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He nods. “Of course.”
As I move toward Cress, JL intercepts me. Puts his hand on my chest. “Everything bien, Max?”
“A little business. I’m going to have a chat with Allan and his friend.” I give Cress a little wave to come over.
“What’s going on?” she whispers.
“What rock group has four men who don’t sing?”
She puts her hands over her face and moans. “Maaaax. No. Please.”
“Mount Rushmore.”
JL and Micki whoop. Cress does not. I give her a peck on the lips.
“I have a short meeting. Once you’re settled in the suite, go on with your plans.”
JL smirks.“We’re all checked in.”
The corners of Cress’ mouth turn down. “I thought we were all going to the Carnavelet so I could bore you for an hour or so driveling on about medieval France. Then we would eat eclairs as a reward.”
“I’m sorry, darling. The three of you will have to enjoy the history of Paris and stuffing your face with eclairs without me.”
“I’m going with you, Max.” JL’s voice is bedrock. Immovable.
I pull Cress toward me and press my lips against hers. Hands on her shoulders, I move her slightly and drown myself in her eyes. When I caress her cheek with the pad of my thumb, she leans back in.
“I won’t be long, la mia stellina. Enjoy some time with Micki.”
JL grabs my arm and drags me over to the two men, who are as still as Easter Island moai. He stretches out his hand. “I’m JL Martin, Max’s muscle.”
“Inspector Poulliot, Directorate of Internal Security,” Poulliot gives a shark-like smile.
JL’s quick appraisal is shrewd. “Je comprends.”
Poulliot points to a smart café. “Carette is just there, on the Place. It should be quiet at this time of day, and they know me, so we shouldn’t be overheard.” Underlying the hoarseness, he has the gravelly, smoky sound of Johnny Hallyday, the Elvis of France.
Our shoes scrape on the concrete under the arcaded pavement. A few steps on, we reach Carette, thread through the rattan and wood furniture out front, and claim two small, round marble-topped tables.
JL smiles his approval. “Très élégante.”
“Designed by Hubert de Givenchy,” Poulliot informs us. “You are French but not French?” He looks at JL, curious.
“French-Canadian. Givenchy. Isn’t he a dress designer?”
Poulliot raises an eyebrow. “He designs. That’s what designers do—clothes, interiors, c’est tout pareil.” After a sip of coffee and a bite of canelle, he leans back and rubs his chin. “So sorry to disrupt your visit to Paris. I understand you are en vacance.”
“We are here for a dinner to honor nominees for a prestigious writing award, my fiancée included. At the Victor Hugo house.”
Clink. The milk jug hits the rim of Allan’s teacup and drags my attention away from Poulliot. A fragment of china falls into the saucer. With a shrug, he examines the chip, then takes the cup back to the counter. When he returns with an undamaged cup, he pours more tea, then starts adding heaping spoons of turbinado sugar. The brown crystals tinkle as they fall in a never-ending cascade that makes my teeth ache as I sip my own tea and look uneasily at the piece of gateau I unwisely ordered.
“Shall we move on, gentlemen?” I can’t take my eyes off the whirlpool Allan creates in his cup.
When I finally break the spell, I will him to face me.“Do you have any new intel about Nasim Faez?”
Allan contemplates the sugar that continues to pour into his cup. Poulliot responds.
“We have information there will be a series of coordinated terrorist actions in Paris over the next few days, perhaps like the London bombings. Whether these are being directed by Faez is uncertain. We think, however, one site will be in Place des Vosges.”
