"Coffee," I told Marino.
We sat at a counter inside L'Embarcadйre and were served espresso in tiny brown cups.
"What the hell is this?" Marino grumbled. "I just wanted regular coffee. How 'bout handing me some sugar," he said to the woman behind the counter.
She dropped several packs on the counter.
"I think he'd rather have a cafй crйme," I told her.
She nodded. He drank four of them and ate two ham baguettes and smoked three cigarettes in less than twenty minutes.
"You know," I said to him as we boarded a train б grande vitesse, or TGV, "I really don't want you to kill yourself."
"Hey, not to worry," he replied, taking a seat across from me. "If I tried to clean up my act, the stress would do me in."
Our car was barely a third full, and those passengers seemed interested only in their newspapers. The silence prompted Marino and me to speak in very low voices, and the bullet train made no sound as it suddenly lurched forward. We glided out of the station, then blue sky and trees were flying by. I felt flushed and very thirsty. I tried to sleep, sunlight flashing over my shut eyes.
I came to when an Englishwoman two rows back began talking on a portable phone. An old man across the aisle was working a crossword puzzle, his mechanical pencil clicking. Air buffeted our car as another train sped by, and near Lyon, the sky turned milky and it began to snow.
Marino's mood was getting increasingly curdled as he stared out the window, and he was rude when we disembarked in the Lyon Part-Dieu. He had nothing to say during our taxi ride, and I got angrier with him as I replayed the words he had recklessly thrown at me last night.
We neared the old part of the city where the Rh8ne and SaOne rivers joined, and apartments and ancient walls built into the hillside reminded me of Rome. I felt awful. My soul was bruised. I felt as alone as I'd ever felt in my life, as if I didn't exist, as if I were part of another person's bad dream.
"I don't hope nothing," Marino finally spoke apropos of nothing. "I might say what if, but I don't hope. There's no point. My wife left me a long time ago and I've still never found anybody that fits. Now I'm suspended and thinking about working for you. I did that? You wouldn't respect me anymore."
"Of course I would."
"Bullshit. Working for someone changes everything and you know it."
He looked dejected and exhausted, his face and slumped posture showing the strain of the life he'd lived. He'd spilled coffee on his rumpled denim shirt, and his khakis were ridiculously baggy. I'd noticed that the bigger he got, the larger the size of the pants he bought, as if he fooled himself or anyone else.
"You know, Marino, it's not very nice to imply that working for me would be the worst thing that ever happened to you."
"Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. But pretty close," he said.
33
Interpol's headquarters stood alone on the Parc de la Tйte d'Or. It was a fortress of reflective pools and glass and did not look like what it was. I was certain the subtle signs of what went on inside were missed by virtually all who drove past. The name of the plantanne tree-lined street where it was located wasn't posted, so if you didn't know where you were going, you quite likely would never get there. There was no sign out front announcing Interpol. In fact, there were no signs anywhere.
Satellite dishes, antennas, concrete barricades and cameras were very hard to see, and the razor wire-topped green metal fence was well disguised by landscaping. The secretariat for the only international police organization in the world silently emanated enlightenment and peace, appropriately allowing those who worked inside to look out and no one to look in. On this overcast, cold morning, a small Christmas tree on the roof ironically tipped its hat to the holidays.
I saw no one when I pressed the intercom button on the front gate to say we had arrived. Then a voice asked us to identify ourselves and when we did, a lock clicked free. Marino and I followed a sidewalk to an outbuilding, where another lock released, and we were met by a guard in suit and tie who looked strong enough to snatch up Marino and hurl him back to Paris: Another guard sat behind bulletproof glass and slid out a drawer to exchange our passports for visitor badges.
A belt carried our personal effects through an X-ray machine, and the guard who had greeted us gave us instructions with gestures rather than words to step, one at a time, inside what looked like a floor-to-ceiling transparent pneumatic tube. I complied, halfway expecting to be sucked up somewhere, and a curved Plexiglas door shut. Another one released me on the other side, every molecule of me scanned.
"What the hell is this? Star Trek?" Marino said to me after he'd been scanned, too. "How you know something like that can't give you cancer? Or if you're a man, give you other problems."
"Be quiet," I said.
It seemed we waited a very long time before a man appeared on a breezeway connecting the secure area to the main building, and he was not at all what I expect. He walked with the easy spring of a youthful athlete, and an expensive charcoal flannel suit draped elegantly over what was clearly a sculpted body. He wore a crisp white shirt and a rich Hermйs tie in maroon, green and blue, and when he firmly shook our hands I noticed a gold watch, too.
"Jay Talley. Sorry to make you wait;" he said.
His hazel eyes were so penetrating I felt violated by them, his dark good looks so striking I instantly knew his type, because men that beautiful are all alike. I could tell Marino had no use for him, either.
"We spoke on the phone;" he said to me, as if I didn't remember.
"And I haven't slept since," I said, unable to take my eyes off him, no matter how hard I tried.
"Please. If you'll come with me."
Marino gave me a look and wiggled his fingers behind Talley's back, the way he did when he decided on the spot that someone was gay. Talley's shoulders were broad. He had no waist. His profile had the perfect slope of a Roman god, and his lips were full and his jaw was flared.
I concentrated on being puzzled by his age. Usually, overseas posts were much coveted and were awarded to agents with seniority and rank, yet Talley looked barely thirty. He led us into a marble atrium four stories high that was centered by a brilliant mosaic of the world and washed in light. Even the elevators were glass.
After a series of electronic locks and buzzers and combinations and cameras that cared about our every move, we got off on the third floor. I felt as if I were inside cut crystal. Talley seemed to blaze. I felt dazed and resentful because it hadn't been my idea to come here, and I didn't feel in charge.
"So what's up there?" Marino, the model of politeness, pointed. `17he fourth floor," Talley impassively said.
"Well, the button don't have a number and it looks like you have to key yourself up," Marino went on, staring at the elevator ceiling. "I was just wondering if that's where you keep all your computers."
"Ibe secretary-general lives up there," Talley matterуf-factly stated, as if there were nothing unusual about this.
"No shit?"
"For security reasons. He and his family live in the building;" Talley said as we passed normal-looking offices with normal-looking people inside them. "We're meeting him now."