The back room had been stripped of the whiteboards, the television screen, the table, chairs, and couch. Out in the cavernous space he found Haja and Amé finishing up beneath the sculpture.
Sauvage told them about the martial law decision and a change of plans.
“Wait,” Haja said. “You’ve already built this thing?”
“Months ago,” the major replied. “Just to see if I could do it. But it’s there, and it will work.”
Doubtful, Amé said, “But the curfew.”
“You’ll be long gone before curfew,” he assured her.
“What about afterward?” Haja asked.
“I’ve removed everything identifiable.”
For a moment, both women were hesitant.
“Haven’t we done enough?” Amé asked. “Hasn’t a tipping point been reached already with the riots and gunfights last night?”
“Do you want to risk them containing things?”
Haja stewed for a beat. “Where do you want it to happen?”
The major thought about his assignment, and then said, “Sevran.”
Chapter 79
8th Arrondissement
3:45 p.m.
WAKING UP AFTER a solid five hours of rest, I realized I was becoming a creature of the night in Paris. The television was on in the outer room, and after showering and shaving, I found Louis drinking coffee in there.
“Predicted it, didn’t I?” he said, gesturing at the screen. “Martial law.”
“No kidding,” I said, moving around behind him.
“They’re putting army units in the eastern suburbs. Curfew at eleven.”
The screen split then to show Laurent Alexandre, who was talking about the various designers he’d gotten to agree to put their work on at the upcoming Millie Fleurs memorial in defiance of AB-16, but I didn’t have a chance to hear the names because my cell phone rang.
I saw the caller ID, smiled, and answered.
“Michele Herbert,” I said. “How are you?”
“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Jack,” said the artist and graffiti expert in a teasing tone.
“I’ve just been a little busy the past few days.”
“Make nothing of it, but I might have something for you on that tag.”
I put her on speaker so Louis could listen. Herbert explained that she’d been receiving hundreds of photographs of the AB-16 tag from all around Paris. She’d been comparing them to the one up on the cupola at the Institut de France, and found that only one in ten tags matched the one on the cupola. The rest were copies, even the ones at the crime scenes.
“They didn’t use paint at Millie Fleurs’s,” Louis said. “It was done in fabric.”
Herbert said, “I hadn’t heard that.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Saw it myself.”
“Well, that doesn’t fit, but I don’t suppose it matters,” she replied. “Anyway, an old student of mine who is also obsessed with graffiti art examined the ones that were definitely done by the cupola tagger, and he agreed that the technique reminded him of Zee Pac-Man’s work.”
“The tagger murdered before Christmas?” I asked.
“Correct,” she said. “Which is what he found intriguing.”
“How’s that?” Louis asked.
“Taggers are like most artists. They start out copying others. Once they’ve mastered their techniques, they start introducing their own methods,” she said.
“So your old student remembered someone who copied Zee Pac-Man?”
“Someone who was once a suspect in his murder.”
“Pac-Man’s?” Louis asked.
“Correct,” she said.
“Name?” I asked.
“Piggott,” she said. “Paul Piggott, but he calls himself Epée, like the dueling sword. Besides graffiti, he’s obsessed with parkour.”
Louis scribbled on a pad of paper and showed it to me.
“I know Epée,” his note read. “Arrested his father once.”
“Does that help?” Michele asked over the speaker.
“Most definitely,” I said. “In fact, I owe you dinner before I leave Paris.”
“I’d like that, Jack,” she said. “Very much.”
Chapter 80
20th Arrondissement
5:15 p.m.
LOUIS AND I slid into seats outside a café on the Rue de Bagnolet, where we could see the front door of an apartment building that had seen much better days. Louis had pulled strings in France’s motor vehicles department and gotten the address for twenty-eight-year-old Paul Piggott, a.k.a. Epée.
We also had a three-year-old driver’s license photograph and Epée’s rap sheet, which featured multiple counts of destruction of property for putting up graffiti art. The only felony Piggott had ever been convicted of was assault and battery five years before. He had spent eight months in jail for the offense, and had been clean ever since.
We had Petitjean and Vans digging into his background while we staked out his apartment.
“He doesn’t look like your average Islamic militant,” I said, studying the driver’s license photo.
“They come in many shapes, shades, and sizes,” Louis said. “But you know, come to think of it, his father was…merde! There he is!”
I twisted in my chair and saw Piggott turn away from the door to his apartment building. Long, lean, and athletic, he wore a black warm-up suit, gym shoes, and a black-and-white checked scarf around his neck. A black messenger bag was slung across his chest, and he snugged it to his hip as he walked east.
“Let’s get to it,” Louis said.
We bolted from the café. Louis crossed the street. I paralleled him on my side. When Louis was less than twenty feet from Piggott, he called, “Hey, Paul. How’s your old man doing?”
Still moving, Epée glanced over his shoulder.
“Remember me?” Louis said.
Piggott seemed to remember Louis all right. He swiveled and took off like a four-hundred-meter sprinter, long legs and arms pumping as he accelerated, with Louis and me in pursuit.
True to his nickname, Epée had uncanny reflexes and remarkable evasive instincts. He parried and cut through the late-day crowd as if he’d memorized every move, and we almost immediately started to lose ground. Then I jumped out into the street and ran between the parked cars and oncoming traffic.
With no one to avoid, I was catching up to him when he took a hard left onto Cité Aubry, where he left the sidewalk and ran up the middle of the residential street. Where the paved way veered left, he continued straight ahead on a cobblestone street called Villa Riberolle.
Piggott was not only quick and evasive but insanely fit. Or at least he was fitter than me, because he kept putting distance between us, never once looking back. I did, however, and saw Louis several blocks behind, limping and hobbling slowly after me.
Louis bellowed, “I tore my knee! Get him!”
That filled my gas tanks. I put my head down and ran harder. If he was the one who had tagged the Institut de France, he was part of AB-16, knew the leaders. We could not afford to lose him.
At the end of the cobblestone road, Piggott took another hard left. When I got to the turn, he was forty yards ahead of me, climbing a tall, ivy-covered wall as if he were part monkey. In three quick moves he was up and over the top-again, never once looking back.
I got to the wall seconds later, and almost started up after him. Then I realized that if Epée was as clever as I thought he was, he wouldn’t look back until he’d cleared the wall. He’d get well out from under it and watch for half a minute or so before moving on.
So I forced myself to rest, taking in big, slow breaths while I watched the second hand of my watch. At thirty-five seconds, I began to climb. Reaching the top, I kicked up my right leg to straddle the top of the wall, and felt something slip from my pocket. My iPhone shattered on the cobblestones. I cursed and then hauled myself up and over.