What She Saw

by Gerard Stembridge

  The first important moment happened a couple of minutes after four when his precious black and silver beauty approached. He nudged Didi, who had dozed off. Oscar was driving and Ferdie couldn’t quell the Catherine wheel of rage spinning and sparking in his brain at the sight of someone else sitting in his seat, but it burned itself out quickly and was replaced by a more satisfying tingle when, looking through the binoculars Didi had pulled out of his little tool bag, he saw two heads in the backseat. When, moments later, Monsieur Fournier got out with . . . yes, Vallette, Ferdie felt the special delight of having placed a long-shot winning bet, even though in reality he had only slipped past the bouncers to the casino’s inner sanctum. He hadn’t actually turned a card or rolled the dice yet.

  Once Monsieur Fournier and Vallette went inside, Ferdie told Didi that these events usually lasted about an hour, but it could be longer if Monsieur Fournier basked a little too much in the inevitable adulation. Didi just nodded, then opened the door and heaved himself out. He walked in the opposite direction to the next corner and looked left and right. Ferdie had rolled down the window to watch him and Didi turned and made a gesture that could have meant anything, but which Ferdie interpreted as meaning he would only be a moment.

  Only seconds after Didi disappeared around the corner, Oscar suddenly leapt from the DS21, one huge ear to his phone, and hurried inside. Something might be about to happen. Ferdie could not risk going in search of Didi, so he looked back and forth willing the huge frame to come waddling round the corner before anyone emerged from the AWI building. Where had Didi gone and what for? And why was he taking so long?

  Oscar came back with Vallette right behind him, phone at his ear—all business, on the move. Ferdie, blood pumping now, saw Didi rounding the corner licking an ice cream cone and holding another. Ferdie did not dare make any move to alert him in case it was seen. The DS21 pulled out and took off at full speed along the embankment. Ferdie edged his head out the open window and spat out “Didi! Didi!” as loud as he dared.

  He moved surprisingly fast and barreled into the driver’s seat, the two ice creams now clutched in one fat hand. He shoved them at Ferdie, who took them, not quite believing that in the circumstances Didi had actually held on to them. In seconds he had the BMW moving.

  “Over the bridge!” Ferdie shouted. As soon as they turned, he was relieved to see a distinctive silver roof four cars ahead. Didi’s face relaxed and he extended a paw in search of his ice cream. Ferdie gave him the untouched one and dropped the other out the window, discreetly so as not to give offense. If Didi could do the job Ferdie required of him and enjoy an ice cream at the same time, he wasn’t going to complain. Anyway, his thoughts were focused on a more important matter: what had happened to cause this very obviously high-alert response?

  By the time Didi had licked his last while expertly reducing the gap to just one car, Oscar was swinging north onto rue du Louvre. But when he turned left at Étienne Marcel, the car between them continued straight ahead, so now they were dangerously exposed. If Oscar threw even a casual glance in the rearview mirror, he would surely spot Ferdie. “Not too close, Didi.”

  They needed a car to pull out from somewhere and come between them. Instead the DS21 turned right into place des Victoires and then took another sudden right. Ferdie was confused when Didi didn’t follow, but continued around the monument and came full circle. He pulled up as they arrived back to the narrow one-way street again. Now Ferdie could read the name: rue d’Aboukir.

  “I think they’ll stop somewhere on this street.”

  Apart from this being the longest sentence Didi had spoken in all the time they’d known each other, Ferdie was astonished at the certainty in his voice. Didi traced an imaginary map in the air with his finger.

  “Louvre, Étienne Marcel, here.” Then he nods to rue d’Aboukir. “And there.”

  Ferdie got it instantly. Left from rue du Louvre, then right to place des Victoires and right again to rue d’Aboukir just led back to rue du Louvre. Why go that way if not to access rue d’Aboukir, which was one-way? Once again Didi heaved himself out and waddled to the corner and peered around it. Then he looked back, shook his head, and disappeared up the street. This was really frustrating for Ferdie. So much so he was seriously tempted to get his crutches and drag himself out, but common sense prevailed. If he was seen, then it would all have been a waste of time.

  Didi was back in less than a minute.

  “Yeah, parked.”

  “So, they’ve gone into some building?”

  Didi nodded at the obvious and started the engine. He turned onto rue d’Aboukir.

  “You think it’s safe?”

  Didi shrugged. “They’re not on the street.”

  He nodded ahead to the DS21, although Ferdie had already spotted it. He’d also noticed three other new black C6s parked close together. As it wasn’t a day for coincidences, this could only be Vallette’s team. Three cars meant there could be as many as ten men. Something very big was happening here. Didi drove on to the next available parking space and pulled in. The DS21 and the other cars were no more than thirty meters behind.

  “Those three C6s? Vallette’s team. They’ve gone into some building back there.”

  “So, we wait.”

  Didi adjusted the rearview so Ferdie could use it, but he realized that if Vallette or any of his boys were leaving they would have to drive past and he would certainly be seen and recognized. It was safer in the back, where he could lie down. Didi stood on the path, his huge frame giving excellent cover as Ferdie hopped quickly out one door and in the other. Resting the damaged foot on the seat he stared out the rear window. After a few minutes’ silent watching, Ferdie noticed that, unlike earlier, he was now waiting quite patiently: heartbeat normal, no tension around the neck and shoulders. Perhaps Didi’s insouciant approach was having its effect on him. Obviously he would prefer to pursue Vallette into every corner, be privy to whatever was going on, moment to moment, but that was too dangerous so there was no point in getting wound up about it. Whatever was going on right now might have nothing to do with Caramel Girl or the events of last night, but surely it was much more likely that it had. He was getting more confident that whenever Vallette and his boys in suits emerged from whichever building, Ferdie would discover something useful. Useful, that is, in the sense of accelerating Vallette’s downfall.

  5 PM

  Lana is cruising in fifth gear now, chatting quite confidently.

  “I’m embarrassed to say this . . . I hadn’t really heard of Fournier. Or perhaps I had, but hadn’t paid any attention. When I discovered that he was a candidate for the French presidency and saw him on TV in a political debate, I was taken aback, to say the least—”

  She sees Guillaume lean forward and raise a finger very dramatically, clearly demanding silence. He frowns, as if he’s listening to something, so Lana listens too. Sure enough, there are tiny sounds coming from below, impossible to name: a creak, a scratch of something. Movement? Maybe it’s Odette returning from the hospital. Guillaume sprints to the spiral staircase. Pauline follows. As they disappear out of sight, shouting begins. By the time Lana reaches the top of the stairs, a scuffle has begun on the lower level of the apartment. Guillaume and Pauline are attempting a hopeless fight against several masked men, all carrying short, thick, sticklike weapons. Some of them are already beginning to smash equipment. Lana is about to back out of sight when one of them glances up and sees her. There is nowhere for her to go.

  First instinct: grab herself some kind of weapon, do damage to whoever is about to ascend the spiral. The camera and tripod seem the most effective option. She could crack some heads with that, but by the time her hand is on it, a head has already appeared at the top of the stairs. It’s too late to stop the guy getting to the attic room. She might be able to hurt him, but there will be no escape. Even before he pulls off his mask, she recognizes the eyes staring directly at her. When his face is revealed Vallette has the look of someone
dangerously pleased with himself.

  “Madame Gibson. There you are.”

  The memory card. Lana realizes that one important thing he doesn’t yet know is whether she has recorded her testimony. Without the memory card, he’ll have no evidence one way or the other. There will at best be one shot at this. She spins around, placing herself between Vallette and the camera, pleading silently that for once something will go her way, that the memory card will be as easy to remove as it had been to insert. Grabbing the camera with both hands, she uses the fingers of her left to pull at the memory card—it slides out noiselessly—while lifting the camera and tripod with her right and swinging it with all the strength she can manage before letting it fly at Vallette, who pulls back and ducks. The improvised missile does no damage, but creates the necessary distraction. Lana is pretty certain he didn’t notice her extract the memory card and it’s safe inside her firmly cupped hand for the moment.

  Vallette is savoring his moment.

  “Thank you for leading us here so efficiently. And passing on the code to your pursuer was especially generous.”

  Lana feels ill: Muscle-boy, the cap. The man on the platform at Pyramides when she got away from Nathan. Of course. Vallette and Fournier—well, Vallette at least—had understood her mood and personality perfectly and guessed that she would not sit tight in Nathan’s apartment until the time came to catch her flight. Someone had been left at place St.-André, watching. They’d been tracked all the way, first together, then her alone. And she’d led them to Guillaume, just as Vallette had hoped. Lana is so ashamed at how easily he had played her. No wonder he hadn’t been too bothered when Fournier had said she could go free. Or had even that been part of the plan? Is Fournier the one at the controls? The possibility that the “behave yourself” insult might have been deliberately calculated to goad her is particularly infuriating.

  “I knew that without your medication, Madame Gibson, you would not be able to sit still for very long. Your anger, your mania would take over.”

  He moves closer and grabs her wrist. At first Lana thinks he’s figured out what she’s hiding and is going to force her hand open. But instead he turns and drags her down the spiral stairs, the precious evidence no more than an inch from his harsh grip.

  “There is no need for you to stay here.”

  Downstairs Pauline is nowhere to be seen, but screams and hammering come from the locked bathroom. Guillaume is on the couch, clearly unconscious. Vallette’s men—Lana recognizes the shape of Muscle-boy among them—are gathering files and disks and laptops and smashing everything else. Vallette barks something in French and two of his lackeys run up the spiral staircase. Then he gestures to another, who follows as he pulls Lana toward the apartment door, which now has a neat circular hole where the lock had once been.

  He jerks her into the elevator. Her feeling of panic isn’t helped by how crowded the little cage feels with three of them pressing against each other. The other guy pulls off his balaclava. It’s Big Ears. Vallette lets go of her wrist, but she can’t risk trying to do anything with the memory card yet, because any movement of her fingers will be noticed in this tiny space. But she knows she’ll have to think of some kind of hiding place soon.

  The elevator hits the ground floor at last and, when the doors open, Big Ears prods something into her side. Lana considers the possibility that it’s not really a gun, but she has no intention of testing that theory. Vallette walks behind as Big Ears marches her across the weirdly calm street. Lana swings her arm as naturally as possible so as not to draw attention to the tightly closed fist. Big Ears pushes her into the backseat and Vallette moves in beside her, but fortunately her body is between him and her now aching hand.

  “I do not know if your actions are entirely the result of your mania, or a natural element of your character. It is the American disease to know best, no? Anyway, you think I tried to make a fool of you? Perhaps. But these friends of yours have made a bigger fool of you.”

  A silence follows, which Lana has no intention of breaking. The time for verbal sparring is long over. It is hard enough to think about what to do with the memory card. She can’t keep her hand in this position indefinitely. At any moment either man might notice some little thing, and once suspicions are raised it’ll be too late. Just to give her hand muscles a break, she wedges the card out of sight, into the angle of the leather seat behind her. Okay for now, and easy to get hold of again. She puts her hands together on her lap in full view, feeling the tiniest bit more relaxed. The car moves at high speed and in the diminishing light, Lana finds it difficult to track where they are going. It seems like it’s away from the center of the city. She can’t bring herself to look at Vallette, who’s not doing anything but whose presence is somehow becoming more sinister by the minute. As the landscape shifts from the solid familiarity of Haussmann Paris to the more uncertain architecture of the outer suburbs, Lana’s nerves tighten. Where are they taking her? Not back to Nathan’s apartment, that’s sure, nor to any rendezvous with Fournier. Could this be the route to the airport?

  Now Big Ears swings the car onto a wide road that seems more like a highway than a city boulevard and Lana sees a streetcar approach and pass by. Is this some weird dream of Seattle? It no longer feels anything like Paris. The road takes them over a river that must still be the Seine. If so, they are back on the Left Bank again, but a long way from the reassuring contours of the St.-Michel fountain or the Musée d’Orsay or the Eiffel Tower. Lana can see no recognizable landmark in any direction, but now they seem to have turned again toward the city—could that be? In this situation Brian would figure out exactly where they were headed. “Westerly. Southwest.” Definitely she is aware of—on her right—the close, murky presence of the river.

  A couple of minutes later, Big Ears swings right and coasts down a boat ramp until, almost at the riverside, a barrier marked PASSAGE INTERDIT prevents them driving any farther.

  Vallette grabs her so suddenly, pulling her with him as he opens his door, that she has no time to decide whether to retrieve the memory card. His force is such that she either has to go with it or let her shoulder be yanked from its socket. Without a word Vallette pulls her past the little gap at the tip of the barrier and down toward the river. Now Lana is genuinely, seriously scared. Big Ears has stayed in the car and is turning it around, presumably ready for a quick getaway. Vallette’s silence and determined movement make her feel certain that something already planned and very, very bad is about to happen.

  “JESUS CHRIST!”

  It was quite a shock to see the blond American being escorted from one of the buildings by Vallette and Oscar. So this was where she escaped to last night. Who did she know there and how had Vallette tracked her down? He looked back to the door they had emerged from, expecting others to appear, then realized that the DS21 was already on the move and approaching. He stretched out on the backseat just in time to avoid being seen. Then he heard Didi start the engine.

  “Better stay down.”

  For the next while he lay there seeing only chunks of gray sky streaked with what seemed like blood. It was darkening very quickly. He also had the benefit of Didi’s laconic commentary on their progress.

  “St.-Martin . . . Voltaire . . . Nation . . . Picpus . . . Daumesnil . . .”

  It was more than enough information for Ferdie’s chauffeur’s brain. He could follow the route precisely and when he felt a sharp right and heard the singular sound of a tram bell he knew where they were before Didi said “Boul’ Poniatowski.” So. They were about to cross over to the Left Bank. But why so far out of town?”

  “Bruneseau . . . Quai d’Ivry . . .”

  And then a sudden slowdown and stop. Silence. Ferdie waited for some word from Didi. Finally.

  “Okay. It’s safe.”

  He struggled up and looked around. He couldn’t see the DS21 anywhere. Didi nodded to his right toward the low wall separating the road from the riverbank and pointed over Ferdie’s shoulder. Ferdi
e looked back and saw a gap in the wall.

  “They turned down there. Will I take a look?”

  “Be careful.”

  Now he felt frustration again at not being able to move freely, watching Didi peer over the wall, wishing he could at least see what he saw, instead of having to wait for information. Eventually Didi looked back and made a face, which Ferdie could not interpret, other than that whatever was happening was no big deal. More waiting. Then:

  “Fuck me!” This was followed by urgent hand-waving, which Ferdie understood to mean he should come and look. Given the circumstance, it would be easiest on all fours. He tipped himself headfirst from the car, then scampered like a two-year-old across the path to the low wall.

  6 PM

  The wharf is entirely deserted and scarlet shards cracking through dusk clouds offer the only light. A dozen or so trucks line up as pinky gray shapes. An industrial escalator rolls down to the riverside at a steep angle from the top of a tall tower. Vallette drags an increasingly resistant Lana past enormous heaps of what look like different grades of sand. She guesses the place must be some kind of cement plant.

  It’s clear that this is no scare tactic, not some last-minute warning before chauffeuring her to the airport. Vallette intends to kill her and make it look like the suicide of an unfortunate, mentally damaged tourist.

  His strength is surprising. Even as she starts kicking and wriggling and flailing, he remains in easy control.

  They are at the water’s edge. Lana had often casually observed how at particular times the Seine thrashes about very violently. This is one of those times. The water is about three feet below the bank but still splashes over it. Lana is a decent swimmer, but there is nowhere near to clamber out. It is more likely that the turbulence will drive her hard against the river wall.