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There was a pause, and then she said, “I’d like that very much.”
I hailed a taxi, giving the driver the address of a café that Michele Herbert had suggested in the 6th Arrondissement, not far from L’Académie des Beaux-Arts.
We got there at virtually the same time. Just seeing her made me forget all about terrorists and bombs and burning horses. For an hour, anyway, I wanted to put it all aside and find out more about her.
But when we took a table, all she wanted to talk about was the night before and what I’d seen and done.
“You were a big help, by the way,” I said. “That guy, Epée? I followed him to the factory that burned down last night and that horse statue. Did you see it?”
“All of France has seen it,” she said. “Is he in custody?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
Between breaks to order food, I told her the rest of it.
“You saved that cop’s life,” she said, shaking her head.
“Anyone would have,” I said.
“This is not so,” Michele said with a dismissive flick of her fork. “So what then? You went back to the factory? You saw the horse burn in person?”
“I did.”
“Though I hate to admit it, I thought the sculpture and the way it burned were brilliant. Was it as spectacular in person as it was on-screen?”
“Awe-inspiring, and unforgettable,” I said. “I guess that was the point.”
“Point taken,” Michele said. “So what will happen tonight? Will AB-16 attack again?”
“The police and army better assume so.”
That seemed to upset her. “I want to fight them, but I don’t know how.”
“I hear you, but this is a national security deal now.”
“The government pursues leads?” she asked. “That is the word, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “I’m sure they are. But they should be looking for this woman.”
Getting out the phone and calling up the picture, I said, “Even though she looks a lot different here in the robes and head scarf, I think she was the same woman I saw on a bus just before the Sevran explosion.”
Intrigued, Michele took the phone. She looked at the picture blankly at first, but then her facial muscles twitched and she enlarged the phone so the face of the woman filled the small screen.
For several moments, the art professor gazed at the picture, blinking as her other hand came slowly to her lips.
“My God,” Michele whispered. “Why didn’t I see it last night?”
Chapter 94
12th Arrondissement
1:10 p.m.
A TAXI DROPPED us down the block from our destination.
Michele looked nervous. “What if I’m wrong?”
“Then we walk away,” I said.
