“Madame Gibson, are you ready?”
“I have no clothes.”
“They are being cleaned. There is a robe.”
“Yes, I’m wearing it.”
“Then may I come in?”
“No. I want my clothes.”
“It will be perhaps thirty minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I have a room for you. It will be much more comfortable to wait there.”
“No, thank you.”
Then she thinks, what’s this game? He can open the door if he feels like it.
“But I can’t stop you coming in, can I?”
“I would not do that.”
Vallette actually sounds offended, which is a real hoot. He can drop her in the Seine without a twinge of guilt, but God forbid he’d enter a salle des bains without a lady’s express permission. After a sufficient silence, Lana guesses that he has left soundlessly. She tries the door again. Locked. Now she regrets refusing him. She’s stuck here until her laundry is done.
It feels like a very long half hour before there’s another tap on the door and the click of a lock. Once again Vallette had approached without a sound.
“Your clothes are here.”
Lana opens the door very cautiously. There is no one in the corridor. How does he do that, disappear without a rustle or creak? Her clothes, fresh as new, are neatly folded in a basket on the floor. Once dressed she leaves the bathroom and finds the stairway. Even though she tiptoes downstairs, as soon as she reaches the bottom step a door on her right opens.
“Come in.”
Vallette is not alone. A young man wearing glasses with semi-rimless frames is sitting surrounded by at least five screens, a console, a keyboard, a sound desk, and several laptops. He smiles. A harmless, nerdy guy. Vallette’s voice assumes its Inspector Fichet tone: polite, crisp, formal. Is this a performance for the young man?
“Sit down, Madame Gibson. You will remember that Monsieur Fournier and I explained to you that the people who you thought were your friends, were probably working for someone who is determined to prevent Monsieur Fournier’s election. Since we finally identified Guillaume Pelletier and Pauline Garrel a couple of hours ago, we have been searching for information about them that might explain who they are and who’s behind their company. He told you that he was a poor independent filmmaker trying to make an important documentary, yes?” Lana nods. “Alexandre, show Madame Gibson what you have found. YouTube, Madame Gibson. So full of dangerous nonsense, but occasionally an invaluable tool of democracy.”
Young Alexandre brings up the YouTube home page on the screen. He speedily keys in some words, a little screen appears, and he clicks “play” before rolling back his chair as if to say “my work here is done.”
The YouTube video is some kind of television report about Fournier’s opponent, Dufour. There are shots of him looking impressive in a variety of situations; at official occasions, in the Chamber of Deputies, out with the public, campaigning. Lana has no idea what she’s supposed to be looking for until a shot appears whose sickening significance she fully appreciates.
Dufour in a T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes, looking tanned and fit, is jogging in a park. Also in the shot, a cameraman, trotting backward, holds his camera at a low angle. The amusing porkpie hat at a cheeky angle, the body shape hunched over the camera leaves little room for doubt. It is Guillaume.
The voice-over is easy enough to understand. “Une image énergétique, vigoureuse. Mais quelquefois—”
Right on cue Guillaume loses his footing and tumbles backward. Dufour immediately stops running and holds out his hand to help him up. As he stands, Lana sees the familiar clown face quite clearly, but it’s what Dufour does next that settles any residual doubt about their relationship. He claps him on the back and then waits for the cameraman to position himself to shoot again. Guillaume is clearly part of Team Dufour.
“You see? The interview you made with Monsieur Pelletier is not for some crusading filmmaker, but for Dufour’s campaign to broadcast it on every possible social media outlet. Within hours millions will have seen it. You will be a sensation, Madame Gibson. Do you like that idea?”
Guillaume had lied to her. Pauline and Odette had unquestionably been part of the deception. Nathan had guessed correctly. More sickeningly, Fournier and Vallette had been right. In a life full of missteps and dumb moves, Lana has never felt such a fool.
7 PM
Lana wonders whose home she’s in. If it is Vallette’s, did he hire an interior designer, or is he simply revealing his feminine side in the choice of warm pastels and natural fabrics for the room they now sit in? Is he married? She finds it hard to imagine him as part of a family. They face each other across a marble-topped sixties coffee table and listening to him talk it would never have occurred to a casual eavesdropper that he is the cold, killing one. Rather, he appears to be the sensible but sensitive type, on a mission to put this poor befuddled woman back on the right track.
“Of course it may be of no concern to you that you are helping our opponent so directly. But I also suspect you have no desire to see yourself on thousands of Internet sites, many of dubious reputation. So do you understand now how important it is that you help us find this memory card?”
Lana gives him a 9.9 for chutzpah. His manner implies she’s either dumb or dangerous and under such circumstances his behavior is admirably patient and restrained. And the awful truth is, there’s no use pretending she’s not totally thrown by this recent evidence of Guillaume’s affiliations. It’s no bombshell that he’s a rogue, but she had thought him a different kind of rogue, someone of her own spirit, if truth be told, an independent mind. Instead he turns out to be just another follower, a mercenary, a paid deceiver. At least the crazy sitting in front of her has actual convictions.
“Is there still time for me to catch the flight to Dublin?”
He nods toward a freestanding clock. She hadn’t heard it until now. Suddenly it’s beating out time passing, time lost: tick, tick, tick: twenty after seven: tick, tick, tick.
“The flight is at ten minus ten? Yes. Let us say it is possible. But not likely. There is something you must know clearly, Madame Gibson, absolutely. I may be willing to come to an arrangement with you, but believe me also, if you continue to frustrate matters I will be very pleased to take you out again and finish our business.”
Lana has no doubt he means it; relishes it, probably. The simplest thing would be to give up now, tell him where the memory card is hidden, trust that honesty would be rewarded and Vallette would take her to the airport and put her on the last flight. But the realization that even if such a solution was somehow guaranteed, it still would not satisfy her, arrives clear and fresh as her newly laundered clothes. Guillaume had lied, yes, but he hadn’t tried to kill her, hadn’t put Claude into intensive care, hadn’t had Odette tied up and beaten. Then it dawns on her that she has only been told about these things. Guillaume had appeared in the apartment with Odette in his arms and her face was in shadow as she’d huddled on the bed. And she had absolutely no evidence beyond Guillaume’s word that Claude really was badly hurt. If what she saw is even open to interpretation, then surely she must at least question what she had not?
No, no. She can’t deal with Vallette under any circumstances, even if it makes her situation hopeless. But what can be done without him?
And in the uneasy silence, the way it does sometimes, an idea glimmers. Totally wild, of course, but better than sitting silently opposite a face she can’t bear to look at anymore. It needs an accomplice for it to work and already she knows that there is no possible candidate except Nathan. Despite everything, he’s still the only other person who might be on her side, although making him look foolish in the metro won’t have helped. But surely he has no doubt now about the real danger she’s facing? There is only one way to find out.
“I will not travel anywhere alone with you—”
Lana doesn’t let his smirk deter
her. She goes for it.
“At least, not willingly. And believe me, I will never give the location of the memory card to you. I will not deal with you anymore.”
“But you are dealing with me, Madame Gibson, no?”
“I want Nathan Maunier to accompany us to the airport.”
Vallette cannot keep the mockery from his eyes. Clearly he doesn’t think highly of Nathan.
“Why?”
“For my protection. And I will give the information you need to one person only. Fournier.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If you want the material, that is how it must be. Now I have no more to say to you.”
His quiet words are preceded by the tiniest sigh.
“Where is the memory card, Madame?”
The effect of the blank eyes freezes her blood, yet somehow Lana’s nerve holds during the long silence that follows, though her brain is a pinball machine. All or nothing. She has to believe Vallette is just amusing himself, daring her to push it. Nathan matters zilch to him and he can have no suspicion about what she has in mind or how significant Nathan’s role might be. Now the clock ticks in an aggressive duet with Vallette’s fingernails. He stands.
“Do you know how much I want to kill you?”
Lana manages a shrug.
“I will wait just a little longer, Madame, for you to decide to be sensible. But only a little.”
He walks out. Once again she hears a key turn. What now? Surely, by walking away, leaving her alone like this, Vallette has only exposed the weakness of his situation. Of course! she thinks. Ha! He hasn’t brought Fournier up to speed about the interview she’d recorded. He desperately needs to get hold of the memory card first. What was that maxim of Brian’s? CEOs don’t want to hear about problems, they want to hear about problems solved. Until Vallette solves this one, he won’t dare touch her. So he’s outside hoping she’ll panic and give in. The only question is time, that clock ticking away. How long will it take for all this to play out? Is Vallette happy to let her go once he gets what he wants or will he think it safer to kill her anyway? Seven thirty. Lana really, really wants to catch that flight, but patience is her only hope.
At seven forty-eight the door opens. Vallette drags in her wheelie duffel, drops it next to her, and walks out. When Lana opens it she finds a credit card, purse, money, even the Hopper catalog, but no passport. Or ticket. Or phone. What now? Five minutes pass. The door opens again. Lana can’t disguise her shocked relief when Nathan steps in.
“Oh my God . . . Thanks for coming.”
“No problem. Bit taken aback. Just to clarify—no recriminations or anything—our unfortunate separation at the metro wasn’t entirely an accident, was it?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Smartly done. Where did you go?”
“Hasn’t Vallette told you?”
“Yes, but can I believe him? I’m not sure I want to.”
“If he told you that I went back to Guillaume’s apartment, the filmmaker guy, and I recorded an interview about Fournier, then yes, you can believe him.”
Nathan sighs and shakes his head. “Vallette says he has proof that this fellow and his friends work for Dufour?”
Lana nods. “I guess you told me so.”
“Well, yes, but . . . wasn’t it obvious? So anyway, why do you want me?”
Pause. She can tell he really wants to know. Words will matter now.
“Well . . . I think I’m going to need someone with me if I’m to have any chance of getting home safely. Someone on my side. You’re the only one I can trust . . . I do trust you.”
From the wide, wet surprise in his eyes, it seems this time she’s managed to say just the right thing.
“All right. Okay, Lana Turner. So what’s happening exactly?”
“I retrieved the only copy of the interview. So Guillaume doesn’t have it. It’s on a memory card. If I give it back Vallette says I can fly out tonight.”
“Isn’t that much the same deal as earlier?”
“I didn’t believe that deal. And I was right. Vallette had someone watching your apartment. But now I have leverage.”
“Fair enough.”
“But I won’t travel anywhere alone with Vallette.”
“Why? Do you think he’ll pop you?”
“Well, he threw me in the Seine.”
“What!”
“Yes. An hour and a half ago.”
“Are you—? Why?”
“To make his problem go away, I suppose.”
“But . . . I mean . . . your clothes.”
Lana realizes how fresh and clean they look. How crazy the explanation would sound. “Then he pulled me out of the water, drove me back to his place in that beautiful old Citroën, and did my laundry while I had a shower.” It can’t be about explanations anymore. She meets his gaze unblinking as she asks, “Do you believe me?”
It’s obvious that Nathan hates being pushed into a corner like this. It’s a struggle.
But he nods.
“Tell me what you need me to do.”
OF COURSE DIDI HAD KNOWN SOMEONE WHO COULD DO WHAT WAS required and wasted few words sorting it out. Ten minutes after a twenty-second phone call a cheerful little 106 two-door pulled up.
Didi kept the formalities to a minimum “Guy, Ferdie.” Ferdie shuffled himself and his crutches out of one car into another, babbling out instructions.
“Call if anything happens, okay? Anything. Any movement or—”
Didi smirked as he nodded and Ferdie felt so stupid for treating him as if he couldn’t handle things. Without Didi today he’d be nowhere, lounging in bed, sorry for himself, future bleak to desolate.
Guy was as huge as Didi, but with added beard. Were they part of some club? As they drove to his apartment, he showed him the black card and asked what it was. With no more than a glance Guy suggested it was a memory card for a digital camera, probably an Arriflex and, sure, he could access what was on it.
“What’s the bitch saying?” Guy asked after they had watched the amazing interview enough times for Ferdie to understand most of it. Enough to appreciate why Vallette was on the rampage. Caramel Girl had not been a problem once her camera was retrieved, so there was no photographic proof of anything. But the blonde was a significant witness: a rich American whose evidence would be listened to. This recording could really fuck up Monsieur Fournier’s election prospects. How had Vallette found out that she’d recorded this? It had to be what the rue d’Aboukir raid was all about. No wonder he was in a mood to drown her. It dawned on Ferdie that he was now in possession of the only reason Vallette hadn’t let her die.
Who was this woman called Lana? After watching the interview so many times, Ferdie noticed himself feeling less snarky about the pain and suffering she had caused him with her vicious heel. He liked her face; her voice didn’t grate on him as much as American voices often did. He admired her style, something audacious and playful in her eyes: exciting. Most significant, he believed her version of what happened. The way she told it made sense to him. Her involvement was random. She wasn’t part of some mad conspiracy, even though there really was a mad conspiracy, one that had used him and maybe now was using her. It occurred to him that her situation was a bit like his: backed into a corner, she was ducking and diving, doing whatever it took to look out for herself. He was also aware that, thanks to this admirably reckless woman, he was now in possession of something very valuable. In the war with Vallette, advantage had suddenly tilted his way. Monsieur Fournier would have to be very grateful if Ferdie presented him with the memory card, while Vallette’s failure to retrieve it would make him look very bad. How far could Ferdie go? He wanted Monsieur Fournier to free himself from Vallette. Was this material toxic enough to allow him to make it a condition? What a sweet victory that would be. Was he being naïve? Once he handed over the memory card he would have to trust Monsieur Fournier, the man who last night had thanked him for delivering him an adorable piece of ass and then said goo
d night like he didn’t expect to see poor Ferdie ever again.
He dialed Monsieur Fournier’s private number. No answer. Voicemail. The familiar mellow tone, brief, but unhurried.
“Fournier. Leave your name, number, and your message.”
Ferdie hung up just as his phone rang. Didi.
“The guy with the ears, he’s just arrived with some other guy.”
“Yeah, listen, not to worry. Change of plan. Come and pick me up.”
A grunt indicated no further explanation was needed for the moment. He hung up and smiled at Guy.
“Thanks so much for this. Didi’s coming to get me. Do you mind if I watch one more time while we wait for him?”
“I’ve got no problem looking at her again. Great lips. Is she on TV in America?”
“No, she’s . . . she’s an acquaintance. Oh, and while you’re playing it back, maybe you can do me a last favor.”
8 PM
Monsieur Fournier has agreed to meet us at the airport.”
Vallette’s voice is deliberately emotionless. He leads them to the front door. Lana’s high had been climbing higher for the last fifteen minutes. Now she almost feels sorry for Vallette. Nearly almost sorry. He has absolutely no idea what she intends to do at the airport, how much trouble she’s going to make for him. And the nut job is facilitating it.
But parked outside is a brand-new black sedan, not the old Citroën. And it’s not Oscar holding the door open, but Muscle-boy. They are going to Charles de Gaulle in a different car. This scenario had simply never occurred to Lana. There is no hope of retrieving the memory card. She freezes.
“Madame Gibson?”
What can she say without arousing suspicion? She hears only desperation in what she wants to be a breezy tone.
What She Saw Page 22
