by Harlan Coben
Terese pulled back. She was still knee-knockingly beautiful. There had been aging, but on some women--maybe most women in this era of too much facial tucking--a little aging works.
"So what's wrong?" I asked.
"That's your opening line after all these years?"
I shrugged.
"I opened with 'Come to Paris,' " Terese said.
"I'm working on dialing back the charm," I said, "at least until I know what's wrong."
"You must be exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"I got a room for us. A duplex. Separate sleeping areas so we can have that option."
I said nothing.
"Man." Terese managed a smile. "It's so good to see you."
I felt the same. Maybe it had never been love, but it was there, strong and true and special. Ali said we weren't forever. With Terese, well, maybe we weren't everyday, but it was something, something hard to define, something you could put on a nearby shelf for years and forget about and take for granted and maybe that was how it should be.
"You knew I'd come," I said.
"Yes. And you know the same is true if you'd been the one to call."
I did. "You look great," I said.
"Come on. Let's get something to eat."
The doorman took my suitcase and sneaked an admiring glance at Terese before giving me the universal man-to-man smirk that said, Lucky bastard.
The Rue Dauphine is a narrow road. A white van had double-parked next to a taxi, taking up nearly the entire street. The driver of the taxi was screaming what I could only assume were French obscenities but it might have just been a particularly aggressive way of asking for directions.
We turned right. It was nine in the morning. New York City might be in full swing by that hour, but strolling Parisians were still rousing themselves from their beds. We reached the Seine River at the Pont Neuf. In the distance on our right, I could see the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. Terese started down the river walk in that direction, past the green boxes that were famous for selling antique books but seemed more intent on pushing chintzy souvenirs. Across the river, a giant fortress with a gorgeous mansard roof rose, to quote Springsteen, bold and stark.
As we got closer to Notre Dame, I said, "Would you be embarrassed if I rounded my shoulders, dragged my left leg, and shouted, 'Sanctuary!'"
"Some might mistake you for a tourist," Terese said.
"Good point. Maybe I should buy a beret with my name stenciled on the front."
"Yeah, then you'd blend right in."
Terese still had that incredible walk, head held high, shoulders back, perfect posture. One more thing I just realized about all the women in my life: They all have great walks. I find confident walks sexy, the near prowl-like way certain women enter a room as if they already own it. You can tell a lot by the way a woman walks.
We stopped at an outdoor bistro on Saint Michel. The sky was still gray but you could see the sun fighting to take control. Terese sat and studied my face for a very long time.
"Uh, do I have something stuck in my teeth?" I asked.
Terese managed a smile. "God, I've missed you."
Her words hung in the air. I didn't know if she was doing the talking now or this city. Paris was like that. Much has been written about its beauty and splendors, and sure, that was true. Every building was a mini architectural wonder, a feast for the eyes. Paris was like the beautiful woman who knew she was beautiful, liked the fact that she was beautiful and, ergo, didn't have to try so hard. She was fabulous and you both knew it.
But more than that, Paris makes you feel--for lack of a better term--alive. Check that. Paris makes you want to feel alive. You want to do and be and savor when you are here. You want to feel, simply feel, and it doesn't matter what. All sensation is heightened. Paris makes you want to cry and laugh and fall in love and write a poem and make love and compose a symphony.
Terese reached her hand across the table and took mine.
"You could have called," I said. "You could have let me know you were okay."
"I know."
"I haven't moved," I said. "My office is still on Park Avenue. I still share Win's apartment at the Dakota."
"And you bought your parents' house in Livingston," she added.
It wasn't a slip of the tongue. Terese knew about the house. She knew about Ali. Terese wanted me to know that she'd been keeping tabs on me.
"You just disappeared," I said.
"I know."
"I tried to find you."
"I know that too."
"Can you stop saying 'I know'?"
"Okay."
"So what happened?" I asked.
She took back her hand. Her eyes drifted toward the Seine. A young couple walked by us. They were fighting in French. The woman was outraged. She picked up a crushed soda can and hurled it at her boyfriend's head.
"You wouldn't understand," Terese said.
"That's worse than 'I know.' "
Her smile was so sad. "I'm damaged goods. I would have taken you down with me. I cared too much about you to let that happen."
I understood. And I didn't. "No offense, but that sounds like a load of self-rationalization."
"It's not."
"So where have you been, Terese?"
"Hiding."
"From what?"
She shook her head.
"So why am I here?" I asked. "And please don't tell me it's because you missed me."
"It isn't. I mean, I do miss you. You have no idea how much. But you're right, that's not why I called."
"So?"
The waiter appeared in a black apron and white shirt. Terese ordered for both of us in fluent French. I don't speak a word of French so for all I know she ordered me diaper rash on whole wheat.
"A week ago I got a call from my ex-husband," she said.
I hadn't even known she'd been married.
"I hadn't spoken to Rick in nine years."
"Nine years," I repeated. "That would be right around the time we met."
She looked at me.
"Don't be dazzled by my mathematical prowess," I said. "Math is one of my hidden talents. I try not to brag."
"You're wondering if Rick and I were still married when we ran off to that island," she said.
"Not really."
"You're so damn proper."
"No," I said, thinking again about the soul piercing on that island, "I'm not."
"As I can attest?"
"Again," I said, "hidden talents--I try not to brag."
"Good thing. But let me set your mind at ease. Rick and I weren't together when we met."
"So what did ex-husband Rick want?"
"He said he was in Paris. He said it was urgent I come."
"To Paris?" I asked.
"No, to Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey. Of course Paris."
She closed her eyes. I waited.
"I'm sorry. That was uncalled-for."
"Nah, I like you snarky. What else did your ex say?"
"He told me to stay at the Hotel d'Aubusson."
"And?"
"And that's it."
I shifted in the chair. "That was the entire phone call? 'Hi, Terese, it's Rick, your ex-husband whom you haven't spoken to in nearly a decade, come to Paris immediately, and stay at the Hotel d'Aubusson, and oh, it's urgent'? "
"Something like that."
"You didn't ask him why it was so urgent?"
"Are you being intentionally dense? Of course I asked."
"And?"
"He wouldn't tell me. He said he needed to see me in person."
"And you just dropped everything and came?"
"Yes."
"After all these years, you just . . ." I stopped. "Wait a second. You told me you were in hiding."
"Yes."
"Were you hiding from Rick too?"
"I was hiding from everyone."
"Where?"
"In Angola."
Angola? I just let that
go for now. "So how did Rick find you?"
The waiter arrived. He brought two cups of coffee and what looked like an open ham and cheese sandwich.
"They're called Croque Monsieurs," she said.
I knew that. Open-face ham and cheese, but with a fancy name.
"Rick worked with me at CNN," she said. "He's probably the best investigative reporter in the world, but he hates being on air, so he stays behind the scenes. He tracked me down, I guess."
Terese was paler, of course, than she'd been on that sun-blessed island. The blue eyes had less sparkle, but I could still see the gold ring around each pupil. I have always preferred dark-haired women, but her lighter locks had won me over.
"Okay," I said. "Go on."
"So I did as he asked. I got here four days ago. And I haven't heard a word from him."
"You called him?"
"I don't have a number. Rick was very specific. He told me he'd contact me when I arrived. So far he hasn't."
"And that's why you called me?"
"Yes," she said. "You're good at finding people."
"If I'm so good at finding people, how come I couldn't find you?"
"Because you didn't look that hard."
That could be true.
She leaned forward. "I was there, remember?"
"I do."
She didn't add the obvious. She had helped me back then, when a life very important to me hung in the balance. Without her, I would have failed.
"You don't even know if your ex is missing," I said.
Terese didn't reply.
"He could've just been looking to exact a little payback. Maybe this is Rick's twisted idea of a joke. Or maybe whatever it was, it wasn't really that important. Maybe he changed his mind."
She just looked at me some more.
"And if he's missing, I'm not sure how I can help. Yeah, okay, I can do some stuff at home. But we're in a foreign country. I don't speak a word of the language. There's no Win to help me, no Esperanza or Big Cyndi."
"I'm here. I speak the language."
I looked at her. There were tears in her eyes. I had seen her devastated, but I had never seen her look like that. I shook my head.
"What aren't you telling me?"
She closed her eyes. I waited.
"His voice," she said.
"What about it?"
"Rick and I started dating my first year of college. We were married for ten years. We worked together nearly every day."
"Okay."
"I know everything about him, his every mood, you know what I mean?"
"I guess."
"We'd spent time in war zones. We discovered torture chambers in the Middle East. In Sierra Leone we saw things no human being should ever see. Rick knew how to keep personal perspective. He was always even, always kept his emotions in check. He hated the hyperbole that naturally came with TV news. So I have heard his voice under every kind of circumstance."
Terese closed her eyes again. "But I never heard him sound like that."
I reached my hand back across the table, but she didn't take it.
"Like what?" I said.
"There was a tremor that had never been there before. I thought . . . I thought maybe he'd been crying. He was beyond terrified--this from a man I never saw remotely scared before. He said he wanted me to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?"
Her eyes were wet now. Terese clasped her hands prayerlike, resting her fingertips on the bridge of her nose. "He said what he was going to tell me would change my entire life."
I sat back, frowned. "He used that exact phrase--change your entire life?"
"Yes."
Terese was not one for hyperbole either. I wasn't sure what to make of it.
"So where does Rick live?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Could he live in Paris?"
"He could."
I nodded. "Did he remarry?"
"I don't know that either. Like I said, we haven't talked in a long time."
This was not going to be easy.
"Do you know if he still works for CNN?"
"I doubt it."
"Maybe you could give me a list of friends and family, something to start with."
"Okay."
Her hand shook as she picked up the coffee cup and brought it to her lips.
"Terese?"
She kept the cup up, as though using it for protection.
"What could your ex-husband possibly tell you that could change your entire life?"
Terese looked away.
Red double-decker buses flowed along the Seine, loaded up with sightseers. All the buses had this department-store ad of an attractive woman wearing an Eiffel Tower on her head. It looked ridiculous and uncomfortable. The Eiffel Tower hat appeared heavy, tottering on the woman's skull, held in place by a skimpy ribbon. The model's swan neck was bending as though in mid-snap. Who thought this was a good way to advertise fashion?
Foot traffic was picking up. The girl who'd hurled the crushed can was now making out with her target. Ah, the French. A traffic officer started gesturing for a white van to stop blocking traffic. I turned and waited for Terese to answer. She put down her coffee.
"I can't imagine."
But there was a catch in her throat. A tell, if you were playing cards with her. She wasn't lying. I was pretty sure of that. But she wasn't telling me everything either.
"And there's no chance your ex is just being vindictive?"
"None."
She stopped, looked off, tried to gather herself.
It was time, I knew, to take the big step. I said, "What happened to you, Terese?"
She knew what I meant. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, but a small smile played on her lips.
"You never told me either," she said.
"Our unspoken island rule."
"Yes."
"But we're off that island now."
Silence. She was right. I had never told her what had led me to that island either--what had devastated me. So maybe I should go first.
"I was supposed to protect someone," I said. "I messed up. She died because of me. And to complicate things, I reacted badly."
Violence, I thought again. The undying echo.
"You said 'she,' " Terese said. "It was a woman you were supposed to protect?"
"Yes."
"You visited her grave site," Terese said. "I remember."
I said nothing.
It was Terese's turn now. I sat back and let her get ready. I remembered what Win had told me about her secret, about it being very bad. I felt nervous. My eyes darted about and that was when I saw something that made me pause.
The white van.
You get used to living this way after a while. On guard, I guess. You look around and you start to see patterns and you wonder. This was the third time I had spotted the same van. Or at least I thought it was the same van. It had been outside the hotel when we left. And more to the point, the last time I saw it, the traffic cop was asking it to move.
Yet it was in the exact same place.
I turned back to Terese. She saw the look on my face and said, "What?"
"The white van may be following us."
I didn't add, "Don't look," or any of that. Terese would know better.
"What should we do?" she asked.
I thought about it. Pieces started to fall into place. I hoped that I was wrong. For a moment I imagined that this could all be over in a matter of seconds. Ex-hubby Rick was driving the van, spying on us. I go over, I open the door, I rip him out of the front seat.
I stood up and looked directly at the van's driver-side window. No point in playing games if I was right. There was a reflection but I could still make out the unshaven face and, more to the point, the toothpick.
It was Lefebvre from the airport.
He didn't try to hide himself. The door opened and he stepped out. From the passenger side, the older agent, Berleand, stumbled into view. He pushed up his glasses
and smiled almost apologetically.
I felt like an idiot. The plainclothes at the airport. That should have tipped me off. Immigration officers wouldn't be in plainclothes. And the irrelevant questioning. A stall. I should have seen it.
Both Lefebvre and Berleand reached into their pockets. I thought that they'd pull out guns, but both produced red arm-bands with the word "police" written on them. They slipped them up to their biceps. I looked left and saw uniformed cops heading toward us.
I did not move. I kept my hands to the sides where they could clearly see them. I had little idea what was happening here, but this was no time for sudden moves.
I kept my eyes on Berleand's. He approached our table, looked down at Terese, and said to both of us, "Will you please come with us?"
"What's this about?" I asked.
"We can talk about that at the station."
"Are we under arrest?" I asked.
"No."
"Then we're not going anywhere until we know what this is about."
Berleand smiled. He looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre smiled through the toothpick. I said, "What?"
"Do you think this is America, Mr. Bolitar?"
"No, but I think this is a modern democracy with certain inalienable rights. Or am I wrong?"
"We don't have Miranda rights in France. We don't have to charge you to take you in. In fact, I can hold you both for forty-eight hours on little more than a whim."
Berleand got closer to me, pushed up the glasses again, wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. "Now again I ask: Will you please come with us?"
"Love to," I said.
6
THEY separated Terese and me right there on the street.
Lefebvre escorted her to the van. I started to protest, but Berleand gave me a bored look that indicated my words would be superfluous at best. He led me to a squad car. A uniformed officer drove. Berleand slipped into the backseat with me.
"How long's the ride?" I asked.
Berleand looked at his wristwatch. "About thirty seconds."
He may have overestimated. I had, in fact, seen the building before--the "bold and stark" sandstone fortress sitting across the river. The mansard roofs were gray slate, as were the cone-capped towers scattered through the sprawl. We could have easily walked. I squinted as we approached.
"You recognize it?" Berleand said.
No wonder it had grabbed my eye before. Two armed guards moved to the side as our squad car pulled through the imposing archway. The portal looked like a mouth swallowing us whole. On the other side was a large courtyard. We were surrounded now on all sides by the imposing edifice. Fortress, yeah, that did fit. You felt a bit like a prisoner of war in the eighteenth century.
