The moment he sat next to me I had started to consider the alternatives. Now I knew: This was a kidnapping. If I got into the vehicle, I would be cooked. Have you ever heard that when someone is missing the first forty-eight hours are most crucial? What they don't tell you--maybe because it's so obvious--is that every second that passes makes finding the victim that much less likely.
The same works here. If they get me in the car, the chance I will be found plummets. The moment I get up and start following him to the car, my odds diminish. He isn't expecting an early strike. He figures I'm listening to him right now. I am a nonthreat. He is still working on his quasi-rehearsed speech.
So I work the element of surprise.
He had glanced away too, just for a second, to make sure the vehicle was still in place. That was all I needed. I already had my hands gripping the table. My leg muscles tightened. I exploded up like out of a power squat.
The table landed flush on his face. At the same time I turned to the side, just in case he got a shot off.
No chance.
I kept the torque in my torso and shot up and over. If there had just been Scar Head to worry about, my next step would be clear: disable him. Maim or hurt or just end his ability to fight in some way. But there were at least three other men here. My hope was that they would scatter, but I couldn't count on that.
Good thing too. Because they didn't.
My eyes searched for the gun. As I expected, he had dropped it on impact. I landed hard on top of my adversary. The table was still pressed against his face. The back of his head hit the pavement with a thud.
I went for the gun.
People screamed and scattered. I rolled off and toward the gun, picked it up, continued to roll. I made it to one knee and aimed it at the sunglassed guy who'd been waiting on the corner.
He had a gun too.
"Freeze!" I shouted.
He raised the gun in my direction. I did not hesitate. I shot him in the chest.
The moment I pulled the trigger I rolled toward the wall. The green minivan was racing toward me. Shots were fired. Not a handgun this time.
Machine-gun fire raking the wall.
More screams.
Oh man, I hadn't counted on that. My calculations were all about me. There were pedestrians--and I was dealing with complete lunatics who seemed okay with hurting any and all bystanders.
I saw the first man, Scar Head, who got whacked with the table, stirring. Sunglasses was down. Blood rushed in my ears. I could hear my own breath.
Had to move.
"Stay down!" I shouted to the passing crowd, and then because you think of weird things even at times like this, I wondered how you'd say that in French or if they would be able to translate or if, hey, the machine-gun fire would clue them in.
Keeping low, I ran in the direction opposite the van's movement, toward where it had been parked. I heard a screech of tires. More gunfire. I turned the corner and kept my legs pumping. I was back on Rue Dauphine. The hotel was only about a hundred yards in front of me.
So what?
I risked a glance behind me. The van had backed up and was making the turn. I looked for a road or alley to turn down.
Nothing. Or maybe . . . ?
There was a small road on the other side of the street. I debated dodging across, but then I'd be even more exposed. The van was speeding toward me now. I saw the barrel of a weapon sticking out the window.
I was too out in the open.
My legs pumped. I kept my head low, as if that would really make me a smaller target. There were people on the street. Some figured out what was going on and dispersed. Others I bumped into, sending them sprawling.
"Get down!" I kept yelling because I had to yell something.
Another blast of gunfire. I literally felt a bullet pass over my head, could feel the air tickle my hair.
Then I heard sirens.
It was that awful French siren again, the short shrill blast, and I never thought I would so welcome that horrid sound.
The van stopped. I moved to the side and flattened myself against the wall. The van flew back in reverse, heading back to the corner. I held the gun in my hand and debated taking a shot. The van was probably too far away--and there were too many pedestrians in the way. I had already been reckless enough.
I didn't like the idea of them getting away, but I didn't want the streets riddled with more gunfire.
The back of the minivan slid open. I saw a man pop out. Scar Head was up now. There was blood on his face and I wondered if I'd broken his nose. Two days, two broken noses. Nice work if you could get paid for it.
Scar Head needed help. He looked down the street in my direction, but I was probably too far away to see. I resisted the temptation to wave. I heard the sirens again, getting closer. I turned and two police cars came toward me.
The cops jumped out and pointed weapons at me. For a moment I was surprised, ready to explain that I was the good guy here, but then it all came clear. I was holding a gun in my hand. I had shot someone.
The cops yelled something that I assume was a command to freeze and raise my hands and I did just that. I let the weapon drop to the pavement and got on one knee. The cops ran toward me.
I looked back toward the minivan. I wanted to point it out to the cops, tell them to go after it, but I knew how any sudden move would appear. The police were shouting instructions at me, and I didn't understand any of them so I stayed perfectly still.
And then I saw something that made me want to go for the gun again.
The minivan door was open. Scar Head was rolling in. The other man jumped in behind him and began to close the doors as the van started to move. The angle changed and for just a second--less time really, maybe half a second--I was able to see into the back of the van.
I was also a good distance away, probably seventy to eighty yards, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't seeing what I thought I was seeing.
Panic took over. I couldn't help it--I started to stand back up. I was that desperate. I was ready to jump for the gun and start firing at the tires. But the cops were on me now. I don't know how many. Four or five. They leapt on me, pounding me back to the pavement.
I struggled and felt something sharp, probably the butt end of a club, dig into my kidney. I didn't stop.
"The green van!" I shouted.
There were too many of them. I felt my arms being twisted behind my back.
"Please"--I could hear the near-crazed fear in my voice, tried to quell it--"you have to stop them!"
But my words were having no effect. The minivan was gone.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure back the memory of that half a second. Because what I did see in the back--or what I thought I saw--right before the van doors closed and swallowed her whole, was a girl with long blond hair.
10
TWO hours later, I was back in my stinky holding cell at 36 quai des Orfevres.
The police questioned me for a very long time.
I kept my narrative simple and begged them to find Berleand for me. I tried to keep my voice steady as I told them to find Terese Collins at the hotel--I was worried that whoever had gone after me might be interested in her too--and mostly I repeated the van's license plate number and said that there might be a kidnap victim in the back.
First they kept me out on the street, which was odd but also made sense. I was cuffed and had two officers, one holding each elbow, with me at all times. They wanted me to point out what had happened. They walked me back to Cafe Le Buci on the corner. The table was still overturned. There was a smear of blood on it. I explained what I had done. No witness had seen Scar Head holding the gun, of course, just my counterattack. The man I had shot had been rushed off in an ambulance, which I hoped meant he was alive.
"Please," I said for the hundredth time, "Captain Berleand can explain everything."
If you were trying to read their body language, you'd conclude that the cops were both skeptical of everything I said and rather b
ored. But you can't judge by the body language. I had learned that over the years. Cops are always skeptical--plus they get more information that way. They always act like they don't believe you so you keep talking, trying to defend and explain and blurting out things that maybe you shouldn't.
"You need to find the van," I said again, repeating the license plate number mantralike.
"My friend is staying at the d'Aubusson." I pointed down the Rue Dauphine, gave Terese's name and room number.
To all of this, the cops nodded and responded with questions that had nothing to do with what I had just said. I answered the questions and they continued to stare at me as though every word out of my mouth were a complete fabrication.
Then they dumped me back into this holding cell. I don't think anyone had cleaned it since my last visit. Or since de Gaulle died. I was worried about Terese. I was also a tad worried about yours truly. I had shot a man in a foreign country. That was provable. What was not provable--what would be difficult, if not impossible, to corroborate--was my account of the incident.
Did I have to shoot that guy?
No question. He had a gun out.
Would he have fired at me?
You don't wait to find out. So I fired first. How would that play here in France?
I wondered if anyone else had been shot. I had seen more than one ambulance. Suppose someone innocent got hit by the machine-gun fire. That was on me. Suppose I had just gone with Scar Head. I could be with the blond girl now. Talk about terrified. What was that girl thinking and feeling, in the back of that van, probably injured since there had been blood at her father's murder scene?
Had she witnessed her father's murder?
Whoa, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
"Next time, I suggest you hire a private guide. Too many tourists try to do Paris on their own and get into trouble."
It was Berleand.
"I saw a blond girl in the back of the van," I said.
"So I heard."
"And I left Terese at the hotel," I said.
"She left about five minutes after you did."
I stayed behind the glass door, waiting for him to unlock it. He didn't. I thought about what he had just said. "Did you have us under surveillance?"
"I don't have the manpower to follow you both," he said. "But tell me: What did you make of her story about the car accident?"
"How . . . ?" Now I saw it. "You bugged our room?"
Berleand nodded. "You're not getting much action."
"Very funny."
"Or pathetic," he countered. "So what did you make of her story?"
"What do you mean what did I make of it? It's horrible."
"You believed her?"
"Of course. Who'd make up something like that?"
Something crossed his face.
"Are you telling me it's not true?"
"No, it all seems to check out. Miriam Collins, age seven, died in the accident off the A-Forty highway in London. Terese was seriously hurt. But I'm having the entire file sent to my office for review."
"Why? It was ten years ago. It doesn't have anything to do with this."
He didn't reply. He just pushed the glasses back up his nose. I felt a tad on display in this Plexiglas holding cell.
"I assume your colleagues from the crime scene filled you in on what happened," I said.
"Yes."
"You guys need to find that green van."
"We already did," Berleand said.
I moved closer to the Plexiglas door.
"The van was a rental," Berleand said. "They dumped it at CDG Airport."
"Rented with a credit card?"
"Under an alias, yes."
"You need to stop all flights out."
"Out of the largest airport in the country?" Berleand frowned. "Any other crime-stopping tips?"
"I'm just saying--"
"It's been two hours. If they flew out, they're gone."
Another cop came into the room, handed Berleand a piece of paper, and left. Berleand studied it.
"What's that?" I asked.
I ignored Berleand's lame attempt at humor. "You know this isn't a coincidence," I said. "I saw a blond girl in the back of that van."
He was still reading the sheet of paper. "You mentioned that, yes."
"It could have been Collins's daughter."
"Doubtful," Berleand said.
I waited.
"We reached the wife," Berleand said. "Karen Tower. She's fine. She didn't even know her husband was in Paris."
"Where did she think he was?"
"I don't know all the details yet. They live in London now. Scotland Yard delivered the news. Apparently there have been some marital difficulties."
"And what about the daughter?"
"Well, that's the thing," Berleand said. "They don't have a daughter. They have a four-year-old son. He's home safe and sound with his mother."
I tried to process that one. "The DNA test showed the blood definitely belonged to Rick Collins's daughter," I began.
"Yes."
"No doubts?"
"No doubts."
"And the long blond hair was tied to the blood?" I asked.
"Yes."
"So Rick Collins has a daughter with long blond hair," I said more to myself than him. It didn't take time to come up with an alternate scenario. Maybe it was because I was in France, supposed land of the mistress. Even the former president openly had one, didn't he?
"A second family," I said.
Of course it wasn't just the French. There was that New York politician who got caught drunk driving on his way to visit his second family. Men have kids with their mistresses all the time. Add in Berleand's belief that there were marriage difficulties between Rick Collins and Karen Tower and it added up. Of course, there were still major holes to fill--like why Collins would call Terese, his first wife, and tell her it was urgent to see him in Paris--but one step at a time.
I started explaining my theory to Berleand, but I could see that he wasn't buying so I stopped the sell.
"What am I missing?" I asked.
His cell phone trilled. Again Berleand spoke in French, leaving me totally in the dark. I'd have to take a Berlitz course or something when I got home. When he hung up, he quickly unlocked the holding cell and waved for me to come out. I did. He started down the corridor at a hurried pace.
"Berleand?"
"Come on. I need to show you something."
We headed back into the Groupe Berleand room. Lefebvre was there. He looked at me as if I'd just dropped out of his worst enemy's anus. He was hooking up another monitor to the computer, flat screen and maybe thirty inches wide.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Berleand sat at the keyboard. Lefebvre backed off. There were two other cops in the room. They too stood back by the wall. Berleand looked at the monitor, then at the keyboard. He frowned. On his desk was the dispenser for towelettes. He pulled one out and started wiping down the keyboard.
Lefebvre said something in French that sounded like a complaint.
Berleand snapped something back, gesturing to the keyboard. He finished wiping it down and then started typing.
"The blond girl in the van," Berleand said to me. "How old would you say she was?"
"I don't know."
"Think."
I tried, shook my head. "All I saw was long blond hair."
"Sit down," he said.
I pulled up a chair. He opened an e-mail and downloaded a file.
"More video will be coming in," he said, "but this still-frame is the clearest."
"Of what?"
"Surveillance camera from the de Gaulle airport lot."
A color photograph came up--I'd expected something grainy and black-and-white, but this one was fairly clear. Tons of cars--duh, it's a parking lot--but people too. I squinted.
Berleand pointed to the upper right. "Is that them?"
The camera was unfortunately so far away that the subjects could
only be seen at a great distance. There were three men. One was covering his face with something white, a shirt maybe, staving off the blood. Scar Head.
I nodded.
The blond girl was there too, but now I understood his question. From this angle--a back shot--I couldn't really tell her age but she certainly wasn't six or seven or even ten or twelve, unless she was unusually tall. She was full grown. The clothing suggested a teenager, someone young, but nowadays it is hard to know for certain.
The blonde walked between the two healthier men. Scar Head was on the far right.
"It's them," I said. Then I added: "What did we figure the daughter would have had to be? Seven or eight. The blond hair, I guess. It threw me. I overreacted."
"I'm not so sure."
I looked at Berleand. He took off his glasses, placed them on the table, and rubbed his face with both hands. He barked out something in French. The three men, including Lefebvre, left the room. We were alone.
"What the hell is going on?" I asked.
He stopped rubbing his face and looked at me. "You are aware that no one at the cafe saw the other man pull a gun on you."
"Of course they didn't. It was under the table."
"Most people would have put up their hands and gone quietly. Most people would not have thought to smash the man's face with a table, grab his gun, and shoot his accomplice in the middle of the boulevard."
I waited for him to say more. When he didn't, I added: "What can I say? I'm the balls."
"The man you shot--he was unarmed."
"Not when I shot him. His cohorts took the gun when they fled. You know this, Berleand. You know I didn't just make this up."
We sat there for another minute. Berleand stared at the monitor.
"What are we waiting for?"
"Video to come in," he said.
"Of?"
"The blond girl."
"Why?"
He didn't reply. It took another five minutes. I peppered him with questions. He ignored me. Finally his e-mail dinged and a very short video from the parking lot arrived. He clicked the Play button and sat back.
We could see the blond girl clearer now. She was indeed a teenager--maybe sixteen, seventeen years old. She had long blond hair. The vantage point was still from too great a distance to see the features up close, but there was something familiar about her, about the way she held her head up, the way her shoulders stayed back, the perfect posture. . . .
"We ran a preliminary DNA test on that blood sample and the blond hair," Berleand said.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. I wrested my eyes away from the screen and looked at him.