She wore a black skirt, cut well above the knee, comfortable and flexible in case she needed to run for her life later. A light rain fell outside and added a gloss to the Boulevard Montparnasse. Against the rain she wore a pair of chic leather boots, which she had bought late that afternoon in a shop across the street from her lodgings. The boots were supple and flexible while still looking sharp.
They spoke Italian. “LaDuca” meant “the duchess” in Italian, Rizzo noted, a quirk he liked. He asked about the origin of her name. She explained about her father. She shied away from other personal information, however, and he did too; one never knew when a listening device had been dropped. But he did speak of his boyhood, growing up in the slums of Rome, learning English from his father who had been in a POW camp and how he had done his own stint in the Italian army. He amused her with a tale of blowing up a bridge in Spain in the 1970s, part of a prearranged NATO training exercise, but no one had warned the Spanish police.
“It all got blamed on the Basques,” he said with a snort, following an account of how his brigade of Italians had to hightail it to France in their socks.
In return, she told him about Venezuela and the slaughter in Barranco Lajoya. He listened seriously and offered condolences. They did not discuss Kiev. He knew the details of her loss and stayed away from the subject.
Things were playing out in her mind in three dimensions now. The first was the present, in a nostalgia-laden restaurant on Paris’s Left Bank where the relics of eighty years ago-in addition to the painting on the pillars, portraits of Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Kiki of Montparnasse, Man Ray, and Foujita-haunted the walls. Amidst this, Jean sat near the door, poised and intent, his eyes fixed on comings and goings.
The second dimension was one step beyond the immediate present, the notion that at any given moment a bullet could find her, putting her into the same earthly blackness that had consumed Robert. For the first time, she really considered what death would be like. It occurred to her that she might have just days, hours, or minutes to live.
But beyond that, even as she conversed with Rizzo in the forefront of her mind, her mind played out its own recent memories. This evening had taken on its own madness and it gripped her. She thought of Robert and his funeral, of the chaos in Kiev, and the massacre in Barranco Lajoya, and she thought of the six slain missionaries, Father Martin, and her friends back in Washington who would probably be playing basketball that night.
Then dinner was finished. She was conscious of the Glock she wore on her hip, concealed carefully under a light jacket.
She reminded herself that she had loaded the weapon and even chambered the first round. The Glock had a concealed hammer, but it was there, back and ready to fall and fire the round. All that prevented it doing so was the safety catch, which she could snap to “fire” with her thumb as she drew the weapon. This practice was dangerous, but the second or two needed for the operation of the slide to chamber the first round might make all the difference between-it was best not to think about what came after “between.” In her mind she went through the reflexive motions of using it.
She ordered a Caesar salad, while he had a blanquette de veau, thus confirming her suspicion that Italians largely lived on veal. He matched her stereotype for stereotype, and neither was completely wrong.
“Voi americane sempre mangiano delle insalate, perché non vogliono ingrassare,” he said with a smile. You American women always eat salads because you don’t want to get fat. “Ma è chiarissimo que per Lei non c’è pericolo a proposito di quello”-but it is clear that you’re in no danger of that.
“That’s because we do eat salads,” she answered with a laugh.
For a moment Alex wondered if he was hitting on her, but from his expression it was simply a compliment, and she felt flattered. Of course, she realized that any compliment of a young woman by an Italian male was at least a potential hit.
It didn’t bother her. In some ways, it made her felt normal again. And shortly after, Rizzo began to speak affectionately of his own lady friend, Sophie, who would be joining him in three days.
Coffee, the check, and then they were out the door, leaving. Jean had her back and Rizzo found a taxi.
The driver took them back to the apartment building on the rue Guénéguad.
Rizzo stepped out first and scanned the quiet block.
“Check your telephone,” he said to her. “I’ll check mine.”
They both checked. The devices worked. Then, as they stood there, a shadow moved in a sturdy black Peugeot that was jammed into a parking spot twenty feet from her front door.
In a light rain, a window on the driver’s side descended.
Startled, Alex’s hand went to her gun.
“Va bene,” Rizzo said in Italian. It’s okay.
From the driver’s seat in the car, Michael Cerny gave Alex a small and almost playful salute. “The block is clear,” he said. “You’re fine.”
“Maurice is inside the building?” she asked.
“Talked to him ten minutes ago,” he said.
“And he was alive when he was talking to you?” she needled.
“He sounded like he was,” trying to make light of it. “I didn’t specifically ask, though.”
“Very funny,” she said. But she relaxed slightly.
Rizzo gave her an embrace. She walked the rest of the way down the street to her door, tuned into the sound of her own footsteps on the sidewalk.
She stopped, tried to take a sense of the situation, and arrived at the big blue double doors that led into her building.
A nagging instinct told her that all hell was about to break loose. She looked back and saw Cerny give her another wave.
To enter she punched a numeric code on one of those keypads that all Paris apartments now had-the days of the concièrge who lived next to the door and let people in who rang were long gone-and pushed the door open.
Quiet as the grave, she thought as she stepped inside, and if I’m not careful, only once removed from one.
EIGHTY
She pushed her way in and the light clicked on. The doors closed behind her. There was coolness to the stairway. She waited a moment and then realized why. Someone had left the window open on the first floor landing, one flight up.
Probably Maurice. But where was Maurice?
She paused for a moment, her senses alert to possible danger. Then she continued to the steps. An open window had allowed some rain to fall inside and the effect was soothing. It had been stuffy earlier in the stairwell.
She started up the steps. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the plaster walls and the wooden stairs. Lord, she was tired. Her brain buzzed with the events of the day.
She arrived on the first floor landing.
The floor was damp from the rain and she made a note to speak to Maurice. She could give him some friendly advice on home maintenance.
Well, no matter. The building was quiet.
Too quiet?
On the landing one flight up, she pushed the window shut and locked it. There was water on the floor. Someone was going to slip. She had been told that Maurice kept towels and mops in the closets on the landing. She decided to do her good deed for the day. She would drop a towel and quickly glide it over the floor with her foot, lest the next resident slip on this mess.
She stepped to the closet.
The door was stuck.
Her gaze gravitated downward. She caught the faint outline of crimson that was flowing from under the closet door.
She yanked the door open. Maurice, or what remained of him, slumped forward from a crouched lying position to a sprawling one. Her eyes riveted on the hole in his head just between the eyes. Then, she quickly took in the two bullet wounds to the chest. The gunshot wounds to the body were probably the first ones, followed by the head wound, which was the coup de grâce.