The Pursuit

by Janet Evanovich

  They went down several intersecting utility corridors, some of them lit by lights on the walls, until they came to a door that looked like a watertight hatch from a submarine. Gaëlle spun the wheel, opened the heavy door, and they stepped into a wide, arched chamber with a river of sewage running down the center. The smell wasn’t as a bad as Kate had expected. It wasn’t much worse than a men’s locker room. A blue plaque with white letters on the wall read Boulevard Saint-Jacques.

  “This is one of the sewer lines,” Gaëlle said. “The sewer men walk along the side paths with paddle tools to move the muck along. Or a bunch of men will drag a sluice boat through the center channel with ropes to do the job. The work hasn’t really changed in centuries.”

  They walked along the concrete banks, which were dimly lit every few feet by industrial lights on the wall. Gaëlle pointed out the huge pipes above them that carried freshwater and a series of tubes that used to be part of the post office’s vast abandoned pneumatic network for delivering letters to buildings by compressed air.

  They crossed a bridge over the sewer channel to a ladder built into the wall that went up about twenty feet into a circular shaft. Kate looked up and saw a pinhole of sunlight streaming through a manhole cover.

  Gaëlle climbed up the shaft, moved the manhole cover aside, and they were bathed with sunlight and blasted with noise. Kate and Nick followed Gaëlle up and found themselves standing on the sidewalk of boulevard Saint-Jacques, facing place Denfert-Rochereau and the Lion of Belfort. Kate had to squint and hold a hand up to shade her eyes. The sunlight seemed unusually harsh after the pitch-darkness of the underground.

  “I brought you up here because this spot is unique,” Gaëlle said and pointed to the train station across the street. “That’s the regional rapid transit system line, the RER. There’s also a metro station here, a subway line, the sewers, an aqueduct, utility corridors, and, below it all, the catacombs. All the levels of the underground world come together here. It also used to be the entrance to Paris. It’s a short walk back to the car from here, or we can go through the sewer instead.”

  Kate wanted the fresh air but the sewer would give them more privacy for the conversation they still needed to have. “Let’s take the sewer.”

  Gaëlle seemed surprised by the answer, but shrugged and headed back into the manhole. “As you wish.”

  Kate followed her down, and Nick brought up the rear, sliding the manhole cover back into place behind them. They walked alongside Gaëlle on the concrete banks to the sewer underneath place Denfert-Rochereau, then crossed a metal bridge to follow the line that ran under avenue du Général Leclerc.

  “We didn’t ask you to show us the underground out of idle curiosity or for the unusual experience,” Kate said.

  “I assumed there was more to it,” Gaëlle said.

  “Nick and I are operatives for an international private security company, and we’ve been hired to prevent a biological attack on the United States. The group that’s planning this attack intends to steal the killer virus for their weapon from a basement lab at the Institut National pour la Recherche sur les Maladies Infectieuses.”

  “On Denfert-Rochereau,” Gaëlle said, putting the pieces together. “They’re going to dig their way in.”

  “They are and they aren’t,” Nick said. “We’ve infiltrated the group to trick them into breaking into a fake lab in the basement of another building on the same street. We need you to help us fool them.”

  “What could I do?” she asked.

  “You’d be their guide. You’d lead them to the dig site by a different route each day, supposedly to avoid attracting attention, but really just to confuse them,” Nick said. “We could also switch out some of the street signs underground to add to their confusion.”

  “After what we’ve experienced today,” Kate said, “I don’t think confusing them is going to be that hard.”

  “If what you are saying is true,” Gaëlle said, “why is a private security firm stopping this terrorist attack and not the police? Who hired you?”

  “We can’t tell you who our client is,” Kate said. “But I can say that we’re often hired because we can ignore laws, jurisdictions, and national borders that restrict the ability of law enforcement agencies and governments to do their jobs.”

  “We aren’t accountable to taxpayers, either, and have very deep pockets,” Nick said. “We’ll pay you a hundred thousand euros to help us.”

  Gaëlle stopped and stared at him. “How much?”

  “One hundred thousand euros.”

  She kept staring at him. “Mon Dieu. Vraiment?”

  “Oui,” Nick replied.

  “Before you get seduced by the money,” Kate said, “you need to know that what we are asking you to do is extremely dangerous. You’ll be undercover among killers. We’ll be there with you, and we’ll do our best to protect you, but we can’t guarantee your safety.”

  Gaëlle narrowed her eyes. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “You don’t,” Kate said. “You’d have to trust us.”

  “Two complete strangers that I just met,” Gaëlle said. “Telling a pretty fantastical story.”

  “That’s right,” Kate said.

  “But once you’re involved, you’ll see the inner workings of the con and the time, effort, and expense that’s going into it,” Nick said. “It will be immediately clear to you that we couldn’t be doing anything else except what we say we are.”

  “There will also be nothing stopping you at any time from walking away or going to the police or telling the bad guys who we are,” Kate said. “So the trust works both ways. We’ll be trusting you with our lives and those of our team.”

  “You have other people involved in this?” Gaëlle said.

  “People we’ve recruited for their special skills,” Kate said. “Just like you.”

  Gaëlle thought about it for a long moment. “I haven’t done much with my life. I just drive people around and wander through dark tunnels, lost in the past or myself. What good has it been? What have I achieved? If I can use that experience to save lives, then everything I’ve done up until now has actually meant something. So yes, I’ll help you, and I’ll take your money, too.”

  Nick shook her hand. “Welcome to the team.”

  Chez Schwartz Charcuterie Hebraique de Montreal opened in 1928 on boulevard Saint-Laurent. It was in an area smack between Montreal’s English-speaking population to the west, the French-speaking to the east, and the immigrant, ethnic mix that populated the strip in between. While that area transformed over time from an ethnic ghetto into the hip, artsy heart of the city, Schwartz’s remained essentially unchanged and became famous for its “smoked meat,” a fatter, spicier, Canadian version of pastrami. There was always a line out the door for a seat at one of Schwartz’s communal tables because only sixty customers at a time could fit inside. Even so, Huck Moseby had a table completely to himself to enjoy his “extra fat” smoked meat sandwich, French fries, and Cott Black Cherry soda.

  It wasn’t because he was wealthy, powerful, or someone so outwardly repulsive or frightening that others steered clear of him. Huck was an average-looking forty-four-year-old man, slightly pudgy and perhaps a little too pale, wearing a ragged Musée de Florentiny T-shirt with a faded picture of Rembrandt’s Old Man Eating Bread by Candlelight on the back. So he fit right in. The place was full of hipsters in fashionably vintage clothes and stylishly torn jeans.

  After twelve years employed as a sewer engineer for Hydro-Québec, Huck had acquired a faint, but persistent, l’air du poop that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he showered nor how many gallons of Old Spice that he put on. It was also why he hadn’t been laid in six years, except for a merciful prostitute who’d had a raging head cold.

  It was a sad, pitiful situation that would have destroyed the self-respect of most men. But Huck Moseby wasn’t most men. He took strength from the secret knowledge that he was a criminal genius. A few years
ago, he’d committed the biggest robbery in Canadian history, tunneling into the Musée de Florentiny from the sewer to steal their entire collection of masterworks. Problem was there were two other robbers, a man and woman in ski masks, who coincidentally were already in the museum stealing the Rembrandts. The couple wouldn’t let him have a Rembrandt or anything else, sending him back into his hole at gunpoint with only a Musée de Florentiny T-shirt to show for his brilliance and months of toil. The other thieves got the paintings, the glory, and even the credit for tunneling in, though he had no idea how they’d actually entered the museum. The paintings were recovered, but the two thieves were never caught.

  It was because of that life-defining event that he wore the T-shirt almost constantly and wouldn’t buy a new one even though they were still sold, in a variety of sizes and colors, at the Musée de Florentiny gift shop. The T-shirt was his armor against the indignities he had to endure each day.

  He was taking a bite out of his thick sandwich when an attractive couple in their thirties sat down across from him at the table. He chewed and silently counted off the five seconds it usually took for his scent to travel across a tabletop and for the couple to awkwardly depart. Ten seconds passed, and they were still sitting there, perusing their menus while presumably awash in his odor d’égout.

  “I’ve never seen a Jewish deli with a menu in French,” the man said.

  “I guess you aren’t as worldly as you think you are,” the woman said.

  Huck felt a strange chill. There was something both sexy and familiar about her voice.

  “We never got around to visiting this place on our last trip to Montreal,” the man said.

  “We were in a bit of a hurry,” the woman said, and abruptly met Huck’s gaze, startling him.

  He’d never seen her face, but he was certain that he’d looked into those striking blue eyes before.

  “Please tell me you’ve washed that shirt since we gave it to you,” Kate said to Huck.

  Huck dropped his sandwich on his plate and felt his heart drop along with it. It was them. The thieves who’d robbed the museum of their Rembrandts and him of his glory.

  “It’s you,” Huck said, knowing the words were lame the moment he’d said them. “The two thieves who stole those paintings from me.”

  “They weren’t yours,” Kate said, “though they might have been if you’d got the drop on us instead of us getting the drop on you.”

  “It just wasn’t your lucky day,” Nick said.

  “It wasn’t fair,” Huck said. “You got the Rembrandts. You could have let me take a Matisse or a Renoir. You were leaving them behind anyway.”

  “We were on our way out and wanted to make a clean getaway,” Kate said. “We couldn’t take the risk that you’d accidentally activate an alarm or otherwise alert the authorities.”

  “But you’re right,” Nick said. “It wasn’t very gracious of us. We’ve been troubled by it ever since.”

  “Really?” Huck said.

  He was flattered that they’d given him any thought at all. Somehow, it made him seem part of the fraternity of master thieves. But then he reminded himself of how they’d humiliated him and quickly changed his tone and demeanor.

  “Troubled?” Huck said. “Is that how you felt rolling in your millions while I slept in this crummy T-shirt?”

  Kate’s eyebrows inched up. “You sleep in that shirt?”

  “Figuratively speaking. The point is, I thought there was supposed to be honor among thieves, and you two showed none.”

  “You’re right,” Nick said. “We disrespected you. That’s why we’re here, to make amends.”

  “Are you going to give me a million or two?” Huck asked and picked up his pickle. “If not, you can shove this pickle up your ass and leave.”

  “We want to make it up to you by bringing you in on a heist that requires your unique expertise,” Nick said.

  The man who’d stolen the Rembrandts from the Musée de Florentiny was coming to Huck Moseby for his expertise. That was even better than a million dollars. It confirmed everything Huck believed about himself and that had sustained him for so long. He really was a criminal genius.

  Huck leaned forward and whispered, “What’s the caper?”

  Kate leaned toward him and instantly thought better of it. He really did smell bad. “Are you familiar with the Road Runners?”

  Of course he was. “They are international diamond thieves, maybe the best in the world.”

  “We’re working with them, but we’re going after something more valuable than diamonds,” Kate said. “We’re stealing a biological agent from a high-security research lab in central Paris. We’re tunneling into the lab through the sewers. It’s extremely dangerous and if we’re caught, we’ll be spending our lives in a French prison.”

  “That’s why we need Huck Moseby,” Nick said. “You’re a professional sewer engineer, an experienced excavator, a world-class thief, and you can pass as French. You were born for this job.”

  Huck was still reeling from being called a world-class thief. He went deaf and numb for a moment. He didn’t listen to what else Nick had said, but after that clear acknowledgment of his talent, he was on board for anything.

  “What is it you need me to do?” Huck asked.

  “Lead the excavation team and get us inside the lab,” Nick said. “You’re the best sewer man in the game.”

  He had a reputation? He was in the game? He was THE BEST? Why hadn’t anyone told him? That knowledge, that recognition, would have made the last few years so much different. Somebody should have sent him a certificate or something.

  Huck leaned even closer, almost upending the table. He wanted to be sure he was hearing this right and not having a delusional episode. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go to Paris and lead the Road Runners in a dig through the sewers into a high-security laboratory.”

  “That’s right,” Nick said, leaning back. “And we’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars to do it.”

  Huck took a deep swig of his cherry soda, wishing that it was something stronger, even though alcohol gave him tremendous gas.

  He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. The people who’d pulled off the biggest robbery in Canadian history wanted to pay him $100,000 to lead the best thieves on earth in a subterranean heist in the most magnificent sewer in the world. It was all he could do not to cry with joy. But that wouldn’t be fitting behavior for a world-class thief. So instead he cleared his throat, sat back, and pondered his soft drink can as if he were actually struggling with the decision.

  “Who will I be working for?” Huck asked.

  “Me,” Nick said.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Nicolas Fox and this is my associate, Kate. You get us inside and we’ll do the rest.”

  Huck’s jaw dropped, and he covered up his shock by reaching for his sandwich as if he’d opened his mouth to prepare for a bite. He took a mouthful of smoked meat and used the chewing time to get a grip. Nicolas Fox was a legend. Huck was going to be among the greats.

  “You’ll be calling the shots underground,” Nick said. “You know sewers and excavation and we don’t. You’ll be working with a local expert on the Paris underground. She will be your number two.”

  A woman in the sewer. This job was getting better every second. He nodded as he chewed and tried to swallow.

  “Your crew will be as many Road Runners as you think are necessary,” Nick said. “These are smash-and-grab guys, not diggers, so you’ll have to show them the ropes. We’ll all be meeting in Paris in seven days for a recon. After that, you’ll give me a list of what you need, we’ll get it, and then we’ll go to work.”

  “Assuming you’re interested, of course,” Kate said. “We’d completely understand if you’re not. You could die of old age in a French prison that makes Devil’s Island look like Club Med.”

  Huck swallowed, and picked a piece of meat out of his front teeth. He didn’t want to appear to
o eager in front of Nicolas Fox.

  “I’ve got a number of ambitious capers in the cooker here that I can put on hold,” Huck said, “but not for a hundred grand.”

  “How much do you want?”

  He was the best sewer man in the game and deserved compensation commensurate with his talent, but he didn’t want to let this dream slip through his fingers. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand, all expenses paid, and first-class airfare.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Nick said.

  “I’m a hard man,” Huck said.

  He actually was. All this talk of his expertise was better than Viagra, not that he needed it or had any opportunity to put the results to work. But that would change now that he was a master thief. Women would sense his magnificence and flock to him.

  Nick glanced at Kate. She gave him a slight nod. Nick smiled and held his hand out to Huck.

  “We have a deal,” Nick said and got up. “We’ll be in touch.”

  They walked out and Huck was alone again at an empty table, left to wonder if it had all been a figment of his imagination.

  —

  “I’m still not comfortable with this,” Kate said as they left Huck in Schwartz’s and walked down boulevard Saint-Laurent to their rented Porsche Cayenne parked a block away.

  “Yes, I know. I noticed how hard you were trying to dissuade him.”

  “Huck doesn’t realize it, but, when we first met him, we saved him from a life of crime and likely imprisonment. Now we’ve sucked him back into it.”

  “Not if we don’t arrest him,” Nick said.

  “But we’re paying him to commit a crime.”

  “We’re paying everybody in our crew to do that.”

  “But they are doing it for the right reasons.”

  “We can’t tell Huck that we’re conning the Road Runners to prevent a terrorist attack,” Nick said. “Huck has to believe in what he’s doing to convince the Road Runners that this is real. He’s a key part of creating that authenticity I was talking about.”

  “Is that why you told him who you are?”