by Mark Leggatt
Montrose grabbed a light raincoat from a bag and followed her into a narrow corridor where the décor changed completely. No more dusty old attic. At the end was a stairwell. Thick carpets covered the steps and the banister was rich, dark wood. The walls were lined with watercolors and small, iridescent oil paintings. He didn’t know much about art, but they looked damn expensive. At a turn in the stairs the sunlight filtered in through a long, stained glass window, and color dappled the walls. Around him, Montrose recognized the swooping curves and stylized flowers of the Art Nouveau period. Little expense had been spared. The wood became more carved and ornate as they descended, every inch seemed to be covered in an intricately patterned design.
They turned into a wide corridor and stopped before a heavy oak door. “Grand-père can’t talk,” said Charlotte. “A stroke robbed him of most of his powers. But not his mind.”
She opened the door into a salon. The decor became more outrageous, although still of exquisite taste. Bookcases covered with leaded glass doors lined the walls, facing a polished marble fireplace, the stone an almost light, translucent blue, carved with rose motifs. Chaise longues covered with embroidered throws sat in the middle of the room, beside an inlaid cherry wood table. Montrose walked over to the wide window, his shoes sinking into a thick Persian rug. He caught a shock of white hair just above the edge of a wing-backed chair, facing away from the room, onto the street.
“Grand-père?” She placed her hand delicately on the old man’s arm. Montrose couldn’t stop himself and crossed to the window. An old man sat, impeccably dressed in a grey woolen suit. His shoes gleamed and the creases in his pants were razor sharp. A glittering gold fob watch hung from his vest.
Charlotte knelt in front of him. “Grand-père?”
The old man stayed completely still. Piercing dark eyes turned towards her, then across to Montrose. The old man might be as still as a statue, but his eyes burned. The mind still keen, trapped inside a frozen body.
“This man,” she said, “has found the diamonds! He’s found them, Grand-père! They’re here in Paris. He’s going to give them to us.”
The old man’s pupils widened and his lips trembled.
She held onto his arm. “I’m going to get them now.”
Montrose could see a million questions in the old man’s eyes.
“He’s an American,” she said, holding on tight to her grandfather’s arm. “He stole them from Switzerland, where the Nazis had hidden them.”
Her grandfather’s eyes glistened.
Charlotte’s voice began to shake. “I’ll bring them back here for you to see, then I’ll call our contact. They’ll know what to do.” She pulled a white linen handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at the corner of his reddening eyes. “I’ll return soon,” she said and kissed his cheek. She took a deep breath and walked towards the door.
Montrose stood for a moment. The old man’s eyes burned into him. Unsure of what to say, Montrose bowed his head and followed Charlotte out of the room.
The staircase became wider and they descended into a spacious hall.
“The taxi will be here in a few minutes,” she said as she sat down on a carved wooden bench. In the corner an ancient grandfather clock chimed the hour. Montrose looked around at the paintings and hanging tapestries. He could have stepped back to the turn of the century and the Belle Époque. The entire floor was inlaid with small marble tiles in pastel colors.
Through the frosted glass of the door, he saw a black car pull up. Charlotte got to her feet. “I’ve been looking forward to this for so long. Sometimes it seemed impossible we would ever find them. Now, it’s time.”
“Wait.” Montrose pressed his face against the glass of the door and saw the taxi light on top of the car. “It’s good. Let’s go.”
The narrow street was quiet. Montrose held the door for her and she swept her skirt to one side and got into the taxi. Maybe it was safer this way. He sat down beside her. We can get out somewhere south of the station then check for police. It would be better to take a side door or blend in with the crowd. If it was like the last time, the cops would be waiting at the main entrance.
She leaned over to the driver before he could stop her. “Gare du Nord,” she said.
Montrose sighed and sat back. I’m going to have to take control. We’re leaving a trail for the cops a mile wide.
She turned her head and was about to speak when Montrose held a finger to his lips and pointed to the driver. They sat in silence and the taxi headed west onto the Boulevard Sebastopol.
He could see she was burning with questions. She sighed and tucked her dress behind her legs, shifting on the seat to get comfortable. Montrose guessed she didn’t have too many dresses. He could still see the marks on her legs where the leather bike boots had been tight against her calves. “You look great,” he said.
“Merci.” She smoothed her hands across her thighs, and arranged the pleats. “The dress belonged to my mother.”
“She had marvelous taste.”
Charlotte shrugged, but he could she was pleased. “She was an artist and a collector. Many of the paintings you saw in the apartment were chosen by her.”
Montrose reckoned that what he knew about art could be written on the back of a postage stamp. With a marker pen.
She glanced at the driver then leant over and spoke quietly in Montrose’s ear. Her hair brushed the side of his neck as she spoke. “My mother was wearing this when they escaped to France. They were still at school, but their age was no barrier to the Nazis. Friends here helped them get the right documents. Then my grandfather joined the Résistance. After the war, the Israelis asked him to use the old network to look for the diamonds. But there was no trace of them. After a while my father and mother sold up and moved to Israel. Grand-père tried for a while, but I wanted to come back to Paris. So did he. Unfinished business, he would say. So we came back and now I look after him. But when illness overtook him, they gave me training and showed me how to watch and listen.”
Montrose turned, just as she tilted her head towards him and his lips brushed her cheek. “Like a sleeper?” he whispered.
“With those people out there, I don’t sleep very well.” She sat back in silence and the taxi turned on to the Boulevard de Magenta.
The station was dead ahead. CRS vans were crowded around the entrance. There was no way to avoid them. The steps to the Métro were to the right. Down there and go through the tunnels into the station.
The taxi pulled up behind the CRS vans. Charlotte handed the driver the fare.
Montrose got out and slipped on his sunglasses. The line of vans blocked the view of the station entrance. “We’ll go in through the Métro,” said Montrose. “There are too many cops around.”
She stood for a moment.
“Don’t look at them,” he said. “Try and be natural.” Montrose offered his arm. “We’re just a handsome couple.”
She took his arm and they turned into the tunnel for the Métro. At the end were steps leading up into the station.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Ticket booth.”
They emerged onto the platforms. Groups of heavily armed CRS milled around the main concourse. Montrose stopped for a moment to check the exits. Looks like they had the place sewn up tight. He turned and saw a cleaner, broom in hand, pushing the dust and litter towards the ticket booth. He’s going to push all that crap underneath. “Follow me. Move!” he hissed. Montrose strode over to the side of the booth and held up a hand as the cleaner approached. “Wait! Have you swept this bit yet?”
The cleaner shrugged. “No. Not since this morning.”
“Look, give me a few minutes. I’ve dropped a contact lens. It’s got to be here somewhere.”
The cleaner gave him a skeptical look, then turned away. “Bonne chance, monsieur.”
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Stand here.” He gently pulled Charlotte to the side of the booth then knelt down
and grabbed his shoelace. His eyes scanned from side to side, along the line of litter and dust. He blew out a breath when he glimpsed the edge of the wallet. “It’s there.”
Charlotte glanced across the concourse. “Make it fast, Mr. Montrose.”
“Please, call me Connor.” He looked up at her and saw two policemen looking in his direction. I’m the right height and build. Nothing I could do about that.
“Then make it fast, Connor. There are too many flics around for comfort.”
The policemen began walking towards them. Good move, that’s what I’d do. See what the target does next. He stood up and smoothed down his suit.
“I can see them,” said Charlotte. “Remember, it’s not a Hollywood movie. So don’t grab me in a romantic clinch if they get too close.”
He let out a nervous laugh and she flashed him a look of indignation. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I never kiss on a first date.”
Her face melted into a smile. “Well, I do.” She stood on tiptoes then gently took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the lips. She stood back before he had a chance to recover. “Thank you,” she said. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
From the corner of his eye he could see the policemen moving off. “Well, I think I do now.”
“It was for the benefit of the police. Mostly.”
Montrose grinned. She had style.
She raised an eyebrow. “The code?”
“Yeah.” He bent down and shoved his hand under the booth. His fingers found the lighter; he pulled out the wallet and watch and slipped them into his jacket. “Let’s go,” he said and stood up. A group of policemen hung around the side door. “We’ll have to go out the main entrance to the taxi stand. They’ll be watching for people leaving Paris, rather than coming from the station.”
They turned away from the platforms. Montrose slid to a stop. Outside the station, a man stood in the middle of the plaza, arms folded across his chest. He turned towards Montrose. I know that face. Bonsergeant. “Take the Métro.”
“What is it?”
“The man in the suit. On the Plaza. He’s the flic who arrested me. Back to the booth. We need some Métro tickets.” He took her by the arm and led her away from the entrance.
“I have some in my bag,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“Rue des Rosiers.”
She stopped, and her lips fell open. “Mon dieu! That’s not far from my apartment!”
“If Bonsergeant saw me, then we can’t lead them straight there. We have to go another way.”
“I know where to go,” said Charlotte.
“You sure?”
“I’m Parisian. If you need to hide, there’s no better place than where we’re going. I have contacts.”
Of course you do. “Okay, which line do we take?”
“Châtelet. Line 4.”
You could be taking me straight to Mossad. “Then we’d better move. The cops are right behind us. Make sure we don’t give them any room for suspicion. Look happy.”
She linked her arm into his. “I am happy.”
They descended the steps into the subway and followed the signs for Line 4. Tourists and travelers struggled past them with suitcases.
“Take off the sunglasses,” she said. “It looks like you’re trying too hard to be cool.”
Armed soldiers stood at every corner. Heavy automatic weapons hung at their sides. “They’ve called out the troops,” he said.
“No, they’re usually at the major stations, just a show for terrorists. They don’t have magazines in their weapons.”
They were only boys. But they were wearing bulging ammunition pouches.
Charlotte skipped down the steps to the southbound platform then glanced back. “There’s no one behind us.”
“Find the busiest spot,” he said. They weaved past the tourists on the crowded platform. A train rattled into the station, brakes squealing. The doors slammed open and passengers fought their way onto the platform while others pushed their way onto the train. It was chaos. Montrose took her hand and brushed people aside. They attempted to stand in the middle of the carriage, but were maneuvered into a corner by a family of noisy Italians barging onto the train and lifting kids onto their suitcases.
Charlotte was pushed up against him. The train took off with a jolt and she almost fell backwards over a suitcase.
Montrose grabbed her around the waist and hauled her towards him. She couldn’t reach the handrail above her and was forced to put her hands around his waist. “Hold on tight,” he said.
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“Nothing could be further from my mind.” He caught her delicate perfume. A flower and citrus scent. She smelled good. He remembered how perfume affected him. He felt her tiny hands holding onto his waist. The rocking of the train forced them together in waves. For a moment he was transported, holding on to the handrail of a swaying Métro carriage with one hand and a beautiful French girl with the other. He caught sight of the nape of her neck when she turned her head. Her skin was like caramel silk. He felt himself involuntarily opening his lips. Yeah, dream on buddy. Your next romantic tryst might be with the bad boys from Tel Aviv.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He smiled. “Just a dream. A good dream.” The rolling carriage was bumping them together in all the wrong places. Jeez, if this keeps up she’s going to know exactly what I think about her. He looked over the heads of the passengers, searching for uniforms. Keep your mind on the job. Did the cops get on? Maybe the other carriage? I can’t see a damn thing.
The train rattled through the tunnels, slowing as signs for Les Halles flashed past the window. Crowds lined the platforms. Montrose took her by the hand and pushed his way to the exit. Les Halles was a busy station, scores of lines coming together in central Paris and a constant stream of people filled the subway corridors.
Montrose glanced up the stairs to the street entrance. No sign of the cops. They’d need fifty men to cover a station this size and they’d concentrate on the junction points.
“Nearly there,” she said.
They emerged into the sunshine on Rue Ballard. She headed north and onto Rue Montmartre, skirting the faceless buildings of the shopping centre built on the site of the old Paris market of Les Halles, where for centuries, produce had come from the surrounding countryside to feed the city. Then the seventies happened and regeneration for Paris. The whole market, an intricate web of wrought iron, glass and five hundred years of history, was flattened. In its place grew dull blocks of concrete and a shopping centre.
“Wait.” She slowed to a halt and ducked into a dingy alleyway. “Follow me. Quickly!”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. Run!”
She pulled him to a halt as they rounded the corner at the end. “Look!” She pointed to a shop directly across the road. In the reflection of the window he watched the alleyway. She was right. Two men stood at the far end of the alley then began to jog towards them.
“Where now?” said Montrose.
She looked left and right. “We keep going. We can make it.”
“To where?”
“The Bar D’Raymond. The worst bar in Paris.”
She tugged his arm and hauled him across the street and down another small alley which wound around the buildings.
Montrose kept his head low, avoiding pipes and cables. “The worst bar in Paris?”
“Mais oui! It’s not been cleaned since Napoléon was a very small boy. But it has a history. There’s nothing you can’t buy there. Besides, we won’t be bothered by the police in that bar. The patron can smell them a mile off. Though I’m surprised he can smell anything.”
They turned into a tiny, dark square lined with bags of trash. The walls of the surrounding buildings were damp, lichen-covered stone, dotted with filthy windows stretching up around ten floors. Montrose arched his neck up and saw a patch of sunlight. At the far wall was an entra
nce to a courtyard and, almost hidden in the corner, a low door led into a bar.
A rusting ‘Les Routiers’ sign was pinned to the wooden lintel. Montrose had to laugh. “Isn’t that for places that are recommended?” He followed her through the door and they stopped for a moment while their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Montrose caught a weird stink. Jesus, who the hell would want to drink here? “What’s that smell?”
Charlotte smirked. “You’ll find out.”
Men sat around tables, a glass of beer or wine in their hands. No one looked up as they squeezed past the tables.
“We’ve lost them,” said Charlotte.
Montrose eyed up the bar taps. A beer wouldn’t hurt. “Let’s give it ten minutes. We can plan a way out of here.” He nodded at the barman who was pulling a draught lager, and held up two fingers. “Though I wouldn’t fancy buying a new jacket from these guys. It might be still warm from its last owner.”
“Don’t worry. That’s not why we’re here.”
The barman pushed two beers towards them and waited while Montrose pulled a few euros from his pocket. No tab. Yeah, it’s that kind of bar.
A telephone rang. The patron picked it up from below the wooden bar top. He listened for a few moments and looked over at Montrose. “There’s two flic at the end of the alley. Something to do with you, monsieur?”
“Christ, we’ve got to get out of here!” said Montrose. “Where’s the exit?”
“The door you came in.” said the patron. “There’s one way, in and out.”
Montrose picked up the beer glass. “I’m going to start a riot. You ready?”
“No!” Charlotte leaned over the bar. “Patron! We need the key!”
The patron shrugged. “What key?”
“You know what key. My grandfather is Emile Marceau. Your own father helped him escape from the Nazis. Now it’s your turn.”
“The Nazis?” The patron glanced at the door. “The war’s over, mademoiselle.”
“No, it’s not. Not for my grandfather, and not for me.”
The patron picked up a grubby bar towel and began to polish a glass. “Even if I had this key, what would you do with it?”
