“Can you at least check the hospitals and so forth?”
“Sure, but you said the police have already done that.”
“Yes, but I don’t know if they’re telling us the truth.”
I realized as I said it that saying so had not been smart. I was probably on the edge of sounding like a crackpot.
There was a long pause.
“I see. Well, you know the French police are really quite efficient. They work in somewhat different ways than we do, and it sometimes seems odd to us, but they take this terrorism and money laundering stuff very seriously and they have lots of experience with it. They are usually very effective.”
Which wasn’t exactly what I had hoped to hear.
“Well, this isn’t about terrorism or money laundering,” I said.
“I thought you just said, sir, that was what they are investigating.”
“They are, but they’re on the wrong track.”
“Why do you think that?”
“We know the guy very well and we know he wouldn’t do that kind of thing.”
There was another long pause—I could almost hear her brain searching for a way to end the call—and I thought I knew what was coming.
“I see,” she said. “Well, one more thing I should tell you—maybe you already saw this on our website—is that due to the Privacy Act, even if I learn something, I may not be able to share it with you.”
“Could you share it with the police if it’s something new?”
“I suppose so. In any case, I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you.”
“Is this the best number at which to reach you, Mr. Tarza?”
“Yes.”
“You will hear from me, but it may take a few days.”
Jenna had not said much during our embassy efforts. She had just sat there, watching and listening.
“Well,” she said, “it looks like we’re on our own.”
I didn’t immediately respond.
“Earth to Robert.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, Jenna, in the sense that now the police, if they managed to listen in even though I used a throw-away phone, know we don’t trust them. Which is perhaps unfortunate.”
“Why is it unfortunate?”
“Because we need them.”
“I think it’s not so much trust, Robert. It’s that they just have a different agenda. But let’s go back to the apartment—which, come to think of it, is probably bugged—eat something, and then go walk in the park and talk there, where it will be safer.”
So we went back to the apartment and cobbled together a meal. We were sitting there, dejected, when Jenna’s cell phone beeped.
“It’s a text,” she said. “It says just, ‘We want book!’ There’s a sound file attached to it.”
“Open it.”
What we heard was a very distinct thwack, like an axe biting into a board, and then a loud, piercing scream. Followed by silence.
I looked at Jenna and she looked at me, and I wondered if my face was as white as hers.
“Do you think that was Oscar’s voice?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard him scream, or even yell.”
“We need to forward this to the general right away. I’m going to call him and give him a heads-up that it’s coming.”
“Okay.”
Just as I picked up my cell to call the general, it rang. It was Helen Klarner from the embassy.
She started to talk without preamble. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, Mr. Tarza, but your friend Oscar Quesana is not a US citizen, at least so far as I can determine.”
“What?”
Jenna had crowded closer. “What’s she saying?”
I put the phone against my hand and whispered, “Saying that Oscar isn’t a US citizen.”
I put the speakerphone on so Jenna could hear, as Helen was continuing. “Or at least there is no record of a US passport having been issued to him. We only work with our own nationals, so we can’t help you. But due to the Privacy Act, I can’t tell you anything else.”
“Can you tell us what country he’s originally from?”
“Well, I can tell you he has a green card. But beyond that, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything else.”
“Can’t you help find people who have a US green card?”
“Unfortunately not. You’d have to go to the diplomatic authorities of the country of which he’s a national.”
“But you won’t tell us what country that is.”
“It’s a catch-22, I know. And I’d like to help, but I’m stuck.”
“It would be really helpful to us if you could tell us more,” I said. “We’re desperate and worried he’s going to be killed.”
“I’m really, really sorry, but I just can’t. But the French police are good. Work with them.”
“Well, thank you, I guess.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jenna and I looked at one another. “Another dead end,” Jenna said.
“You know, there have been a number of surprises about Oscar lately,” I said. “In fact, we already agreed we don’t know very much about him. And I know I just told the woman at the embassy that Oscar couldn’t possibly be involved in money laundering, but maybe we should start taking a more neutral position on that.”
“Wait. Are you saying he might be guilty of arranging the kidnapping as part of a money laundering scheme? Are you really saying that?”
“No. I’m just saying Oscar’s always been mysterious about his life, and he’s always seemed to have more money than one would expect with his low-key law practice. And . . . I don’t know.”
“Maybe he inherited it.”
“Maybe. But whatever, I’m thinking this thing is getting ever-more complicated—and maybe more dangerous—and maybe we should just leave it to the police after all.”
“What, you, big bad super-lawyer Robert, are afraid? Weren’t you on that list of the fifty best lawyers in LA a few years ago?”
“That was a list of civil lawyers. And I’m not afraid. Just thinking we’re in over our heads and we’re going to make it worse for Oscar than if we let the police handle it.”
“You mean we should butt out entirely?”
“No, Jenna, of course not. We can pass the messages we get on to the police, and let them suggest how to respond. Or not respond. Because I don’t know anything about kidnapping or how to handle it, and neither do you, despite all your Internet research.”
I felt like a total wuss for saying what I’d just said. Because on one level, Jenna was right. I was retreating from my take-charge personality of old, and it was particularly painful to have that pointed out by someone I’d raised up professionally and taught how to be a lawyer. On another level, with age I’d come—more than I wanted to admit—face-to-face with my own limitations, which included not wanting to plunge into things I didn’t know anything about. Jenna was young and didn’t have those hang-ups. Hell, maybe she never would.
While I was thinking all of that, Jenna was just looking at me with that Jenna stare of old. Finally, she said, “You remember my college nickname, right?”
“‘Steel Boots.’ As you’ve told me many times.”
“Well, I’m not giving in—like you are—I’m putting on my boots, and I’m going to go kick butt until we get Oscar back from the assholes who took him.”
“As I long-ago learned, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”
“There isn’t. And the only question is, are you going to help me or just limp off to be with your rich girlfriend?”
“I’ll help where I can. But you will have to let me know what you want, and I’ll decide if I want to do it.”
“Fine.”
“But, Jenna . . .”
/> “Yes?”
“Be careful what you kick with your boots.”
CHAPTER 15
Jenna James
Robert is a great lawyer. But he’s sometimes too cautious. His retirement seems to have made him even more so. Back when he was the managing partner of our old mega law firm Marbury Marfan—and my mentor in the litigation game—he seemed made of sterner stuff. Sure, he had the occasional soft spot even back then, but it was just a spot. Now it seemed as if the spot had grown to cover his entire body.
Maybe it had to do with my being thirty-five and his being sixty-five. Or maybe the stern stuff had always been a front for him. But either way, it was clear to me that the police weren’t really making a serious effort to look for Oscar, and I was going to have to do it myself. With or without Robert. Somehow. Or maybe the somehow included using my boots on Robert, too, so that he would help.
Job one was to learn which country Oscar really came from. He’d hidden that from us, and people hide things for a reason. If I could learn the reason, I might start to unravel the mystery and find him. I had an idea how to find out. But I was reluctant to do anything about it in the general’s wife’s apartment on the off chance it was bugged—even though I seemed like too minor a player to bother with, especially if I was right that they weren’t really trying to find Oscar. Maybe I was just plain paranoid.
Robert went back to Tess’s, and I walked down to the Jardin du Luxembourg, about ten minutes away, and found a chair by the central fountain, with its sculpture of naked men and women holding up the world. I got out my iPad, put “Helen Klarner” into Google and discovered that, before joining the US Foreign Service, she had gone to law school at UCLA. The woman was an alum. Perfect! I moved my chair as close as I could get to one of the jets of the fountain. They were just noisy enough to keep any busybodies from overhearing. I dialed the American embassy and asked for Helen Klarner. When queried, I said it was personal.
She came on the line quickly.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Professor Jenna James. I’m at UCLA, and I’m putting together a course on the law of diplomacy. I looked in our alumni directory and saw that you’re a fairly recent grad who’s chosen a career in diplomacy. I’d love to interview you about your experiences. I’d hope to get some personal anecdotes to liven up my classes. And if you get to LA you could be a guest speaker.” I loved to dangle the guest speaker hook. People bit every time.
“Well, I’m not sure how my personal experiences would really fit into an academic class, but I’d be glad to chat about them. Right now isn’t the best time, though. Maybe we could set something up that would work for us both, given the nine-hour time difference.”
“Oh, I’m in Paris on Christmas vacation right now. We could meet in person. I’ve got a small grant to do the research for the course, so I can take you to lunch or dinner if that isn’t somehow forbidden by the embassy’s rules.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“Great. Let’s pick a date, then, in the next few days if you can do it. I’m going back to LA soon.”
“I could do it tonight if I can bring my boyfriend.”
“Is he in the foreign service, too?”
“Yep.”
“Great. Do you guys have some favorite place?”
“Let me talk to Lars and get back to you, okay?”
“Sure, let’s say eight o’clock, and you just text me later and tell me where.”
“Sounds good.”
I gave her my throw-away cell number, and clicked off. After that, I spent about an hour on the Net doing a once-over-lightly on the law of diplomacy, including diplomatic immunity. I needed to create an actual course project just in case Helen had maintained her contacts at UCLA and made an inquiry. I sketched out a proposal and sent Dean Blender an email outlining the course I’d like to teach. The law school would probably think it too narrow a topic for a full course, but the dean owed me one—or maybe three or four—for the events of last year. To remind him that he owed me, I tossed in a request for a small planning grant.
I spent the rest of the day wandering around Paris and avoiding the apartment. I needed to move somewhere I felt less watched. At around four, Helen called and suggested we meet at a small restaurant on the Right Bank called Maison Bonne Cuisine and confirmed eight o’clock. She promised to make a reservation. I googled a translation of the restaurant’s name and saw that it was the French equivalent of Good Home Cooking.
Given the name, I expected, if not a flashing “EAT” sign out front, at least a down-home look—red and white checked tablecloths, the French equivalent of hooked rugs, funky wooden chairs and maybe an old clock on the wall. Instead, when I got there I was greeted by stark French contemporary—everything white and black, done in chrome, onyx and glass. The maître d’ seated me, and I ordered a glass of house red. I sipped at it and waited for my guests, who showed up only a couple of minutes later.
Helen, tall and skinny, was wearing three-inch heels and a subtly patterned blue suit, with a skirt that ended well above the knee. Not what I had imagined as the diplomatic look. Lars, who was introduced with no last name, was even taller, attired in blue pinstripes and looking every inch the ambassador, even though he couldn’t have been a day over thirty.
My goal was to get them both drunk.
I told them my grant was way larger than it needed to be, and we ended up consuming, between us, two bottles of a very good French red, a 2010 Pavillon Rouge du Château Margaux. I had looked up wine vintages before I got there. This one, at one hundred fifty euros per bottle, was quite good, but I still felt Oscar could afford it, and I was planning in the end to send him the bill. There was another that tempted me—it was a vintage that one reviewer had called an “Oh my God wine,” but it was a thousand euros a bottle.
Along with the wine, we ate really scrumptious bœuf bourguignon, petits pois and pommes au gratin, which my guests explained was what Mama might have served fifty years ago in a little village somewhere in the French heartland. The wine loosened their tongues—I drank sparingly myself—and I heard great stories, some about real topics like diplomatic immunity, and some just fascinating tales about life in an embassy. As the evening dwindled down, Lars was going on about still another story.
“The best one recently was when a wife who was here with her husband on vacation called,” he said. “She was frantic because he had been gone for a day and a half without contacting her.”
“Where was he?” I asked.
“Well, one of our duties in the consular section, which is where Helen and I work, is to visit Americans who are arrested and are in jail. When the wife called, I had just visited her husband, who had been detained by the police the night before up in Montmartre, the red light district of Paris.”
“I assume that he had just wandered up there by accident,” I said.
“No,” Lars said, smiling at my little joke, “I don’t think he was exactly lost. He had been feeling frisky and wanted to check out the French girls who were selling themselves up there. Unfortunately, he’d been making a dead-drunk spectacle of himself out on the street and got arrested. The French police were letting him sleep off his inebriation and were planning to release him without charge an hour after I saw him.”
“So what did you do?”
He smiled. “Well, I decided to apply the Privacy Act strictly, and concluded his wife had no need to invade his privacy because he was about to be released.”
“You should have told her,” Helen said.
“Why?”
“Because the guy was a schmuck and she had a right to know.”
“Well, Helen, sometimes different consular officers interpret the Privacy Act differently,” he said.
I saw my opening. Finally. “Do you get a lot of reports of missing Americans?”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Enough. But most are like the one La
rs just described. I can’t think of anyone who ended up being missing for more than a day or two.”
“Hey, there was that funny one the other day,” Lars said.
“It was only funny because of the name.”
“What was the name?” I asked, wondering why the name ‘Oscar Quesana’ would be funny, if, in a long shot, that’s who she was talking about.
“I don’t know, Lars. The guy who called about it seemed pretty upset.”
“Come on, Helen, don’t be such a stiff ass. It’s funny.”
“Okay, I don’t suppose it’s giving away the embassy security codes.”
I waited, saying nothing, trying not to look too anxious. I poured more wine into Helen’s glass.
“It went down like this,” she said. “This guy called, looking for a friend who’s been supposedly kidnapped. Although I have my doubts about that. Anyway, it turned out he’s not a US citizen.”
“The guy who called?” I asked, hoping to seem not too focused on the whole thing.
“No, the supposed kidnap victim.”
“Oh.”
“He was actually from France. So we couldn’t help. We only do our own nationals.”
“Why is that funny?”
“In the process of researching the whole thing, I not only learned the guy isn’t a US citizen, but also that he has a green card and, years ago, changed his name. It was in his green card application. His original last name was Brioche! Oscar Brioche.”
Lars laughed.
“I still don’t get it,” I said.
“Well, I guess you need a little bit of French history,” Lars said.
“Hit me with it.”
“Do you remember the story that Marie Antoinette, when she was told the people had no bread, said ‘Let them eat cake’?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a lot of debate about whether she actually said anything at all along those lines, but if she did say something, she didn’t say cake, which would be gâteau in French. She said, ‘Qu’ils mangent de la brioche.’”
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