L'Assassin

by Peter Steiner

  After collecting his small suitcase and passing through another checkpoint, Renard found the line where people were waiting for taxis. When his turn came he stepped into the assigned cab, pulling his suitcase in with him, and said, “Take me to the Hotel Cliffton,” enunciating each word as carefully as he could. Despite his best effort it still sounded like tek mee to zee ot-el-cleef-TONE. The driver wore a turban. His eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. Renard said, “It is at East Eighty-seven Street by Lexington Avenue.” The taxi roared off, finding its way somehow into an apparently endless stream of traffic.

  They bounced and rattled along one great boulevard after another at what Renard considered to be excessive speed. There were traffic cones everywhere, and temporary concrete barriers, and arrows and flashing lights. The roadbed dipped and buckled like a living thing. Everything seemed under construction. It had just rained, and the rough, uneven streets were slick and shiny. The cab was swept along in an endless river of cars and trucks and buses, honking and growling and roaring, crowding in on one another, weaving in and out with what seemed like the greatest urgency and impatience.

  The sky was gray and heavy. Suddenly the city appeared through the mist before them, spread across the entire horizon, tall and jagged and immense. Renard leaned forward and peered hard through the Plexiglas barrier and the windshield as the buildings rose up larger and larger. Renard had feared going to this huge city, but now, instead of dread, he felt excitement rise in him. “It is beautiful, the city,” he said, smiling. The driver’s dark eyes glanced back at him, but the man did not speak.

  The Cliffton Hotel was all but hidden under ugly scaffolding that rose along the front of the building, casting the entry in darkness and concealing entirely from view whatever charms the narrow town house might have to offer. In an incongruous gesture the management had strewn rose petals on the front stairs, making it seem to Renard as though he had arrived in a fairy tale and were walking into an enchanted cave.

  The lobby was small but attractive, with bright spotlights in the ceiling and shiny black lacquer everywhere. Vases of flowers on the front desk and on a side table were reflected again and again in the square mirrors mounted on opposite walls.

  “Welcome to the Cliffton,” said the desk man in a strong East Indian accent. Renard filled out a form, and the man gave him a card that he said would open the door to his room. The room on the third floor was small but comfortable. Its window was covered with a gauze curtain. When Renard pulled the curtain aside, he found himself looking out at a brick wall.

  After walking around the neighborhood, Renard found a small fish restaurant on Third Avenue. He sat at a tiny round table by the bar and ate a meal of mussels and French fries. He had a half bottle of Muscadet, which he was amazed to find on the wine list at a decent price. “In fact,” he told Isabelle on the telephone the next morning (it was already afternoon in Saint Leon), “everything was reasonably priced, and the food was excellent.”

  “I am not at all surprised,” she said.

  “You should see New York,” he said. “It is like an entire country of its own. It is unimaginable.”

  “It sounds as though you are right next door,” she said. But of course he was not. “What are you going to do next?” she asked.

  “I will go to Washington,” said Renard. “But beyond that I don’t know what I will do. I will just have to see what I can find out.”

  Renard checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to Pennsylvania Station, where he caught the next train for Washington. He watched the passing landscape in wonderment. They emerged from the tunnel and sped across marshlands, past factories and refineries whose smoke turned the sky yellow, past truck depots and shipping docks with endless stacks of rust-colored containers. He wanted to remember it all so he could tell Isabelle everything. He kept a map unfolded on his lap and followed the route with his finger.

  Newark came and went, then smaller cities whose odd names he had never heard before, then Trenton, which was marked on his map with a star. He saw the dome of the state capitol flicker in and out of view between office buildings. The train slowed as they approached Philadelphia. The boarded-up buildings and junk-strewn lots of North Philadelphia seemed endless.

  In Wilmington, an enormous mural of a sounding whale covered the entire side of a building. Renard could not begin to imagine what it meant. They crossed the Susquehanna River, which was very large, and which he had never even heard of. They rode for nearly four hours and covered only one small corner of this enormous country. Renard measured the distance on the map with his thumb and index finger. “This much only,” he said to himself. The man across the aisle raised his head from his book and turned to look at him, but Renard did not notice.

  Renard took a taxi from Washington’s Union Station to Jennifer’s address—5440 Powhatan Street, Arlington, Virginia—which he read to the driver from a slip of paper.

  “POWhatan,” said the driver. “It’s pronounced POWhatan. You French?” he asked, turning around and looking at Renard.

  “Yes,” said Renard. “I am French.”

  “I thought so,” said the driver. He paused. “The French was right, you know. I said so from the start. You don’t just go into that part of world over there …” That was all Renard was able to understand, even though the driver spoke continuously for the rest of the trip.

  The cab stopped in front of a small apartment building near the Ballston Metro station. “Here we are,” said the driver. “Fifty-four forty Powhatan.” He remained seated while Renard lifted his suitcase from the trunk. The Prescott, as the low brick building was called, had been built fifty years earlier, when this had still been the outer edge of the city’s suburbs. It had been an early harbinger of the city’s expansion, but now it sat in perpetual shadow, surrounded by tall apartment towers.

  Renard found a hotel a few blocks from the Prescott. It was an ugly, peculiarly American place of the sort he had seen often in American movies, with a brick façade dressed up with cheap colonial trim and false shutters. “All our rooms are nonsmoking,” said the clerk, a short-haired young man wearing a bow tie and a name tag that said ROBERT.

  Renard’s room was outfitted with blocky, anonymous furniture designed mainly to withstand the assault of endless numbers of hotel guests. A television, bolted high up on the wall, was on when Renard entered the room. The remote control was cabled to the nightstand, which was bolted to the floor. Renard turned off the television. He turned off the air conditioner, which was on high. The room smelled like disinfectant, but the windows would not open, so Renard lit a cigarette.

  After unpacking, Renard bought a newspaper at the front desk and walked to a coffee shop across the street from Jennifer’s apartment. He sat in a booth watching through the window while he sorted out what he should do. He was a stranger here, and everything felt unfamiliar and slightly dangerous. He ordered a sandwich and a soft drink. The sandwich was tasty, and Renard felt better.

  After a while, he dialed Jennifer’s number from the public phone by the restrooms. He got an answering machine. “I’m not here right now. Please leave a message.” Renard and Jennifer had met years before, so he thought he recognized her voice, but he did not leave a message. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat with the cup between his hands. He hoped he would recognize Jennifer if he saw her, but he did not know what he would do if he recognized her. Should he warn her about Bowes? And what about Lou Coburn? She would think he was insane.

  “Heat up your coffee, hon?” said the waitress.

  Renard gave her a baffled stare.

  “More coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” he said. Although he had drunk only a few sips from the first cup, she poured new hot coffee into the old. This was just one of countless American habits Renard found astonishing. Heating up coffee.

  At three thirty in the afternoon, after Renard had been in the coffee shop for nearly two hours, he paid his check and left. He dialed Jennifer’s number from a different te
lephone and again got her answering machine. Again he left no message. He waited for a while on a bench at a bus stop. He watched as buses came and went and passengers got on and off. He tried her number again at five thirty. She did not answer.

  Renard was walking back toward his hotel when he saw her coming up the escalator out of the Metro station. She had a bag of groceries in one arm, and her other arm was linked through the arm of a tall young man also carrying groceries. They leaned toward one another, talking and laughing at the same time. Anyone could see they were in love.

  Renard waited nearby while they went into the Prescott before he dialed Jennifer’s number once more from the phone beside the bus stop. “Hello?” she said. She sounded out of breath.

  “Yes,” said Renard. “I would like to speak to Lou.”

  “Who’s calling?” said Jennifer.

  “I would like to speak to Lou.”

  “Just a minute,” said Jennifer, and Renard hung up the phone. He walked a short distance down the street and waited. After a few minutes the young man came through the door of Jennifer’s building and looked up and down the block. He crossed the street to the telephone by the bus stop and studied the street again. Then he returned to the Prescott and went inside.

  Renard smiled and spoke to himself in English. “Finally,” he said. “I have learned something.”

  Renard resumed his watch early the next morning. The young man left the Prescott shortly after eight, and Renard followed him onto the Metro and from there to an office building on K Street. After the young man got on an elevator, Renard entered the lobby and studied the directory. “Can I help you?” said the guard at the desk. Renard pretended as though he had not heard. “Sir! Can I help you?” said the guard, speaking more forcefully this time.

  “I am sorry,” said Renard. “I am looking for … a man. He works here. In this building. He is Lou Coburn.”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell, buddy.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Renard.

  “I don’t know everybody that works in this building. What company is he with?”

  “Oh, I see. I am very sorry,” said Renard, and left the building.

  Renard went back to Jennifer’s building. He approached the entry just as a young woman was leaving. “Please,” he said, and quickened his step. She smiled and held the door for him. “Thank you,” he said, and stepped inside. He went to Jennifer’s apartment and studied the door. There were two locks showing. He went to the floor above and the floor below, which were identical to Jennifer’s floor. He went to the basement and to the roof terrace. Over the next two days Renard did as thorough a reconnaissance of Jennifer’s life as he could without having any contact with her or alerting her to his presence. He went to the clinic where she worked and watched from outside the building. He saw where she shopped. He sat a few tables away from Jennifer and Lou Coburn on the terrace of the Starlight Restaurant, where they ate supper. They held hands and spoke in whispers. They touched wineglasses and laughed.

  Two days later, and just five days after Renard’s arrival in New York, Air India flight 1618 from Paris arrived in Toronto. A short time later, Louis came through the doors into the terminal’s waiting area. Though Renard was standing behind a barrier along with the friends and families of other passengers, he did not have to wave. Louis found him in the crowd.

  XIII

  THE CURRENT ALERT STATUS IS ORANGE.

  PLEASE REPORT ANY UNUSUAL OR SUSPICIOUS

  ACTIVITY TO

  LAW ENFORCEMENT OR SECURITY OFFICIALS.

  The Department of Homeland Security

  The enormous sign hung where it was easily visible to all traffic waiting to enter the United States. After a perfunctory look, Canadian border agents waved everyone forward. But now all traffic stopped and waited to be scrutinized by the Americans. There were six lanes of cars, trucks, and buses, and because of the additional precautions brought about by the recently declared orange alert, traffic was backing up.

  Sergeant William Terrell, of the United States Border Patrol, leaned forward and peered into the next car in his lane. The man in the front passenger seat—a slightly addled-looking older man with unruly white hair—leaned forward, looked into the agent’s eyes, and smiled. “Hello,” said the man. Sergeant Terrell did not smile back. Instead, he turned his attention to the driver. “Your papers, sir,” he said, and held out his hand.

  Renard handed Sergeant Terrell his passport along with the car rental agreement. Sergeant Terrell examined the rental papers and handed them back. He studied the passport, turning the pages until he found the American visa. He studied it for a moment. He compared Renard’s face with his picture, then handed the passport back. “Your papers, sir,” he said, turning his attention to Louis, who was still smiling at him. “Hello,” he said again.

  “He has no papers,” said Renard. “He is my cousin.” He pronounced it coo-zang. “I visit him in New York. He is in home …”

  “In a home,” said Louis, grinning even more broadly at the customs agent. “Sunset Years Retirement and Care,” he said. “Armonk, New York.”

  “He is in a home in New York,” said Renard. “I am visiting him. He run away. To Toronto. I don’t know how he get Toronto. I go …”

  “Sunset Years Retirement and Care,” said Louis. “Armonk, New York.” He brushed his hands through his hair so that it stood up even wilder.

  “Sir,” said Sergeant Terrell to Renard, “would you step out of the car, please, and open the trunk?”

  “I’m sorry?” said Renard.

  “Armonk, New York. Armonk, New York,” said Louis in a singsong voice.

  “The trunk, sir. Please, step out of the car and open the trunk.” The border agent pointed to the rear of the car. The Frenchman got out of the car. He fumbled with the key and finally managed to unlock the trunk lid. “It is rental car,” he explained. “I am sorry.” The customs agent opened the two suitcases in the trunk and found that they contained men’s clothing and toilet articles. He pulled them aside and lifted the floor of the trunk and looked at the spare tire compartment.

  Sergeant Terrell looked up in time to see Louis walking, faster than anyone might have guessed he was able, back toward Canada, past the long lines of vehicles waiting their turn to cross into the United States. “Sir!” said Sergeant Terrell. “Sir, you’ll have to come back.” Louis walked even faster.

  “Mon dieu!” said Renard, and he and Sergeant Terrell took off after the old man, who was now nearly running. Louis zigzagged in and out between waiting cars and did not allow himself to be caught easily. When they finally got him, with the help of Canadian agents, Sergeant Terrell and Renard took Louis by both arms and walked him back to the car. “Armonk, New York. Armonk, New York,” he said. With Sergeant Terrell’s help, Renard finally managed to get Louis buckled into the passenger seat. Once the sergeant was sure that both doors were securely closed, he slammed the trunk and, without another word, waved Renard ahead while he turned his attention to the next car in line.

  “You didn’t have to run quite so fast, did you?” said Renard. He was still out of breath.

  “We’ll turn in the car in Armonk,” said Louis, “and rent a different one. Just to be safe.”

  As they drove, Renard told Louis what he had learned from watching Jennifer and Lou Coburn. “Her phone is tapped. When I rang them from a phone booth, Coburn came out and checked the booth. He learned very quickly which phone I had called from. I doubt that Jennifer knows her phone is tapped.

  “He works at 116 K Street, on either the eighth or tenth floor. I watched the elevator numbers light up. The eighth floor is a law firm called …” Renard steered with one hand and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Addison, Goldstein. The tenth floor is … Tetra Trading.”

  “That will probably be it,” said Louis. “Tetra Trading. They always choose names like that. It’s supposed to sound anonymous and vague. And they like top floors. Besides, law firms are too public. Anyone can walk
in.”

  “Coburn lives at—”

  “His name is not Coburn,” said Louis. “Louis Coburn … that was my name when I was undercover with the Agency—the CIA—many years ago. This is Hugh Bowes’s way of taunting me. And threatening me. He is saying that this Coburn is his man. He enticed Jennifer to send me his veiled threat in order to draw me into the open, to get me to come here. Which he has succeeded in doing. By now he will be reasonably certain that I am in the United States.”

  “If I had known, I could have …”

  “You couldn’t have done anything other than what you have done,” said Louis. “I have no doubt that they will harm her if they think it will serve their purposes,” Louis said. He paused only briefly to collect himself. “They want to make me desperate. And they know harming her or threatening to harm her will … have the desired effect.” They drove on in silence.

  The following afternoon, when Renard and Louis arrived in Washington, they drove straight to Jennifer’s clinic despite the risk in doing so. Jennifer was not there. In fact, they were told, she had not appeared at an important appointment that morning. “She was supposed to meet some people from Arlington Hospital about funding. It’s just not like her not to show up,” said her assistant. “And usually when she’s not coming in, she calls. I’m worried. It’s just not like Jennifer. I called her apartment. Do you think she’s all right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Louis. He turned away and stood looking out through the storefront of the clinic. He saw the backward words Arlington Nursing Clinic on the plate glass in front of him, and he saw them again reflected on the shiny side of a bus rolling past just at that moment. It seemed as though he were in a hall of mirrors, and if he walked outside and turned around, the words would still be backward, as though everything he saw was a distortion or a reflection of something else.