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WE WAITED UNTIL the jet had lifted off before taking a car back into Paris. From the highway we could see fingers of black smoke rising above the eastern suburbs. We’d been gone less than nine hours, but we entered a city that had fundamentally changed.
The rocket grenade attack and gunfight in Les Bosquets was all over the French media. Three police officers had been killed and nine wounded in the HEAT explosion and ensuing gun battle.
Six immigrant youths had died. Two had been weaponless. Four had been armed with AK-47 assault rifles. The footage of the AB-16 battle had gone viral, and more violence had erupted in public housing areas throughout the suburbs.
Cars were seized, sprayed with the tag of AB-16, and then set afire. Police who’d rushed to the scenes had been met with automatic weapons fire and forced to withdraw.
In the front seat, Peaks seemed to have had enough. He pulled out his phone, punched in a number, listened, and then said, “Your highness, I’m thinking that today might be a good time for the princesses to be leaving Paris.”
He listened and said, “If you can make that call, I will arrange everything.”
Peaks hung up and said, “He’s calling his wife to pull the plug on the shopping spree, and it sounds as if I have a job for at least another day.”
“My loss,” I said.
Peaks began making arrangements for three bulletproof limos to be brought to the Plaza Athénée in three hours’ time. That was followed by a call to the prince’s pilot. An estimated departure was set for four that afternoon.
I called Justine, who, it turned out, was visiting Sherman Wilkerson.
“Put him on,” I said.
“Jack?” he said in an airy voice. “Do you have her?”
“She’s on her way to L.A. as we speak,” I said. “She’s a little beat up and will need first-class medical attention, but I think she’s going to be all right.”
“And the danger she was in?”
“That’s been taken care of, sir,” I said.
For several moments I listened to Sherman’s labored breathing, and then he said, “You are one of the good ones, Jack Morgan. Everyone at Private.”
“We aim to please,” I said, and asked that Justine be put back on.
“You want me to meet her at LAX?” she asked.
“Yes. White-glove treatment,” I said, and then explained how Rivier had been trying to get Kim addicted again.
“I’ll get her to Betty Ford,” she said.
“But not until Sherman has seen her,” I said.
“Sure,” Justine said. “How’s the art professor?”
“I haven’t seen her in several days,” I replied. “Kidnappings, murders, and general insurrection have a way of killing the whole romance thing.”
“So there was a ‘romance thing’?”
“I’ll admit to a crush and nothing more.”
There was silence.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing,” she replied. “When should I tell people you’re coming back to L.A.?”
“What people?”
“Your brother, for one,” she said. “He keeps calling.”
