Murder Below Montparnasse

by Cara Black

  The guard took René’s token and office key.

  “YOU’RE WALKING FUNNY, René,” Bob said from his Cadillac window. “Did they beat you up?”

  René ducked out of the El Camino Real bus shelter and slid into the passenger seat. “This car’s got eight cylinders. Use them, Bob.”

  Bob hit the gas. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Not right now. Just get me to the motel before they discover what I stole and change the passwords.”

  He reached down in his shoe. The token he’d cloned using Susie’s ID bit into the ball of his foot. He unlaced his shoe, moved it to the side. Safest place for now.

  They wouldn’t be able to change the pass codes for a while. René figured that, given all the reconfigurations that would be required once they did realize what he’d done, it would take a minimum of twelve hours. Bare minimum. But if they didn’t catch on to his cloning the remote access token, he’d have twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

  “Bob, I need to get out of the country.”

  “I can drop you at SFO, no problem.”

  Bluff or not, he wouldn’t chance them tipping off immigration. Ruining his chance of ever working in this country again.

  “No commercial airport, Bob. Ever hear of Mexicali?”

  “That bad?”

  Bob pulled up in front of the motel.

  “Keep the engine running,” René said. “Call me if.…”

  “I see suspicious people? Sure, René. Never knew about your flair for the dramatic.”

  René slammed the car door, slid the key card into his room door. He threw everything in his bag. Reached for his laptop and backup drive. His phone rang. Bob.

  He ran into the bathroom near the pink hot tub, found the plastic Aéroports de Paris duty-free bag and stuffed the laptop and backup drive inside. From the bathroom window overlooking the back door of a Mexican restaurant came the smell of refried beans.

  The phone rang again. René hurried back to the front window and peered out a chink in the drapes. Bob’s big-finned, baby-blue Cadillac was nowhere in sight. Only two big men at the door with baseball bats.

  Tuesday Night, Paris

  AIMÉE HEARD THE sea, the lapping water. Her mind went to white sand, the pine scrub near the shore at Cassis. Was she on holiday? Dreaming?

  A wave of dizziness overtook her. She blinked and realized she couldn’t see because a blindfold was covering her eyes. Nausea rose in her stomach. She gagged, but her mouth was taped shut.

  Panicked, she tried to kick but a sharp cord cut into her ankles. Tight bands on her wrist tied her to something flat and hard. She struggled for air through her nose, terrified she’d choke on her own vomit.

  A loud rip and the tape came off. Stinging needles tore her face. She gasped for air. Gagged again.

  Hot and cold rippled over her. The smells around her took over her senses—pine, and leather. She realized she must be bound to the armrests of her office chair. With luck, she’d be near her desk and the drawer containing her Beretta.

  Fat lot of good that did with her hands tied up. More nausea; she gulped for air. What did the sea sounds mean? Through her own choking and coughing, she heard footsteps, the fluttering of papers.

  “Mademoiselle, we need to talk,” said a man’s voice, distorted by the telephone line. It must be coming from the speakerphone on her desk.

  “Who are you?”

  “Introductions another time.”

  In the background, she heard the whooshing of tires on wet pavement, footsteps. A call from a public pay phone?

  “What do you want?”

  How could she stop them? Or the flashes of dizziness from whatever they’d drugged her with?

  “Tell the fixer we’ll meet her price.”

  Fixer … price? “I don’t understand.”

  “Yuri told us your connection.”

  The hair on her arm tingled. A Parisian accent, but she couldn’t place the voice. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “or why you’re playing games, but—”

  “Your mother and Yuri have had certain dealings recently,” the voice interrupted.

  She broke out in a cold sweat. The bile rose again.

  “Then he’s seen her more recently than I have,” she said, catching her breath. Saliva dripped from her chin. Her damp sweater was plastered to her back. “What kind of dealings?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Up to you, Mademoiselle.”

  Her heart thumped in her chest. “What do you want?”

  “What I’m paying for. So tell us before—”

  A ringing interrupted the voice. Another call coming in on her office console. Grunting noises. Her wrists and ankles were untied. Before she could reach out for the drawer, she was dragged away across the floor by her hair. Her knees hit something hard and strong arms plunged her head into a bucket of water. She swallowed a huge mouthful of water, tried to hold her breath and choked, her lungs exploding.

  And then she was yanked back up by her hair.

  She sputtered, her throat and lungs burning. The phone was ringing again. She heard the speakerphone voice saying something in a language she didn’t know.

  “He’ll do that again,” the voice said. “Unless you contact the fixer and furnish the Modigliani.”

  She had to deflect them, stop this.

  She coughed. “You’re off base. Don’t you—”

  The hands gripped her hair, plunged her head again in the cold water. She gulped another lungful. The hands pulled her up again, coughing and shivering. A sob escaped her.

  She couldn’t take any more. “Please stop.” She trembled with intense cold. “My mother left when I was eight years old.” She gulped. “Walked out. I never saw her again. Ever. Don’t you understand?”

  Pause.

  “Then I suggest you find her,” the voice said. “Before we do to her what she did to Yuri.”

  Her mother?

  “You’re lying.” Prickles of ice cold ran up her spine.

  Another voice was leaving a message on the answering machine.

  “Going to thank me, Leduc?” said Morbier. “What’s so important that we need to talk?” Pause. “Answer if you’re there. I’m working late at the commissariat.”

  Morbier? Her mind clicked into gear.

  “That’s my godfather,” she said. “If I don’t call him back, he’ll come over.”

  “Then we’ll make it a party.” Her hair was grabbed again; she felt those thick, strong fingers push her face toward the bucket. “My boy will take care of him.” Her nose touched the water’s surface. “Play host.”

  Her breath came in spurts, gasps, fear constricting her lungs. She couldn’t take another dipping. Couldn’t hold her breath long enough.

  “So you’ve got a death wish?” she shouted, struggling as the finger pushed her down. Her forehead touching the water. Her hair clinging to her neck. Quick, she had to come up with something. “Morbier’s with RAID, the antiterrorist unit.”

  “Tell me another one.”

  “Want to find out? Call that number back. He’ll answer at the commissariat.” She had to get them to stop. “Hurt me.…” she gasped, spitting water, “and Morbier’s team will be on you like hair clogging the drain.”

  A bark of words in that other language. All she could make out was “Morbier” and “RAID.”

  The hands pulled her head out of the bucket.

  “You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  Tuesday, Silicon Valley

  RENÉ DRAGGED THE huge armchair to the motel door, propped it in front of the handle like he’d seen in films. Should buy him a few minutes. If the two giants outside didn’t smash the door like a twig.

  He was a black belt, but no Jackie Chan. He had one option and it was dimming by the second. Perspiration beaded his forehead. He hooked the duty-free bag containing his laptop and backup drive over his wrist and climbed onto the toilet seat lid. O
ne hand on the tile wall, he stretched a wobbling foot to the edge of the Jacuzzi tub. Merde. The curse of short legs.

  He reached it, balanced on the slippery chrome faucets. A splintering sound came from the motel room. Beads of sweat dripped into his eyes as he slid open the panel of the double aluminum-framed window.

  Over the sharp ledge he draped a pink towel, wishing his arms were longer. He hoisted himself through the narrow window. A tight squeeze, but wiggling himself sideways, one leg then the other, he scraped through. The duty-free bag dug into his wrist, cutting off his circulation, but nothing compared to what a baseball bat would do.

  Thank God the room was on the ground floor, he thought, as he fell sideways, landing on a wooden crate of green chilies. The screened back door to the Mexican restaurant’s kitchen was his way out.

  Every second mattered. He punched in Bob’s number, pulled the pink towel over his head, and made his way into the steaming kitchen. All he could see were concrete floors, bins of tomatoes, and the flanged struts of a stove. The sizzle of frying and blaring Spanish-language music made it difficult to hear the phone ringing. He hurried through the kitchen, sweat drenching his shirt. They’d remember the pink towel but not the little man inside. He hoped.

  “Bob, I’m in a Mexican restaurant. Tell me you’re—”

  “El Toro, right? No time for tacos, René.”

  A cool blast of onion-laced air hit him—a fan. He realized he was in the dining area. Pulling the towel back, he saw the blue fins and red tailights outside the window.

  “Qué pasa?” A surprised young waitress with a full tray blocked his path.

  No time to explain, not that he could anyway. He ducked under her arm and ran.

  At the Cadillac’s open door, he swung himself into the seat, panting. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Bob.”

  René looked in side-view mirror and saw the two goons emerging from El Toro. One was speaking on a cell phone.

  Merde.

  Moments later, Bob was cruising down tree-lined side streets of ranch-style houses.

  “Going to tell me about it, René?”

  “As soon as we get out of here.” A fugitive with no papers, a tourist visa on his passport, on the run. He had no way out. “There must be a small airport around here.”

  “We’ll go to San Jose Airport.…”

  “I told you, I can’t take chances. Immigration’s on the lookout for me. Remember the goons at the motel? They work fast.”

  “Stay here,” Bob said. “Anyone can get lost in America. You can live here swallowed up for years.”

  At what price? Always hiding, a sans-papiers living hand-to-mouth, joining the army of California’s illegals? “Like people of my stature don’t stick out, Bob?”

  He could hear Andy saying “Find the dwarf.” Not difficult if he were standing in line at an airport, rental car agency, or train ticket office, if people even used trains here. Everyone drove.

  “I need to get back to my office. In Paris.”

  “Pink suits you, René,” said Bob, turning onto a multi-laned freeway.

  René realized the thick pink towel was still draped over his shoulder, fragrant with onions and chopped tomato.

  Ribbons of another multi-laned freeway arched over them like a maze of concrete arteries, everyone going somewhere. Pumping fast. Yellow scrub dotted by oak trees carpeted the hills that flashed by.

  “I’ve only got about twenty-four hours if the security cycle’s set on the standard. Forty-eight max. Mexico’s close. I need a plane and no customs. You know people like that?”

  Bob stared straight ahead, concentrating on the road.

  “Then call me screwed, Bob.” René took a deep breath. “Hate to say it, but you, too—this Caddy’s hard to miss.”

  Bob punched a number on the speed dial of the cell phone mounted on the blue leather dashboard.

  “I may not know people like that. But I know people who do.”

  “NO TIME TO act fussy, René,” Bob said in the rear of the Cessna. “Just a little cargo of bud.”

  Smuggling? He felt a flutter of fear, but Bob was right. No time to worry about breaking another law. He had to get out of here. Now.

  “This Bud, is that Budweiser you mean?” Didn’t Mexico brew good beer?

  Bob grinned. “Herb, René. Our golden state’s largest export apart from microchips.”

  And then René realized what the plastic-encased burlap sacks filling the small passenger area contained. Even in plastic, the contents reeked. “But I thought Mexico exported marijuana.”

  “For the connoisseur, René. California gold rates as top quality, if we say so ourselves. Mexico’s just the distribution point.”

  René peered over a sack, caught a whiff. Then another. The silver-haired pilot, who was wearing aviator shades, a khaki camouflage T-shirt, and parachute pants, grinned. “Gentlemen, fasten your body harness, sit back, and enjoy the flight. I apologize, no movie today.”

  The pilot taxied the Cessna over the rutted runway somewhere in the next valley. Hills of orange poppies and oak trees disappeared into a mountain of dark green redwoods. “But for our inflight service, help yourself to Humboldt Hog. Primo harvest.”

  He passed René a joint.

  René’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

  “Sit back and chill. I’m your captain, Phil. Delighted you’re flying with us at Milehigh. We appreciate your patronage. We know there’s a lot of other flights you could take.…”

  Bob elbowed René. “You pay him now.”

  René placed the bunch of bills Bob had rubber-banded together near the hi-tech control panel. It looked like a video game.

  “Glad to do business, gentlemen.”

  “I owe you, Bob.”

  “Sure do, René. Line up four-star restaurants every night I’m over next time.”

  Captain Phil turned a dial, checked a control, then reached under his cockpit seat. Pulled out a nine-millimeter handgun. “Always good to prepare, just in case.”

  René swallowed. “In case of what?” he managed.

  “All under control, don’t you worry.” Captain Phil grinned as they took off. “Learned in Nam that you always need to plan for the worst-case scenario.”

  Right then, René knew he would die—engine trouble, a desert crash, angry drug runners who didn’t speak French. Rattlesnakes.

  The plane dipped but his stomach remained in the air. Terrified, he grabbed the door. This was it—they were going down.

  “Take a hit, René. You need to chill,” said Bob. “And you need to pack.” He passed him the handgun. “Keep this handy in case the second pilot gets … finicky.”

  “What?”

  “We take two planes to land at Santa Lucia in the southern suburb of Mexico City.” Bob sat back against a burlap sack, checked the cartridge. “A small airport used for medical transport. Then the van driver takes you to the Air France terminal. Hand the Glock to the van driver when you arrive at the terminal. Got it?”

  René nodded.

  “A smooth and professional operation,” said Bob, exhaling a stream that made René choke. “Not like in the Antonio Banderas movies. This is commerce, René. Business.”

  Andy had said that too. René checked his cell phone. No service.

  “What about you, Bob?”

  “Me, I’ll lay low on the beach in Zihautanejo.”

  René reflected on meeting the blonde. A toxic experience. Maybe next time he’d concentrate on the beach, if there ever was a next time.

  “I’m crashing with a friend,” Bob continued, “using his computer until this thing passes over.” His eyes were hooded. For the first time, René saw his nervousness. A programming director like Bob couldn’t take extended leave on the spur of the moment. “It will pass over, right, René?”

  René showed him the backup drive and clone he’d made. Managed a small grin. “Once I hook this to my tools in Paris.…”

  “You’ll make their front running hist
ory, right?”

  “Count on it, Bob.” He prayed he could close the greedy bastards’ back door. God knew what they’d aim to manipulate if he couldn’t stop them. Why stop at Wall Street? He shuddered at the global implications—markets in Brussels, London, Hong Kong.

  If he ever wanted to come back to this country, he had to make it right. And he had to make it up to Bob.

  FOUR HOURS AND fifteen bumpy minutes later at the San Lucia Airport, René handed the van driver, a mustached grandfather with white hair, the Glock.

  “Buen viaje,” the driver said and slammed the door.

  “Any bags to check, Monsieur Friant?”

  René looked at his duty-free bag, then up at the smiling blue-uniformed Air France woman at the counter.

  “Only carry-on, Mademoiselle,” he said.

  “Good, because they wouldn’t make this flight. We’re pre-boarding.”

  “This is nonstop?”

  “Bien sûr.” She passed his boarding pass across the counter. He tiptoed to reach and palmed it in his sweaty hand.

  “What’s the flight time?”

  “With a good tail wind, the flight’s expected to take ten hours and twenty minutes.”

  And then he’d be home. Almost six hours since Andy kicked him out of Tradelert.

  She glanced back at her computer. “You’ve got the last ticket. I’ve alerted the boarding gate, but you’ll have to hurry, Monsieur Friant.”

  At Immigration, the official thumbed René’s passport. “I see the US arrival stamp but none for Mexico.”

  René’s heart dropped. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  If the official detained him, he’d never make it to Paris in time.

  “Monsieur, we entered through Mexicali. My friend drove, I didn’t pay attention. Should I have insisted.…” René shrugged. “It’s my first visit to your beautiful country. Sadly, a family emergency cut short my visit.…”

  A loud thump as his passport was stamped.

  “Come back again, Señor, stay a bit longer.”

  René could have sworn the immigration official winked.

  As he ran down the long terminal to the far gate, he heard the announcement. “Final boarding call for Flight 813 to Charles de Gaulle.”