Son of France

by Todd Babiak

Kruse didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry to have brought it up. I just wanted to see what you’d say.” Agent Peach pretended one hand was a notebook, the other a pen. “Subject is uncommunicative. Is it too early, do you think, for a pastis?” The way he said the word, it nearly rhymed with fastest.

  The waiter arrived with a tray. He wore a regular cheap tuxedo. It was not a theme bar. Peach ordered a Ricard and Kruse asked for a sparkling mineral water.

  “And your daughter. Jesus. I know you wanted to change your life, but this can’t be what you were thinking.”

  Kruse looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. He was eager to phone Réné Chatel.

  Peach looked at him looking at his watch and smiled some more. “This is fun, speaking English, hey?”

  “Get to it, Agent Peach.”

  “What were you doing in Sigüenza last week? What business did you have with Khalil al-motherfucking-Faruqi?”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  For perhaps two minutes, as long as it took for the waiter to arrive with a pastis and a Perrier, Peach stared at Kruse. He wasn’t smiling anymore. This was the face he had worn on the offensive line. The waiter seemed to enjoy the tension. He took his time leaving the two drinks. He lingered to wipe the table.

  Peach poured the pastis and water, stirred them with ice. “I know you know us. We’ve had run-ins. Maybe you’re thinking, oh, this is just like all the other times. My boy Tzvi and I are a faint nuisance to another low-level CIA man. Well, Mr. Kruse, I’ve come to tell you this morning that you’re wrong about that. I’m not that man. And Khalil al-Faruqi was not yours to kill. He was a key witness in maybe the most important investigation in the last ten years.”

  “I don’t know who or what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m flying to Santander tomorrow. I’m going to rent a car and drive to . . .” Peach pulled a pair of reading glasses out of the inside pocket of his garbage bag coat. “Santillana del Mar. When I get there, I’m going to park my rental and ask to see my chum in room 219, and then you know what I’m going to do?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to sexually assault your one-armed business partner.”

  “That’s against the law, Agent Peach. You should reconsider.”

  “If that doesn’t satisfy me, and I fear it won’t, I’ll ask a few of my friends in the DGSE, the ones like me with inadequate grooming habits, and they’ll hold you down in that fancy apartment of yours and I’ll sexually assault you too. Again and again. Until you tell me who hired you to assassinate Khalil al-Faruqi. There were some documents at the compound, documents that weren’t yours to take, property of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “I am astounded, Agent Peach. Confused and astounded by this conversation.”

  “And I am a man of liberal understanding. I don’t need to know anything more than I need to know. You give me a name, and that paperwork, and whoosh. Whoosh, Chris. Can I call you Chris?”

  “No.”

  “Whoosh. I disappear back into the alleys of Paris.”

  “I’ve never heard of . . . what’s the name you’re saying? The man who was assassinated? I’m afraid my Arabic is as inadequate as your grooming habits, Agent Peach.”

  “You’re a liar. Even about that you’re a liar. How do you sleep at night, lying like you do? Betraying America like you do?”

  Kruse stood up and placed a fifty-franc note on the table. “I don’t sleep, Agent Peach. Nothing you say can make it worse, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m coming for you.” Peach repeated his threat in French and the men at the bar laughed at him.

  • • •

  Two men and a woman painted the puppet theatre in Luxembourg Gardens. They wore white coveralls, splattered with abstract art, and matching conductor’s hats. On a small folding card table, a beat-up silver ghetto blaster played a song so American it conjured four-by-four trucks and light beer: “Achy Breaky Heart.” Before he arrived in France he would have assumed violently tasteless things—this sort of music, graffiti, television commercials for grotesquely large portions of french fries and soda, city men in cowboy boots—were particular to his part of the world, his people. Kruse passed to the other side of the theatre to flee the music and to note the performance times. One day Annette would call, stranded. She and Étienne would be on their way to one of his properties in Provence or the Dordogne and she would have no choice but to ask: could he take Anouk for a couple of days?

  It was late afternoon and, for the first time in many days, warm. The sun shone over the gardens; the high wail of a thousand shrieking children rose up with the smell of flowers and popcorn. There was a lineup for the pony rides, and in the pool all the little sailboats tipped and zipped in the light wind. Men and women sat alone in the green chairs that dotted the manicured forest, reading and listening to Walkman stereos and doing crossword puzzles or nothing at all.

  His plan was simple: before he called Zoé Moquin to declare himself finished, he would meet with Réné Chatel. He did not like to be manipulated, even if Khalil al-Faruqi was a mass murderer. If the communist had done it he would collect the money and fly back to Toronto with Tzvi. From Pearson airport he would phone the police first. Then he would give Joseph a courtesy call. It would be his turn to throw a grenade.

  Réné Chatel had agreed to meet him at the statue of Margaret of Anjou. It was both public and private at once, as the crowds did not venture to this otherwise featureless corner of the park. He had run past the statue hundreds of times, during his morning exercises, but he had never really looked at it: a boy hugging his mother’s waist as she both comforts him and extends a hand in a spirit of defence. Come near him and I will destroy you.

  “A Frenchwoman, obviously.”

  The man who spoke had seemed, a moment earlier, to be walking past and reading a copy of Le Monde at the same time. Now he looked up at the statue, just behind Kruse.

  “She was married to Henry the Fifth. The mad king, they say. But it’s not quite correct to call him a madman, because he was sweetly insane, a man of compassion. But Margaret was strong where he was weak. She ruled, not him. And do you know why the boy is included in the statue?”

  “I know nothing, Monsieur. Monsieur Chatel?”

  “She worried about Richard, one of your Shakespeare Richards, becoming too powerful—even king—while her husband was in the midst of one of his episodes. Worry became war—the Wars of the Roses. Of course, in her efforts to protect her son, prepare the way for him, she killed him. He died in battle, you see, among many thousands of others. And in the end, her efforts allowed her enemies—the Yorkists—to take over the British monarchy.”

  “All of it was to protect a little boy?”

  “There are worse reasons to start wars.” The man, who wore a moustache and a cravat with his beige suit, shrugged. “It is a theory. Obviously, the sculptor believed in it, its emotional power. And would we not, all of us parents, do the same?”

  “You have children, Monsieur Chatel?”

  “Two sons, both of them in collège now. And you, Monsieur Gibenus?”

  It took Kruse a moment, to adjust to the name he had used on the phone: Mathieu Gibenus. “No.”

  Réné Chatel was a short man in the middle of middle age, with carefully manicured hair and hands. He was not at all what Kruse had been expecting. A communist who remained a communist after the great failure of communism wore, in his mind, layers of dusty grey canvas. He dressed like Agent Peach. But Réné Chatel’s linen suit appeared new, and tailored. All he needed was a cane.

  “You said you have information for me, Monsieur Gibenus.”

  “I wanted to ask you about the mayor.”

  The man lifted his shoulders, stiffened. His breathing changed and so did his eyes. “What about the mayor? Why should I be considered an interview subject for a man I do not know? First, if you’re a journalist, where is your notepad?”

  “I use a recorder.”<
br />
  “Is it recording?” He looked around. “You do not have permission to record this conversation. I have already informed my lawyer that you had asked to meet me. A dossier: there is a dossier, Monsieur. Anglo-Saxons are not the only ones on this planet who can be litigious. If you publish anything I have said up to now, let me just say . . .”

  For the next several minutes, Réné Chatel followed many tangents. The press was keen to destroy him because the mayor of Paris, who has a personal vendetta against him, owns the press. Or his friends do. They own everything. Free will is an illusion in a city where the mayor sees everything, controls everything. He could not and would not say anything specifically about Freemasons but to assume they did not play a role in this was dangerously naive. Réné Chatel was not afraid because he was a walking symbol: for freedom, of course, and for the dignity of the worker. His lawyer was considering lawsuits against the Office of the Mayor of Paris and against the republic, as it was not at all clear that he had actually lost his seat in the National Assembly. Why should he simply assume that because the government says it is so that it is so? The government does not represent the will of the people. It represents only capital.

  After some time, his monologue ended. Kruse had stopped paying careful attention when Chatel veered deeper into Freemasonry and touched on how Monsieur’s government, the American government, had faked the moon landing just because it could. And if they can do that, they can do anything. Kruse had waited for a pause, to ask about some of the other statues of French queens, to calm the politician, but there were no pauses.

  From time to time, men and women with money hired MagaSecure to act as therapists more than protectors. They would arrive to complete an analysis and it would be clear the clients were not under any threat, apart from whatever had gone wrong with the subtle machinery in their brains. Tzvi had set up a protocol in this situation: the money comes up front. If there is enough money, they listen. They listen for as long as the client needs to speak. But it drew the energy out of Kruse like an invisible syringe. He preferred a three-hour fistfight to three hours of paranoia.

  When he couldn’t stand another moment of Réné Chatel, Kruse put up his hands. “Monsieur Chatel. I’m sorry.”

  It worked. The communist stopped speaking for a moment. “For what?”

  “For wasting your time.”

  “But you . . . What is your article about? The party? Me?”

  “It’s about the explosion at Chez Sternbergh, Monsieur Chatel.”

  Réné Chatel took two careful steps back into the trees. Without looking away from Kruse he reached into an inside pocket. “It’s you.”

  “What?”

  “You. An American. The letter said you would come.” The communist did not pull a letter from his jacket. It was a knife with a homemade sheath on its blade, made with newspaper and clear tape. He pulled the newspaper free and tossed it on the crushed gravel. “The letter said I would have no choice.”

  “Monsieur Chatel—”

  “Kill or be killed.” He held the knife in his right hand and his yellow and black polka-dot pocket square in his left, which he used to dab his forehead. “But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.”

  “Your letter was incorrect, Monsieur. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please believe me: I am only here to speak with you.”

  “It said you would have a warrior’s face.” Chatel stepped forward. “That you do.”

  While this was not a popular place to gather, the statues of the queens were the way into the park for some people. Others simply walked the path. By the time Chatel had begun quoting from scripture, two people stood and watched. Now there were five. Someone ran on the gravel. Kruse did not turn away, in case the awkward man lunged. “Please, Monsieur. Think of your sons.”

  “I am thinking of them. I shall see them again.”

  Kruse now believed Chatel was capable of anything, but this was not the bobbing head of the man who threw the grenades into Chez Sternbergh. “Do you know who blew up the restaurant?”

  “You see. You see, it’s proof.” He spoke to the growing crowd around him. “This was foretold.”

  “Monsieur Chatel, this letter . . . who wrote it?”

  “Everything that has been foretold in the letter is coming true,” Chatel called out to the audience. “He will slaughter me in front of you all, like an ox!”

  Kruse, whose hands had been out the whole time and who backed up as Chatel stepped forward, did not have to defend himself. Men and women called out to the communist to drop the knife. Then there were shouts and a break in the crowd and two policemen, in their tilted hats, arrived to stand on either side of Kruse. They were not gentle with Chatel. One and then the other ordered him to drop his knife.

  “You’re not real. You’re with him. Someone call the real police!”

  Then they shouted over each other, the police and Chatel. He ordered them to leave. The audience could save his life, save all their lives, save France by calling real police. Kruse stepped back and into the crowd, walked backwards until it happened: Réné Chatel shouted a curse and lunged at a policeman. The policeman leapt back into the crowd and stumbled. The other drew his gun. “Put down the knife! Now!” He screamed at the crowd on the other side of Chatel to disperse and they did.

  The policeman who had fallen stood up again and Chatel took a step toward him with the knife. Those who had not yet run away ran away.

  “Put down the knife!”

  Chatel reached for the policeman who had fallen, not with the knife but with his handkerchief, and said something Kruse did not hear. And the other man shot him. People screamed. Kruse did not run, not at first.

  Dust had collected on the shoes he had just shined. Dust, somehow, in this damp place. A brief gust of wind moved through the trees and white petals drifted past and it smelled of flowers. No one was following him. From time to time, when he worried for children or when he longed to share a surprise, a joke, a moment of beauty, Lily and Anouk would fuse into one girl. He would close his eyes and return to the backyard of his house on Foxbar Road, with his daughter among the magnolia blossoms, and she would become Anouk in the puppet theatre of Luxembourg Gardens on his knee so she might see over the head of the woman in front of them.

  Still, no one was following him.

  Even in the sunshine the soft lamps in the windows of the Luxembourg Palace were on, and men and women in suits and dresses—senators—walked back and forth with glasses of wine. Kruse walked toward the palace, into the soft wind. No one was following him. He thought about knocking on the door, asking to address the Senate with humble truths about the republic. The police had not followed him. No one he recognized from the mayor’s office or the DPSD was in the park. No one watched him. Kruse turned left. Among the elm trees, men in blue overalls with yellow stripes wiped the seats of the green chairs, moved them into strategic positions on the white gravel like artisans of leisure. He walked north out of the park. At Place Saint-Sulpice there were trailers and white tents for a film shoot. He joined the crowd. Two actors he did not recognize stood at the Fountain of the Four Bishops. A woman shouted “Action!” and they began speaking. They looked awkward together but they were supposed to be lovers. No one walked or drove past, looking for him.

  On Rue Bonaparte the boutiques were for millionaires. He would soon be one of them. In the movies, people always accepted bags and briefcases full of money. But what did they actually do with it all? Could he pay his French credit card with a stack of American bills?

  He ended up near the river. The financial solution would involve Switzerland. He could forget about Réné Chatel, forget about Agent Peach, gather up Tzvi and fly back to Canada—first class. No, business class. People in Canada didn’t allow themselves to say “first class” because it was unfair to the second and third class. In Canada it was easy. He did what a Canadian
would do. On Rue du Bac he walked into a quiet brasserie with a red door and ordered a beer. There was a gold-ringed mirror across from him. He needed to sleep. His warrior’s face, the sound of the gunshot echoing in his ears, inspired him to cross his arms and put his face on them and cry in public.

  • • •

  At just after ten in the morning a tall woman walked out of the apartment on Rue d’Andigné. Her cocktail dress was black and sparkling. It would have been magical in the soft light of the evening, in front of the opera house. But it was a bright morning, the second in a row, and the sun was high enough that she had to raise a hand. Her high heels echoed through the street. She nearly jogged. Though Kruse had been in the country only for a year, he could already see the beautiful woman was no more French than he was. The driver, Monsieur Claude, folded his Figaro and rushed around to open the back door of the Mercedes. Like the other imported cars on the block it was freshly washed despite the April rain. The woman’s blond hair was long and straight, gently dishevelled. She put on a pair of large sunglasses.

  Monsieur Claude remained at the door. Two minutes later, Joseph walked out in a grey suit, and the valiant sound of his leather soles also filled the corridor. That was how a Frenchman walked: quickly and confidently, looking everywhere and at everyone with studied indifference. Monsieur Claude dished him a quick thumbs-up, the most casual gesture he had seen between them.

  “And how are you this fine sunny morning, Monsieur Claude?”

  “Very well, Monsieur Mariani, thank you.”

  Kruse sneaked between the cars and entered the Mercedes from the opposite side, ordered the woman to move to the middle just as Joseph sat down.

  “My partner in the doing of good deeds. This is a delicious surprise.”

  Monsieur Claude bent down on the sidewalk beside Joseph, the door open. His job was to prevent this sort of thing from happening, with the others on protection detail. But he had been lazy this morning and flashes of panic and failure and resignation passed over his face. Without looking back, Joseph reached up and touched Monsieur Claude’s chest. “Ça va, mon ami. Ça va.”