The brooch—a little turtle, gold with bits of colored glass. There had been another turtle . . . Lucien running from the woods by the soccer field, crying "Look!" as Poincaré and his mates crowded their friend saying What, show us! A common box turtle was all, its shell a miracle of diamonds, yellow and orange, its scaly head and legs retracted for safety. "Watch!" cried Luc as he held the turtle aloft then slammed it against a rock, its diamonds shattering as the children held their breath. There was life yet, a wriggling and oozing. The boys drew closer and Luc said, "It's pink!"
Poincaré's hand fell from the gun once more. He could not kill this way—not even Banović. Not if he wanted to live in the world of men. He dropped to his knees as the defendant's wife set upon him with her fists and as Banović himself screamed and kicked at the guards who carried him from the courtroom. "Irina! Casimir! Nora! I love you!" Other guards detained the wife and children. But Poincaré, wearing his credentials on a lanyard, was left alone. The end, he thought, the absolute end. He rested his forehead against the seat before him, whatever strength he had summoned for this work spent. His family was gone, revenge useless. Through it all, the gun never left its holster.
He heard footsteps and felt a hand at his shoulder.
"Henri."
He opened his eyes and saw a pair of expensive Italian loafers.
"What just happened?"
"Go away."
"The moment I heard about Chloe, I rushed to Paris. When I couldn't find you, I tried Etienne's ward. I called Fonroque. And then I gambled you were here. The man deserves to die, Henri, but his people didn't kill your granddaughter. Look at me." Poincaré did not lift his head, not even as Paolo thrust a photograph before him. "The hospital's surveillance system caught everything. We have an image—a woman impersonating a doctor. We've got her entering the unit, pouring an accelerant into the trashcan, and then striking a match before walking down the corridor towards Chloe's room. We haven't put a name to the face yet, but I'm certain she's not one of Banović's agents. She's Mesoamerican—about as far from ex-Stasi as you can get. Henri, look at me!"
Slowly, Poincaré lifted his head and saw a hand come into view. It held a photograph. "What," he said, his eyes rolling in the direction of Ludovici.
"Christ! You need a doctor!"
"What surveillance? A photo?"
"We're leaving—now." When Ludovici reached under Poincaré's arm to hoist him up, he bumped the shoulder holster—and jerked Poincaré to his feet. "You brought a gun—here? You were going to shoot him in open court? My God, Henri—who's going to save you from yourself?"
Poincaré tore the photo from Ludovici's hand, enraged that he had no reading glasses. The image would not focus, and he extended his arm far enough to see someone in a white hospital jacket standing along a familiar corridor. A woman. Squinting, he thought she looked familiar: medium height, honey-nut skin, dark hair braided in a thick cord. He wiped his eyes on a sleeve and looked more closely at her neck, at a port-wine stain. It was Dana Chambi.
CHAPTER 20
"Claire? . . . Dearest, can you hear me?"
Silence.
"Claire, I'm leaving on a trip. Business. I'll be home soon." He imagined he could hear her breathing across the phone lines. That would have to do for now.
"Alright, then. I'll call. I'll call every day."
And with that Poincaré emerged, as if from a crypt, to find his granddaughter's killer. For ten weeks he had read no newspapers, watched no television, and listened only occasionally to the radio in a futile search for music that might calm his nerves. His shuttling between Fonroque and Paris took no account of a world that continued to turn, indifferent to the catastrophe of his life. It came as something of a surprise, then, that media of every sort had seized on August 15 as the day on which Christ was to redeem His faithful. Improbably, in two short months the Soldiers of Rapture had so focused attention on their prophesy of the Second Coming that whatever one thought of End Times theology it was now impossible to regard August 15 as just another day on the calendar. Somehow, the Soldiers had become modern-day Isaiahs sent to prepare the world for a New Day, and there was simply no avoiding their battle cry that "God is Near!" They shouted hosannas across twenty-four time zones, on highway billboards and city streets as if repeating August 15th loudly enough, and often enough, could itself bring about the hoped-for deliverance.
By the time Poincaré stumbled back into the world, the Rapture had become news for being news, which guaranteed media coverage that would build to a crescendo on the appointed day at 11:38 AM. Rapture parties were planned for public venues in Tokyo, London, New York, and Amsterdam, and already one could find calendars and clocks counting down the days and seconds. In Poincaré's absence, the Rapture had gone viral—a pandemic transmitted via broadcast news, e-mail, and word of mouth. He could only stare and wonder, not the least reason being that the assassinations Laurent was investigating had intensified, following the model of the murdered social worker in Barcelona: a bullet to the back of the head, a passage of Scripture pinned to the clothing, and the clear message that doers of good works were no longer welcome because their virtue delayed the Tribulation and, therefore, the Second Coming. As if this logic weren't strained enough, Christian-inspired suicide bombers, following the example set in Milan, had continued detonating themselves for Christ in hopes of actually hastening the Rapture. Since Redemption would come only amidst great troubles, they reasoned, more troubles would lead to Redemption sooner.
Poincaré blinked hard at all this, as if he had walked into a collective hallucination. Facts that were essentially the case two months earlier—the same civil strife, the same global warming, the same famine and disease—were now called definitive signs of the End Times. Millions believed the Rapture was near because millions of others believed. Millions more, agnostic on the question of Christ's return, still wondered if they should be concerned for the disposition of their souls. And most everyone else had grown wary of people wearing white robes in public and possibly concealing bombs. Serge Laurent would know more, Poincaré decided. Laurent had been investigating this madness and would have something useful to say.
AFTER LUDOVICI delivered the surveillance video to Monforte, Interpol worked to identify the woman in the lab coat on Chloe's hospital ward. Poincaré watched the analysts scramble but offered nothing, for he had decided that finding Chambi would be his concern, alone—and resuming the Fenster investigation would provide suitable cover. Given all that had happened, he had no interest in pursuing Fenster's killer and even less in tracing the source of the ammonium perchlorate. But with Chambi at large, Poincaré needed Interpol's tactical and financial resources to locate her. So he called Albert Monforte one morning to announce his renewed interest in Fenster. "I'm rotting in Fonroque," he said. "I need to work again." He lied so convincingly that his superior summoned him to Lyon for a meeting.
"I'll be frank," said Monforte. "I don't want you going anywhere before you spend another few weeks recuperating. You look like hell."
"And a very good morning to you, Albert," said Poincaré.
"Not really. The directorate has advised me to retire. . . . Forty years at Interpol is enough, they said. And thirty should be for you, Henri. Let this Fenster business go. Claire and the children need you."
On this point Poincaré was very clear. "In fact, they don't. Not at the moment."
"I can't believe that."
"Suit yourself. I leave this afternoon." He handed Monforte an itinerary.
"I won't stand in your way—although the next director might unless you wrap this up quickly. There's talk of moving old timber out the door. Take my advice and quit on your terms."
Poincaré said nothing.
"Alright, then . . . for the moment. You'll be searching for rocket fuel?"
"What else? That's what this case is all about."
"NASA, then—begin with the Jet Propulsion Lab. While you were in Fonroque these several weeks, I started a file
of reports directed to you from the JPL and Lieutenant De Vries—assuming someone else would take over the case." Monforte pulled a folder from a stack on his desk. "It appears you're looking for someone who's got a background in chemistry, who can grow specialized crystals called HMX that were used to doctor the ammonium perchlorate, and who works with propellants. We're talking a few thousand people in the world who meet the criteria—a relatively small set. But your job's made easier because the precision placement of the explosive charge suggests someone with a background in mining. Think about it. The pictures of that hotel in Amsterdam show a room more or less sliced whole out of the top floor. This takes skill. So you can narrow your set of about three thousand down to a few hundred. Of that subset, you want to know who was away from their lab bench in mid-April—from NASA, the European Space Agency, Russia, and China. And of that sub-subset, who traveled to the European Union? There can't be more than eight people on the planet who meet all the criteria. You'll find names here, and some of the candidates are from JPL. One who looked promising on paper died three weeks before the Amsterdam bombing."
Poincaré took the file and turned to leave, but Monforte was not finished.
"I've got nothing new on Rainier."
"I understand," said Poincaré.
The director stared across a parking lot to a stand of trees on the edge of the Interpol campus. "You know, I could actually be fine with leaving—but not like this. The executive committee demanded explanations for how Banović's men got into the country and attacked your family—and later got to Chloe. I couldn't tell them because I don't understand myself. Banović's men were dead. Ludovici thinks this last attack came from a different direction."
Monforte looked like a man resigned to being hanged in the morning. The tremor in his hand had worsened. "All I could tell them was that we're investigating our system breakdowns and will report back. The directors don't want reports, and I don't blame them."
The men faced each other.
"I failed you, Henri."
They had been friends once.
At the door, Monforte said, "Forty years, and the worst mistake of my career . . . I can't even bring myself to ask forgiveness. Chloe."
Poincaré said nothing.
"Very well. About this woman at the burn clinic, I've put every—"
"We are not discussing my granddaughter's death."
"The woman appears nowhere in our databases. If she had so much as stolen a candy bar, we'd have found something. Why anyone would attack a child in that condition . . ."
Poincaré opened the door.
"Bonne chance, Henri. Let's hope the JPL will give you answers. Otherwise, the search could turn difficult."
"I wouldn't worry," said Poincaré. "I'm feeling motivated."
He took a last meal in Lyon before returning to America—at the Café du Soleil, near his former apartment. He could not walk in that district without thinking of Claire. In the early years, she would take him out on Saturday mornings simply to run the cobbles beneath their feet and feel the press of crowds in narrow spaces. Close your eyes, she'd tell him—waiting for Poincaré to actually close his eyes so that she could lead him by the hand. With Claire his senses blossomed. He would smell the baguettes and croissants at the boulangerie and hear the cries of the fruit monger and the fish man. You feel human here, she said. Connected. With her, he had been.
"Henri!"
The café's owner clasped him warmly. Like everyone else, Samuel Ackart knew of Poincaré's troubles. The two were old enough friends that what needed saying Ackart said with his eyes and a squeeze of the hand.
"Do you suppose," said Ackart, "I could get rid of that?" He was pointing over Poincaré's shoulder across the alley. Poincaré turned and saw a large number thirty-nine pasted onto the side of a building. "Countdown to the end of the world. It's all anyone talks about, and frankly I've had a belly full. Christ should come or not and let's be done with it. I've got a business to run."
Poincaré turned back to the table. "I'd figure the Second Coming would be good for business, Samuel. If the world ends, who'll need money? May as well spend it on your food and wine."
Ackart spit into a cup. "As a matter of fact, receipts are down."
"Then you only have thirty-nine days left to suffer."
"Just put me out of my pain now. I tear them down, the countdown numbers, and they sprout right back up like some evil weed. I don't want to be reminded!"
Poincaré missed the change in Ackart's tone. Talking had become a chore for him; but because Ackart was a friend, he tried—conversing as if painting by numbers, out of habit: "Your menu's the problem," he said, "not Christ. I've been telling you for at least a decade to use a better grade of cognac in your coq au vin—and to get more fresh vegetables onto your plates."
Ackart struck a match and let it burn to his fingertips. He struck another and lit a cigarette. "Did I mention these Soldiers of God or whatever they call themselves have got hold of Alain?"
Poincaré set his glass down.
"Two months ago he quit his job. Last month he shows up wearing robes. We can't talk to him now that there's a published date for the Second Coming. It's insane. I have no idea if he might turn into one of these lunatics blowing themselves up for Christ. He's devoted his life to saving others. Now this? If he had wanted to be a priest, fine. But this End Time craziness . . . it's vulgar. Cheap."
The news hit Poincaré hard. Growing up, Alain and Etienne had spent as much time in each other's home as in their own. Their families had shared meals and vacations, the boys constant companions. When Poincaré saw Alain last, two years earlier in Paris, he was a successful public defense attorney in a silk suit who still, across a luncheon table, addressed Poincaré as uncle. "So he went to Los Angeles," continued Ackart, "because Los Angeles, he said, is the city most in need of saving. The new Sodom and Gomorrah. Cecile and I are terrified we'll read about him in the morning papers—that he'll set off a bomb on Rodeo Drive, shouting Jesus Lives before pushing a button. I've gone out there twice trying to talk sense into him. All he did was point me to the daily headlines. 'What more proof do you need of the End Times?' he said. 'The world's flying apart. Read all about it!' "
To this point, the Soldiers of Rapture had been little more than a very dangerous comic book to Poincaré. On the one hand, there was the youngster with his verilys in the subway in Cambridge, playing prophet with robes from central casting—a lad barely alert to his own theology. On the other, there were bombers and assassins on the loose intent on sowing fear to hasten the Second Coming. Before Samuel Ackart's news, Poincaré had dismissed the one as a joke and treated the other for what it was: terrorism plain and simple. But Alain? He was no Scripture-squawking parrot, no killer of innocents. He was a thoughtful, gentle man whose choice of profession, law, suited him for the same soul-sustaining reasons that architecture suited Etienne.
"How did this happen?" said Poincaré.
Ackart's face was a study in the shifting grays of depression. His eyes were puffy, their luster gone. Poincaré stared out the window with him, both men lost in an unspoken conversation with the number thirty-nine.
"You know he was a sensitive child," Ackart said after a time. "Arguments upset him. If Cecile and I raised our voices over dinner, he'd run crying. When he was seven, we had to stop delivery of the newspaper because the articles turned him morose. I asked why all the sadness, and he pointed to a photo of a child in Somalia with rickets. . . . At some point the rest of us let it go. Alain couldn't. He hasn't."
The smoke from Ackart's cigarette settled about their heads like bad weather. Poincaré shifted in his seat but could not get comfortable. "Civil wars, murders, riots," said Ackart. "The suffering of others broke him down. He chose law to repair the world—and it was beautiful to see. But after six or seven years, he turned sullen again. Two months ago, he decided we were in the Tribulation and he would leave the whole mess for Christ to set right. 'All the suffering's got to be a sign,
' he said. 'Because if it isn't, life is not worth living.' That's where it ended," said Ackart. "With those words, which scare the hell out of me. Then he left for Los Angeles. Cecile and I are desperate. We've lost a son. This End Time madness is ruining our business. Worse, I couldn't say that Alain won't become a bomber for Christ. I'm at my wit's end."
Ackart looked out through the cigarette haze, his eyes moist. Poincaré's own grief was immense, but Ackart's grief had moved him. "I'm leaving for the States in the morning," he said. "One of my stops is Los Angeles. I could grab Alain and ship him home for deprogramming."
"Deprogramming . . . so that he can wake up to the same headlines? The world is going to shit, Henri. How does one take it in and live a life?" Ackart shook his head. "Look. You've got your own troubles, and I have no right . . . But I can't go on like this." He scribbled an address. "Find him. If you think he's dangerous, get him off the streets before something bad happens."
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