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He heard the cork pop and champagne pouring.
“Come,” Haja said. “Sit by me.”
Henri made a murmur of approval. The divan creaked under his added weight. “What shall we drink to?” he asked.
“The future,” she said.
“The future,” he said, and glasses clinked. “You are my muse, you know.”
“So you said.”
Hearing them sip, the major dared not move, and fought to slow his breath and heart as he unlocked the blade and slid it back in his pocket. Then he wrapped the rope around both of his gloved hands with fourteen inches of slack between, and waited.
“I’ve thought about nothing but you all week,” Henri said. “It’s been maddening we couldn’t meet, and…you know.”
“We needed a break,” Haja replied. “Kiss me?”
“With the greatest pleasure.”
Haja made a purr of contentment. There was a rustle of fabric, and Sauvage made his move, sliding out from behind the curtain. He spotted Henri on the couch, back turned in Haja’s embrace.
Stealthy and supple, the major took four silent steps up behind him.
Haja broke the kiss, laughed throatily, and pushed Henri back several inches. It was all Sauvage needed. He flipped the rope over the man’s head and wrenched it tight beneath his chin.
Henri began to struggle, his hands flying to the rope as he let out a squeal of disbelief and fear. The choked man kicked over the champagne bottle and one of the glasses. The major ruthlessly wrenched him off the divan and onto the stage floor.
“No,” Henri wheezed. “Please.”
Sauvage realized he was saying this to Haja.
But Haja only had eyes for the major as she rose from the couch and the older man’s struggles subsided into quivers and then death.
“You are a revolutionary, Émile,” she said as he lowered the dead man until he lay on his side. “A man on the right side of history.”
Twenty minutes later, they shut down the apron lights and made their way to the rear door of the backstage area. Sauvage opened it a crack and saw the security post still empty and cops, the guard, and other bystanders across the traffic circle watching firemen up on ladders, spraying down the smoking roof of the Galeries Lafayette.
No one gave them a second glance when he and Haja slipped out the gate and strolled up the Rue Scribe, arm in arm and heads tilted inward, like lovers heading home after a nice late night on the town.
Chapter 13
SEVERAL SHARP KNOCKS woke me.
Sweat poured off my head and I looked around wildly, realizing I was on the couch in the living room of my suite at the Plaza.
The knock came again. I glanced at my watch. Two minutes to seven.
“Coming,” I grunted, and got up to pad across the carpet to the door. I heard the shower start up again in Kim Kopchinski’s end of the suite.
I looked through the peek hole. Louis Langlois was out in the hallway behind a room service cart laden with baskets of croissants and delicate pastries, and two carafes of coffee that immediately piqued my interest.
“I didn’t know room service was part of your job description,” I said after opening the door to let him in.
“It’s not,” Louis said. “But I adore the croissants here, so perfectly buttery and flaky, you know? I just could not wait for you to make the order.”
When we returned to the living area, Louis began pouring us coffee. “She talk?”
“Never left her bedroom,” I said.
