The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense

by M. J. Rose

  Robbie had friends who’d become lovers. Lovers who’d remained friends. Was with more men than women because he was able to choose men who suited him better and made him happier. They were usually intellectually curious. Adventurers like his grandfather.

  But the women he was drawn to had rips in their souls. Rebellious, angry, half-crazy women like his mother. His sister. They were always women who needed healing but couldn’t be healed.

  Like Ani Lodro.

  Every summer, Robbie attended a Buddhist retreat a few hours outside of Paris. Six years ago, she’d attended during the same two weeks he did. Fraternization among the students wasn’t encouraged. Meals were silent. There were no group lectures or activities. But he saw her everywhere he went, as if they were following in each other’s footsteps. She was always leaving the temple when he was going in. He was always outside at the same time she was. He’d be walking down to the river, she’d be walking up. For the first week, they didn’t speak to each other. She always kept her head down. He kept to himself.

  Then one afternoon, while they were both walking the circular meditation path in the garden, a sudden and violent thunderstorm broke. Each of them took shelter in the peaked-roof gazebo.

  While rain poured down all around them, Robbie finally looked at her and was stunned by the pain he saw in her wide, almond-shaped black eyes. He could sense the demons that sat on her shoulders. Saw the tension in the ropes of muscles in her neck. He felt her dire need to find peace. Without saying anything, they came together during the storm. Lying on the floor, smelling the cedar wood and her clean skin, Robbie made love to her. He’d always enjoyed sex. Luxuriated in it. He’d studied tantric sex—the Hindu discipline that is based on the worship of a man and woman coming together and experiencing bliss without orgasm. But he’d never experienced true tantric coupling until that day.

  Robbie stood. Walked over to the well. He didn’t turn on his lamp. Didn’t want to really look into her eyes and see all that pain again.

  “I searched for you,” Robbie whispered into the blackness.

  He heard Ani sigh.

  “What happened? Why didn’t you contact me?”

  “I was in training.”

  “Not to be a Buddhist nun?”

  “No.”

  “Training for what, then?” Robbie asked.

  There was no answer.

  “Ani?”

  Silence.

  “Who was the man who died in my workshop?”

  “I didn’t want you to be there that night. I wanted him to break in and steal the pottery.”

  “Who was he? Your lover?”

  “My mentor. Like a father to me.”

  “He was going to kill me,” Robbie said. “Did you know that?”

  Silence from the hole. In the distance, the droplets of water continued their endless dripping. There was a faraway snap. A bone breaking? A rock falling?

  Robbie stepped right up to the edge. Peered down. In the darkness, he could just make out the two figures. Only one staring up. Robbie would never be sure, but he thought it was Ani looking up at him from the shadows.

  Fifty-two

  SATURDAY, MAY 28, 9:40 A.M.

  Xie could hear snippets of conversation echoing from under umbrellas. English, German, and Spanish. Art lovers and tourists waiting outside in the rain for the Orangerie to open. Most of them, he guessed, were there to see Monet’s famous Nymphéas—the eight water-lily murals the painter had created at the end of his life. They would stumble on the exhibit of calligraphy only if they went downstairs.

  Last night the Monet rooms had been closed, and everyone in the museum was there for the reception. Lan had said it was the most exciting night of her life—to have her work shown in Paris. In the Orangerie. Fifteen feet below masterworks of Impressionism.

  Xie had agreed. Even though his stomach had churned and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Even though he’d spent most of his time concentrating on his surroundings. For him, the reception was a dress rehearsal for today. He’d memorized the security checkpoint, the exits, the windows, the restrooms, the doors, the elevators, and the stairs. He studied the traffic flow through the galleries. Paying attention to everything he saw as if his life depended on it. Because it did.

  This morning at breakfast, Professor Wu had suggested they return to the gallery.

  “It can be helpful to see how people react to your work when they aren’t aware of your identity,” he’d said. “It gives you perspective.”

  Now they waited with the rest of the crowd. Xie looked at the other students. At Lan. At Ru Shan. At the tourists. No one here has any idea about what is planned to happen here today, he thought. At least he hoped not.

  When it was their turn at the security desk, Xie stepped up and held out his hands. He wasn’t carrying anything. Without a briefcase or knapsack, he was able to walk though. Unlike at the airport, there was no metal detector. Xie could have a knife or a gun or plastique explosives on him, and no one would know.

  That meant Ru could have a weapon on him.

  A wave of nausea rippled through Xie. He was an artist. The most dangerous things he had ever done were hiding messages in infinitely small print in his artwork and asking Cali to send cryptic messages over the internet. How could he carry this off?

  “I didn’t get a chance to visit with Monet’s famous Water Lilies,” Wu said to Xie, Lan, and the other eight artists assembled in a tight band. “Would any of you care to join me?”

  The whole group followed Wu into the first oval gallery.

  “He was going blind when he painted these,” Wu explained, gesturing to large murals gracing the walls. “He deeded them to Paris—in exchange for their promise to build a museum for them.”

  Despite Xie’s acute awareness of why he was here and what lay ahead of him, the power of Monet’s work stunned him. Two of the murals were at least six feet tall and over thirty feet long. The other two were as tall but half as long. Standing in the middle of the oval room, the paintings curving around him, Xie felt as if he were lost in the master’s garden. The other people in the gallery disappeared. Cool blues and greens, lavenders and warm pinks were all he saw. The abstracted ponds and sky, flowers, trees, and their reflections filled Xie with a beauty that made him stand still. Hold his breath with wonder. For the second time since he’d come to Paris, he felt tears welling up inside of him. These paintings were pure and perfect expressions of the beauty of nature. The communication he was having with an artist who had been dead for almost ninety years was as profound as anything Xie had ever felt.

  Xie knew he had a job to do as Panchen Lama. And if he was lucky, he would be given a chance to fulfill his destiny. But he had to find a way to incorporate art into his new life. Yes, his calligraphy was unimportant compared to Monet’s work, but competing wasn’t the reason to be an artist. Cali had told him that. She said it was the energy you gave to the universe when you were creating that was all that mattered. The positive, powerful energy that replenished the earth.

  Ah, Cali. How she would love to see these murals. How moved she would be. How he would miss her. Was it all worth it? Forsaking her and his professor and his work?

  “We’re going in the next room,” Lan said. “You coming?”

  “I’ll catch up.”

  Lan walked ahead, leaving Xie alone with a crowd of strangers. Or so he thought at first. Then Xie spotted Ru on the other side of the room. The Beijing student seemed as lost in the paintings as Xie felt.

  But Xie doubted Ru was lost. He doubted Ru was even looking at the paintings. He was sure he was just watching him.

  Fifty-three

  9:56 A.M.

  Jac and Griffin stepped out of the mansion on Rue des Saints-Pères together. A soft rain was falling. Each opened an umbrella. Then they turned left toward the Seine. Nothing about their pace suggested they were in a hurry.

  They walked along the river. Raindrops troubled the river’s surface—sluggish green-brown
without the reflection of a blue sky. The vehicular traffic was heavy, but because of the rain, there weren’t many people strolling on the wide boulevard.

  “Do you see the police?” she asked Griffin.

  “Yes.”

  But it wasn’t the police that they cared about this morning. “Anyone else?”

  “I’m just not sure.”

  They’d talked about it with Malachai the night before and again early this morning. When Ani and the man with her hadn’t reported back to whomever they were working for, other plans must have kicked into effect. They all needed to assume they were being stalked, listened to, and spied on.

  As they continued to walk, Jac pictured the map Robbie had shown them. By now he should have emerged from the manhole in the sixth arrondissement and be on his way.

  At seven that morning, she and Griffin had snuck outside, descended down the tunnel, and met Robbie in the first chamber. It was still one of the safest places he could hide. They brought him clean clothes and instructions from the lama at the Buddhist center.

  When she asked him how the night had been, he just shrugged.

  “Did you talk to Ani?” Griffin asked.

  “Not for long.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  He shook his head. Jac’s heart hurt for her brother. She could see the betrayal in the dark shadows under his eyes. In lines around his mouth that seemed to have deepened overnight.

  Jac and Griffin reached the Pont de la Concorde, the bridge that connected the Left Bank to the Place de la Concorde. They’d mapped this route the night before. Halfway across, Griffin took Jac’s arm and pulled her over to the balustrade. They stood and looked down at the river.

  “We could be tourists,” she said.

  “Or lovers,” he said and kissed her.

  For show? To confuse anyone following them?

  “I don’t want to let you go,” he said when he finally pulled back.

  Griffin had said he and his wife were separated. But a separation isn’t a divorce. And whenever he spoke about Therese and Elsie, something in his voice made Jac wonder if a divorce would really be the result of their time apart.

  “We have things to talk about, Jac. Once Robbie’s safe and back at home.”

  On the other side of the bridge, they strolled down the Rue de Rivoli, protected from the rain by the arcade. When they reached the Hotel de Crillion, Jac pointed to the building. “Why don’t we have some coffee?” she said as if she’d just thought about it. Not as if she and Griffin and Malachai had stayed up past two in the morning planning how to get to the Orangerie without being followed.

  A half hour later, finished with their petit déjeuner, Griffin paid the bill, and they sauntered into the lobby and onto the elevator.

  Inside, Jac pressed the button for the lower level.

  The doors opened onto a hub of activity. Waiters, chambermaids, carpenters, painters and a variety of other service personnel hurried back and forth, carrying food trays, laundry carts and piles of sheets and towels.

  “Which way?” Griffin asked.

  There hadn’t been any blueprints on the internet. And Jac had been here only once when she was thirteen years old. She remembered the day but not where the exit was.

  A famous musician and his wife had ordered a vast array of perfumed items from the shop—everything from soaps to candles—and asked for it all to be delivered. L’Etoile knew his daughter loved the British rock star. So he made the delivery himself and brought Jac with him.

  Father and daughter had entered via the lobby’s main doors—the only entrance Louis knew. But the concierge refused the delivery. He didn’t even let Louis finish explaining. He showed them to the door and told her father where the service entrance was.

  Louis was furious. Cursing under his breath, he stormed out of the hotel, Jac struggling to keep up with her father. By the time they were around the corner at the hotel’s back entrance, he had calmed down.

  He knocked on the door of the celebrity’s suite. Jac was mesmerized by the tall, craggy-looking man whose music she adored. His autograph—scrawled on the House of L’Etoile bill of sale—was framed and still hanging in her bedroom in the mansion.

  “To Jac—never stop listening. You never know what you’ll hear.”

  The memory was interrupted by a portly woman in a housekeeper’s uniform who asked, “Can I help you?” Her voice was on the edge of gruff. She seemed to be holding back just in case they were lost guests.

  “We just made a delivery,” Jac improvised, “and got turned around. Which way is out?”

  Following the housekeeper’s directions, they exited the hotel on the Rue Boissy d’Anglas, a quiet street around the corner from the busier Place de la Concorde.

  Even though they were fairly certain no one had anticipated their coming out here, they proceeded cautiously to Rue St.-Honoré. Maintaining a window-shopping pace, they went to the next corner, took a right onto Rue Royale, and from there circled back to the Rue de Rivoli. In front of WHSmith bookstore, they crossed the intersection and entered the Jardin des Tuileries. From there it was only a couple of minutes walk to the Orangerie, where they got in a short line outside the museum. Neither Robbie nor Malachai was there. Yet. Or else they were already inside.

  The plan was for all of them to arrive by eleven-thirty. It was only eleven-fifteen.

  The queue moved slowly. Museums were crowded on Saturdays. Seven minutes later, they were inside on another line—this one to buy tickets.

  Jac had often come to this museum with her mother, who loved the Monets. But it had been renovated since she’d last been here. Instead of the dark and slightly dingy interior, the entryway was flooded with morning light. The unfamiliarity was disconcerting. Jac’s heart banged against her rib cage. She buried her face in the white scarf she’d wound around her neck that morning. She’d sprayed it with her mother’s perfume. Wanted her with her on this very difficult day.

  This line moved slowly, too. Jac looked around. Still no sign of Robbie or Malachai. “Where are they?” she asked.

  Griffin put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s going to be fine.”

  But she couldn’t stop worrying. “What if Robbie’s recognized before he gets here?”

  “Everything is going to go smoothly.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Griffin shook his head. “I can. Your brother has proved he’s resourceful. He’s managed to arrange all this from a hundred feet underground.”

  They were finally next in line. In front of them was a woman with her two teenage daughters. They were speaking to one another in Dutch. Jac bent her head. Inhaled the scent impregnated in her scarf.

  Maybe it would be better if the police did find Robbie first and put him in custody. At least then he’d be safe.

  “There’s nothing going on here—wouldn’t there be more guards on duty if the Dalai Lama was expected? Some indication a VIP was visiting?”

  “I’m assuming there’s some serious undercover security.”

  They bought their tickets, walked through the cursory and not very thorough security post, and into the first gallery.

  She looked around, scanning the crowd for Robbie and Malachai.

  “They aren’t here,” she said.

  “I know, Jac. Don’t worry.”

  “Funny,” she said. “Impossible and funny.”

  She glanced at her watch.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’re at a museum. People at museums aren’t usually nervous. Slow down. Look at the paintings.”

  She bristled and started to argue.

  “Take a deep breath.” He took her arm. “Look at the paintings. The beautiful paintings. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Slowly they circled the room. She tried to do what he said. Really examine the murals. Monet’s colors did, in fact, have a calming effect.

  Jac and Griffin stopped beside a group of schoolgirls look
ing at the last painting before the exit. Their conversation was about shoes, not the swirls of blues and greens highlighted with violet.

  A guard, rocking on his soles, watched the teenagers with a small smile playing on his lips.

  Griffin led Jac around the girls and through the door. She didn’t mean to, but Jac glanced at the guard as they walked out. He noticed and followed her with his eyes.

  Fifty-four

  10:49 A.M.

  The driver met Malachai at the mansion’s front door. Holding his umbrella aloft, he protected the psychologist from the drizzle. As they walked the few steps from the street to the car, Leo tipped the large black silk umbrella forward, transforming it into a shield, and whispered, “That detective insisted he wait for you in the car. I had no choice.”

  They’d reached the Mercedes. Leo opened the door.

  Malachai slid onto the soft leather seat and feigned bewilderment when he saw Marcher. Since he’d arrived in Paris, he had anticipated the possibility of an encounter like this. Hoping against hope that he’d be able to avoid it, he was mildly surprised it had taken this long for the French authorities to ambush him.

  “Inspector Marcher. Usually you visit with Jac. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Good morning, Dr. Samuels,” the detective said in his accented English. “I was hoping to catch up with you. I’ve asked your driver to take us to my office.”

  “It’s not a good time for me. I have an appointment,” Malachai said. “Is this official?”

  “I apologize in advance, then. You might be a bit late.” He avoided answering the question.

  Malachai started to protest but was interrupted by the detective’s phone. Pulling it out of his pocket, Marcher looked at the number. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”

  The drizzle intensified. The traffic came to a standstill. Malachai stared out the window and listened to the detective’s one-sided conversation. Tried to translate. He was certain the police had found a witness to a crime in the Marais. But he doubted that the woman was requesting the police buy her a monkey in exchange for cooperation. Despite everything, Malachai chuckled at his mangled translation.