Benoît ate most of your meals together?”
“Most, yes. Except, of course…” Dieppe looked out the window without finishing.
Elise raised an eyebrow. “Except, Michel?”
“Eight years we were together,” Dieppe said. “Right out of university. It was bound to happen to one of us—maybe even both of us—at some point.”
“What was?” Noah asked.
Elise nodded, her face lit with understanding. “Benoît had an affair,” she said.
“It was just a…what is the English term…?”
“A fling?” Noah suggested.
“Exactly!” Dieppe nodded vehemently. “Benoît told me later it was nothing. Just sex.” He sighed. “I found the e-mails on his computer.” He rolled his eyes. “The silly fool had told me his password. I don’t know why he did not expect me to look. Or perhaps maybe he wanted me to catch him. I wonder sometimes.”
Noah nodded. “So you broke up?”
“Only a few weeks, really. Then he came home, as I always knew he would.” He nodded to himself. “Benoît soon found out how difficult Philippe was to be with.”
Noah straightened at the mention of the name.
“Philippe?” Elise asked. “Do you mean Philippe Manet?”
“All I know is that his e-mail address is Philippe_M99.” Dieppe paused. “Funny, that old doctor asked me the same question.”
Noah tasted acid in his mouth. “Which doctor?” Noah snapped. “Not Dr. Charron?”
“Exactly. He came to see me.”
“When?” Noah demanded.
Dieppe thought about it. “Three days ago. Anyway, I told him I didn’t know what the thief’s last name was. God knows what I would do if I ever ran into him.”
“Do you know anything else about this Philippe M?” Noah asked.
“I know he lives in the town of Lac Noir. There can’t be many Philippe M’s in a town of that size.”
Noah looked past Dieppe and out the window at the foreboding gray skies. “No. There can’t be.”
22
Amsterdam, the Netherlands. January 19
Avril Avars was lost. Though she spoke fluent English and scraps of Arabic from her Moroccan heritage, she did not understand a word of Dutch. And as the sheets of rain pelted the streets, she had trouble finding any locals willing to stop long enough to offer directions to the Hotel Zanbergen. The soggy map in her hand offered nothing but confusion. So Avril wandered the narrow sidewalks, crossing bridge after bridge over the many canals, while trying to make sense of the few addresses she could spot on streets that had remarkably similar polysyllabic names that all ended in gracht.
Avril knew she had overstepped her authority by leaving Limousin. Detective Valmont had vociferously tried to talk her out of the trip. Twenty-four hours earlier, he had sat in her office with his feet on her desk. “Avril, I don’t object to the odd trip to Saint Junien or Felletin, but isn’t Amsterdam a bit beyond our jurisdiction?”
“Possibly, but who else is going to check?”
“I do not want to jump to conclusions, but I would imagine that the Dutch have some kind of organized police system,” he deadpanned.
“Simon, you don’t even believe Yvette Pereau is actually missing,” she said with a sigh. “Imagine what our colleagues in Amsterdam would think if I tried to explain this to them.”
“Exactly what I think,” he grumbled. “There is no evidence of a crime here.”
She si
ghed. “That is why I have to go.”
Valmont jerked his feet off the desk and sat up straighter in his seat. The flippancy gone from his face, he studied her with unusual intensity. “I know you hate loose ends,” he said. “But listen to me for a change, Avril. We found the woman. She went off on a little sex romp. She was bored and lonely and had a drunk for a husband. It’s no crime. Why not let this one sit for a while, yes?”
Avril did not argue further with Valmont. She had tried to follow his advice, spending her day searching for some trace of Pauline Lamaire or confirmation that Yvette Pereau had simply gone off with her lover. But she found neither. She even tracked down Yvette’s former lover, Pascal Etellier, who had not seen her in years. With an attitude that verged on scorn, Etellier said that Yvette was so racked by remorse after their brief affair that he could not imagine her doing it again. Avril also spoke to Yvette’s mother; she confirmed everything the husband had said. Unlike André—who, crushed as he was by the Dutch hotel receipt, at least accepted that his wife might have run off with another man—her mother was adamant Yvette would not have behaved so impetuously. The woman’s tangible worry fueled Avril’s determination. She caught the first flight out earlier this morning and, four hours later, now found herself lost, drenched, and hungry in a Dutch downpour.
Stepping off a bridge onto a busy corner that she had already passed at least once, she spotted the small sign for the Hotel Zanbergen hanging from an old brick building squeezed in between two others.
Inside the lobby, wallpapered in burgundy and warmed by an open fireplace, Avril asked to speak to the manager. Five minutes later, she stood at the registration desk interviewing Maarten Van Doorn. Middle-aged and cadaverous, Van Doorn wore a dark suit and had a thick thatch of greasy blond hair and heavy-framed glasses. To Avril, he looked better suited for undertaking than hotel management. However, from his eager-to-please and efficient manner, Avril soon recognized the qualities that must have made him an excellent manager.
