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“Back to the plan,” I ordered. “Now, Nat, what do you know about the tunnels in this area? Where do they lead? Do they go into houses?”
“Oh yeah. Loads of them go right into the cellars. A lot of folks used them for bringing in wine barrels, firewood, coal—anything that would be too messy to haul through the house. Some people used them as escape routes or hideouts during revolutions or World War II. And lots of people used them to store valuables. That’s half the attraction for the explorers—the idea that there could be treasure stashed down there.”
“And lots of people know about this?” Helen asked.
“Loads,” Natalie assured her. “There are even parties. Not legal ones, but the fines are pretty small, so people are happy to risk it.”
Helen shook her head. “It seems dangerous.”
“Well, of course it’s dangerous,” Natalie said. “There are utilities down there. Some routes are flooded or caved in. And don’t get me started on the rats.”
Helen went pale. “I really hate rats.”
Natalie patted her hand. “It’s fine, honey. You can’t go down there anyway.”
“Why not?”
“You had a bad case of pneumonia last year,” Nat reminded her. “There are at least five varieties of mold down there that aren’t found anywhere else in the world. The air is too bad unless you’ve got strong lungs.”
“Oh, that’s disappointing,” Helen said. But she looked relieved.
“Fine,” I said, folding my arms and looking at Natalie. “That leaves you and me. First, we’d have to do a recon to figure out if we can even get as far as his house through the tunnels. Then we’d have to see if there’s a means of getting in.”
Natalie shrugged. “I’m ready when you are. Let’s get this party started.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The party actually got started two days later. It took some time to make preparations and pack our bags. Akiko was not at all thrilled that we were leaving again, and Minka threw a full-on pout.
“Why do you not let me come with you? I am very strong.”
“You are strong,” I agreed as I finished throwing things in a bag. “So strong that it’s best if you stay here and protect Akiko. She’s not as tough as you are,” I said, lying only a little. “And we’ve taken every precaution to make sure it’s safe here, but just in case, she might need some looking after. You can do that, right?”
Minka sulked but she looked secretly thrilled that I had put her in charge.
“I will teach her duets,” Minka said, pulling upFrozenon her laptop. “She will be Anna. I am Elsa.”
Akiko still seemed a little dazed, so maybe the idea ofsitting around having a Disney sing-along wasn’t the worst idea. Besides, somebody had to look out for Kevin.
We used a fresh set of papers to hop the ferry from Dover to Calais and took the bus into Paris, arriving on a chilly evening that was spitting sleet. Paris is a beautiful city when she feels like it, and that evening she was spiteful. We were all wearing jogging suits with clunky white tennis shoes and fanny packs, a group of German lady tourists intent upon the winter sales. We had found a moderately priced hotel on the edge of the 14th arrondissement, a few blocks from the entrance to the catacombs. The morning after we arrived, Natalie and I put on our curly grey wigs and took our fanny packs to the main entrance in the Place Denfert-Rochereau. There was a wait while everyone passed their belongings through security, and a single guard in a black coat surveyed the snaking queue.
“That man looks like Tom Hardy and I am dressed like Jessica Tandy,” Natalie hissed.
“You are also working,” I reminded her. I gave her a little shove to push her up in the line.
“There’s a rumor Tom is going to be the next James Bond. He could shake my martini anytime,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. She had powdered them white, but they were still effective.
“Give your libido a rest,” I said. “And you’re supposed to be speaking German.” The Paris guide I was carrying had a German flag emblazoned on the front and I tapped her with it.
“Ja, meine herrische Dame,” she said, saluting.
I pushed her again and in a few minutes we were through the security queue. A bored employee sat on a stool, recording the number of entries on a silver clicker as we rebuckled our fanny packs. There was nothing more interesting in them than wallets stuffed with coupons and credit cards, and a few toiletries and small craft projects each. I was also carrying a pair of plastic ponchos printed with Eiffel Towers bought cheaply from a sidewalk vendor just off the Pont des Arts. We’d made a stop at a sporting goods store for a few extras including kneepads, neatly hidden under our jogging pants. The catacombs tours were self-guided, and we started down the tall circular staircase, descending 131 steps until we hit stone. The air was dank and chilly, and there was an odor unlike anything I’d ever smelled before.
“What the hell is that?” I muttered in Natalie’s ear.
“Death, darling,” she said.
But this wasn’t the kind of death I was used to. We dealt it out, quick and clean. Depending on whether the mark had been shot or stabbed or poisoned, the smell would be different. Blood was sharp and metallic; poison could be pleasant—I had a soft spot for botanicals. Hang around too long and you’d smell other, worse things as the body settled into the relaxation of death. But the first few minutes could be perfectly tolerable if you weren’t too squeamish about the odor of blood.
