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Hands raised, palms out, the guy says, “Sorry, sorry,” and goes back to his conversation with friends.
As a diversion, I gush over Cress’ ring. “I saw the engagement ring Max gave her. Gorgeous. So Scotland was a relief.”
“Some of it.” The flatness in JL’s delivery tells me there is more bad news to come but his next comment has me smiling. “Max taught Cress a bit of driving, so that was good. Although, where that man gets his patience, I’ll never know.”
“Cress drove?” My voice squeals with excitement.
JL’s smile is tentative. “Automatic transmission would have been easier, but all of their vehicles are standard. Took her half a day, I think, to be able to shift.”
“She can practice on my Karmann Ghia.”
“You have a car?”
“Yes. I have nothing against driving.”
“How do you have a Karmann Ghia? The company stopped making them decades ago.”
“It’s vintage. Dad and Mom got it for me when I graduated from law school.”
“After the disaster when we had a track race for Max’s birthday surprise, don’t be too sure you’ll ever see Cress behind the wheel.”
“Oh no. Did they crash?”
“Not the way you might think. Cress was sitting in the grandstand with Max’s parents, one of his sisters, and his sister-in-law when it happened.”
Chills alternate with hot flashes as I try to imagine what the incident was. “Go on,” I say, my voice tremolo.
“We were driving vintage Minis, like in that film,The Italian Job. Allan Mason rode shotgun with Max but the rest of us were solo. I don’t remember which lap it was, maybe the third, when shots rang out and bullets hit Max’s tire. The blowout caused Ian to crash into him, and Max’s car flipped. The gas tank exploded, and Max and Allan barely got out.”
Hopeful this was just an accident, I say, “Scottish Highlands, careless hunters, I guess.”
“No, Max was targeted. The police identified where the two snipers were waiting. They left the rifles, but the guns weren’t registered and there were no fingerprints. The assailants, who may have been staying at the hotel that has the track, vanished. A very sad end to our visit.”
I can feel moisture trickling off the end of my nose and I taste salt on my lips. The linen napkin blots up everything, including some drops of blood from where I bit my lip. With a gulp, I say, “Makes my problems seem trivial.”
With a frown and a gentle touch, JL holds a fingertip to my bottom lip until the bleeding stops. “Not trivial,” he says. “Not trivial at all.”
ChapterThirteen
Terrorism is the tactic of demanding the impossible, and demanding it at gunpoint.—Christopher Hitchens
JL
The awards dinnerat the Victor Hugo House is impressive, even though the other people at our table aren’t. A pompous writer spends her time getting in digs at Cress about her book.
“Of course, you are the rare American who can actually write a decent sentence.” She smirks. Cress makes no response.
Her husband drinks steadily and ignores her, while her son indulges in bad behavior. My maman would have smacked my bottom and taken me home. At the least, she should remind him of how to act in public.
Bored by the formality, I gaze around the space. The house on the Place des Vosges was rented by Hugo in the 1830s and 40s. We are in the Chinese Lounge, which, along with the Red Lounge, makes up the space for the sit-down dinner for the eighty attendees. Hugo covered walls of the Red Lounge with red damask and portraits in the heavily carved gold frames common for the period. He originally designed the furniture in the Chinese Room for his house during his exile in Guernsey. Later it was moved to the Paris along with Chinese panels designed by Hugo.
Sounds of boots on the tiled floor of the entryway heralds the eruption of chaos, at odds with the genteel nature of the event, and makes the gunfire even more shocking. Several terrorists come into the room, brandishing automatic weapons and shooting over the crowd. The host of the event screams at the attackers in a language neither French nor English, who fire a hail of bullets into him.
Faez’s vendetta convinces me Max is the target. He’s looking for Cress but she’s invisible as I concentrate on getting Micki under the table.
“She’s probably already down there.” I grunt and give Micki a final push before pulling the tablecloth down to cover her.
We need to find a path so they can crawl to safety. With Micki down on the floor, I turn my attention back to one of the tallest men in the room. Max has paid no attention to my comment on Cress’ whereabouts and stands like a telephone pole, eyes darting, head on a swivel, daring them to shoot. He pushes back when I try to wrestle him to the floor. Cress and Micki are not there. When I try to swallow, my throat aches from the constant shouting.
