by R. J. Jagger
Teffinger frowned.
“This time will be different,” he said.
“Whoever plays the part of the witness will be at an extreme risk,” she said. “No matter how many people we surround him or her with.”
True.
“I can’t ask anyone to put themselves in that type of danger,” she said.
“But—”
“Not to mention that the higher-ups in my department wouldn’t allow such a thing in a million years. It runs against every policy we have.”
Teffinger took a long drink of water.
Oh, well.
He was afraid of that.
“So, if it gets to that point, I’ll be the witness,” Fallon said. “I’ll be the bait. But we’ll have to do it on the side, meaning that no one else can know.”
Chapter Eight
Day One—July 12
Monday Night
______________
MONDAY NIGHT AFTER DARK, under a moonless French sky, Deja and Alexandra snuck past the crime-scene tape around Remy Lafayette’s pitch-black house, broke a windowpane in the rear door, and stepped inside. They stood quietly, listening, but didn’t hear anything except the sound of air moving in and out of their lungs. One step at a time, they felt their way through the dark interior and closed the window coverings, every one of them.
Then Alexandra turned on her flashlight.
Deja wasn’t prepared for what she saw.
The place had been torn apart even worse than her apartment.
“This confirms it,” Alexandra said. “They killed him. They were after the map. But they didn’t get it. It’s still here somewhere, I can feel it.”
THEY HAD ALREADY WONDERED what the map might look like.
Alexandra didn’t really know.
“It might not even be a map in the traditional sense,” she said. “It might be more in the nature of an assortment of information from various sources that tells the location.”
“The location to what, exactly?”
Alexandra frowned.
“Let’s just leave it at ancient artifacts and treasures, for the time being,” she said. “I’ll explain more later.”
“Why not now?”
“Because right now I’m not sure how aggressively the looters are going to pursue you,” Alexandra said. “If they manage to capture you, the best thing you’ll have going is to not know much.”
“Capture me?”
Alexandra put her arm around Deja’s shoulders and squeezed.
“I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this, I really am,” she said. “The best way for us to get you out of it is to find the treasure. At that point, everything becomes moot, including you.”
“This can’t be real,” Deja said.
“COME ON, LET’S GET BUSY,” Alexandra said. “If you were your uncle and wanted to hide something, where would it be?” Deja thought about it. She and Remy had been close. And even though she’d never shared his passion for archeology, she’d listen for hours, spellbound, when he told her about his latest trip to some desolate nook and cranny of the world. There he bought rare artifacts and priceless pieces of history from underground markets and shady traders, dangerous men who didn’t ask questions and didn’t expect any in return.
Everything Remy purchased, he bestowed to museums; every single thing, even things that he managed to buy for a hundredth of their value, things that could have let him retire right now in luxury.
His last trip had been to Cairo. Deja didn’t know what had drawn him there, but did know that she’d rarely seen him that excited. She looked at Alexandra and said, “Remy roamed the world and bought stuff that he gave to museums.”
Alexandra nodded.
She already knew that.
“But whenever he got a new piece, he would keep it around for a while,” Deja added. “He had a special place where he kept them.” She frowned. “Every time he showed me something, though, he already had it out by the time I got here. I never saw where he got them from.”
THEY SEARCHED and found nothing. They searched some more and found more nothing, piles and piles of nothing.
Remy’s computers were gone.
His research notes and files were gone.
His desk drawers were empty.
An hour into it, Deja excused herself to use the facilities. When she came out Alexandra was in the hallway and said, “By the way, you haven’t told anyone about me, have you?”
“No, you said not to.”
Alexandra wrinkled her forehead.
“I know,” she said. “I just want to be sure you know how important that is. Not just to keep the government out of it, but also for me, personally. If I have to kill somebody, I don’t want to end up in jail.”
“You would kill somebody?”
“No,” Alexandra said. “Only if they forced me and there was no other option.” Deja must have had a look on her face because Alexandra added, “Make no mistake, these people are vicious, terribly vicious. They already killed your uncle.”
Chapter Nine
Day One—July 12
Monday Night
______________
MARCEL DURAND LOVED THE NIGHT. When the sun went down, the good people went to sleep and the dangerous people came out. Animal instincts got crisper and more intense.
Passion intensified.
Edges got edgier.
Women got looser.
Things happened that shouldn’t, all simply because the earth rotated to the other side for a few short hours.
Sometimes, he thought that it was his love for darkness that made him such a good private investigator. But, when he thought deeper about it, he knew otherwise. It was really his desire to be where he shouldn’t.
To see what he shouldn’t.
To know what he shouldn’t.
To do what he shouldn’t.
He was only five-eleven, shorter than he wanted to be, but made up for it by staying lean and strong. His face was neither attractive nor repulsive. It was instantly forgettable. In his younger days, he viewed it as a curse. Now at age thirty he realized just how wrong he had been.
He spoke well, and not just French, English and Spanish too.
He could have easily learned other languages, but instead he concentrated on fine-tuning those two to perfection, to the point where he not only spoke them flawlessly and properly, but did so without the slightest trace of an accent. People from London took him for an American. People from Madrid took him for someone down the street.
He was the best P.I. that Paris had ever seen, or ever would.
He wasn’t in the phone book; strictly word-of-mouth.
Only clients with the deepest pockets were accepted.
TONIGHT WAS NICE AND DARK, perfect for working. Except tonight he wasn’t working. Tonight he was going to feed the fetish.
It had been a long time, too long, which wasn’t healthy.
He got in the car and headed to a bar called De Luna.
ON THE WAY, his phone rang and a familiar voice came through, the voice of Nicholas Ringer, who routinely used Durand to investigate buyers who wanted to have a yacht built, to be sure they weren’t shady and had the capital to back up their words.
“Another potential sale in the works?” Durand asked.
“No, this is something different,” Ringer said. “A lot different.”
Durand took the information as he drove, jotting down notes on a pad while he steered with his knees. Then he said, “You weren’t kidding when you said this was different. I’ll start on it first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks,” Ringer said. “I’ll wire a retainer to your account.”
Chapter Ten
Day One—July 12
Monday Night
______________
WHEN A TIRED-LOOKING MAN NAMED BENOIT walked into Fallon Le Rue’s office Monday evening and set his re-draw of the Denver caveman on her desk, Teffinger and Fallon looked at it and smiled.
“I
s that what you wanted?” Benoit asked.
It was.
It was indeed.
Although the texture, attitude and feeling of the drawing had totally changed, the new face unquestionably depicted the same Neanderthal as the old one.
“We’ll turn it over to the Louvre when we’re done with it,” Teffinger said.
Benoit grinned.
“You do that,” he said. “And tell them I’ll rework Mona if they want. That girl needs a smile in the worst way.”
Teffinger laughed and slapped Benoit on the back.
THEY SCANNED THE SKETCH, emailed it to every TV station and newspaper in town, and then followed up with telephone calls. By the time the dust cleared, they had it primed to hit Paris big time starting tomorrow morning. With any luck, by noon someone would call in and tell them who the caveman was.
The sun was setting and the lights of Paris began to twinkle.
Teffinger’s stomach growled.
“I heard that,” Fallon said.
“Sorry.”
“Hungry?”
“Starved.”
“How would you like a home-cooked meal?”
“Really?”
Yes.
Really.
FALLON LE RUE, it turned out, lived in a 25-meter boat docked on the Left Bank of the Seine, across from Ile St. Louis in the Latin Quarter, not more than a twenty minute walk from Teffinger’s hotel. The steel-hulled vessel was clearly old but had been beautifully converted into first-class accommodations.
Very cool.
The lower level, which ran the length of the boat, was living quarters fitted with large square windows. Above that, a large outdoor sitting area occupied the rear third of the boat, encircled in a perimeter of large white planters. Vegetation six or eight foot high on the port side provided good privacy from the adjacent walkway.
On the starboard side were flowers, sitting low, not obstructing the stunning views of the river, St. Louis and Notre Dame.
The middle third of the boat was a second level of living quarters, well-encased in oversized rectangular windows, with a curved white roof and teakwood exterior.
The bow contained lockable storage spaces.
Inside, the floors and walls were warm beech and the lines were clean. All interior remnants of the vessel’s rough, seafaring workdays were gone. Now there were wall sockets, recessed lights, a modern kitchen, washer and dryer, and cable.
Teffinger must have had a look on his face because Fallon said, “I don’t get paid this much. It’s inheritance. What are you in the mood for, to eat?”
He shrugged.
“How about a cheeseburger and Bud Light?”
She laughed.
“You’re too American, we need to French you up.” Then she headed into the lower level and said over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” He took a seat on the couch. Fallon returned three heartbeats later dressed in white shorts, a black tank top and lots of skin, barefoot.
Her body was firm, strong and sensuous.
Teffinger swallowed.
He had never seen such a beautiful woman.
Well, that wasn’t true.
He had.
But he had never wanted a woman so much.
That much was true.
A TATTOO EMERGED from under Fallon’s shorts and wrapped around her left leg. Teffinger studied it, then looked into her eyes and said, “I don’t know what it is, but I like it.”
“You want to see the whole thing?”
He raised an eyebrow.
Sure.
She closed the window coverings, dimmed the lights, poured two glasses of white wine and handed one to Teffinger. He took a long swallow and felt it go straight to his head.
So nice.
Fallon stood in front of him and said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Then she wiggled out of her shorts, let them drop to the floor, and stepped out. She wore a black thong, the most incredibly sexy thing Teffinger had seen in his life. She pulled the tank over her head and threw it on the couch next to him, revealing ample breasts cupped in a flimsy black bra.
The tattoo turned out to be a vine of erotic, sensuous flowers.
It covered most of her stomach, with large, prominent pedals.
Then it wrapped around her hip, down one cheek of her ass, and around her upper thigh twice, ending about six inches above her knee.
She turned around.
So he could see the back better.
If Teffinger had described the tattoo to someone, it probably would have sounded weird. But it was the coolest thing he had ever seen, expertly done, with breathtaking colors that vibrated against her skin.
He ran his fingers over it, starting on her stomach, winding around all the way to the end.
She didn’t stop him and instead, unclasped her bra and dropped it to the floor.
Teffinger pulled her thong down.
Then he kissed her.
“No, not here.” She grabbed his hand, led him outside to the sitting area and laid down on a cushion next to the planters. She stretched her arms above her head and wiggled her stomach.
Chapter Eleven
Day One—July 12
Monday Night
______________
IF THE MAP WAS AT REMY’S HOUSE, Deja and Alexandra didn’t find it. At first, they considered getting a hotel room for the night. Then Alexandra said, “My place is probably still safe for a day or two. I doubt that they know I’m involved yet.”
She had a nice apartment in the Jardin des Plantes Quarter, on the east side of the city, fourth-floor walkup.
Everything was intact and exactly as Alexandra had left it. They ended up on the terrace with glasses of white wine, watching the City of Light twinkle.
After two glasses, Alexandra was willing to share some of her background.
She was born to French parents living in Cairo and was raised as a free-spirited female atheist in a Muslim country, which wasn’t easy. She stayed there until age twenty-five, when she lost her parents to a driver who was a lot more interested in putting his wife in her place than he was in watching the road. Two months later Alexandra moved to Paris, which was the only city she knew outside Egypt.
Her parents had been archeologists.
She was too and had been for as long as she could remember.
“It started with hieroglyphics, which had a hold on me since the first time I laid eyes on them,” she said. “I got fascinated with the idea of creating history by uncovering history, which sounds like a weird concept, but really isn’t when you think about it. I got into it, fast and deep. The Egyptian government, which already worked with my parents, took notice and started to fund my projects. They got their money back in spades. Then they approached me about going deeper, on special assignments, ones they couldn’t officially be affiliated with. The one you and I are on now is one of those underground ones. Depending on how it turns out, it may well be the most significant archeological discovery of the last thousand years.”
Deja took a sip of wine.
“I’m not on it,” she said. “Only you are.”
Alexandra didn’t look impressed but said, “Let’s hope you’re right.”
SOMEONE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR, someone Alexandra apparently knew and expected; a man, a shadowy man. Alexandra spoke to him in whispers while Deja waited on the terrace. Three minutes later, the man pulled his collar up, hunched his face into his shirt and left. Alexandra walked back out into the night and sat down. She showed Deja a gun and said, “Now we’re not so naked.” Deja wasn’t sure if the sight brought relief or dread.
“That’s a gun,” she said.
“Do you know how to use it?”
Deja laughed at the absurdity of the question.
“No.”
“This is the safety,” Alexandra said. “You flick it like this to get it off. Then you’re good to go.”
Deja rolled her eyes but memorized the move.
Then she took a long swallow o
f wine.
“I work in a law firm,” she said. “They’re going to send me to law school this fall, all expenses paid. Being affiliated with a gun could doom me. It’s the absolute last thing I need in my life right now.”
Alexandra understood.
But she said, “Your job is a mere luxury, a luxury that won’t keep you alive. Only you can keep you alive. Like it or not, you live in ancient times now. And in ancient times, it actually was true that only the strongest survived.”
She set the gun in Deja’s lap.
“I’ll be right back.”
She walked inside, returned with the wine bottle, and topped off their glasses. She didn’t take the gun back and Deja didn’t ask her to. Instead, she let it sit there, feeling its weight.
Only the strongest survived.
Remy was dead.
If he hadn’t been strong enough to survive, how could Deja?
She drank more wine and fell asleep with the gun on her lap.
AT SOME POINT LATER, which could have been ten minutes or three hours, she woke to a terrible noise coming from inside the apartment.
She was still on the terrace.
Alone.
Alexandra was no longer there.
The air was chilly.
She stood up.
The gun dropped to the floor.
She picked it up and flicked the safety off as she ran inside.
Chapter Twelve
Day One—July 12
Monday Night
______________
DE LUNA WAS A LARGE BAR in a basement hideaway in the Latin Quarter, a fifteen-minute walk south of the Seine. Marcel Durand didn’t care about it except six times a year, namely on the second Monday of every other month, when it turned into a fetish bar. He got there just before midnight, paid 25 euros at the door, and stepped inside with a beating heart.
The place was dim and already packed.
