by Cara Black
“How convenient!”
“Not really, but it didn’t belong to me. And I don’t think it belongs to you.”
“Stolen property must go back to where it came from.”
Had Baret stolen the jade to sell to Linh?
“What do you mean? How does the jade connect to you at the RG?”
“That’s not your concern.” Fabien Regnier snapped his fingers.
As Aimée looked up she caught the eye of the hawk-nosed man who approached. Lean and in his late fities, his cap brim low over his hooded eyes: she knew him. Recognized him from the unit that had contracted for Leduc’s services for the Place Vendôme surveillance. He’d been the one holding her back as she screamed, seeing her father’s charred limbs on the cobblestones.
Tension knotted her shoulders.
“We don’t want to have to mess up your apartment but—”
“Go ahead, it’s a mess already. The contractor makes sure of that.”
“Actually, we already have,” he said. “You need a new contractor.”
“What? Where’s your search warrant?”
Fabien Regnier picked up his cell phone; it must have vibrated on his hip. And then she noticed the butterscotch colored plug in his ear. An audio amplifier?
“Oui,” he said, turning to answer it. A moment later, he clicked off, nodding to the others who fell back. He whispered in her ear, “If, as you say, you don’t have it, we want you to find it. That’s your priority now. Your career here, in Europe, anywhere in the world, depends on it. Your agency, your apartment, even your dog’s yearly rabies shots, depend on it.”
She stiffened.
“Good evening,” he said, giving her his card. “See, mother did teach me some manners.” And got into a waiting car.
SHE FELT so weak she had to force herself to climb the worn marble stairs to her dark apartment. This stank worse than overripe Camembert. The RG’s tentacles extended everywhere: their calling cards were intimidation, blackmail, and wiretaps. She never understood how people could refer to them as the good guys, likening them to the FBI or MI5. Then again, maybe it was apt after all.
Miles Davis, her bichon frisée puppy, greeted her with a wet nose and wagging tail. At least he was fine. She hit the switch of her hall chandelier and fiddled with the radiator. The only response was a dribble of heat and a sputtering, angry knock in the pipes.
She gasped at the mess they’d made, though the RG had a method to their ransacking. Neat piles of papers and her clothing sat in the middle of the rooms. Her computer lay untouched, thank God, but her armoires hung open. Drawers in several old chests were pulled out, too. Did they think she’d stash the jade in her apartment and leave it?
Thinking of Fabien Regnier going through her things made her sick. They’d dirtied everything by their presence.
Who was the black-leather-clad figure on the motorcycle? Was he, too, with the RG? And where did the hawk-nosed man from the Place Vendôme, who’d witnessed her father’s death, fit in? What did this imply?
She forked the last of the horsemeat into Miles Davis’s chipped Limoges bowl. These days, a boucherie chevaline with the gold horse head above it, the sign of a horsemeat butcher, was harder to find in the quartier than a child without Nintendo.
She kicked off her boots, hung up her damp coat, reached in the pocket for a cigarette and remembered she’d quit. Merde! Papers crinkled. Her hand held something; the envelope she’d meant to give Baret. She remembered how he’d clutched her coat . . . what had he said . . . Nadège, Sophie? She slit open the envelope Linh had given her. Inside lay a cashier’s check for fifty thousand francs.
Linh had been buying the jade! Stolen jade? If Linh had asked her to make the exchange, because she was under surveillance . . . well, now the RG were watching her.
She shivered and pulled on the ski parka she wore when the heater refused to cooperate. So far, it had happened every night this week. But the chill in her bones wasn’t just from the cold.
She pushed aside the tool box. If only the contractor would sheetrock the rest of the kitchen wall. Two weeks and she’d only seen him once. And then she got to work, putting away her things, cleaning up the mess the RG left. A quick, cursory job. They must have been watching her apartment, known she hadn’t returned. After an hour, her arm throbbed but she’d put away most of the piles.
She looked inside her small box of a refrigerator. Nothing except an expensive eye cream the woman at the Samaritaine cosmetics counter assured her performed wonders. So far, she hadn’t noticed a difference. A runny Reblochon and pain rus-tique waited on the counter. But her appetite had disappeared. She hit the red blinking message-machine button. One message.
“Aimée . . . I thought you’d be home . . .” Guy’s voice said. Unsure and annoyed.
A click, and he’d hung up.
Her heart sank. Regnier and the RG had heard this, too.
“Looks like you and me, Miles, and the brick.”
She turned on the oven and stuck a brick inside to warm. In an hour, she’d put the hot brick in her bed and keep toasty all night: a trick her grandfather had learned in the war when charcoal was scarce.
She climbed into bed, weary, her arm aching, but she couldn’t stop the thoughts spinning in her head.
Endlessly.
Aimée pushed the duvet down. She slipped on wool socks and an old bathrobe of her father’s. Below, blue barge lights on the Seine reflected off the glistening wet stone Pont Marie. Pigeons, nesting in the pear tree below, in the courtyard, cooed.
In the dim salon, she powered up her laptop. Who was Thadée Baret? All she knew was he had possessed stolen jade— stolen from whom she didn’t know—and needed money. One didn’t go out in raw November weather without a coat unless to dash down to a nearby tabac or a café below one’s apartment. Certainly not with a backpack of valuable jade. So she figured he had lived close by the place where he had died.
Start with the obvious, her father had always said. Sometimes it worked and saved time. She searched in the phone book. No listing.
Online, she hacked into the standard financial databanks, a practice she and René performed routinely to find someone’s credit history. There was no credit card issued in his name. Talk about flying below the radar. Bank account searches required more time, so she put that aside.
He’d looked arty, had an intello air, a former junkie by the old marks on his arm . . . was he a gauche caviar who’d squandered the family wealth? Searching further, she checked university registrations for the past fifteen years. Ecole nationale d’ad-ministration, then of Political Science. Nothing. Not even at the Ecole des Beaux-arts.
If he needed money . . . drugs? But his tracks were old. Gambling? Wait a minute, she’d forgotten something. Paper had rustled in her pocket . . . why hadn’t she checked it? She ran, her wool socks padding softly on the floor, to the coatrack in her hallway, and emptied her pockets. Besides the envelope, there was a half of a torn PMU—Pari mutuel urbain— horse race betting slip. She remembered the sounds accompanying his phone call. Like a café-tabac in the background, where bets were taken. It must have been a local place, where he awaited her call.
She’d investigate tomorrow. After she retrieved the jade from Guy’s office. It would be a place to start. Getting the RG off her back was a bigger problem.
In her bedroom, she sat crosslegged and put the small jade disk on the window ledge. It glowed in the light. Ethereal. A circle of beauty. She closed her eyes, tried to empty her mind. Concentrate. Inhaling, exhaling, counting her breaths.
But the images of the jade animals floated above her, as if they were pulling her back to consciousness. She saw the mocking smile of the jade monkey, then the hawk-nosed man. And felt the stinging and smarting of her stitches.
She rubbed her eyes. The corners of her vision blurred. Nervously, she washed down a pill with bottled Vichy water.
Her dreams echoed with the insistent cawing of the crows nesting over the boulang
erie where Baret had been shot— loud and grating. Their flapping, glossy, obsidian-black wings tried to tell her something. Dawn found her on the floor, shivering.
Tuesday Evening
HERVÉ GASSOT DIPPED HIS fingers in the icy holy water font of the nineteenth-century church. He stuck his cap in his wool overcoat pocket, smoothed down his fringe of white hair and sat in the worn pew. He ignored the tsk, tsk of an old woman woman bent in prayer as he lifted his artificial leg onto the kneeler. His prosthesis, stiff on the cold unforgiving stone floor, had rebelled.
Candles sputtered by the saints’ statues, their scent of burning wax as familiar as the low drone of prayer from the confessionals. He bowed his head and prayed for his stupid camarade, Albert, from his old regiment. Albert, who’d earned the croix de guerre at Dien Bien Phu, had gone to the clinique, between the plumber’s and Communist party office, for a routine cardiogram and ended up on a cold slab in the morgue.
The priest made the sign of the cross, ending the evening rosary. Gassot stood and went to shake hands with the younger priest who wore a clerical collar and jogging shoes as he passed out the liturgy calendar.
“Bonsoir, mon père,” he said.
“Don’t forget the sing-along liturgy tomorrow, mon fils,” the priest said.
But Gassot knew neither he, nor the church congregation, all over sixty, would make that a priority. Out in the vestibule, the white marble gleamed in the low light.
On the church steps, Picq, one of the few left from his regiment in Indochina, sidled up next to Gassot, lighting two unfiltered Gitanes. He offered one to Gassot, who accepted, inhaled the woody tobacco, and exhaled into the night air.
“The first one to go, eh?” Gassot said, shaking his head. “And in a careless way, but that sums up Albert.”
“Not careless,” Picq said. He wore a blue raincoat that matched the hard blue of his rheumy eyes. He leaned close to Gassot’s shoulder. “Lucie’s upset, something strange with the doctor’s report. I showed it to my nephew, the médecin.”
Médecin? Picq’s nephew had flunked out of medical school and made false teeth now. And a good living.
“Funny red pinpoints in his eyes,” Picq said. “And bruising on his neck.”
Gassot’s shoulders tensed. “But he went for a cardiogram and his heart gave out!”
“Not according to my nephew,” Picq said. His eyes narrowed. “You know what that means.”
“But he was in a clinic!”
Picq jumped to conclusions. Always had. Still Gassot’s stomach twisted.
Albert had always worried he’d be the first one they caught up with: Their miscalculations had wiped out the village near Dien Bien Phu, but it had been by mistake.
“Lucie said the strangest thing,” Picq continued. “Albert’s pants’ cuff was rolled up when she claimed his body.”
“Eh, so what?” Gassot said.
“Rolled up beyond the tattoo on his ankle.”
Gassot stiffened. The dripping knife. They each had one.
“That could mean anything.”
“Try convincing yourself after reading the report from the Préfecture,” Picq said. “They’re calling it suspicious, starting an investigation. It all began after the jade reappeared.”
The jade?
“We’ve been looking for years. . . . How can you be sure?”
“Use your head, Gassot,” he said. “We had a lead. Albert blabbed and shot it to hell.”
“You call that rumor a lead?”
“Seems the mec took the bait. . . .”
“Wait a minute Picq, what bait?”
“We got to talking, I had every intention of telling you.” Picq shrugged. “But Albert challenged this guy. Told him ‘If the jade’s resurfaced in Paris, prove it.’ To force his hand we offered him a cut if he discovered it. He doublecrossed us and took some bullets in the back.”
Gassot clenched his teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It happened right over there.” Picq pointed to the boulangerie.
Harebrained schemes. Imagining themselves rogue warriors but they were just foolish old men like himself.
“Did he have the jade?”
“We don’t know,” Picq said.
Gassot wanted to distance himself from his comrades but he had to know the extent of the damage they’d done.
“Tomorrow, meet me at the market,” Gassot said. “Bring Nemours. We’ll talk.”
“Watch your back.”
Gassot always did.
He rolled up his collar against the chill and limped through the shadows cast by sodium streetlamps’ light filtering through the trees. He tried unsuccessfully to ignore his fears.
Fools! What kind of mess had they dragged him into?
The jade had belonged to them . . . they’d discovered it while surveying land, buried in a metal ammunition box by the old emperor’s tomb. By rights it was theirs: To the victor belongs the spoils.
But at Dien Bien Phu they had been losers and the box had disappeared. Gassot clutched his phantom leg and leaned into a darkened doorway.
He closed his eyes but he saw the monsoon-swollen Nam Ron river, engorged with dark green silt and bloated bodies. Heard the crackle of gunfire, the drone of C-119s so low they whipped leaves off the mango trees, and the whimpering of someone in the bushes. And that’s when it happened. Not the landmine half-buried in the red earth he avoided stepping on, but sniper fire, had shredded his calf and ankle. The piercing, tearing pain brought him to his good knee. His hands had come back covered with his own blood and gristle. Sniper bullets spit all around and he crawled, pulling himself toward the mangroves.
Adrenalin propelled him and then the chalky earth gave way and he was in a hole, a bombed out Vietminh tunnel on the warm, wet body of a moaning man. A Vietnamese holding his blood-soaked arm. “Help me and I help you,” the man said. “I know a way out. To the temple. No fighting there.”
What chance did he have? None by himself in the enemy trenches.
“Call me Jin,” the man said, “My father worked in France. The Vietminh don’t trust me.”
Gassot had taken off his ammo belt, wrapped it tourniquet-style around Jin’s arm, and staunched the blood. He unscrewed the canteen of Courvoisier that General de Castries had issued to the corps for courage, drank, and shared with Jin. Then he bit a morphine tablet in two, put half in Jin’s mouth and swallowed the other half. He gritted his teeth and bound the loose muscle shreds of his own leg with his shirt. “Show me,” he’d said. “We have to move while we can.” While the morphine lasted.
Somehow he’d crawled and half-dragged Jin through the tunnel all afternoon—cries, cannon fire and earth-pounding explosions above them. The cognac had loosened Jin’s tongue and he’d sung folksongs. In the evening, when the smoke settled by the river, the French troops had surrendered and he’d never seen Jin again.
Gassot had survived prison camp. Bamboo cages, and rice gruel if they were lucky. A concrete hole and all the rice paddy rats they could catch when they weren’t. Gangrene had set in and a Parisian-trained Vietminh doctor had amputated his leg above the knee.
Gassot shook off the memories. What was he doing, reliving the past again, huddled in a doorway on a cold, wet street?
He headed home to where Avenue de Clichy intersected a maze of narrow streets. He lived in a hotel on the Clichy side, by the derelict marshalling yards of the old steam train line. Once the fief of Mérovingian king Dagobert and much later, home to Verlaine who taught at the nearby lycée; Manet and Renoir’s ateliers; Georges Simenon’s first Paris address; Captain Dreyfus’s apartments, Proust’s suite, Colette’s despised aunt’s bourgeois apartment; the area in which Zola found inspiration for Nana, the courtesan of his novel. And Ho Chi-Minh. Now, they wouldn’t know it.
He entered his third-floor room. There was no elevator, but the stairs kept him in shape. Going down was the hard part. He opened the door to the back steps. Always keep an escape route, he remembered th
eir commander saying.
Indochina had lain in rubble and the République ignored its soldiers. Gassot even had to fight for his pension. But the old Colonials, rich and fat with the spoils of Indochina, had thrived. Still thrived.
Gassot hung up his jacket, unstrapped his prosthesis, set it by the door next to his shoes, and lay on his cot-sized bed. He set his alarm clock and switched off the light. Only the occasional red blink of neon from the kebab shop sign below illuminated his wall giving the military calendar a blood-red glow.
Gassot put his hands behind his head on the pillow. The past invaded and permeated his thoughts. After the camp released him, he’d recovered, tended by Bao. He remembered the incessant gyaow-gyaow of the cicadas in the hot, still night and the black satin sheen of her hair brushing her slim waist. The aroma of the herbal cloths she laid on his fever-wracked head mingling with the tamarind scent wafting through the blown-out windows. They’d camped in an abandoned yellow stucco, green-shuttered colonial villa, its rococo interior pockmarked by bullet holes. Until the Underground—a ragtag alliance of Ho’s deserters— found her. Took her on a forced labor march.
Repatriated to France, he’d done physical therapy in the army hospital in Toulon, been given a fake leg. Gotten an engineering job at the Citroën factory. Luckier than most, he always told himself. The old Indochina existed in his memories, revisited only via crackling newsreels.
Then he saw the paper napkin slipped under his door, the way the waiter let him know he’d had a phone call. Picq and Nemours never used the phone. His heart pounded.
Scribbled on the napkin were the words “You a dirty old man, Gassot? A mec called to tell you that he’s going to roll your pants up.”
Wednesday Morning
RENÉ PASSED THE LINE of people buying newspapers and Métro passes at his corner tabac. A man stood reading a newspaper and smoking in the chill gray mid-morning.
“Bonjour,” René said as he opened the door of the shoe repair shop a few doors down from his apartment.
