by Pro Se Press
Winter understood, but she would not go so far as to agree verbally.
“And I still don’t understand why you had to drag me along with you.”
“I wanted the company,” Monroe said. “And now, Winter, if you don’t mind, I’m curious.”
“About what?” she asked.
“About you,” Monroe said, “and how you wound up leading such a life.”
And Winter Willows opened up to Monroe. She told him of growing up in a little town in Middle of Nowhere, USA and discovering early on how a girl with the right looks and the right smile could manipulate events in just the right direction to suit her whims and how all that had gone to hell one day when she woke up with pure white hair at the age of seventeen, the result of some genetic quirk, the doctors had said. She was treated like a pariah at school after the change and the spoiled cheerleader routine no longer worked, so she ran away and found a living as a fetish model where she could use her strange looks as a weapon instead of an albatross. She climbed the ladder of the world of weirdoes and went from taking orders to giving them, losing any strict scruples she might have once had, becoming ruthless and getting used to once more getting exactly what she wanted. She had become one of Cyril Benson’s girls in Boston and stepped on a hundred others to reach the top of the heap, earning the crooked contractor’s trust and taking her place among the city’s elite. That’s where she had stood until Richard Monroe walked into her life at the Boston Crown Hotel. Now she was tied to him like an exotic cat on a leash, flying off to Paris on a moment’s notice and into the jaws of danger.
“And you know what?” she asked at the end of her life story.
“What?”
“I think I’m enjoying this little escapade.”
***
The landing in Paris went smoothly and Monroe and Winter were reunited with their luggage, which made Monroe feel better since that meant he was armed again. Once they were clear of the airport he fished the Glock out of the bag and shoulder-holstered it under his jacket. They checked into a decent hotel, left their bags in their suite, and were on the streets of the city by mid-morning. Winter glanced around at everything like a tourist for the first fifteen minutes and Monroe let her look, finding the scene amusing. For him, their arrival was bittersweet; so many of his memories were tied to Paris and he could almost feel Genevieve’s presence, but he pushed sentimentality aside and began to consider how and where they should begin their hunt.
Inspiration struck and Monroe hailed a cab. He and Winter got in and travelled for ten minutes, getting out in a little area full of cafes, antique shops, and other such small businesses. They walked a few more blocks as Monroe got his bearings, and then stopped in front of a small store with a vintage poster of Jimi Hendrix in the window.
“Are we buying old records?” Winter asked.
“Visiting an old friend,” Monroe said, “and maybe buying some information, although I hope we’ll get it for free. You may want to put something in your ears.”
Monroe pushed the door open and they went in. The interior walls were lined with posters similar to the one in the window and there were two aisles in the middle of the shop with records separated by genre and artist. A young female clerk stood behind the register counter, chomping on gum and flipping through a magazine.
“Can I help you?” she asked in French.
“No,” Monroe said in English, “but Arnaud can.”
“He’s not in,” the girl said, switching languages to match the customer.
“Yes he is,” Monroe argued. “The floor is vibrating. Don’t worry, I’m an old friend.”
The clerk pointed to the door at the back of the sales area. Monroe went that way and Winter followed close behind. Through the door, they found a small office. The sound was almost intolerable. Led Zeppelin’s “The Wanton Song” slammed its punchy riff at tremendous volume and a fat man with his back to the door played clumsy air guitar. A messy gray mop of hair flopped up and down on his big round head as he gyrated and his sausage-like fingers raced to keep up with what Jimmy Page had done in 1975.
Monroe laughed, although the sound was drowned out by the music. He looked at Winter, who was about to burst into giggles too. He glanced around, found the power cord for the stereo, and mercilessly yanked it from the wall. Blessed silence arrived.
The fat man whirled around, dropping the invisible guitar, pulled a pistol out of nowhere—a very real pistol—and had the intruders covered in the blink of an eye.
But the alarm was short-lived and the fat face broke into a warm smile, followed by a loud burst of words, English but accented in a native French tone:
“Richard! What the fuck are you doing here? And who is that magnificent pigeon beside you?”
“Arnaud Lafleur, let me introduce Ms. Winter Willows. Winter, Arnaud here is an old friend of mine and a much more capable and important fellow than you’d think if you were to judge only by that ridiculous display we just witnessed.”
“You never did understand, did you, Richard?” Lafleur said, huffing and puffing after his workout. “The Zeppelin gets into your soul! When that happens, you can’t help yourself! But never mind that. Sit down, both of you!”
The three of them sat, Lafleur in a worn old armchair that seemed to have molded itself, over many years of use, to the exact lumps of his large body. Monroe and Winter took to two other chairs, not so badly abused, probably much newer.
“What are you doing here, Richard?” Lafleur asked. His face had gone serious. “I thought you would never return to Paris after what happened. Are you on the job again?”
“Not exactly,” Monroe said. “I’m working, but not for the same bosses. Same ends, different means…and we’re here because of what happened, not despite it.”
“You are both in the business then?”
“Winter is…filling a temporary position,” Monroe said.
“But you obviously trust her,” Lafleur said,” or you would not have brought her here to see me, would you?”
“She knows her place,” Monroe assured him.
“I’m not a pet, Richard,” Winter suddenly spoke up in anger. “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here! And what are you, Arnaud, undercover Paris police?”
“No, my dear,” Lafleur said, “something much better: what you would call the DGSE, my nation’s equivalent of your American Secret Service. This place though is a wonderful front, is it not? I spend a few hours each day listening to surveillance recordings and the rest hearing the glorious ruckus of the greatest of rock and roll! Of course, Mademoiselle Willows, you will not tell anyone what my real profession is…if you wish to leave Paris alive.”
“You two could be brothers,” Winter muttered.
“All right,” Monroe said, “enough banter. Arnaud, I need some help. You are aware, I’m sure, that Garrett Khan is in Paris?”
“I was aware,” Lafleur said, “but I am no longer so sure. We know that he arrived here some time ago but, and it shames me to admit this, he seems to have fallen away from our radars.”
“You lost track of him in your own city?” Monroe was not happy.
“Richard,” Lafleur asked with a look of worry, “why are you here chasing Garrett Khan with just a girl at your side? The last time, it was all of us hitting him in one big punch: French, American, British together. What is different now?”
“One of the eventual results of that collaborative punch, Arnaud, was what happened at the Opera,” Monroe said.
“You mean,” Lafleur asked, “that Khan was responsible for what happened to your wife? He ordered that? You know this for a fact?”
“Yes.”
“I understand why you are here then, but even if Khan is still in Paris, he does not seem to be doing anything to cause us concern. I have other fish to cook now and I cannot take time away from official things to help you with this. I am sorry, Richard, I am.”
“Arnaud,” Monroe leaned forward for emphasis, “I’m not asking you to take
me straight to Khan, wherever he is. If you can just point me in the right direction, give me any little scrap you have, some scent to chase…”
“I should stay out of this, but we did have some good times together when you were here…and what happened to your wife was a terrible thing. I will see what I can do, but I make no promises.”
“All right,” Monroe said, getting up from his chair. “Come on, Winter. I know you’re dying to see more of Paris.”
***
They roamed the avenues in the area around the record shop. Monroe said nothing for fifteen minutes until Winter could stand walking in silence no longer.
“Any more old friends to go to for help, Richard?”
“Not now, Winter: I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm. Let me think.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“What?”
“Instead of trying to think of who might know where Khan is, why don’t you concentrate on what you know about him and try to pick up the trail yourself?”
“Where would I even start? In cities like this, in the business I’m in, players change positions too often. I’ve been away for a while and I had no idea, until yesterday that Khan had come back to Paris. If Arnaud, with his eyes and ears on every corner and alley in the city, hasn’t got a clue, how am I supposed to pick up the trail on my own? Damn it, Winter, don’t tell me how to do my job!” It all came out in an angry growl. But then Monroe stopped walking, looked over at Winter and said, in a quieter tone, “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated.”
Winter smiled gently, nodded. She understood. “He doesn’t seem to be here on business, does he? Your French friend said Khan’s not committing any big crimes here, so what’s that leave? He’s hiding out, obviously, but a man like that doesn’t just sit in a safe-house and play solitaire all day. Garrett Khan is young, filthy rich, quite handsome from what I’ve heard, and obviously enjoys being all those things. I’m sure he’s having quite a good time here in Paris. Maybe that’s how we should be trying to find him.”
“The nightlife…” Monroe said under his breath.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Winter said. “You lived here for years, right? You fell in love here, got married, and had a good life here while it lasted. You know the city as well as anybody does, for personal reasons as well as having been a spy here. You don’t have to rely on Arnaud or anybody else! Let’s just find this asshole ourselves and get it over with!”
Monroe laughed. A pep talk was the last thing he expected from the woman he had basically kidnapped and flown across the Atlantic.
“Yes, dear,” he said, turning to smile at her.
“That’s better,” Winter said, taking hold of his arm as they strolled down those Parisian streets.
Chapter 13: Pros and Khans
Winter’s method worked. It took three nights of clubbing, dancing, dining, and theatre going, but Richard Monroe finally saw, in person for the first time, the man whose vicious orders had forever altered his life in the worst possible way. The man called Garrett Khan.
They were seated in a very expensive restaurant, a recently opened establishment with a name that would translate to A Heaven of Gluttony. One of those places where dinner for two costs the equivalent of well over five hundred US dollars. Getting a reservation had been tough and Monroe had called in a favor from an old French acquaintance. The eatery was part of their rounds of the places they suspected a person like Garrett Khan would fill his evenings. This time it had paid off.
Monroe was in suit and tie and Winter wore an elegant black dress she bought that day, along with the shoes and handbag that accented it. They had been seated ten minutes earlier and had just been served drinks—red wine for both of them—when the target made his entrance.
Garrett Khan was of average height and built like a large hockey player: broad-shouldered, thick-legged, with large hands that would make formidable fists if he chose to use them as hammers. His hair was jet black and his youthful face was an odd combination of baby-fat and ruthlessness that mixed to make a handsome, though slightly strange, look. He was accompanied by a woman of Middle Eastern descent with model-class looks and a diamond necklace that shimmered in the light of the overhead chandeliers.
Monroe recognized Khan instantly from photographs he had seen in the past and nodded to Winter while giving just a slight nudge of his chin to get her to glance, subtly, in the direction of Khan and his companion. The head waiter sat them down about thirty feet from Monroe and Winter, close enough for Monroe to watch but not so close that either table would hear what the other was saying.
“Stay calm, Richard. Please,” Winter said. “Don’t even think about drawing your gun.” She put her hand on Monroe’s, which was already a white-knuckled fist atop the table. The other hand hovered at the level of the shoulder-holster but had not drawn back the jacket to get at the Glock.
Monroe stared with absolute hate in his sharp blue eyes.
“Will he recognize you?” Winter worried aloud.
“I doubt it,” Monroe said. “He looks too sure of himself to be alert enough to analyze the whole room and he thinks I’m dead by now. Probably sure Cyril Benson had me killed in Boston. He knew who I was, but how much else he knew about me I don’t know. I’m not even sure he’s ever seen my picture. Damn it, Winter, I want to take him now…but he’s not even close to being alone.”
Winter snuck another glance. At the table just behind Khan’s were seated three men, all big and all tough-looking: bodyguards for certain.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“We eat, just like we came to do,” Monroe said, trying to keep the lid on the boiling pot of wrath in his heart. “We don’t leave here until he does. Then we follow him and find out where he’s staying in Paris.”
The waiter came and took their orders: steak for Monroe and lobster for Winter. When the waiter walked away, Monroe stood up.
“Richard, don’t!” Winter said in a hurried, scared whisper, fearing that Monroe’s temper had overgrown the fence that kept it in.
“Relax,” Monroe said. “I have to make a call.”
He went outside, walked half a block down the street, took out his cell phone and made a call to a number nearby.
“Bonjour,” Arnaud Lafleur’s slightly slurred voice answered.
“You’re drunk,” Monroe said.
“Only the littlest bit of drunk, Richard,” Lafleur clumsily switched to English.
“I need a car,” Monroe said, “and a driver who knows Paris like he knows his wife’s body.”
“I drive well…but I have no wife, as you know.”
“Arnaud!” Monroe was losing patience. “You’re too damn drunk to drive anywhere. Just send me a car and a reliable man. I’ll text you the address as soon as I check the building number. Try to get him here within the hour.”
“Richard, if you’re going to kill anybody tonight, I don’t want my boys involved. You are not here officially in the eyes of my government, are you?”
“Arnaud, I promise there won’t be any shooting tonight. I’m just doing a little surveillance and I don’t feel like over-tipping a cab driver into loyalty. Just send the damn car.”
“All right, all right. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll have somebody there for you. And good luck, old friend.”
Monroe hung up. He had not told Lafleur that the surveillance was on Garrett Khan himself. Lafleur was a good information gatherer but could be a bit clumsy in the field, as Monroe had learned years earlier. Had Monroe mentioned Khan’s name, Lafleur would almost certainly have insisted on coming along, too, and that was not a good idea. Especially after what sounded like more than a few drinks.
Monroe went back inside, looked first to see if Khan was still there, which he was, and rejoined Winter at their table. He took a sip of wine and said, “Arnaud is sending us transportation.”
“Good,” Winter said. “Now stop staring so hard at Khan if you don’t want him or his guards to notice us. I know you
’re fighting for control, Richard, but please just take it easy.”
Monroe nodded, forced his mouth up into a smile, and tried to come up with something to talk about. His usually clever conversational skills were taking a backseat in his mind to thoughts of bloody, brutal vengeance. More than ever, he was glad he had brought Winter Willows to Paris with him. Had he been alone, he would already be out in the streets trying to avoid arrest after putting a bullet in Garrett Khan’s forehead right then and there in A Heaven of Gluttony.
The food was excellent; at least Winter thought so, but Monroe hardly tasted his. He conversed with Winter, put on the show of being a normal patron of the restaurant, but his attention was focused on Khan. He managed to time things just right, finishing his meal and making sure Winter finished too, just long enough before Khan and his companion finished to get outside and into position.
Winter followed him out and they were waved down by a thin man in his late twenties who stood smoking a cigarette as he leaned against a green car that looked a little too beat up to be government issue. Monroe smiled at the sight; Arnaud had sent the right car, one that did not look like a surveillance vehicle.
“Monsieur Monroe, I am Geoffrey. What is the plan?”
“Hello,” Monroe said. “We’ll be doing a simple bit of following, nothing complicated. Stay close enough to not lose the target but far back enough to not be too obvious. There won’t be anything violent tonight. I simply need to know where they’re going.”
Geoffrey nodded.
Three minutes later, Garrett Khan and his woman exited the restaurant. The three bulky bodyguards followed. Khan waved two of the guards away, apparently dismissing them for the night. The third got behind the wheel of the BMW that had just been brought around by the valet. Khan and the woman got into the back and they were off.
Monroe sat in the front with Geoffrey while Winter was relegated to the backseat. Geoffrey proved to have been a good selection by Arnaud Lafleur and the operation went smoothly. They weaved in and out of traffic, took various turns and routes, travelled for twenty minutes, and finally arrived at a very expensive apartment complex in a high-class section of Paris. Khan and the woman got out at the front doors and their driver took the BMW to the parking garage and then returned and went in the way his master had.
