“Where are you two staying tonight?”
Tom shook his head.
“We’re not sure yet.”
“I’ll book you something.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Jennifer. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“J’insiste,” said Dumas without smiling. “And if you want any further cooperation from the French authorities” — he held her FBI badge up in one hand — “then I suggest you go through the official channels. Otherwise, tomorrow, I expect you both out of the country.” With a flick of his wrist he tossed her badge toward her and she snatched it out of the air.
“Go over to the Hôtel St. Merri in the Fourth,” said Dumas as they emerged onto the street. “Tell them I sent you. They’ll give you a couple of rooms.”
“Merci, Jean-Pierre,” said Tom, shaking his hand firmly as Jennifer got into the car.
“De rien, mon ami. It’s good to have you back.” Then in a quieter voice. “What are you doing mixed up in all this, Felix? The FBI? C’est pas ton style.”
“Like I said before, it’s a short-term gig. She gets her coin back, I get whoever killed Harry Renwick. That’s it.”
Dumas nodded and looked at Tom, then at Jennifer, then back to Tom.
“Be careful.”
“What? Of Van Simson? Don’t worry, if those two were the best he’s got, I’ll be fine.”
“No, I mean of her.” Dumas winked. “A woman like that can be dangerous. Make you do things you shouldn’t. Don’t forget how they treated you last time.”
Tom somehow mustered a smile.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Tom threw his head back under the shower’s massaging pulse and closed his eyes, letting it run through his hair. The water flooded his ears, blocking them, and as he listened to his suddenly amplified breathing and the strangely distant sound of the water splashing all around him, the dull throb in his head subsided a little. It was only then that he realized how tired he was.
He slid the cubicle door back a bit and a thin cloud of steam escaped through the narrow gap into the bathroom, fogging the mirror. He reached out toward the sink, his eyes blinking as they fought against the water running in rivulets off his head, and closed his fingers around the small complimentary bar of soap and bottle of shampoo that the hotel had thoughtfully provided.
He rubbed the soap all over himself, rinsed it off and then washed his hair. He reached toward the sink again and located the small razor that had also been provided, somehow managing not to cut himself as he shaved. Then he stood there, his hands leaning against the chipped tiles and flaking grout, the water thudding onto the base of his neck, sluicing over his shoulders and down his back. He turned the temperature up a little.
How had he ended up here? He’d almost forgotten now. Uncle Harry. That was it. He’d wanted to find Harry’s killers. To make them pay.
And to help himself. He couldn’t deny it. Jennifer’s deal offered him a real chance. His file wiped, the CIA off his back, Clarke warned off. Could he trust them, though? Could he trust her? He still wasn’t sure.
He flicked the water off and grabbed first one, then another, towel off the rail over the bath. He dried himself, the rough cloth rasping over his skin like sandpaper, smoothing his hair into shape with his hand. Then he pulled on clean underwear, a pair of jeans, and a T-shirt, all in the bag of clothes provided by the ever-efficient FBI. Finally, he laced up the sneakers that he’d shoved on that morning when the police had first shown up. He stepped out into the bedroom and then made his way down the narrow staircase to Jennifer’s room on the floor below. He knocked.
“Come in.”
“I’m just going down to see about getting us a table at the restaurant next door.”
Jennifer nodded.
“Okay. I’ve got to make a phone call anyway. I’m going to suggest that we go to Amsterdam and follow up on this Steiner angle.”
“Fine. But don’t forget our agreement. Unless you get my deal confirmed, you’ll be going on your own.”
“Understood,” she agreed.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Sure.”
She stepped into the bathroom and Tom noticed the smooth muscle of her neck as it curved into her perfect brown back. He shook his head ruefully. That was exactly what Jean-Pierre had meant about her being dangerous.
A few moments later he emerged onto the street below. The pale buildings glowed a deep yellow as the sun melted into the horizon and the stone began to radiate an intense baked-in heat. The streets were already alive with people and the noisy cafés and restaurants spilled their eager customers out onto the street under an array of brightly colored umbrellas, lit from underneath like lanterns. Innumerable conversations ducked under the buzz of scooters and climbed over the growl of traffic on the nearby Rue de Rivoli.
The area was notorious for prostitutes and, looking up, Tom noticed that one of them had already opened her window and placed a small red towel over her balcony. It was the usual signal. She was open for business.
“Tom. Over here.” At the sound of his name Tom spun round to face the table he had just walked past.
“All right?” came the voice again, this time accompanied by a wave.
Archie was virtually unrecognizable. A baseball cap, T-shirt, and shorts formed an effective camouflage amidst the crowds of tourists. The camera hanging round his neck and the knapsack at his feet completed the image. A pair of sunglasses sat on his face, his stubble rougher than before. It seemed to be some sort of disguise, although for what purpose Tom couldn’t say. In any case, he was too surprised to comment.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Have you been inside? There’s an art deco mirror behind the bar. Saw one like it sell for ten grand a few months ago.”
Tom grabbed him by his T-shirt and lifted him right out of his chair.
“What are you doing here? What are you playing at?”
“Easy, tiger,” said Archie, his sunglasses half off his face.
“How did you find me?” Tom snapped.
“Jean-Pierre called me this afternoon,” Archie croaked, the collar of the T-shirt pressed against his throat. “He was just returning a favor, that’s all. Honest, mate.”
Tom relaxed his grip slightly.
“What did he say?”
“That you were in Paris. I dusted off my passport, jumped on the next Eurostar and gave him a bell when I arrived. He told me he’d sent you here.”
“He didn’t tell me that he’d called you when I saw him.” Tom’s voice was edged with suspicion.
“Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m here now.”
Tom stared at Archie for a few seconds before letting him go so that he slumped back into his chrome seat. Archie pushed his sunglasses back on his nose as Tom sat heavily in the chair opposite him.
“What do you want, Archie?”
“We need to talk. There’s all sorts of shit flying around. None of it good. It’s a real dog’s breakfast.”
“Why, what have you heard?”
“Word is you clipped old man Renwick. It looks bad.”
“Do you think I did it?”
“Don’t be daft.”
Tom leaned back, sighed, and rubbed his eyes. He signaled to the waiter who came over and took their order.
“Bloody foreigners,” Archie grumbled. “Never serve proper beer, just this fizzy shit.” He eventually settled with a grunt on the lager he deemed least offensive. Tom, predictably, ordered a vodka tonic.