“Where to, Monsieur?” asked the taxi driver.
“Montmartre,” he said.
The driver gave a knowing look. “The ladies, eh?”
“The cemetery.”
“But it’s closed this time of night.”
Stefan rolled down the window. Lights from the late-night cafés in Les Halles, snatches of conversation flashed past.
“That’s right.”
The driver would log the destination as Montmartre cemetery but Stefan always parked a few blocks away.
The fountain spraying in front of hulking gothic St. Eustache church and the circus posters brought the memories back. Back to the afternoon twenty years ago, when they’d planned the heist and kidnapping.
The sun had blazed in a sky enameled blue. The gang had joined bourgeois families and older couples at the zoo on a typical Sunday in Vincennes Park. He often wondered how people would have reacted if they’d known wanted terrorists strolled in their midst, eating spun sugar barbes à papas, standing beside them in the run-down zoo. Marcus, his arms draped around Ingrid, had insisted on feeding the monkeys, who looked so sad.
The braying of an elephant was carried on the wind with the animal smells: dense and musky.
They’d bought tickets for the bumper cars at the cheesy fun fair. Ulrike, he’d noticed, stood apart, watching children beg reluctant parents for one last ride. She thrust a roll of tickets into a startled mother’s hand and walked away.
Mallard ducks rippled in V formation from the grasses toward the small man-made island, the Ile de Bercy. He remembered the island well. At the dock, Marcus paid and they commandeered two rowboats and rowed to the island. They found Jules and Beate with other Action-Réaction members, sitting under a spreading willow. The group greeted them with roasted chicken and bottles of wine on a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, picnic style.
“Welcome to a Sunday in the country,” Jules grinned. The afternoon held a luminosity, a quivering glow, that he still remembered.
Probably the one time they’d been happy together.
No fights or rivalries. That surfaced later.
“Your idea inspired us, Stefan,” Jules had said, to his amazement.
“That wealthy man in your hometown, Laborde, the industrialist you told us about, he’s our target. Not only is he a munitions-making shit, he’s a wealthy one, too.”
Alarmed, Stefan realized he’d once talked about his boyhood in Mulhouse after smoking too much hash. How the only swimming pool around after the war had been at the château. Granted, a modest manor house, but for Mulhouse a point of pride.
During a battle over the Rhine, the Allies had bombed the château, and left a crater in the yard. The count had made it into the pool. As a boy, Stefan had sneaked over the wall when the count was away and gone swimmming with his friends. But when Laborde bought the property, he’d wired the fence and brought in dogs. Rumor had it he owned mines in Africa.
After they’d eaten, Jules had given Jutta a notebook to write in. By the water, Beate and Ingrid fed a baguette to the ducks.
“Laborde has skeletons in his closet,” Jules said. “He collaborated with the SS. Rumor has it he was part of the Milice, involved with the Vichy government. Not to mention he ships arms to Africa and gets paid in diamonds.”
“The Revolution is coming!” Ulrike’s eyes flashed. “Fascist capitalism must be overturned. The proletariat deserves the spoils, not the merchant of death.”
“We’ll turn the money into tools to finance our cause, to help our oppressed brothers and sisters in prison, in the tenements,” Ingrid said. Beate, her long hair falling to her waist, joined her and nodded.
Jules diagrammed the house layout in the dirt.
“We kidnap him, open the safe, then rendezvous at the farm,” said Jules. “Jutta’s working on the new passports, IDs, and cars, and Action-Réaction is providing the escape network.”
Marcus sat cross-legged and pulled out a map, outlining Laborde’s movements.
“His wife and children stay in Nice for the summer,” he said.
“On the weekends, he drives to Mulhouse, where he keeps a minimal staff.” Marcus looked up, grinned. “We ambush him here on the N66, the small road he takes.”
Jutta took notes. Stefan wondered how they’d found out this information.
“Since you know the lay of the land, you can guide us inside the château, Stefan. Then you can take your swim, eh,” said Jules, his eyes slitted in amusement.
Stefan’s spine prickled. “But I’ve never been inside!” Verrucht! They were crazy! He wanted nothing to do with this, yet an irrational part of him wanted to swim in that pool. That exotic turquoise green kidney shaped expanse of water under the imported palms, once the talk of Mulhouse.
“Laborde will show us in and open the safe,” Jules said. “He’ll have to. His life depends on it.”
“Everyone has something to do,” Jutta said. She lifted up a paper. On it was each person’s name, arrows pointing to his or her assigned job.
Perfect in theory. Events had proved differently.
They’d ambushed Laborde’s chauffeured Mercedes on the forested road outside Mulhouse. Laborde, a stocky man with a bad toupee, had been drinking. He’d proved belligerent, kicking Jules and biting his hand. Finally, with Stefan’s help, Jules had handcuffed Laborde’s wrists together behind his back. They gagged the driver, stowed him in the trunk, then Stefan donned his uniform. Ulrike, Marcus, Ingrid, Beate, and Jutta followed in the local blanchisserie’s truck they’d stolen.
At the château gate, Laborde, with Jules’s gun in his ribs prompting him, told the man to open the gates and take the weekend off. The Mercedes and the laundry truck pulled up the crescent drive leading to the gray stone château and parked against a chestnut tree.
The service staff, a gray-haired housekeeper in an apron and a butler in slacks and cardigan, stood smiling on the steps.
“What do we do now?” Stefan asked, paralyzed.
He heard scuffling in the back, but all he could see was Jules’s shoulders in the rearview mirror. He heard heaving and grunts.
“Jules, what now?”
The butler had started walking down the steps to the car.
“What do I do?”
A red-faced Jules stuck his face up. “He’s sick, tell them he’s sick and will go right to his room.”
He had to move. To do something. They would know he wasn’t the usual chauffeur.
He stepped onto the drive. The gravel crunched and shifted under his feet. He took off his cap, but kept his eyes down. “I’m the new driver. Monsieur Laborde feels unwell, his colleague will escort him to his room.”
Surprise painted their faces.
“Monsieur Laborde wants you to take the weekend off.”
The butler came to the car door. “But Monsieur Laborde specifically requested us to stay, especially today. The rest of the staff will return for this evening’s dinner party. The minister called, he’s arriving at seven P.M.”
Scheisser! They were sunk.
Whichever idiot planned this hadn’t taken into account Laborde’s social life.
Words tumbled from his mouth.
“Everything’s on hold. Monsieur Laborde’s health is the most important consideration. He’ll decide later.”
“But he sounded fine this morning….”
“Stomach flu,” Stefan had said, the first thing that came to him. “Suddenly. I had to stop several times on the road so he could throw up.”
“This is highly unusual,” the butler said, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “Monsieur Laborde likes to confirm the details with me.”
The housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. “One good thing, thank the Lord, the laundry’s brought the linens.”