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“Yes,” Maurice says, rubbing at his nose. “And now your great white whale has swum off to parts currently unknown, although there is a report of a private jet departing the area soon after the shooting began.”
“That must have been him, because he’s in the UK,” Jeremy says.
“Really? Quite fortunate for us all, eh, that he has left France? And that I can rely on you and Horace to resolve this situation to everyone’s satisfaction?”
“Fortunate for you indeed,” Jeremy says, knowing that while Maurice Richard is an ally, he’s also a wily old bureaucrat who is keen on defending his turf, both literal and in the halls of government.
Richard says, “But before you leave, in the interest of French-Anglo relations, I wish to share something with you.” In rapid French he speaks to the woman next to him, who nods, dips down to her black leather case, and removes two glossy color photos.
Maurice passes over a photo to Jeremy, who looks at it and then hands it to Amy. “That’s Rashad,” Jeremy says. “Where was he?”
Maurice says, “At the time of the photo, yesterday, he was in the Village Saint Paul section of Paris. We got this photo from a CCTV system in the area, set up to track…well, never you mind. Facial-recognition software on a routine matter popped him up in our system.”
Amy says, “What was he doing there?”
“Your wealthy killer and potential mass murderer was about to enter a curio shop. One he has apparently been to a number of times…which raises this mystery.”
The second photo is slid over. Jeremy looks at this one more closely. A different angle, some distance away, a slim man hurrying out of a storefront, his face obscured.
Maurice says, “Not sure who that fellow is, but shortly after he left, the owner of the store, one…” A quick sentence in French, the woman replies, and Maurice says, “Yes, Hugo Fournier. An older shopkeeper, has been in that same location for nearly two decades. Shot twice in the forehead.”
Jeremy says, “Nothing taken, I imagine.”
A slow nod. “Accurate. Several thousand euros were left behind. As well as some valuable antiques. And the time of his death following Rashad’s arrival there…a connection.”
Amy says, “Sending a message, or tying up loose ends.”
Maurice ignores her and says, “But another thing, Jeremy. Our forensics crew dug deeper, and we found something of interest, which we will share with you.”
Jeremy says, “Again, in the spirit of French-Anglo cooperation.”
“Such things are done, and I hope you will tell my friend Horace this when you see him again. It seems we learned that your Rashad has been a longtime customer of Monsieur Fournier, always looking for the same thing: railroad memorabilia. It appears that—”
Amy interrupts him. “Railroad? Like model railroads?”
A half-second pause from Maurice that indicates severe irritation, Jeremy knows. “No, not model trains,” he eventually says. “Real trains. Especially memorabilia from the Berlin-Baghdad railway of the early twentieth century.”
“Interesting,” Jeremy says.
A nod. “Trains. Who knew? Well, even Hitler loved dogs, so there is that. And here it ends. Arrangements can be made for you, Jeremy, to return to England, to resume your quest. Alas, Amy Cornwall is going to stay with us.”
“No,” Jeremy instinctively says.
Maurice opens his hands. “Again, my apologies, but that is not up for negotiation. Horace demands that I separate you two, and I am afraid I owe him one. You may go. She must stay.”
Jeremy was once in the empty wastes of western Kuwait when an approaching thunderstorm unexpectedly collapsed, the rush of cold air causing ahaboob—a blinding, deadly sandstorm—to suddenly hit hard.
That memory comes to him now as there’s a quick movement to his side, then a grunt and the sound of a chair falling. He turns his head and Amy is standing there, her foot on the neck of one of the armed men, his pistol in her hands.
Her voice is steady and calm.
“Let’s reopen negotiations, all right?”
Chapter58
I DON’Tthink I’m ever coming back to Paris, so I feel pretty good about hammering the DGSE guy behind me and disarming him. That leaves only two threats in this little room—I don’t count Jeremy as one, which may later prove to be a mistake—but I’m keeping an eye on the other armed guy, Maurice, and his female assistant. She’s young, slim, and attractive, but I wouldn’t put it past her to dip into that open leather briefcase and come out with a sawed-off Verney-Carron 12-gauge shotgun and blow me in half.
I say, “Here’s my opening statement. I’m leaving with Jeremy, we’re not to be obstructed, and we’re going to catch the next Eurostar to London.”
