LACKING VIRTUES (55 page)

She gasped and tried to writhe away. He grabbed her hair, twisted her head backwards. “Now Madame?
Now
do you wish to say anything?”

“If you let me go.”

“Talk first.”

“You worked for the KGB,” she choked.

He smacked her head against the wall and released her. “More. Quickly.”

“You directed Operation Litvyak for decades. You never had the opportunity to test it.”

“Never?
Never
?” He grabbed her hair again and showed her the stiletto. “I want to know more about myself.”

“You . . . you are testing it now by sabotaging American jetliners for the French. You are being paid handsomely for this work.”

He smiled and let her go. “And now, Madame, comes the prize-winning question. How much am I being paid. No, let me be more specific.
Exactly
how much am I being paid
tonight
?”

“I . . . I have no idea.”

“I said,
how much?
”

“Two hundred fifty million dollars.”

“Well what do you know? You guessed right. You hit the jackpot.” Claussen smiled. “Now, Madame Marx, you are going to tell me where Steven LeConte is.”

“He was supposed to play a – ”

“You’re dealing with this poorly, Madame Marx. You’re still not getting the picture. I have offered you the chance to live. You know where LeConte is or where he is planning to go, just as  you knew the details of my own life. He will die, that’s not one of the variables we must deal with. Holding back information to save him will accomplish nothing. However, it will make my task of dealing with him a trifle easier, and for that I am willing to let you live. Without ever speaking or writing a word about the things we have discussed tonight, of course.”

The moment she had dreaded for 70 years was near. She was about to leave this life she loved but did not understand, this life she wished desperately to cling to in spite of its cruelties and imperfections. Her tears were real, her words were sincere.

She said, “Mr. Claussen, I do not want to die.”

He pushed her down on to the floor, shoved her on her back and straddled her. He tapped the stiletto on her chin. “How strong is your desire to live, Madame Marx? Strong enough to tell me the whereabouts of Steven LeConte?”

“I . . . I can’t.”

“Very well. So be it.” He ran the stiletto across her neck again, so gently she felt little. But as before, the sensation of warm blood on her skin told her she had been cut. She touched her fingers to the wound, and closed her eyes when she saw them.

“A surface cut,” he said. “Don’t be squeamish. We’ll try your heart next. It’s quite awful, I imagine, to feel a blade violate that reputed source of love.”

He poised the tip above her left breast and drove it an inch into her flesh before withdrawing it. The pain this time was excruciating. She knew it had to be now, she had to tell him what she planned to tell him or she was going to lose consciousness.

“Stop,” she pleaded. “Stop, I beg you.”

“You’re prepared to tell me?”

She gave a reluctant nod.

“Then talk. Where is he?”

“Grenoble. He’s going for Nicole, Michelet’s daughter. She’s with her aunt.”

“Thank you, Madame Marx. I’m sorry I can’t honor my part of the bargain.”

She tried to get up but the blade caught her in the throat and ran her through. She wheezed, flailed and choked on her own blood. But the agony passed quickly. Soon, a profound peacefulness enveloped her.

She watched Claussen, feeling as if they were both underwater, while he cleaned the knife on her blouse. He stood and started for the door.

She died not knowing if he got there.

She died believing the door was the exit to the hallway, not the entrance to Steven’s bedroom.

***

If this lunatic had taken up combat flying, thought Warner, he could have shot down the entire French Air Force in an afternoon. He hoped he never had to ride on the back of a Harley with him again, but he wasn’t complaining for now.

As they hurtled toward Paris on dark secondary roads, there were signs everywhere of a great movement of military force into the zone of the manhunt. More helicopters streamed south out of the capital. Huge, low-flying planes shook the earth as they passed overhead, transporting what Warner suspected were paratroopers. Troop convoys rumbled down main roads, leaving the city as they approached. 

Steven throttled back as they entered the Red Belt, a ring of bleak factories and tenements circling Paris. He merged with the sporadic traffic, driving unobtrusively.

They made a 20 mile semicircle to avoid coming in on a bee-line from the south, crossing the city limits from the north at the Porte de Clignancourt. The white dome of Sacré Coeur rose majestically above an endless sea of rooftops.

The two men hadn’t spoken since Warner had given Steven the remaining helmet to hide his blond hair. Presently Steven motioned him to lean in close. “You’re wondering why we came all this way?”

“I’m beginning to trust you judgment.”

Steven said, “There’s some all-night action around Montmartre and Pigalle, a lot of losers trying to get laid. They’re easy prey for the crooks and cabbies. We need them both.”

“What’s your idea?”

“I know where the gypsies hang out. I’ll park the bike in harm’s way. They’ll have it in the back of a trailer in minutes. They’ll change the serial number, the paint, everything. It’ll be in Romania before anyone here lays eyes on it.”

“Taxis?”

“They swarm around Pigalle. You’ll see.”

“Sounds good.”

“Then I guess that’s about it. I’m going to let you off up ahead. Walk toward the white church. When you come to a main street, you’ll find a cab to take you to your car.”

“Steven, I’m going to drive by your studio in case you change your mind. What’s your street number on Rue Monge?”

“Forget it, Frank. Things didn’t work out. You’ve got your agenda, I’ve got mine. Maybe you can open some eyes with your photographs.”

“Steven – ”

He stopped the bike. “Here’s where you get off. Good-bye, Frank.”

Warner climbed down, shaking his head. There was no way in hell to talk reason to the guy, and it was too goddamn bad. He watched with a sinking feeling in his gut. The mud-caked Harley disappeared into a small alley. He knew he would never see Steven LeConte again.

Warner discarded his ripped, filthy jacket, straightened his shirt collar and went in search of a cab. There was a lively contingent of rabble around Place Pigalle, the sort of folks he would normally avoid. Tonight he was glad to see them. He sank into their midst and made his way to the Boulevard de Clichy. When he flagged a taxi, the driver didn’t bat an eye at his appearance.

***

Nicole awoke to the sound of people talking. She recognized Sophie’s voice and hoped to hear Steven’s too. Instead she heard a man with a slight German accent threatening Sophie. Her heart began to pound. This could not be happening. She knew she had to keep her wits about her. But what should she do? What
could
she do?

Was there a telephone in the bedroom? She reached over to turn on the bedside light but decided against it. The intruder did not know she was here. Better to keep it that way for now.

No telephone. She remembered now that it was in the kitchen.

She was growing frantic. She would have to find help down in the square. That was it. Help below. She tiptoed to the balcony, opened the French doors and went out, careful not to make a sound.

The square was deserted. It was later than she realized.

She left the balcony doors open and hurried back to the bed. She straightened the quilt and pillows, and put on her sneakers. She could still hear voices in the parlor.

Oh, God, this was horrible. A lot seemed to have happened in a short time, none of it good. He was hurting her, and Sophie was making strange noises. Sophie pleaded with him to stop what he was doing. It was heart-rending. It was awful.

“Are you prepared to tell me?” the man said.

A pause.

He said, “Then talk. Where is he?”

“Grenoble,” Sophie choked. “He’s going for Nicole. She’s with her aunt.”

The lights went off in Nicole’s head. Sophie was trying to save her and Steven!

God, he wasn’t really going to kill Sophie, was he?

The man’s words dashed her hopes. He said, “I’m sorry but I can’t honor my part of the bargain.”

A struggle ensued, not very intense. She heard Sophie choking and wheezing. 

Nicole began to faint.

No! She must get hold of herself. Sophie was being killed. She must help her!

She started toward the door, not knowing what she would do. Then she heard sounds that made her realize it was too late. She knew those sounds. She had been at the hospital when her mother died. Some things you never forgot.

The man was whistling quietly. Joints creaked as he got to his feet. Oh, my God, he was going to search the apartment!

Footsteps came toward the bedroom, footsteps on parquet that echoed like bombshells in her head. Still fighting to stay quiet, she ran on tip toes to the balcony, went out and shut the doors behind her. She spun to the side, staying close to the building so he wouldn’t see her if he looked out.

She heard the bedroom door opening. The room lights came on, illuminating the balcony and stripping her of the protection of night.

She could hear him rummaging around inside now, yanking open drawers. Would he come out here?

She heard people. She looked down on the square. Several noisy teenagers were strolling by, shoving each other and laughing. A big help they would be.

She felt paralyzed. The footsteps were coming again. She could not cower in the shadows until he found her. She had to do something.

There was only one place to go. She climbed out on the narrow ledge and started moving as fast as she could toward the corner of the building.

Her foot hit a piece of lose stucco. She slipped, gasped, but managed to hold on. 

She reached the corner, found a foothold and began turning it just as the intruder stepped outside. Her foot came off the ledge, the foot she had already slung around the corner of the building. She bit her lip and tottered. More stucco rained down.

One of the teenagers let out a booming laugh. The man looked to his right first, toward the kids. Where he looked next, Nicole did not know. She was out of sight around the corner, legs shaking and heart trying to bump her off the wall.

***

The cabby was French. He spoke English he said he had learned in Trinidad. “Hey, wake up, buddy. Place Maubert right here. You say you want out here?”

Warner opened his eyes as they drove slowly down one of the boulevards flanking the deserted square. This was the right spot, though it didn’t resemble Place Maubert during the busy morning, when he had come to Sophie’s flat for the guns. About the only thing the same was the sign above the Métro station.