“Soon as you hear something let me know. I want to send a team over. They won’t get in your way, just a bit of additional back-up,” in case she slips through your goddamn fingers one more time, Harvey thought. He didn’t need to say it, the inference was clear.
82
They passed through passport control without so much as a second glance, the Customs Officer looked quickly at Jack’s passport then waved him through. Another Brit off on an early morning booze cruise. The man looked like he could do with a drink, the officer thought, taking in the pale face and the shadows under the eyes.
Twenty minutes in the tunnel then the motorway to Paris. A quick stop at a service station to buy some breakfast and a couple of maps, then another stop to buy a mobile phone with a pay-as-you-go SIM. It was lunchtime before they found the address Monsieur Blanc had provided, Avenue Jules Janin, a pretty side street interspersed with restaurants, a bakery and a charcuterie. There was a parking space about ten centimetres longer than the Volvo. After blocking the street for twenty minutes, Jack eventually manoeuvred the big car into the spot. He scribbled a hasty note on the back of an envelope he’d found in the foot well, climbed out and shoved it through the P.O box.
Monsieur Blanc, Jack Hartman here. Need some advice. Call me.
He listed the number of the phone they’d bought underneath.
“What now?” Amanda said. Jack shrugged. “Now we just have to hope he’s in town.”
They spent the afternoon strolling around Paris. An enforced bout of sightseeing that made them both uncomfortable. Outwardly doing their best impression of a carefree young couple on a city break, inside filled with restless anxiety.
They were in the Impressionist Galleries at the Musée D’Orsay when the call came, the loud ringtone attracting a host of disapproving looks.
“Jack?” A curious voice, high pitched and delicate, at odds with the well-rounded figure that produced it. Unmistakably Monsieur Blanc. He walked quickly towards the lifts, away from the crowds of tourists, Amanda following close behind.
“Yes,” he replied.
“So you made it out the jungle. My congratulations. Must have been quite an adventure.” His tone was half admiring, half wary.
“Not exactly a walk in the park.” Jack replied.
“No, I can imagine. But you made it out safely and now you have decided to come and see me.” He didn’t ask why, didn’t need to, it hung heavily enough at the end of the sentence without being spoken.
“I need your help,” Jack paused, looking round him. “There’s something I need to take care of.”
“I see.” He was trying to work out what the boy was after. The sensible thing would be to leave well alone, let him fend for himself, deal with whatever mess he had got himself into. But the truth was he admired the lad, his peculiar resilience. And then there was the small matter of Centurion and Sir Clive cynically manipulating him, placing him directly in the line of fire. You simply didn’t do things like that, not to people in the business. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, perhaps it might be interesting to help the boy out, send a message to Centurion at the same time.
“Where are you? I’ll send a car.” He said decisively.
The sleek black Rolls Royce Phantom that pulled up alongside Jack and Amanda was hardly a discreet means of transport. Heavily tinted windows might have protected the passengers from prying eyes, but the size of the car gleaming imperiously in the evening sun meant it attracted the attention of the tourists lining up outside the museum.
“Mr.Hartman?” The driver asked, winding down the window. Jack peered in. Gustav was sitting in the driver’s seat, awkward and uncomfortable in his Chauffeur’s uniform.
“Bonsoir Gustav,” Jack replied, “how are things?”
“Fine,” Gustav mumbled. “You look like shit.”
“Thank you, you like a chauffeur.” Jack said as he opened the door for Amanda. The noise of the Paris street suddenly shut out as they found themselves cocooned in the plush interior. Thousands of pounds worth of hand-stitched leather and polished wood cosseting them. Even the carpet underfoot felt reassuringly soft.
“Friends in high places?” Amanda said, opening the drinks cabinet in front of her, noting the two bottles of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame. Jack shrugged, a tense smile in place. He hoped he was doing the right thing, still wasn’t convinced how far he could trust Monsieur Blanc.
The Rolls Royce sped through the Paris streets, the horn blasting motorbikes and tiny French city cars out of its way. They pulled into a small courtyard in the exclusive seventh arrondisement. The residents of this quarter lived in houses, not apartments, the clearest sign they had climbed to the top of Parisian society.
Electronic gates closed smartly behind the Rolls. Gustav got out and escorted them to a set of double doors, heavy and wooden, studded with 18th century bronze detailing. He entered a security code into a keypad and waited as the door swung smoothly inwards.
“After you,” he said, his thick Eastern European accent covering the words with a layer of sarcasm he may or may not have intended. Jack and Amanda stepped into the marbled hallway. A sweeping stone staircase led upwards.
Life in 18th century palaces was lived on the first and second floors, servants and cooking facilities were relegated to the ground floor and cellar. It looked like that was one tradition Monsieur Blanc kept alive. He appeared at the top of the stairs, an elaborately embroidered silk housecoat over dark cashmere trousers.
“Jack, so pleased to see you, and I see you’ve brought a friend.” He cast an appraising look over Amanda, his expression not altogether disapproving.
Amanda looked at Jack, her features composed but her lips tight. He took her hand and led her up the stairs, following Monsieur Blanc through what appeared to be a hall of mirrors, heavily gilded with rococo flourishes, and into a salon that faced the courtyard. A young black girl sat in one of the chairs reading, a tall and strict-looking middle-aged woman peering over her shoulder.
“You remember Florence, Jack? I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of her village, or for that matter her family, so I thought it best if she come with us.” The girl looked up solemnly from her reading and nodded at Jack.
“I’ve already enrolled her at the Lycée Henri IV. Despite her lack of formal education her tutors say she is exceptionally bright.”
“Hello again,” Jack said cheerily to the girl, hiding his surprise, but not his pleasure, at how well she looked. She smiled back, the seriousness of her expression suddenly vanished, transported into a young teenager again. Amanda was looking more than a little puzzled, wondering what sort of arms dealer decided to adopt random African children. Jack turned to Monsieur Blanc.
“Monsieur Blanc, I’d like you to meet Amanda Marshall, Dr. Amanda Marshall,” he said, correcting himself, a touch of pride in his voice.
Monsieur Blanc nodded, “Shall we go through to my study? I’d prefer it if we discuss business matters there. Gustav, will you ensure one of the kitchen staff brings us some refreshments?”
83
Monsieur Blanc sat upright in a wingback chair behind his Philippe Starck desk, hands clasped thoughtfully under his chin, dessert trolley of cakes within easy reach. The study was an uneasy mix of ultra modern and traditional design. The intricate plaster cornicing and wood panelled walls were painted bright white to set off the angular and brightly coloured furniture.