Again he waved his liver-spotted hand. “We’re here to eat. For once. This place costs the earth.”
“You’ve called in a favor, more like it,” she said, “or the maître d’s your informer.” She noticed the burgundy spots on the lapel of his jacket. “Killed half a bottle already, I see.”
“I’d like to enjoy it, Leduc. Looks like you could do with some food in your stomach.”
But she told him anyway. And about Pascal Samour.
Morbier pulled out an unfiltered Gauloises. Cast a warning glance at a waiter, who had promptly appeared with a lighter, then lit it with a matchbox from his pocket.
Aimée stared. Why hadn’t she seen it? Stupid again.
“All these years you’ve worked with the DST and never told me?” she said, controlling her voice with effort. “Shame on you, Morbier.”
Shock painted his lined brow. “Where does that come from?”
“A little under-the-sheets time with the DGSE too? Too bad the DGSE agent success rate is only twenty-eight percent.”
He blinked. She’d surprised him for once.
“I thought their rate was thirty-two percent.”
Her turn for surprise. And then it faded.
“Your leaked report’s more current than mine,” she said. “Don’t play dumb. You’re my contact instead of Sacault tonight.”
“The lamppost knocked you harder than you thought,” Morbier said. “Not my people at all. The opposite.” Shrugged. “There are things I need to tell you.”
Something in his voice made her sit up.
Two plates of white asparagus dotted with caviar appeared. He paused until the waiter backed away.
Morbier pushed his cell phone toward the wineglass, tucked his linen napkin in his collar. A member of the proletariat like him would enjoy a three-star resto in his own way. He speared an asparagus tip with his salad fork.
“Eat while it’s hot, Leduc,” he said, glancing at the other diners.
“Asparagus is served cold, Morbier. So you wanted to have dinner, eh? Talk?”
He nodded. Always a good liar.
“Then convince me.”
“You’re more than unusually feisty tonight.” He glanced at her untouched plate.
“Murder does that to me.”
“Homicide’s not my turf. Not anymore, you know that.”
She stared at the white asparagus. Couldn’t eat. Her stomach churned. She heard a choking, looked up.
Morbier paled. Swallowed several times.
What was wrong with him?
She saw an uneasy flicker in his basset-hound eyes.
“Got a stalk stuck in your throat?”
He shook his head.
“Lift your hands up in the air,” she said.
“Leduc, keep my eye contact. In a minute or so, drop your napkin. Glance at the fourth table, the couple sitting over a bottle of Vouvray.”
She dropped her linen napkin, turned as she reached down for it.
“Him or her?”
“Operatives of this caliber work in couples. Better cover.”
Now she had a lump in her throat.
“This vintage comes from a northern vineyard,” he said, all of a sudden. “You can taste the terroir, the rich soil.”
Morbier knew as much about vintage as a street cleaner.
“The terroir? We’re not describing vine-growing conditions in sandy or acidic soil here, but people.”
“Lower your voice, Leduc.” He leaned closer. “Certain branches have expressed great interest in you. I don’t know what pot you’ve stirred up …”
“It’s what I’m doing at the Musée des Arts et Métiers,” she said. “Or not doing, as I told you. But they don’t know that. I’ve got a theory.”
“Theory?” Surprise painted Morbier’s face. “Connected to Samour?”
“Good, you’ve been listening,” she said. “You’re not usually so informative. Funny, since you haven’t answered your phone. Or returned my messages in weeks.”
“Paranoid, Leduc?”
“You’re the one seeing operatives at the fourth table.” She sat back. Noticed a high-end satellite phone poking out from the napkin on the woman’s lap.
All the signs were there: Morbier’s evasiveness, a hurried meeting. The DST had kicked this into high gear.
She felt him grab her hand under the table and place a piece of paper in it.
“Read it later. Trust me.”
Since when had she trusted him? Any favor he’d done her demanded payment. She turned her back, blocking anyone’s view, and slit open the sealed envelope. Found a small pale-blue notecard with cramped writing.
Amy, believe no one. They’re using you to find me. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I’ve watched you from afar, tried to shield you. Thanks to your father, I found a new life. Now for once, I’m doing something right. It means I can’t protect you. Not anymore. You’re the only person who can take care of you. Remember that. I told you this when you were little and in my letters for years. Know that I care for you.
—Mommy (DESTROY THIS)
“My mother?” Her insides wrenched. “When did you get this?”
“You know how your father felt.”
Papa pretended Sydney had never existed.
“She’s my mother.” Aimée bit her lip. “What does she mean, protect me?”
“It’s complicated.” Morbier looked as comfortable as a hen held under a knife.
“That’s all you can say? Diagram it for me, Morbier.” She seethed inside. “Better yet, give me her letters.”
“I destroyed them.”
She swallowed. Her mother’s letters and he destroyed them. “Because Papa …”
“You’re naive.”
“Call me what you want. I don’t hate my mother. How could I? How can you? I want to see her.” Her eyes teared. “Just once.”
“A woman hunted, persona non grata, on the World Security watch list?”
In the end, what did it matter? All she remembered were those warm arms that held her when she’d had a fever, the drawings scribbled on old envelopes to make her laugh. That smile, those carmine-red lips.
“Quit putting me off, like always. You’ve never told me the truth, Morbier. When I was little I knew when you lied.”
Morbier hadn’t answered her calls. What had changed?
“You’ve got a red face,” she said. “The tops of your big ears are pink.”
“But I’m not lying, Leduc. Not this time.”
“You think I believe you?” Aimee clutched at a hope, as always. “If Maman’s life is in danger, she needs me. Now.”
“She abandoned you.”
That hole opened up. Wide and empty. The years of not knowing.
“Maybe she had to.” The lie she told herself. “Not all women can handle raising a child,” she said. “I just want to see her, talk with her. Once. Then if she doesn’t want to know me—”
“She knows you, Leduc,” he said, his voice low. “What you do, how you live.”
Pain lanced her heart. She thought of the times she’d sensed a presence, a shadow on the quai. That hurt even more. “Why not contact me, Morbier?”
“Try to understand.” His shoulders sagged. “They’d implicate you in aiding and abetting terrorism. Arrest you.” Morbier expelled a sigh. “Children. Always so selfish.”
Part of her always felt eight years old, that little girl waiting for her mother in the empty apartment after school.
“So you appointed yourself judge and jury, eh, Morbier? Decided long ago.” A terrible thought hit her. “Or you’re hiding the truth because the truth’s too ugly. And your part in the reason she left? And Papa … you lied to him?”
“But you know what happened. The facts.”
“I had to find them out years later. Myself. You could have told me.”