What She Saw

by Gerard Stembridge

  “Hey, where’s that gorgeous old car? If I’m leaving town I’d like to go in style.”

  Vallette just stares. Nathan looks puzzled.

  “Humor me. I used to see those cars in movies and dreamed that someday I’d be driven around Paris in one.”

  She is conscious of babbling now: of danger. She can see Nathan’s expression change and knows he may be on the edge of understanding. So she grins and sinks into the sedan. Vallette slides in after on one side, and Nathan goes to the other side. Lana manages to throw him a look that can in no way convey the turmoil inside her. She is so high and so low. The great plan is a bust. Whatever happens now, there will be no revenge on Vallette. They travel in dismal silence and somewhere along the way she notices, like it’s taunting her, the little clicking sounds. Vallette, picking at his nails again, but with even more obvious agitation than before. What’s going on? She catches the driver’s eyes fixed on her in the rearview. He looks like he’d like to kill her too. Then the worst possible fear: had they found the memory card? Oh Jesus! Had Fournier even been contacted? Where are they really going? Surely Vallette isn’t thinking of murdering both her and Nathan? At that moment she feels Nathan’s questioning hand press against her thigh, but doesn’t dare even glance his way. On the other side the clicking of Vallette’s fingernails is getting unbearable and straight ahead the driver’s eyes regard her with what looks to Lana like a kind of triumph. She has to stop herself from snapping, “Shouldn’t you be looking at the road?”

  Oh, to be safe on a plane. They’re almost at the airport. If she’s wrong and the memory card hasn’t been found then she still has some collateral. Being able to reveal where it is might be just enough to get her on that flight out of Paris tonight. Right now she’d take that deal in a second. The car pulls up at Terminal One. The driver opens the back door. She steps out, looking straight into his eyes, and gets only the look of the blind in return. Vallette comes around and gestures rudely for them to follow.

  The smoking terrace of Le Grand Comptoir is in the open-air central core of the circular building. High up, between them and the night sky, is that famous seventies design flourish, the intersecting tubular passenger walkways angled in the air, linking opposite ends of the great circle, landside and airside. The walkway home is hovering directly above, mocking her.

  THE DS21 WAS PARKED OUTSIDE MONSIEUR FOURNIER’S BUILDING. FERDIE felt yet another pang of resentment. His car. He should be the one waiting at the wheel to ferry his boss wherever. Instead, its presence probably meant that Vallette was inside. The waiting driver was in shadow but the head had Oscar’s shape. As Ferdie pondered the next move, the front door opened and Monsieur Fournier appeared, alone. The chauffeur leapt out to open the rear door for him. Oscar, all right. Didi looked at Ferdie. He nodded. Of course they had to follow. The old car was really moving this time, but Didi made the pursuit seem easy.

  After fifteen minutes he said, “Charles de Gaulle?”

  They were certainly going in that direction, but why? Very soon after a swing right off the highway confirmed it. Ferdie had to think fast. There was no way he could hop around the airport in pursuit.

  “When Monsieur Fournier gets out, will you follow him? You can text me what’s going on.”

  Three minutes later the DS21 pulled up and parked in a corner outside Terminal One, illegally, Ferdie was pretty sure. Didi quickly found a spot nearby and hauled himself out. Monsieur Fournier and Oscar were already marching toward door twelve, departures. Watching Didi catch up, Ferdie felt frustrated, but if today had taught him anything, it was that patience would be rewarded.

  VALLETTE DOESN’T SIT WITH THEM, BUT HE HOVERS TOO CLOSE FOR LANA to have any meaningful communication with Nathan. She can feel his eyes, searching, pleading for a sign. There’s still no sign of Fournier. At a nod from Vallette, Muscle-boy leaves without a glance in her direction. Lana tries a wide smile with a confident tone in her voice. “Is our friend doing the coffee run?”

  “No.”

  “How about you get us some?”

  “No.”

  “I like that. Not even the pretense of politeness. Good for you, Monsieur Vallette.”

  Her voice sounds so convincingly chipper that poor Nathan probably thinks she has an awesome plan B. She tries to warn him with a look. It occurs to her there is one piece of information worth gathering.

  “I’m still disappointed about that beautiful old Citroën, but I think I know why we didn’t get to ride in it. Monsieur Fournier wanted it, right? He says jump and you all say how high? The king commanded, was that it?”

  The way in which Vallette ignores her pleases Lana; it’s a kind of confirmation. At least if the old car is here at the airport then the memory card is here too. Nathan’s hand reaches into his pocket and brings out two plastic containers. “Oh, I forgot. You left these at the flat.”

  As he hands them over, his eyes are nervously questioning.

  “Oh my God, thank you. Way overdue, actually. Monsieur Vallette would agree, right? No chance of you getting me some water, I suppose, Badoit for preference?”

  Again Vallette ignores her. He’s not going anywhere.

  Then the glass sliding doors open. Fournier, with Oscar by his side. Lana sees only one pair of heads turn to acknowledge the star politician. Maybe it’s mostly tourists in the smoking area or Parisians are just too cool to notice. As Vallette moves to greet him, Lana speaks quickly and quietly to Nathan.

  “Sorry. It’s not good. The memory card is in a different car.”

  She has no opportunity to watch the blood drain from his face. Fournier arrives and sits. Nods curtly. Probably displeased with my behavior, Lana thinks.

  “So, Madame Gibson. You summoned me. Was that necessary to complete this business?” The hand wave suggests it’s a trivial matter. He nods to Nathan. “Was he necessary?”

  “Oh yes, he is vital to this conversation. But these gentlemen are not.”

  She nods pointedly toward Vallette and the others, relieved that she’s able to project so much more confidence than she feels inside. Fournier seems puzzled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Send them away, please. Oh, and would you ask Monsieur Vallette to get me some water. I have to take my medication.”

  “Take care, Madame Gibson. Do not exhaust my patience.”

  He speaks quietly to Vallette, who clearly wants to refuse but then growls an instruction to Oscar instead. Fournier turns back to Lana, his tone chillier than the wind now swirling around Terminal One’s inner core.

  “Do not think this situation allows you to start issuing commands.”

  Oh, Fournier, you just can’t hide the old patronizing contempt, can you? Lana thinks, more determined now to prolong his suffering, just a little longer.

  “But you are here on my command, if that’s the word you want to use. Send your lackeys away, please.”

  “Madame Gibson—”

  “Just out of earshot.”

  Fournier, trying to look like a patient man who simply doesn’t want to waste any more time and so humors the capricious female, sighs and nods to Vallette. He opens his mouth to protest, but then, taking note of Fournier’s stare, changes his mind and nods. He and Muscle-boy sit several tables away. Vallette stares into the night, the nail-picking quite savage now, but Muscle-boy’s eyes are fixed on her as if he’s participating in a staring competition.

  “Well?”

  Lana, allowing herself a moment to consider her choice of words, looks upward. Light spills from the Plexiglas top half of the passenger tubes hanging in the air. In one of them she’s surprised to see a long line of disembodied traveler heads rolling along on what could be a macabre sushi conveyor belt and she imagines her own head rolling along up there with them. If only.

  “First of all, let me assure you that I believe you know nothing about Vallette’s attempt to murder me this evening.”

  Her hope that such shocking words would produce some involuntary re
action from Fournier is misplaced. Not a flicker. He waits with interest for her to continue.

  “Nathan has pleaded your innocence in that regard. Anyway I cannot imagine how you’d be stupid enough to sanction or allow such a thing: it would be a dangerous mistake even to close your eyes to such a crime or attempt to place yourself at arm’s length from it.”

  Though Fournier still tries not to give anything away, his eyes have begun to shimmer all the same. Not so much fear as uncertainty, confusion, Lana guesses.

  “In case you think I’m raving be assured, Monsieur Fournier, I was in the river Seine, only seconds away from what your loyal associate Vallette hoped would be reported as a tragic ‘drowning accident.’ It was Monsieur Oscar, I think his name is, who rescued me. Nathan?”

  “I believe her, Jean-Luc.”

  His voice is steady. He had passed the first test. Appropriately, Oscar arrives with a bottle of Evian and places it in front of her.

  “This man. You saved me from drowning earlier, didn’t you?”

  A thin smile and Oscar walks away without a word. Lana shakes a pill from each bottle, not quite knowing her next step. Undermining Vallette just might be a worthwhile exercise.

  “Apart from considering if you have ‘behaved’ properly”—she can’t help leaning on the word—“maybe you also need to check out the mental state of at least one of your closest confidants.”

  She pops one of the pills very deliberately and drinks some water.

  “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’d like to help you do that.”

  She pops another pill and takes another swig of water. Fournier leans forward and speaks very intimately. “I believe you have something that you think is valuable to me. I understand that you have promised to hand it over in exchange for your ticket and passport, et cetera.”

  “Yes . . . I’m willing to come to agreement with you. But you do see how important the bigger picture is, right? Getting the recording of my interview won’t really help your cause if you’re Nixon taking advice from Bob Haldeman. I’m sure you appreciate the historical analogy, don’t you?”

  “Can you show me proof for such an extraordinary accusation?”

  “We’re not in court here. Maybe Oscar will confirm my story, I don’t know. I’ve warned you, now it’s up to you. But I’d like to encourage you to do the right thing.”

  “I have heard you. Now, I am happy to make this exchange.”

  Lana knows she has run out of road. Nothing left but to reveal that the memory card is not in her possession, but actually has been in his for some time. It’s clear that once they retrieve it from the backseat of the Citroën, she will be of no use to them. And may be a danger. What will the silky politician do then?

  “Madame Gibson?”

  Any moment now Fournier will realize that something is not right. His eyes shift slightly to look past her and while the surprise on his face is clear, it is harder to tell if it’s pleasant or not. Lana turns and gets a shock too.

  “VALLETTE IS IN THE SMOKING AREA WITH ONE OF HIS GUYS. AND THE American woman.”

  “What?”

  “Your boss sat down with her.”

  Ferdie couldn’t deal with any more unknowns. Events were drifting away from him. If Fournier was taking the trouble to meet her at the airport, that could only be because he thought he could get the memory card from her. Okay then. No more watching from afar, no more waiting.

  “Get my crutches, would you?”

  “Okay, but once you fuck with your boss, it’s never the same after.”

  Didi was right. He and Monsieur Fournier were unlikely to go back to their former mutually advantageous relationship. Oh well, hadn’t Monsieur Fournier already altered that last night when he abandoned Ferdie to Vallette?

  He threw open the door and swung his legs out.

  THE COUPLE WALKING TOWARD THEM IS CERTAINLY ODD ENOUGH TO draw the eye. The two men suggest to Lana a curious modern version of Asterix and Obelisk, the little one even thinner and more pathetic, clicking along on crutches. The contrast in the faces could not be greater, the confident hairy pumpkin head of one, presumably the boss, hovering above the weak-chinned moroseness of the other . . . Weak chin? Now she recognizes that and the cheap suit. Fournier’s little helper from the hotel last night. Nervously she remembers her manic foot stamp. The swollen foot and crutches suddenly make sense.

  Vallette motions to his people, but a gesture from Fournier stops him and then he surprises Lana with the warmth of his smile to Weak Chin. His “Bon soir, Ferdinand” and invitation to sit are perfectly charming, but the conversation then becomes more difficult to follow. Fournier is obviously puzzled at Weak Chin’s—Ferdinand’s—sudden arrival. Lana can’t help thinking that Ferdinand is far too regal a name for this little woodland creature. He looks more like a Remi or an Émile; that cartoon skunk Pepé Le Pew springs to mind. And who is the other hairy monster? He certainly seems very relaxed. Ferdinand is doing all the talking, but his voice quivers a little and Fournier’s expression is definitely intimidating him. Now he nods in her direction. She feels Nathan grip her elbow. He leans in and whispers, “Did you get that?” Lana shakes her head. “He says he has what both of you want.”

  Ferdinand nods to his big bear friend, who takes what looks very like the memory card from his inside pocket. Jesus Christ! He shows it to them briefly and, as he puts it back again, makes sure everyone at the table gets a glimpse of a gun in a shoulder holster. Despite orchestrating such a powerful moment of drama, Ferdinand still has the look of an animal nervous that the tasty treat he is drawn to is in fact a deadly trap. By contrast, Fournier’s smile at Lana now radiates the confidence of victory.

  Raising a hand again toward Vallette and company who had started to move in as soon as Weak Chin’s friend had revealed the memory card, Fournier now chats in the most affectionate way to Ferdinand. To American ears it sounds like a seduction, as if at any moment he might lean forward and plant a kiss on the little woodland creature’s twitching nose.

  It’s all over. She’s at Fournier’s mercy.

  Ferdinand takes out his cell and, his hand still quaking, searches for something. He slides it along the table. From upside down Lana sees it’s a face, pulped and bloodied. Then she hears the words “Hotel Chevalier” and she knows before Nathan’s whisper that Guillaume had after all told her the truth about one thing.

  “He’s saying Vallette did this to a bellhop at the—

  —at the Hotel Chevalier. Oh God, the poor kid.”

  Now Ferdinand is gesturing toward Lana. The longer he talks the more she is beginning to follow what is being said. It feels like the strangest lesson in conversational French.

  “He’s talking about Vallette trying to drown me, isn’t he?” How did he know about that?

  “Yes. He’s saying that both he and his large friend saw it happen.”

  Fournier’s smile remains, though all the warmth and sincerity have drained away. The friendliness in his voice is now that of a politician ingratiating himself with a dissatisfied voter. Something he has much practice at, Lana figures.

  “Jesus, he says he’ll give Fournier the memory card if he agrees to get rid of Vallette and others from his team—”

  Nathan’s whisper shifts suddenly to loud interruption. His words come fast and urgent. They are directed at Ferdinand and she catches enough of it to know that Nathan is batting for her, asking Ferdinand to make sure that she is allowed to leave Paris. Lana is quite moved by the passion in his voice. Thanks for trying, Nathan.

  Right then he glances toward her and she remembers the look on his face from a long time ago. She can’t recall the exact occasion or where they were, but it’s such a look of . . . adoration. Or something like that.

  Ferdinand’s stare suggests a different emotion. He rattles his crutches and Lana is genuinely embarrassed about the foot stamp. She says “sorry” and “désolée.” He shrugs.

  Ferdie wasn’t angry with the American a
nymore. Nor did he care much what happened to her. But he was beginning to enjoy running the show. He liked having that guy plead with him, he loved that Vallette was forced to stand back, helpless. And there was an undeniable buzz from telling Monsieur Fournier what had to be done. But truthfully, although just now it felt good, being the king didn’t really suit him. After all he had been through in the last twenty-four hours he figured he deserved this little moment of absolute power.

  “And I guess, Monsieur Fournier, you intend to let this woman catch her flight. I mean why not, yes?”

  “I think you know I’ll do the right thing in that regard, Ferdinand.”

  “And Vallette?”

  “What you have alleged is very, very serious.”

  “But you believe me—us.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I can see you are not lying to me. Of course.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “Obviously, it wouldn’t be appropriate to take action here, now. But I think I can assure you that your proposal is reasonable.”

  “By the time I return to work, he and the others will no longer be part of your campaign.”

  “You can rely on me.”

  And Ferdie knew he could not. Nothing in Monsieur Fournier’s voice, of course, nor the eyes and smile, revealed it; perhaps it was something in a tiny shift of the body, a shiver rippling out from the fragment inside where his badly beaten soul still clung to life. And yet Ferdie knew like any dog does his master, instinctively understanding all his gestures and signals, that there was no way of guaranteeing victory over this man. Holding power over him actually felt embarrassing and he could not sustain the effort for much longer. So he was going to hand over the memory card and let the process of betrayal begin. It was sad. Monsieur Fournier was so nearly a great man.

  He nodded to Didi. If Didi was surprised, he didn’t show it. He gave Ferdie the card and he handed it calmly to Fournier, whose snatch at the little piece of plastic revealed the enormity of his relief.

  And Ferdie was just a chauffeur again. Soon, it was odds-on he would not even be that, which would be disappointing. He had looked forward to being the president’s driver. It would be interesting to see how his boss behaved now that he presumed the power was entirely his again. Fournier stood calmly. A big smile for Ferdie and nods all round. The redheaded friend of the American woman asked about her documents, saying there was just enough time to make her flight. Though Fournier replied in English, Ferdie recognized the tone of playful superiority with which he sometimes treated people of no importance to him.