Dead Run (8 page)

“And you have those people under surveillance?”

“Two of his former colleagues are in prison. Two are dead. One is missing.”

That simplified everything, didn’t it?

“Well then?” Will said.

Bonnet made a little face.

“What is it you’re not telling us?” Taylor asked.

“We found no bomb at the Eiffel Tower. That is good news, of course. But…”

But it was also the bad news. It decidedly reduced the urgency in trying to find Helloco.

“What’s the story on our guy?” Will questioned.

“Helloco was born in Brest in 1945. His artistic career began at the
École nationale supérieure des beaux arts
, where he studied painting. He had a promising career which he abandoned for activism in the sixties. He joined the FLB and was instrumental in the formation of the Breton Revolutionary Army. However, in 1969 he became impatient with the methods of his fellow revolutionaries and broke with his old compatriots to form Finistère.”

“Meaning
land’s end
,” Taylor told Will.

“True,” Bonnet said. “It is also the
département
in Brittany where Helloco was born.”

“Does he have any family still living there?” Will asked.

Bonnet shook her head. “Helloco’s parents are deceased. He has a sister living in Ireland. There was a brother, but he’s deceased. No one else. There was a rumor he married a fellow revolutionary, Marie Laroche.”

“Where’s she?” Will spoke before Taylor.

“We are searching for her now. Laroche was released from prison last year. She seems to have…how do you say? Fallen through the cracks.”

Will asked, “Why was everyone convinced Helloco was dead?”

“Looking back, it was perhaps a foolish mistake, but remember that in the 1970s forensic science did not play the role in law enforcement it does today. We simply did not have the resources we now do.”

“Yeah, but even so. Isn’t it unusually suspicious when the subject of a national manhunt turns up conveniently dead?”

If Bonnet was offended, she hid it well. “But you see there was no suspicion of this house or this family. It was only as investigators began to sift through the rubble that they pieced together the clues that led them to conclude the victim
was
Yann Helloco.”

“So who
was
the victim?” Taylor inquired.

Bonnet made another one of those little faces. “We don’t know for sure, but we now believe the body belonged to the estate gardener, Guillaume Durand.”

“Was Durand tied to the movement?”

“There is no indication of that.”

“Let’s recap.” Arms folded, Will leaned against Bonnet’s cluttered desk. “Basically we’ve got nothing. No bomb, no bomber, no former girlfriend of the bomber, and no Yannick Hinault, who may or may not be linked to all of the above. Does that sound about right?”

“Correct,” Inspector Bonnet said.

“
Très
fucking
bien
!” said Will.

Chapter Six

“Trial run?” Will suggested.

Taylor’s bleak gaze met his.

They were having coffee and complimentary lemon shortbread at Nespresso on the Champs-Élysées. The coffee break had been Will’s idea. He wanted to talk the case over with Taylor where no one would overhear them. Not that there was really much of a “case.” Which was undoubtedly one reason Taylor was looking so morose.

“I know that look. What’s on your mind?” Will dunked his shortbread in his coffee.

“Assuming I did see Helloco at LAX, what would bring a sixty-something terrorist out of retirement? What’s the incentive for this guy to rise from the dead?”

“World events?”

“What world events? The FLB and Finistère were fighting for Breton sovereignty. What’s happened in recent world events that affects Breton sovereignty? When was the last time anyone on the planet gave a shit about Breton’s sovereignty?”

“Presumably the Bretons do.”

Taylor pulled a face. “Well, there is that.”

“Look, if you think you saw this guy, then that’s good enough for me. So let’s start from the position that Helloco is alive and has returned to France for some reason. Maybe it has something to do with the death of his wife.”

“Whose wife?”

“Hinault’s wife. The other thing we’re taking for granted is that Hinault and Helloco are one and the same, right?”

“The photos aren’t the same. Nothing about Hinault clicks with what we know about Helloco.”

It wasn’t like Taylor to give up so easily. Will frowned at him. “Come on. Out of all the hundreds of people standing around you at LAX, you just happen to notice a guy who looks like this Helloco and who promptly vanishes right before an inactive revolutionary group pops up again. I mean, I know life is full of coincidences, but that’s too much for me to swallow.” He reached for the shortbread that Taylor absently slid his way. “Bonnet believes you. There’s just not a hell of a lot she can do about it right now. But she believes you.”

“Why was there no bomb in the Eiffel Tower?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t say I’m sorry about it.”

“No. Of course not. But…why?”

“It happens more often than you’d think. There was a similar scare back in September of last year. The world is full of nuts.”

“True. But why bring attention to themselves?”

“What? That’s what these nuts do. That’s what it’s all about.”

Taylor leaned back in the large leather chair, frowning as he gazed into the distance. “No. That doesn’t make sense.”

“What are you talking about?”

Taylor lifted his cup and drank, still thinking. Studying him, Will felt a surge of affection. This felt
right
. Working together again, being together again. This was how it was meant to be between them. This was what they needed.

Taylor said slowly, “If Finistère is back, if they’ve regrouped and they’re planning to resume their terror tactics, why wasn’t there a bomb in the Eiffel Tower?”

“Trial run,” Will said again.

Taylor shook his head. “No. First of all, what would they be testing? As you say, there have been enough bomb scares on that site that they would already have a good idea of how the police would respond. Secondly, why would they tip anyone off to what they might be up to? And thirdly, they wouldn’t announce their return with a dud. That’s not how groups like that operate. They’d want to come back with a bang.”

True. True. And true
. “Okay. Agreed. So what’s going on?”

Taylor frowned into space again. He sipped his coffee. Finally he put the cup down. “Someone wants us to think Finistère is back.”

Will gasped. “That is absolutely astoundingly brilliant, Holmes.”

Taylor curled his lip. “And it’s
not
Finistère.”

* * *

David called the embassy while Will was following up on Hinault’s passport.

“Hey there,” Will said warmly when he heard David’s voice.

Maybe too warmly? He threw a guilty look at the door of his cubicle, expecting Taylor to walk in any moment. He was currently meeting with Stone, sharing his new theory that Yann Helloco had not arisen from the dead after all.

David’s deep voice was equally warm. “I was wondering if you and MacAllister would like to join me for dinner tonight?”

Will hesitated a fraction too long.

“No?” David’s disappointment was just obvious enough to be flattering without actually applying any pressure. “I’d suggest another evening, but I’m going to be busy the rest of my stay with the D-day memorial events.”

“Taylor’s sister is in town, and I think he mentioned trying to get together with her tonight.”

“Any chance of switching evenings?” David suggested.

“No harm in asking.” Although Will wasn’t absolutely convinced of that.

“Why don’t you check with your better half and give me a call back at my hotel?”

“I’ll do that.”

“Great. There’s a place in the Latin Quarter called
La Boussole
. Everyone keeps telling me I’ve got to eat there. “

“I’ve heard of it,” Will said. “I’ll let you know.”

“You’ve heard of what?” Taylor walked through the doorway as Will set down the handset. Taylor was skimming the folder he held, and it was a miracle he didn’t fall over one of the chairs on his way toward Will’s desk.

Will mentally squared his shoulders. “A place called La Boussole in the Latin Quarter. David invited us to dinner tonight.”

Head still bent, Taylor asked absently, “David who?”

“Bradley.”

Taylor looked up from the file and snorted.

Pretty much the reaction Will expected, but it still irked him. “What’s that mean?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Taylor drawled. “
Awkward
?”

“Why is it awkward? It’s natural he’d want to get together. We’ve worked together. We’re… He’s an American in Paris.”

“I saw the film, Will. I don’t need the review.”

That was Taylor being deliberately offensive. Which meant he was feeling insecure. Will yanked back his temper with an effort. “Okay. Then the answer’s
no thanks
?”

“Tara wants to get together with us, remember?”

“So the answer is no thanks, or maybe we can switch and have dinner with Tara tomorrow night?”

Taylor drew a sharp breath and then let it out slowly. He said with zero inflection, “If you want to have dinner with Bradley, we’ll have dinner with him.”

Were they going to argue over this too? Will didn’t particularly want to have dinner with David. He liked David, yes, but he could think of few things less comfortable than the three of them having dinner. The truth was he’d be happiest if he and Taylor could spend every moment—including dinner—alone together.

How come the world didn’t work like that?

“No. The invitation was very casual. An afterthought, really. We’ll have dinner with your sister tonight like we planned.”

Taylor didn’t have a lot of tells, but Will knew them all. He caught the infinitesimal relaxing of Taylor’s shoulders, recognized the way his lashes swept down, hiding his eyes—the way the hard line of his mouth softened and went boyish—just for an instant.

“But how about this,” Will continued. “How about the rest of your stay it’s just us? Okay? There’ve already been too many inroads on our time together.”

The surprised pleasure of the smile Taylor gave him made the discomfort of calling David back a small price to pay.

* * *

“I like this soap,” Taylor informed him when Will popped the shower door to join him in the creamy citrus-scented steam. They were late getting ready for dinner with Tara and James, but neither felt like rushing.

“I thought you would.” Will slid his hands up Taylor’s slippery torso and pulled him close. “I bought it with you in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” Taylor was grinning, shower drops clinging to the tips of his long eyelashes. He looked happy and contented, pliable in Will’s hands as Will backed him toward the white tiled wall. “What else did you have in mind?”

“I think it’s going to have to wait till after dinner.” All the same, Will bent his head and pressed his mouth to Taylor’s shoulder. He tried to avoid looking at the mangled skin from the bullet scar on the right side of Taylor’s chest—not because Taylor minded the scars, but because Will did.

Taylor tasted like wet skin and French soap. Will wanted to inhale him. He wanted to fuck him into next week. He had to remind himself they were already late. Taylor wasn’t helping. His warm breath gusted against Will’s ear. His hands rested on Will’s shoulders, kneading tight muscles with his long, strong fingers.

He murmured, “Why are you so tense?”

Will’s arms instinctively closed around Taylor’s slick, lean body, holding him tight for a moment.

Taylor laughed. “Will?” He stilled. He pushed back, tossing his wet hair and scrutinizing Will. “What’s wrong?”

Will shook his head. He even managed a sheepish smile. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.” His gaze automatically dropped to Taylor’s scarred chest. Not as bad as he remembered. The scars were fading, silvering beneath the scrollwork of fine black hair.

“Will,” Taylor said again, only this time he sounded weary.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Will admitted. “You asked. I’m telling you. I’ve got a bad feeling in my gut every time I think of you going to I—”

“Goddamn it.” Taylor’s face was sharp with anger. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t say that.” He let go of Will, pounding the tile above Will’s head with his right hand. “We weren’t going to talk about this!”

Will shook his head. He grabbed the soap and began to lather up.

Taylor continued to stand there, water running down his face and chest in rivulets.

“You want me to lie?” Will snapped.

“I want you to shut the fuck up about it!”

For an instant they glared at each other while the warm, soft water beat down around them.

I’m going to lose him if I don’t stop this
. But what could he say? He wasn’t going to lie. Every time he thought about the future, about Taylor flying off to Iraq, that cold, sick crawling started in his guts. Will didn’t believe in premonition, but what the hell else could you call it?

Taylor shook his head fiercely, turned and shoved open the shower door. He slammed it shut behind him, and it bounced open again.

Will reached out and closed the door quietly. He expelled a long breath, closing his eyes and letting the water wash over him.

When he finally stepped out of the shower, Taylor was shaving. A white bath towel was slung around his hips; his wet hair was slicked neatly back from his face. His eyes slanted to Will, but he said nothing, running the electric razor over his cheek. The angry buzz made it impossible to talk, anyway. Will grabbed his toothbrush and the toothpaste and got very busy filling his mouth with white foam.

Taylor flicked off the razor and walked out.

They had themselves back under control by the time they left for the restaurant, falling automatically back into the safety of their working partnership, talking of their case, such as it was, and avoiding anything liable to trigger another of those bewildering clashes.