Rowland looked down at the gun she was indicating to him. Seconds slipped by as he reshaped the confusion of her sentences, and the details of Star’s scenario finally slipped into place. The Cazarès collection was due to begin in under half an hour. The gun concerned was a black Beretta 93R, firing fifteen 9mm rounds per magazine. The ammunition to which she was pointing was a blue GECO hollow bullet. It contained a plastic core, which displaced when fired, so that as the bullet hit its target, it commenced a tumbling trajectory specifically designed to cause maximum tissue damage. With this ammunition, even a poor marksman could effect certain death.
“Mina,” he said quietly. “These gun magazines. How many of them did Star buy? Just one—or more than that?”
“Five.” She did not understand the importance of the question, Rowland could see. Her answer was little more than a whisper. “Five. He showed me how they slot in the handle. He laid them out for me, all five of them on the bed.”
Rowland turned to look at the assistant manager. His face was now ashen. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall: its second hand ticked. Less than half an hour, Rowland thought; an auditorium filled with the rich and famous, with television cameras, with the assembled world press. Star: why had he not understood the implications of that chosen name?
Reaching in his pocket, pulling out a card, he thought: an automatic weapon, five magazines each containing fifteen rounds, seventy-five bullets in total… He had a brief grim vision of possible carnage. He pressed the card into the manager’s trembling hands.
“Call that number,” he said. “Now. At once. Get me Luc Martigny. Get the police.”
The Mercedes that Star had been driving was a very expensive car. It was a 540i. Gini glanced into its pale leather interior. It was presumably stolen; moving out of sight of any windows above, she noted its license plates.
For one moment, as the car had first pulled up and she watched the young man emerge from it, she had not realized it was Star. The man getting out of this vehicle had been wearing a black suit, a white shirt and tie; he did have long black hair, but it was drawn back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck. He resembled some young, successful executive from one of the less straitlaced professions: he could have been in advertising, or have been a record producer—something like that. Then, as he closed the car door, she saw him full-face and her doubts disappeared. Star—movie-star good looks, just as the travelers had described him.
Her hunch had been that if Star did visit Mathilde Duval regularly, he must—sooner or later—turn up. Well, she had been right, but the timing surprised her. Juliette de Nerval had told Roland that Madame Duval was to be collected by limousine at ten-thirty that morning, taken to the Cazarès show, and brought back. So why was he here now?
Mathilde Duval’s apartment—again according to Rowland—was on the top floor of this building. Gini glanced up at its ranked windows, then frowned at the Mercedes. To park the car so flagrantly in a restricted zone suggested Star did not intend to stay long. She felt alarm then: Madame Duval was elderly and infirm—and she lived alone. Gini hesitated, then ran up the portico steps.
Her way was barred by massive locked doors. Peering through their glass panes, she could see through into a large marble-floored lobby dominated by a magnificent bronze-colored cage elevator. The lobby and the elevator were identical to those in Helen’s building. As in Helen’s building, there was no sign of a concierge guarding the lobby, which was deserted and silent. Gini wondered if this building was occupied mainly by those rich enough to own several homes, and whether, as in Helen’s building, the majority of the apartments here were often left empty for months at a time. She pressed her face against the glass. She could see the cables and counterweights; the elevator itself was on another floor.
She looked at the battery of bells and intercoms set into the wall next to her. She pressed two of those bells, for the other two apartments on the tenth floor, and obtained no reply. She began trying bells on lower floors; with her sixth attempt she was lucky. A woman answered, sounding impatient. Using a strong American accent, and speaking in what she hoped was convincingly poor French, Gini explained rapidly that she was staying with friends here. They’d given her the key to their apartment, but not the passkey to the front door.
“Oh, quelle bêtise—ces idiots…” The woman embarked on a brief diatribe as to the annoyance of this situation, which happened on the average of four times a week. Then, after a few more wan pleas from Gini, she did what no inhabitant of an American city would have done—pressed the buzzer. Gini pushed back the doors and went in.
She moved toward the elevator shaft and looked up, feeling a prickle of fear run the length of her spine. The floor indicator arrow was pointing at ten; she could just see the base of the elevator high above her. She could hear nothing at all.
Suddenly, she froze. The elevator had whirred into life. She watched the cables, the counterweights begin to move. Star was coming down.
Wait, she thought; act like a resident. Just stand by the elevator—what could be more natural? Wait, and see if he comes down alone.
He did not come down alone. A woman who could have been only Mathilde Duval was standing next to him, supported by his arm. As the cage came to a rest, and Gini could see the old woman through the bars, she felt her heart flood with pity and fear for her. She was tiny and obviously frail. She was dressed with evident painstaking care, in an all-black outfit that might have been fashionable forty years before. She was wearing new black gloves, and her hands were trembling: Gini could not tell if this was caused by infirmity or fear. As Star reached for the doors, the old woman lifted her face and Gini tensed: Mathilde Duval, she realized, had acute glaucoma: her eyes were blue-white, milky, almost opaque.
“Bonjour, madame. Monsieur,” Gini said as the gates opened. She gave the old woman a nod of polite greeting. Mathilde Duval did not respond or even turn her head. Virtually blind, Gini thought—also deaf.
She could feel Star’s eyes boring into her. Her mind was still flashing with uncertainty: speak, or remain silent? Do nothing now, or intervene?
Mathilde Duval herself made intervention imperative. As she stepped out into the lobby, she staggered and almost fell. Star’s arm tightened around her. He hauled her back onto her feet and tried to hasten her progress.
The old woman crept forward a few more steps, then came to a halt. She pressed her hand against her chest.
“Un moment, Christophe,” Gini heard her say. “Tu marches trop vite pour moi…Souviens-toi, je suis vieille maintenant.”
Star ignored the plea. He looked as if he would drag her out of the lobby if necessary. Gini heard him give a low curse. He began to tug at the woman’s arm. Gini stepped forward.
“Madame Duval?” she said. “Vous êtes malade? Je peux vous aider? Un moment, monsieur…”
Mathilde Duval’s lips were blue; she was breathing with difficulty. Gini looked up, met Star’s unwavering gaze. She began on a new plea: there was a bench, perhaps if Madame Duval sat down for a little while? She saw Star hesitate before he complied. He looked at the woman’s lips, and then helped Gini to assist her to the bench. Gini sat down beside her; Star drew back.
Taking Madame Duval’s hand in hers, Gini began making further suggestions—anything that might buy her time. Perhaps a doctor should be called? Perhaps it was unwise for Madame Duval to venture outside on such a day, when it was beginning to rain, and bitterly cold… The suggestions bought her about thirty seconds. Star’s eyes never left her face once.
“You’re not French. You’re American, right?” He was reaching into his pocket. He took out a small container of pills.
“Oh, yes, I am.” Gini gave him a quick glance. “I didn’t realize—listen, she really doesn’t look too well. Her lips are blue, and—”
“Do you live in this building?”
He was taking one tiny pill from the container, his eyes still intent on her face. His voice, Gini thought, his odd, low, a
ttractive yet unidentifiable voice was just as described.
“What? Oh, yes—I do.”
It seemed the safe answer. She could hardly claim to be visiting, yet recognize Madame Duval. Star seemed to accept the reply anyway.
“She has angina,” he said in even tones. “She’s eighty-five years old. She just needs one of these pills. She dissolves them under her tongue. They’re magic. In a couple of minutes she’ll be fine.”
He slipped the tiny pill between Madame Duval’s lips as he said this. She gave a sightless little smile of gratitude, her milky eyes turned to a space two feet to the side of him. Star straightened.
He said: “Show me your key.”
“I’m sorry?” Gini looked up at him. His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
“Your key. You live here, so I guess you have a key, right?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…” Gini rose. “What is this? Of course I have a key. I live on the sixth floor. Look, I really think we should call a doctor…”
“I agree.” He smiled. “Let’s go right up to your apartment and call one now. I’ll come with you.”
Gini felt fear, and she knew her fear and her indecision showed in her face.
Then, he did not hesitate. He gave a small frown and put his hand in the pocket of his black suit.
“Oh, shit,” he said in a mild way. “The cards said to expect the unexpected. This morning. That’s what they said. I guess they were right.”
He spoke in a distant, unemotional tone. He gave a small sigh, then a shrug, and took out a gun. He lifted it with steady hands and an expression of slight irritation on his face. Gini looked at the gun, which was now pointing directly at her chest, from a range of three feet.
“Look, please…” she began. “I don’t understand. I just wanted to help Madame Duval…”
Star was not listening. He frowned.
“Can you drive?” he said.
Gini was trying to obey all the rules. Avoid eye contact; speak reasonably; do not show fear.
“Yes, I can drive, but—listen—”
She stopped. She realized she had just made a foolish admission and Star had noticed her reaction; he was extremely quick.
“That’s okay.” He sounded almost kind. “You gave me the right answer. If you’d said you couldn’t drive, I’d have had to shoot you now. I don’t really want to do that yet. It could make a noise; a mess. It could fuck up my plans… I have to cover every eventuality, you see. I have to be flexible, resourceful. I was born that way—so that’s cool. Now, walk out to that Mercedes outside. It’s not locked. Get in the driver’s seat. I’ll get in back with Madame Duval.”
He gave another small frown; he looked, Gini thought, like someone planning some normal daily routine, faintly irritated when perceiving some potential minor hitch.
“Are you smart?” he asked. He released the safety catch on the gun with a small click. Gini stared at the gun; she swallowed.
“I’m not rash, if that’s what you mean…”
“Fine. Then don’t do anything dumb—will you? I mean—don’t start screaming or trying to run away. When I give you the keys, start the engine and drive—drive really well. Otherwise, I’ll fire. Then Madame Duval won’t be troubled by her angina anymore.”
The old woman seemed to catch the sound of her own name. Some color had returned to her face, and for the first time, she looked up. She lifted her blue-white eyes and smiled. Gini helped her to rise; Madame Duval began to murmur. Crossing the lobby at a snail’s pace, she told her dear Christophe that he was a good, kind boy to be so patient.
As they reached the sidewalk, Gini looked along the street. It was deserted. Her hands had begun to shake. She opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. She looked at the seat, then the floor by the pedals, and gave a low moan.
Star and Madame Duval settled themselves behind her. The old woman took out a rosary. Gini, who did not dare to look around, could hear the click of the beads. Her mouth was dry with fear; as she had climbed into the car she had noticed something: there was a sticky brownish substance splashed on the leather of the seat; there was a pool of it, still wet, by her feet.
“Yeah. It’s blood.” Star had leaned forward. He was just touching the barrel of the gun against the back of her neck. “You know how many people I’ve killed this morning? Three. The third was the chauffeur. It’s his blood on the seat. His body’s in the trunk right now. Start the engine, drive to the end of this boulevard, then make a right.”
Gini wondered if she could flood the engine. She depressed the accelerator hard, and pumped, before she turned the ignition key. Star laughed.
“That won’t work. Not with a Mercedes. You ever drive one before? They’re the best. My father likes the best. Mercedes. Rolls-Royces. He has four—did you know that?”
The engine purred into life. Gini hesitated, then pulled out carefully and drove along the boulevard. Behind her, the rosary beads continued to click.
“She’s not praying for you. Or me,” Star said in a conversational way. “She’s praying for my mother. My mother’s dead. She died very suddenly Monday afternoon. Took too many little pills, I think. That’s what Mathilde says. She was writing a letter to me, and she’d taken three of her special little pills—which was a pretty dumb thing to do, of course. So she never finished the letter. She collapsed. Went into convulsions. It took a while, Mathilde says. Not too pretty. But then, I guess death never is.”
When Gini did not reply, he seemed irritated. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, she saw him frown again.
“My mother was a very famous woman,” he said in an insistent tone. “World famous. You’ll know her name. Maria Cazarès.” He paused. “Make a left at the next intersection. Who are you? Police—some kind of police? A private eye? Did Mina’s father hire you, maybe?”
“No. I’m a journalist,” Gini said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’ve—been investigating Mina’s disappearance.” Where was little Mina now, she thought wildly. What had he done with her?
“Oh, yeah? And Cassandra’s death? Too bad about that. I saw it in the paper. Mina doesn’t know, of course,” he said. “A journalist. That’s nice. You write for American papers?”
“Sometimes. But I live in London. So I work for a British newspaper there. The Correspondent.”
“Oh, I know that paper!” He sounded pleased. “That’s an important paper, right? Like the Times?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
“Hey. That’s good. Make a right here.” He was smiling at her now, in the rearview mirror. His smile made Gini’s blood run cold. “You know, just for a minute back there in the lobby—I was puzzled. Because the cards told me to expect the unexpected, like I said—but they said it would be something good, something useful…” He frowned again. “You know the real reason I didn’t shoot you back there? Nothing to do with the driving. I lied a little then. It was because I was waiting. I mean, obviously, you were the surprise—and at first it didn’t seem too positive. It looked like you might really fuck up all my plans. But I trusted the cards, you see? And I was right to trust the cards. Because you’re an accident, sure, but you’re also exactly what I need. Slow up. Make a left here.”
Gini could scarcely hold the steering wheel. She knew she was sweating with tension and hoped he could not see that. She could still feel the barrel of the gun on the back of her neck. He was moving the barrel up and down in a kind of caress. Gini was very afraid of guns. In Bosnia and elsewhere she had seen at close quarters what modern weapons could do. She tried to make her voice calm.
“Why am I what you need?” she said.
“Why?” He sounded astonished. “You can’t guess? Because you can write my story, of course. You can explain. I’ll give you an exclusive if you like. You can syndicate it—worldwide. That’s what happens, right?”
“Yes. That does happen. On big stories. Occasionally.”
“Oh, this will be a very big story.” He sighed.
“When this story breaks, I’m going to be famous. A celebrity. People will know my name, here, right across Europe, in America. You’re going to help make me a star.”
Gini was beginning to understand. She could see where he was taking her now, in every sense. They were now just off the rue du Faubourg St. Honoré; she could see the famous hôtel particulier that was the Cazarès headquarters. She could see the building immediately adjacent to its courtyard, where the collection would be shown. She could see the satellite dishes, the TV crews, the crowd of fashionably dressed people waiting for admittance, milling back and forth on the sidewalk. She hesitated, then said quietly, “A star? Star is one of the names you use, isn’t it? Sometimes you call yourself Star?”
“That’s right. You can call me that if you like—you know, when we’re just talking, when you interview me. But when you write the story up, you have to use my real name, the name on my birth certificate: Christophe Rivière. Slow—slow down. Make a right. Stop in front of those mews gates.”
Gini did as he commanded. She looked at the tall iron gates with the name Cazarès on a brass plaque attached to them. Beyond the gates was a narrow courtyard, and a line of twenty garages that once would have been stables and carriage houses for the great house behind which they were set. Star lifted a small electronic device, and the gates opened. He told her to drive to the end garage, where, with the same device, he opened a steel plate door. She drove in, stopped, and switched off the engine.
The lockup was small. There was just room for Star to help Madame Duval out. He drew the old woman to one side of the entrance and instantly returned.
Gini was sitting very still, staring in front of her. She knew what he was going to do. He was going to lock the doors. He was going to close and lock the doors and leave her here with a dead man in the trunk.
“Please,” she began in a low voice as he returned to her open window. “Please don’t lock me in here.”