by Tom Wilde
Wainwright stared at me like his eyes were frozen open as he pawed around his cluttered desk. “Money,” he croaked. “I can give you money.”
I was about to reply when I saw his hands disappear from the desk with a clatter as he jerked open a drawer. He rammed his hands inside, yanking out an old pistol and shoving it toward my face. It took an almost physical restraint on my part not to move as Wainwright, teeth clenched and breath hissing, snapped the trigger over and over.
Only nothing happened.
Wainwright inhaled, making a sound like water going down a rusty pipe, as I slowly stood up, then let my hand snatch the gun away from him, fast as a magician’s trick. I’d already found Wainwright’s old German P-38 shortly after I let myself into the house, and had removed all the ammunition. Wainwright’s eyes bugged out as he watched me materialize a single 9mm cartridge and load it directly into the pistol’s chamber. His eyes locked onto the unblinking gaze of the gun’s barrel as I lined it up, aiming at his forehead.
Wainwright suddenly began pleading for his life, only his words were all tied together and spilling out of his mouth in an almost incomprehensible stream. With one simple squeeze, I was going to blow Wainwright straight to hell and then walk away into the night. But the hand that held the gun, the hand that had been tortured and mangled back in Central America, didn’t move the fraction of an inch it would take to splatter the man’s brains across the wall.
That’s when I discovered I truly had nothing to fear. Even though I’d been made over into a dangerous creature by Nick Riley and his people, my will was still my own. I’d come to Wainwright’s house fully expecting to take some justice for myself by taking his life, but in the end I wound up giving him mercy instead, knowing the choice was mine to make. And if I could keep myself from destroying the one man I hated most in the world, then I need not be afraid for the sake of others. I could keep my inner monster under control.
So in the end, I let the man I knew as Wainwright live. But before I left, I at least made certain that his penmanship would never be the same.
“You’re making that face again.”
With a start, I was snapped back from my past into the metal belly of the jetliner, surrounded by the pervasive roar of the engines. I looked over at Caitlin, who was staring at me like a cat patiently waiting for a mouse to appear. “What?” I asked.
“That face. The one I saw back at the Algonquin. The one that makes you look like a pirate. You’re doing it again. What are you thinking?”
I tried to make a smile. “Sorry. I guess I’m just worried about Paris,” I lied.
Caitlin reached over and took my hand, giving it a warm press. “Don’t worry,” she said in a low, lovely tone. “I’ll take care of you. Now try to get some sleep.” Giving my hand a final firm squeeze, she turned back and faced the window and the blackness outside. I looked down at my scarred right hand, and thought about how good Caitlin’s touch made me feel just now.
“I’ll take care of you, too,” I said, too quietly for her to hear.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris, France
I was in Paris in the springtime. And it was raining. The morose gray sky was a perfect reflection of my mood as I pondered the thought that if water was the only thing that hit my head during this job, I’d be a lucky man indeed. The trip to the city had not begun auspiciously. My overused and much abused passport drew its usual attention from the customs agents, not to mention the fact that I’ve got a face that inspires policemen to go and check their “Wanted” posters. I was treated to a “routine” interview in one of the small, sterile offices while a dour customs official questioned me in regard to my honeymoon vacation plans, all the while flipping through the ragged and colorfully stamped pages that told the tale of my travels around the world. Minus all the countries I had to sneak in and out of, of course.
Finally, I was given leave to depart, and I found my new wife waiting for me with my old-fashioned suitcase. No doubt my luggage had been given a far more intimate inspection than I, but I was confident that my weapons, along with my burglary and escape tools, went undiscovered. The case itself was a Stone Age throwback—a big, tough, dark brown suitcase that one had to actually carry with one hand. I’m always amused to see so many of my fellow travelers who obviously spend time in a gym rely on those ubiquitous black pull-types with wheels, rather than have an opportunity to exercise their arm muscles. I’ve seen those same workout aficionados drive around a crowded parking lot rather than walk an extra few steps.
I took a moment in the busy, crowded concourse to retrieve my new cell phone. I hadn’t completely familiarized myself with my latest techno-toy. Like its predecessors, it could send and receive data, take photographs, advise me of my current global position, store tons of information, and even make a telephone call if it had to. I tend to break or lose these things with regularity. As Mr. Singh puts it, “They can make phones foolproof, but not Blake-proof.” I saw that Mr. Singh had electronically sent me a file on Napoleonic-era flag tops, along with a searchable map of Paris and a personal note from Nicholas Riley, requesting me to send back lots of photos from the honeymoon. After I had updated myself, Caitlin and I visited the currency exchange, where I bought a fat, colorful stack of euros that I split up into three sets for easier concealment.
It was during the drive into Paris that my mood really took a downward turn. Sometime before our jet had even touched down, the cool, calculating Caitlin had transformed herself into the very model of the happy young bride on her first trip to Paris. It was an effort not to ask her who she was and what had she done with the woman I left New York with. So, as she smiled and laughed, I found myself acting the part of the curmudgeonly husband who had allowed his wife to drag him off to parts unknown. But the thoughts beneath my dark demeanor were much more sinister. I was used to being in control of the dangerous stunts I pulled off in my line of work, and more importantly, only being responsible for myself if everything went to hell. Now, I was working blind in someone else’s shadowy game with a woman I didn’t know and couldn’t trust. Probably not the best way to start a marriage, I reflected.
I’d decided to be generous with the Argo Foundation’s money, so Caitlin and I took a taxi into the city. Our anglais-speaking driver was a young, cheerful North African named Paul Mahomet, and he insisted that we young lovers should have an automotive tour of the glorious City of Lights. Since our plane landed around noon local time and our meeting with Marcel Troyon wasn’t scheduled until that evening, we had time to kill, and so agreed to the impromptu road trip.
I was used to the thrill of the New York cab ride, but Paul apparently wanted his American guests to feel safe as he brought his little blue taxi into the city streets of Paris, and he promptly slowed down as our car merged with the great, noisy, mechanized parade. Despite myself, I fell under the spell of this corner of the world. From the massive Greco-Roman palace of the Opéra Garnier (I wondered aloud if The Phantom was buried somewhere nearby; Caitlin corrected me in that his actual title was The Opera Ghost) to the Champs Élysées and around the massive and magnificent Arc de Triomphe (the immense size of which almost gave me a grasp of the ego of the emperor who ordered its construction) to the Place de la Concorde, where Marie Antoinette and her royal kin were put to death (and also home to the Obelisk of Luxor—I mentioned that the Egyptians must have just been giving those things away at one point in time), to a neck-craning view of the Eiffel Tower. I’d never given much thought to the great iron monstrosity before, but to see it now, against a majestic, cloud-painted sky, made me realize what a true wonder it really is. Or maybe it was the scent of Caitlin’s perfume and the press of her body against mine as we squeezed together like school kids on a field trip that heightened my appreciation.
Finally, Caitlin and I told Paul that we should be taken to our hotel; his answering grin stated plainly that he thought he knew the reason for our desire to take our leave from his excellent company. Caitlin directed him to the
Saint Michel, and our driver-cum–tour guide took us there, albeit in a circuitous route, while he pointed out the bridge to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. We parted company with Paul and I parted company with a wad of the foundation’s money, and in return Paul offered his card and a promise to come with all speed should we call for him again—taxi meter running, no doubt.
After all the examples of European old-world charm I’d viewed that afternoon, the Saint Michel Hotel was a bit of a disappointment. The façade was a classic reflection of the beautiful, carved limestone of Le Belle Époque, as was the rest of the neighborhood, but the interior was all new, wood-paneled and modern. Our room could have belonged in any four-star hotel from here to Singapore, with the only touches that spoke of Paris being the framed black-and-white photographs of city scenes from the late 1800s and the bottle of complementary wine. I couldn’t help but notice the twin beds were snuggled close side by side. When Caitlin and I were finally left alone, I uttered the words that must have been spoken by countless bridegrooms across the ages.
“I’m hungry. That ‘petit-dejeuner’ at the airport was ages ago. I could eat a horse.”
“I understand that can be arranged,” Caitlin replied as she checked her watch. “Have courage. There’s a place near Troyon’s apartment where we can have some dinner before the meeting tonight. Why don’t you take a shower, or go out for a smoke or something in the meantime?”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”
She was back in her inscrutable mode, and I found I missed the woman I had just shared a taxi with. It made me wonder which of the two was the real Caitlin—if that really was her name, I thought ruefully. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll retreat to the bathroom. But no peeking.”
I washed and shaved and did my best to make myself presentable, then realized that I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes in with me. I wrapped a towel around myself and announced my entrance. “Avert thine eyes,” I warned.
Caitlin turned from the closet, where she’d been in the process of hanging up my clothes. Her face became still, and then she asked quietly, “What happened?”
Some people collect souvenirs and trinkets as they travel around the world. I, on the other hand, just amass scar tissue. “What? Oh, you mean me? Nothing, really. I’m just clumsy as hell.”
Caitlin came toward me slowly, her eyes tracking all the divots and gouges on the map of my body. “That,” she said as she pointed to my left shoulder, “looks like a gunshot wound. And what’s this across your rib cage? Looks like someone cut you up good, and not too long ago. I see now why you’ve got military wound dressings in that first-aid kit of yours.”
“You went through my luggage?”
“Of course,” she replied, matter-of-fact. “It’s one of the many Wifely Duties. By the way, if we have time after the job, I should take you shopping. All your clothes are boring.”
My working attire all came from the same company, guaranteed to be rugged and survive all extremes. But they didn’t have my lifestyle in mind and I have to replace my wardrobe frequently. All my clothes were plain, solid colors, more camouflage fashion. “How would you like it if I went and pawed through your things?” I asked.
She just shook her head and looked sad. “That’s what happened to my second husband,” she sighed.
“Well, I’m not the curious type anyway.”
“That’s good. It will do wonders for your life expectancy. Although from where I’m standing, I’m wondering if your job of ‘field researcher’ isn’t a little more hazardous than I was led to believe.”
“The only hazard I’m facing now is whether I’m going to freeze to death first, or die of starvation.”
Caitlin raised an ironic eyebrow. “Let me freshen up and change, and I’ll save your life. I’ve managed to get us a reservation for dinner.”
“Where?” I asked as she gathered up some clothes and a handbag.
“Someplace historical,” she replied. When the bathroom door shut, I started to dress myself, noticing that Caitlin had had ample opportunity to take inventory of my luggage. I put on dark slacks and a pullover, and gathered up a couple of weapons and a handful of useful things. In the process, I noticed a crumpled-up wad of plain brown paper and some string in the wastebasket. I unfolded the paper, but it didn’t have any markings or writing on it. The wrapping looked just large enough to have contained a medium-sized handgun at one point in time, and I wondered if Caitlin had received a special delivery while I was in the bath.
I wandered over to the half balcony opened it up to the accompanying sound of the traffic below, and had a cigarette while I waited for Caitlin. The dark clouds overhead were slowly breaking up, and a dying sun was washing the gothic spires and carved stone façades of the rooftops across the boulevard Saint Michel with a crimson stain. Only the blaring horns and tire squeals from the street broke the spell of the view. I thought about Caitlin’s reference to dining “someplace historic” and wondered what she meant. The whole city was a mosaic of the ages.
I really don’t know how long I leaned against the wall near the balcony, watching as the night crept over the venerable rooftops, but all at once I was aware of Caitlin standing behind me. I also don’t know how long a time it was that I just stood there and stared at the woman. She was attired in a simple black cocktail dress, with her wavy, dark gold hair bound into a crown a princess of Troy would have cause to envy. “I think I like being married,” I heard myself say.
“Really? I couldn’t tell. You’ve forgotten your wedding ring,” she said as she held up the item in question.
“Sorry,” I replied, taking the ring from her.
“Just be thankful I’m not the kind of girl who’d insist on having your finger tattooed.”
We got our coats and left the hotel, then hailed a taxi. I heard Caitlin give our dreadlocked and bespectacled driver an address on the boulevard du Montparnasse. While we were driving past the Luxembourg Gardens, I took a minute to review the data on my phone. Caitlin gave me a sideways glance, but said nothing as I scrolled and gleaned information on Napoleon’s choice of decorative flag tops, cramming for my upcoming test tonight. The trip was over sooner than I expected as we pulled over in front of a single-story Art Deco–style restaurant with the name “La Rotonde.”
I paid the driver and escorted Caitlin inside, immediately taken by the rich, wine-colored furnishings and dark paneled wood, softly lit by the glow of gold-shaded lamps. The main room was, as the name implied, rounded and curved, and with its small tables draped in white linen it evoked an intimate mood that matched the illuminated Impressionist paintings that adorned the walls. We were early for Continental dining and had the restaurant mostly to ourselves.
I wasn’t quite up for sampling the escargot and was pleased to see that the specialty was beef dishes. I ordered a filet with béarnaise while Caitlin requested sole meunière. The fact that we didn’t order any wine or other alcohol didn’t seem to faze our waiter in the least. “I thought you said you were taking me somewhere historical?” I asked when our waiter departed.
“I have. Don’t you know where you are?”
“Sure. I’m in Paris. That big iron radio antenna we saw this afternoon was a dead giveaway.”
“And this is your first time here? Hard to believe, especially when I caught a look at that passport of yours.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I never get to go anywhere nice.”
“We’re on the Left Bank,” Caitlin said in a patient tone. “This is where artists like Pablo Picasso and Max Jacob used to hang out.”
“Ah, so we’re on that Left Bank.”
“Not to mention writers such as Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin.”
“Never read them.”
Caitlin gave me her look of amused irony. “You’re quite certain you went to college?”
“Yep.”
“How about Karl Marx or Leon Trotsky? Ever hear of them? They used to come here too.”
I looked around the expensive environs. “Oh, yeah, I can see them now: ‘Down with the capitalist overlords! Right after they serve the chateaubriand!’”
Caitlin laughed, a lovely sound that complemented the candlelight reflected in her golden eyes. “Well,” she admitted, “perhaps things have changed around here a bit since then.”
The rest of the dinner was excellent food and small talk, spoiled just a little by the way Caitlin checked her watch, until she said at last that we should call for the waiter and leave.
Outside the restaurant, the sky was awash with clouds that allowed a three-quarter moon to sail in between the patches of darkness. The street was alive with people, walking with a slower tempo than the focused, on-a-mission feel of the pedestrians of New York. The parade of small cars pursued their paths of perpetual motion while motorcycles and scooters wove through the traffic, honking like metallic geese, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep the burned-petrol fumes from annoying the senses. “We’re close to Troyon’s place. You ready?” Caitlin asked.
I took a moment to look at the city. The only thing that spoiled the view of the Old-World landscape was the sight of a giant, monolithic skyscraper that dominated the background off to the east. I decided that I wanted to return to Paris someday, and hoped tonight’s escapade didn’t result in me having one more Place I Can’t Go Back to Ever added to my list. “Ready?” I echoed. “No. But let’s do it anyway.”
Caitlin took me along the Montparnasse until we came to the rue de la Grande-Chaumière, where we approached a small alcove of a four-story, white-brick building. Caitlin pressed a buzzer for the second floor, and from the intercom we heard, “’Allo?”
Caitlin motioned me to speak with a nod of her head. “It’s Jonathan Blake.”
“Excellent!” the voice from the speaker effused. “Come up!” There was a muted click, and the black outer door unlocked. Once inside the foyer, I could see a steep, narrow set of stairs lit by a pale orange overhead light. Caitlin and I ascended on steps that squeaked and sharply turned at the landing. A tall, hawk-faced man with heavy-lidded eyes and dark, almost black hair, wearing a rumpled suit, was holding open a door. “Bonsoir!” he greeted us jovially. “I am Marcel. Come in. You are the last to arrive.”
