I nodded that I was, even though I was in no way certain that was the case. Foss pulled me to my feet and then stumbled over charred rubble to where Rudenko had been sitting. The table was shattered and the ceiling had collapsed in on top of it, with the calm moon shining through the ruined roof as counterpoint to the brief violence that had taken the night. “You should turn away,” Foss said. He pulled at the debris, freeing a long board that used to be a conference table, then fragments of a chair, and finally, the bleeding, prostrate figure of what was left of Vasyl Rudenko. He had indeed pissed himself.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
My answer was a low groan from the man. In the far distance, I could hear sirens over the ringing in my ears.
“Gharnati?” Rudenko managed to croak out.
“I don’t know,” said Foss. In my fuzziness, I thought, for a moment, that he was crying, then the moment passed. He said, “All I saw was a beige Mercedes streaking away. Could have been anyone.”
Rudenko lifted his good arm and gave a weak come-hither gesture. We did. He coughed up blood, an unwelcome reminder of his sibling’s death just days earlier. I began to cry, for her, for him, for us all. “You gotta help … the kids,” he said. I could tell Foss was going to ask questions, but I stopped him. Already, I could feel Vasyl slipping away. We only had time to listen, not to talk. “I don’t know who the contact is, you know, for the Po. He goes by the name Otto Mitad, but I’m sure that’s not his real name. None of us uses our real names in communication. He’s the one who directs Seize Mai and the operation. My job was marketing. I flash a few quid, make sure certain players know I’m highly connected and can get my hands on ample supplies of the stuff.” He began coughing and Foss held him in his arms with a tenderness I’d only ever seen in private. “I’m about as connected as a typewriter,” he said.
“Don’t talk anymore. You need to rest,” Foss said. My partner sat in the filthy, scorched rubbish in his thousand-dollar clothes and placed Rudenko’s head on his lap. As the man struggled to speak, Foss began gently stroking his forehead. I allowed myself to cry.
“Only rest I’m getting now is in peace. He looked down at his torn-up body, and at me, who was practically sitting on his leg in at attempt to stanch the bleeding. “I’ve got what, three, four more minutes?” I couldn’t reply. “You know, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with the Po yet. Otto hasn’t told anyone.”
“You don’t know why he has the polonium?” Foss asked.
“I know why, just not the what. It’s for money. We ain’t no terrorists. It’s just your ordinary extortion scheme.”
With his last breaths, Rudenko told us about Otto Mitad, who was using the escort services to reach people in high political places, the media, and banking. They had small amounts of polonium that Rudenko thought might be used to target some important political figure, perhaps using the escort ring as cover. The mastermind, Mitad, was supposedly from Slovakia but was living and operating out of somewhere else. I had a small hunch where, but needed more information. Just as the police showed up outside, Rudenko repeated, “Help the kids. I promised Rosie. Otto will dump them all if he has to.” He grabbed Foss’s shirt. “Promise.” He died without Foss’s reply to reassure him.
“Let’s get out of here,” Foss said, pulling me to my feet and practically carrying me to the exit. Due to the smoke and confusion, we managed to slip out a rear door as police cordoned off the street, assuming the building was deserted. I was grateful that Foss had thought to park the car around the corner in order to avert suspicion.
“What kids?” Foss asked me when we were safely away. “Did he mean the escorts?”
“I have a better question. Who was the target of those RPGs, Rudenko or us?”
“I don’t know, but I do know we need to ditch this car and get the hell out of Casablanca.” He drove us to the ghetto where we exchanged the Mercedes for the green Fiat, with Foss driving like a demon. “They’ll be looking for this too, but not as fast as they will for any of Rudenko’s possessions. In the meantime, we need to figure out how to get the hell out of Morocco. Do you have your passport?”
“Oui.”
“Good. Hopefully we’ll be halfway up the A2 before they figure out we weren’t in the explosion and come looking for us.” He looked over at me. “I hope you didn’t have anything you wanted at the hotel. There’s no way we can go back.” He gave me a peculiar look. “Unless, you’ve secretly figured this whole thing out and already know who’s trying to kill us.”
“Me? I don’t keep secrets from you.”
He stared at me too long and almost hit a street light. I grabbed the wheel at the last moment. He sighed and looked back at the road. “Okay, let’s just get across the border and then find somewhere to spend the night. Do you need anything—toothpaste, clean underwear, anti-psychotics?”
“No, I’m good,” I said, checking my bag. “I have my camera.” I held it up and gave him my best fake smile.
Foss returned the fake smile and we headed northeast, towards Algeria. I had contacts in Algiers who could help us get false travel documents, should we need them. From there, I could only foresee going one place—home. I had been too long away.
16 - Homecoming
Foss and I were headed to Juliette’s beautiful expanse of land in the countryside of Luberon, France. Were I not born with the wandering bug, I am certain I would have settled there myself. Hers was a provincial farmhouse set on a hillside overlooking rolling hills of lavender that bloomed throughout the summer months. For me, it was heaven, except for Jette’s continuing the annoying habit of growing fields of horrible yellow sunflowers along the side of the house. I hated the blooms, which I called the fleurs de mère, as they reminded me of summers with Maman, her crisply tanned face and head full of unruly yellow hair. I would shudder at night, looking at waves of her face in the flowers, rising above the ground, beckoning with every slight breeze for me to be strong, be strong. It took until adulthood to understand it was the synesthesia and not insanity that caused my visions. Jette’s main guest room overlooked that sight and I refused to sleep in it, even during the winter months. It would suit Foss well.
He and I were enjoying the hour and a half drive from Marseille, even making a day of it, as the weather was unseasonably warm and I was anxious to share my home country with him. We would live here one day, I remember thinking, as he clicked away with my camera. We arrived at the house just before six in the afternoon after getting rid of the cramped rental and taking a taxi to Jette’s house. She was due to arrive the following afternoon, with my niece and nephew, but without her husband. I detected constrained turmoil when I asked if Louis would come later. Something was amiss, and knowing Jette, I would have to pry it from her to find out what. So cryptic is my sister and so unlike me. I hoped she and Foss would get on well.
“My god it’s beautiful here. I can’t wait to see it in daytime.” Foss stood with his neck craned to give him a view of the roof. “That stonework is incredible. Does Jette own this place?”
“It was inherited from my grandfather. Technically, it belongs to her children, but we don’t tell them—otherwise, they would become total brats. Even with Jette’s income and all the royalty money she makes on her medical devices, she couldn’t afford to buy a place this. The area is filled with luxury rentals that go for 2,000 to 10,000 Euros per day.” I set down our one small bag of belongings and took his hand. “Come, I will give you a tour.” I led him along the stone path to the back of the house. Foss was looking at the path as much as he did the scenery. “My grandfather cut and laid these stones himself,” I said. “He would come live with Maman and us in Paris during the winter months, and we all spent summers here. It took him five years to complete, but he wouldn’t let anyone help.”
“Well, I can see why. He was quite the craftsman.” Foss opened the wooden gate that led to the back of the property. It opened to a small patio containing a table and four plush, all-weather seats. B
eyond, the large yard sloped gently downward, merging with the distant valley and rolling hills that made up the landscape. “Hand-hewn wooden fence. The table and chairs too?”
I laughed. “No, I bought those from Ikea and had them sent last Christmas.”
Foss laughed too. “Well, believe it or not, I really do know a little about carpentry. My dad used to make Gar and me work around the house—not small stuff either. I mean fencing, roof repair, you name it. We even built a spare room together on weekends when I was in high school.” He turned in a slow circle. “Nothing like this though.”
Foss took a step toward the rear of the property, but stopped, turned, and took my hand again. I felt a smile take my face that I didn’t want to restrain. We had been through a lot together in a short time. He had held two siblings in his arms as they lay dying in a single week. We had twice avoided being killed by parties I was only now beginning to identify in my mind, and through it all, he had never stumbled, he had never faltered, and I knew he would never waver. When I met this man, I didn’t want to become emotionally involved, and yet I was drawn to him like a moth to a summer’s light. Perhaps it was the Crazy Magnet label I feared. Maybe I couldn’t bear the idea that I had finally met my match and would spend my years in argumentative torment like my own father, finally ending it by taking my life, as he had. Or, as Grand-père would have insisted, maybe I was running because I was absolutely certain that giving myself to him would be the end of me, the demise of the mysterious Dr. Jeanne Dark, whom I’d spent a lifetime’s work creating. But now, as he stood at the edge of Jette’s sloping paradise of autumn golds and winter browns, gently, absently stroking the fingers of my left hand with his thumb, as my strong heart pounded in my chest and threatened to buckle both my weakened knees and resolve, I began to hope, to long, to yearn that I die and be reborn in this man’s arms. I was lost with no hope to ever be found.
After ten wordless minutes of perfection, Foss spoke. “I feel like I’m the one who died back there in Casablanca.”
The reference to death echoed my thoughts and stunned me to stilted silence. All I could do was look at him, the patio’s flood lights illuminating the polarized world in which I lived. He didn’t return the gaze, but continued speaking, as though he knew I would not.
“I’ve been trying to sort through all of this in my head, and I can’t. The only thing I can see, whether my eyes are shut or I’m staring into this valley, is the bright terror of that second RPG, how it exploded ten feet from me, how in that moment I looked at you and knew you were too close, in the way, headed for death, and I was certain, for five hundred frightening milliseconds, just enough time for the fear to register, that I was about to watch you explode, showering me with a horror that would never wash away. And then, just as the scream left my lips and you bent, cowering from the blast, Rudenko, that little, curly haired, Peter-Lorre-looking rodent, flicked up a chair and deflected it towards himself. Its vector moved just a bit, just a touch, the merest hair. Another three hundred milliseconds ticked by. Then it exploded in angry contempt at his decision to choose you over himself, and it tore his guts open and I stood there screaming and watching him almost certainly die so that you could live. At the end, when he passed, there wasn’t enough rage or sufficient joyful tears to express how I felt, so I never said a word.” Foss turned from the setting sun and faced me, his eyes wet with sorrow. “I guess I owe him that promise he asked for, huh?”
I looked at the tears streaming down his cheeks. His mouth was still open but all the words had been used up. There were no more words, no more Rudenkos, and no more thank yous that would ever have been enough. I had tormented Mr. Rudenko right up until his death, and he turned out to be perhaps the bravest man I would ever meet with the exception of the one who stood at my side, releasing my hand, pulling me to him, and kissing me like I had never been kissed and never would be again.
17 - Been Such a Long Time
Foss stood on the deck that overlooks the side yard. He was facing the distant mountains that gleamed in silvery light from the full moon above. There was nowhere to sit there at the edge of the deck, so he stood. Instead of the small tables and chairs that line the deck under shady trees all summer, the winter furnishings were out, which consisted of a single white pine bench Jette and I found on holiday in Norway. It stood lonely through the chilly months, its only friend a dusty pine basket in which I kept my art supplies. They were sad, I could tell, begging me to take them out again.
I sat up from where I lay on the bench. “You should let me paint you,” I said.
Foss turned. “I should what?”
“Let me paint you.” I indicated the overlook by which he stood. “Right here, with the mountains behind you. We can start in the morning, before Jette arrives with the kids.”
He laughed, a deep, rolling rumble that resonated against the distant hills. Of course, I knew I was the only one who could hear the sound, but I imagined mountain pixies rising to join in the merriment. “I wouldn’t be so good at that,” he said. “I’m not good at posing.”
“What is there to be good at? It’s not like posing for a photo.” I stood and walked to him. I touched his rugged chin, the curve of his jaw, his full, sexy lips. You have a beautiful bone structure.” It was decided. “I will paint you.” I nodded to indicate he also agreed.
To my dismay, he misunderstood. “Jeanne, I’m flattered, I really am, but when would we even have time for that?”
I shrugged and extended my hands. “What time does it take? You stand, you remove your clothes, I paint you in broad strokes. If you get tired, I can take photo studies to do the detail work later.” He was trying to talk over me, but I wouldn’t let him.
“Wait, wait. You want to paint me naked?” he asked.
“No, silly, I will wear a frock.” I giggled, spoiling the joke.
Foss squirmed from my grasp. “My mom would have a fit if she found out I posed for a naked picture with you.”
“So, we will keep her off Facebook and she never sees the painting when I post it.” His eyes grew wide, and I giggled again. “It’s okay, mon chéri, I am teasing.”
He was quiet. “Okay.” Another, longer pause ensued. “Can I be naked anyway? I was starting to get a little excited.”
“Then, we will both be undressed. It will truly be nude art.” We laughed and I used the opportunity to stumble and fall into his arms. He caught me, as he always did. I was certain he would kiss me again, but then his phone had the audacity to ring. Despite my protestations, he answered.
“This is Cain.”
I knew who was calling and walked to the other side of the deck, the one that faced the sunflower garden and not the beautiful mountains. I couldn’t hear him, but every now and again he would steal a glance at me. It was his renewed conspiracy with Hardesty, the one about me—the one I wasn’t suppose to know about. True, I was in the dark about the details, but it wasn’t hard to figure out the government knew about skeletons in my closet, even the ones I chose not to know. Despite whatever the United States, or the UK, or my own France believed, I was not my mother’s child. I was gifted not with my mother’s or great-grandmother’s insanity, but only their insight and clairvoyance. Above all, I was not my father, and wouldn’t end up the way he did, no matter how difficult the waves became. At times in my past I had sunk beneath them, certain I would drown and be lost, but like a cork, I would always find the surface. Maman had driven him to suicide in the horrible sunflower fields, right below where I stood, but she had never broken me. My salvation, and with it my sanity, I owed to the clear lucidity of my ever-rational, gorgeously sensitive Grand-père, Camille. A childhood of misery taught me to be strong like the lavender bushes in the back, swaying in the breeze.
Let the Americans think whatever they want, I said to myself. I knew secrets they didn’t think I knew. Soon, very soon, it would be I who had the light and they who would be sitting in the shade cast by my accusing scorn. Still, I was shaking now, enough
that I needed a cigarette. I couldn’t bear them but for the barest amount of time. Two generations of lecturing doctors provided sufficient diatribe that any pleasure was removed. Even so, the smell of burning tobacco reminded me of my father, the path he chose, and why I must be strong. He died there, in full view, a bullet to his brain and a lit cigarette between his fingers. A few puffs and it would be as if I’d absorbed whatever little of his strength there was.
Foss came over, breaking my daydream. I blinked at first, forgetting where I was, and he looked at me with concern on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Oui, just having a smoke.”
He frowned and as gently as ever, took it, extinguishing Papa’s only vice other than cowardice. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s getting chilly out here.” He looked at the sky; the moon had slipped behind unseen clouds. “Think it’s going to rain.”
I stepped closer to him, and despite the lagging tug of pain in my legs, I tiptoed to kiss him. Unlike earlier, he made a face and pulled away. I blinked in confusion, so surprised that I couldn’t move. Above, the stars shimmered and wavered. For a moment, I thought my vision had worsened such that I was even betrayed by my eyes in the darkness. But Foss’s expression revealed the truth—my eyes glistened with tears.
“You … you don’t want me?” I said.
“It’s not that, Jeanne.”
“Then, it’s Hardesty. You believe me crazy and he has won.”
Behind me, the stiffening breeze rattled through the dried sunflower stalks and sang, be strong, be strong.
“Jeanne, I—I won’t lie to you. He told me some things earlier that made me think …” I spun to leave, but he stopped me. “Not because I believed anything they said, but because I thought I needed to remain objective so I can prove them wrong.”
“And now?”
“I’m still here.”
“Then why did you pull away? Was your kiss earlier a mistake?”
The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure Page 24
