Swimsuit

  Henri said that he killed for money, but he’d killed Molly out of anger. He’d warned me that he would kill me if I didn’t do what he said. He could break his own rules at any time.

  I listened. I tried to learn Henri Benoit in all of his dimensions. But mostly, I was figuring out what I had to do to survive.

  Chapter 83

  HENRI CAME BACK to the trailer with sandwiches and a bottle of wine. After he uncorked the bottle, I asked him, “How does your arrangement with the Peepers work?”

  “They call themselves the Alliance,” Henri said. He poured out two glasses, handed one to me.

  “I called them ‘the Peepers’ once and was given a lesson: no work, no pay.” He put on a mock German accent. “You are a bad boy, Henri. Don’t trifle with us.”

  “So the Alliance is German.”

  “One of the members is German. Horst Werner. That name is probably an alias. I never checked. Another of the Peepers, Jan Van der Heuvel, is Dutch.

  “Listen, that could be an alias, too. It goes without saying, you’ll change all the names for the book, right, Ben? But these people are not so stupid as to leave their own breadcrumbs.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  He nodded, then went on. His agitation was gone, but his voice was harder now. I couldn’t find a crack in it.

  “There are several others in the Alliance. I don’t know who they are. They live in cyberspace. Well, one I know very well. Gina Prazzi. She recruited me.”

  “That sounds interesting. You were recruited? Tell me about Gina.”

  Henri sipped at his wine, then began to tell me about meeting a beautiful woman after his four years in the Iraqi prison.

  “I was having lunch in a sidewalk bistro in Paris when I noticed this tall, slender, extraordinary woman at a nearby table.

  “She had very white skin, and her sunglasses were pushed up into her thick brown hair. She had high breasts and long legs and three diamond watches on one wrist. She looked rich and refined and impossibly inaccessible, and I wanted her.

  “She put money down for the check and stood up to leave. I wanted to talk to her, and all I could think to say was, ‘Do you have the time?’

  “She gave me a long, slow look, from my eyes down to my shoes and back up again. My clothes were cheap. I had been out of prison for only a few weeks. The cuts and bruises had healed, but I was still gaunt. The torture, the things I’d seen, the afterimages, were still in my eyes. But she recognized something in me.

  “This woman, this angel whose name I did not yet know, said, ‘I have Paris time, New York time, Shanghai time… and I also have time for you.’ ”

  Henri’s voice was softened now as he talked about Gina Prazzi. It was as if he’d finally tasted fulfillment after a lifetime of deprivation.

  He said that they’d spent a week in Paris. Henri still visited every September. He described walking with her through the Place Vendôme, shopping with her there. He said that Gina paid for everything, bought him expensive gifts and clothing.

  “She came from very old money,” Henri told me. “She had connections to a world of wealth I knew nothing about.”

  After their week in Paris, Henri told me, they cruised the Mediterranean on Gina’s yacht. He called up images of the Côte d’Azur, one of the most beautiful spots in the world, he said.

  He recalled the lovemaking in her cabin, the swell of the waves, the wine, the exquisite meals in restaurants with high views of the Mediterranean.

  “I had nineteen fifty-eight Glen Garioch whisky at twenty-six hundred dollars a bottle. And here’s a meal I’ll never forget: sea urchin ravioli, followed by rabbit with fennel, mascarpone, and lemon. Nice fare for a country boy and ex–Al Qaeda POW.”

  “I’m a steak and potatoes man myself.”

  Henri laughed, said, “You just haven’t had a real gastronomic tour of the Med. I could teach you. I could take you to a pastry shop in Paris, Au Chocolat. You would never be the same, Ben.

  “But I was talking about Gina, a woman with refined appetites. One day a new guy appeared at our table. The Dutchman — Jan Van der Heuvel.”

  Henri’s face tightened as he talked about Van der Heuvel, how he had joined them in their hotel room, called out stage directions from his chair in the corner as Henri made love to Gina.

  “I didn’t like this guy or this routine, but a couple of months before I’d been sleeping in my own shit, eating bugs. So what wouldn’t I do to be with Gina, Jan Van der Heuvel or not?”

  Henri’s voice was drowned out by the roar of a helicopter flying over the valley. He warned me with his eyes not to move from my chair.

  Even after the silence of the desert returned, it was several moments before he continued his story about Gina.

  Chapter 84

  “I DIDN’T LOVE GINA,” Henri said to me, “but I was fascinated by her, obsessed with her. Okay. Maybe I did love her in some way,” Henri said, admitting to having a human vulnerability for the first time.

  “One day in Rome, Gina picked up a young girl —”

  “And the Dutchman? He was out of the picture?”

  “Not entirely. He’d gone back to Amsterdam, but he and Gina had some strange connection. They were always on the phone. She’d be whispering and laughing when she spoke with him. You can imagine, right? The guy liked to watch. But in the flesh, she was with me.”

  “You were with Gina in Rome.” I prompted him to continue with the main narrative.

  “Yes, of course. Gina picked up a student who was screwing her way through college, as they say. A first-semester prostitute from Prague, at Università degli Studi di Roma. I don’t remember her name, only that she was hot and too trusting.

  “We were in bed, the three of us, and Gina told me to close my hands around the girl’s neck. It’s a sex game called ‘breath play.’ It enhances the orgasm, and yes, Ben, before you ask, it was exciting to revisit my singular experience with Molly. This girl passed out, and I loosened my grip so that she could breathe.

  “Gina reached out, took my cock in her hand, and kissed me. And then she said, ‘Finish her, Henri.’

  “I started to mount the girl, but Gina said, ‘No, Henri, you don’t understand. Finish her.’

  “She reached over to the bedside table, held up the keys to her Ferrari, swung the keys in front of my eyes. It was an offer, the car for the girl’s life.

  “I killed that girl. And I made love to Gina with the dead girl beside us. Gina was electrified and wild under my hands. When she came, it was like a death and a rebirth as a softer, sweeter woman.”

  Henri’s body language relaxed. He told me about driving the Ferrari, a leisurely three-day ride to Florence with many stops along the way, and about a life he believed was becoming his.

  “Not long after that trip to Florence, Gina told me about the Alliance, including the fact that Jan was an important member.”

  The travelogue of Western Europe had ended. Henri’s posture straightened, and the tempo of his voice changed from languid to clipped.

  “Gina told me that the Alliance was a secret organization composed of the very best people, by which she meant wealthy, filthy rich. She said that they could use me, ‘make use of my talents’ is the way she put it. And she said that I would be rewarded handsomely.

  “So Gina didn’t love me. She had a purpose for me. Of course, I was a little hurt by that. At first, I thought I might kill her. But there was no need for that, was there, Ben? In fact it would have been stupid.”

  “Because they hired you to kill for them?”

  “Of course,” Henri said.

  “But how would that benefit the Alliance?”

  “Benjamin,” Henri said patiently. “They didn’t hire me to do hits. I film my work. I make the films for them. They pay to watch.”

  Chapter 85

  HENRI HAD SAID he killed for money, and now his story was coming together. He had been killing and creating films of these sexual executions for a select audien
ce at a premium price. The stagelike setting for Kim’s death made sense now. It had been a cinematic backdrop to his debauchery. But I didn’t understand why Henri had drowned Levon and Barbara. What could possibly explain that?

  “You were talking about the Peepers. The assignment you took in Hawaii.”

  “I remember. Well, understand, the Peepers give me a great deal of creative freedom,” Henri said. “I picked Kim out from her photos. I used a ploy to get information from her agency. I said I wanted to book her and asked when would she be returning from — where was she shooting?

  “I was told the location, and I worked out the rest: which island, her time of arrival, and the hotel. While I was waiting for Kim to arrive, I killed little Rosa. She was a tidbit, an amuse-bouche —”

  “Amuse what?”

  “It means an appetizer, and in her case, the Alliance hadn’t commissioned the work. I put the film up for auction. Yes, there’s a market for such things. I made some extra money, and I made sure the film got back to the Dutchman. Jan especially likes young girls, and I wanted the Peepers to be hungry for my work.

  “When Kim arrived in Maui for the shoot, I kept watch on her.”

  “Were you going under the name of Nils Bjorn?” I asked.

  Henri started. Then he frowned.

  “How did you know that?”

  I’d made a mistake. My mental leap had connected Gina Prazzi to the woman who’d phoned me in Hawaii telling me to check out a guest named Nils Bjorn. This connection had apparently struck home — and Henri didn’t like it.

  Why would Gina betray Henri, though? What didn’t I know about the two of them?

  It felt like an important hook into Henri’s story, but I gave myself a warning. For my own safety, I had to be careful not to tick Henri off. Very careful.

  “The police got a tip,” I said. “An arms dealer by that name checked out of the Wailea Princess around the time Kim went missing. He was never questioned.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Ben,” Henri said. “I was Nils Bjorn, but I’ve destroyed his identity. I’ll never use it again. It’s worthless to you now.”

  Henri got up from his seat abruptly. He adjusted the awning to block the lower angle of the sun’s rays. I used the time to steady my nerves.

  I was swapping out the old audiotape for a new one when Henri said, “Someone is coming.”

  My heart started tap-dancing in my chest again.

  Chapter 86

  I SHIELDED my eyes with my hands and looked in the direction of the trail stretching through the desert to the west, saw a dark-colored sedan coming over a hill.

  Henri said, “Right now! Take your things, your glass and your chair, and go inside.”

  I did what I was told, hustled back into the trailer with Henri behind me. He unhooked the chain from the floor, put it under the sink. He handed me my jacket and told me to go into the bathroom.

  “If our visitor gets too nosy,” Henri said, hiding the wineglasses, “I may have to dispose of him. That means you’ll have witnessed a murder, Ben. Not good for you.”

  I squeezed into the tiny washroom, looked at my face in the mirror before flicking off the light. I had a three-day beard, rumpled shirt. I looked disreputable. I looked like a bum.

  The bathroom wall was thin, and I could hear everything through it. There was a knock on the trailer door, which Henri opened. I heard heavy footsteps.

  “Please come in, Officer. I’m Brother Michael,” Henri said.

  A woman’s authoritative voice said, “I’m Lieutenant Brooks. Park Service. This campsite is closed, sir. Didn’t you see the roadblock and the words ‘Do Not Enter’ in giant letters?”

  “I’m sorry,” Henri said. “I wanted to pray without being disturbed. I’m with the Camaldolese monastery. In Big Sur. I’m on retreat.”

  “I don’t care if you’re an acrobat with the Cirque du Soleil. You have no business being here.”

  “God led me here,” said Henri. “I’m on His business. But I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry.”

  I could feel the tension outside the door. If the ranger used her radio to call for help, she was a dead woman. Years ago, back in Portland, I’d backed my squad car into a wheelchair, knocked over an old man. Another time, I put a little kid in my gun sights when he’d jumped out from between two cars, pointing a squirt gun at me.

  Both times I thought my heart couldn’t beat any harder, but honest to God, this was the worst.

  If my belt buckle clanked against the metal sink, the ranger would hear it. If she saw me, if she questioned me, Henri might feel he had to kill her, and her death would be on me.

  Then he’d kill me.

  I prayed not to sneeze. I prayed.

  Chapter 87

  THE RANGER TOLD HENRI that she understood about desert retreats, but that the campsite wasn’t safe.

  “If the chopper pilot hadn’t seen your trailer, there would be no patrols out this way. What if you ran out of fuel? What if you ran out of water? No one would find you, and you would die,” Lieutenant Brooks said. “I’ll wait while you pack up your gear.”

  A radio crackled, and I heard the ranger say, “I got him, Yusef.”

  I waited for the inevitable gunshot, thought of kicking open the door, trying to knock the gun out of Henri’s hand, save the poor woman somehow.

  The lieutenant said to her partner, “He’s a monk. A hermit. Yeah. He’s by himself. No, it’s under control.”

  Henri’s voice cut in, “Lieutenant, it’s getting late. I can leave in the morning without difficulty. I’d really appreciate one more night here for my meditation.”

  There was silence as the park ranger seemed to consider Henri’s request. I slowly exhaled, took in another breath. Lady, do what he says. Get the hell out of here.

  “I can’t help you,” she said.

  “Sure you can. Just one night is all I ask.”

  “Your gas tank is full?”

  “Yes. I filled up before I drove into the park.”

  “And you have enough water?”

  The refrigerator door squealed open.

  The ranger said, “Tomorrow morning, you’re outta here. We have a deal?”

  “Yes, we do,” Henri said. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

  “Okay. Have a good night, Brother.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. And bless you.”

  I heard the ranger’s car engine start up. A minute later, Henri opened my door.

  “Change of plans,” he said, as I edged out of the washroom. “I’ll cook. We’re pulling an all-nighter.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  I looked out the window and saw the lights of the patrol car heading back to civilization. Behind me, Henri dropped hamburger patties into the frying pan.

  “We’ve got to cover a lot of ground tonight,” he said.

  I was thinking that by noon of the next day, I could be in Venice Beach watching the bodybuilders and the thong girls, the skaters and bikers on the winding concrete paths through the beach and along the shore. I thought of the dogs with kerchiefs and sunglasses, the toddlers on their trikes, and that I’d have huevos rancheros with extra salsa at Scotty’s with Mandy.

  I’d tell her everything.

  Henri put a burger and a bottle of ketchup in front of me, said, “Here ya go, Mr. Meat and Potatoes.” He started making coffee.

  The little voice in my head said, You’re not home yet.

  Chapter 88

  THE KIND OF LISTENING you do when interviewing is very different from the casual kind. I had to focus on what Henri was saying, how it fit into the story, decide if I needed elaboration on that subject or if we had to move along.

  Fatigue was coming over me like fog, and I fought it off with coffee, keeping my goal in sight. Get it down and get out of here alive.

  Henri backtracked over the story of his service with the military contractor, Brewster-North. He told me how he’d brought several languages to the table and that he’d lear
ned several more while working for them.

  He told me how he’d formed a relationship with his forger in Beirut. And then his shoulders sagged as he detailed his imprisonment, the executions of his friends.

  I asked questions, placed Gina Prazzi in the time line. I asked Henri if Gina knew his real identity, and he told me no. He’d used the name that matched the papers his forger had given him: Henri Benoit from Montreal.

  “Have you stayed in contact with Gina?”

  “I haven’t seen her for years. Not since Rome,” he said. “She doesn’t fraternize with the help.”

  We worked forward from his three-month-long romance with Gina to the contract killings he did for the Alliance, a string of murders that went back over four years.

  “I mostly killed young women,” Henri told me. “I moved around, changed my identity often. You remember how I do that, Ben.”

  He started ticking off the bodies, the string of young girls in Jakarta, a Sabra in Tel Aviv.

  “What a fighter, that Sabra. My God. She almost killed me.”

  I felt the natural arc of the story. I felt excited as I saw how I would organize the draft, almost forgot for a while that this wasn’t some kind of movie pitch.

  The murders were real.

  Henri’s gun was loaded even now.

  I numbered tapes and changed them, made notes that would remind me to ask follow-up questions as Henri listed his kills; the young prostitutes in Korea and Venezuela and Bangkok.

  He explained that he’d always loved film and that making movies for the Alliance had made him an even better killer. The murders became more complex and cinematic.

  “Don’t you worry that those films are out in the world?”