“It won’t be for long,” he said in reassuring tones. “I’ll come back for you. Give me the car keys. Right, now, listen. There’s no car phone—I ripped it out. You can’t move the car. The doors are two-inch steel plate—high spec. No one’s going to hear you if you shout or hammer on the doors, because the other Cazarès cars are all out, lined up in the rue St. Honoré, waiting to collect the big names when the show is over. So no one’s coming back here for an hour and a half, at least—except me, of course. I won’t be long. Just wait until I do what I have to do. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, something I’ve been planning for a long time. Over a year now. Ever since I realized…”
He hesitated for the first time. The barrel of the gun wavered fractionally. Gini saw an expression of anxiety come into his beautiful eyes.
“And if I’m a bit stressed out then—don’t let that frighten you, okay? It’s just something that happens to me. I get this headache, right in back behind my eyes. I’ll show you what to do. You just have to kind of stroke me. Then it goes away. Also, I have some pills, some special pills. I might take one of them, maybe—to celebrate, you know?” He smiled. “I might give you one. We’ll see. Now—you have a watch? I’ll be back around eleven-twenty, eleven-thirty at the latest. What’s your name?”
“Genevieve. People call me Gini. Star—please…” Gini wondered if she threw the door open very quickly, whether it would take him by surprise; knock the gun from his hand. She was afraid to risk it; the gun was two inches from her face. “Look—why don’t you let me come with you? I’d write a better story that way.”
He looked uncertain, and for a moment Gini thought her suggestion had worked. Then he shook his head. In the same low, terrifyingly reasonable voice, he explained.
“No, I can’t do that,” he said. “At Cazarès, they have these people on the doors, front and back. Really heavy security. I can get in with Mathilde, that’s all fixed. But they wouldn’t let you in, Gini. They don’t know you, you see? Eleven-twenty—okay? Time means everything to free men.”
He had closed the doors before she was out of the car. As she reached them, she heard a lock and bolts engage. The garage was now pitch black. She felt in the dark for the outline of the car, and her hand rested on what she knew was the trunk. She froze, listening. She could hear movement, she was sure she could hear movement from inside that trunk. A shifting, stealthy sound. She backed away with a moan of fear. Then she flung herself at the doors and pulled at them. They did not budge an inch. From the car came a trickling sound.
Gini crouched down close to the doors. She could hear Star leading Madame Duval away. He was telling her, with an impatient edge to his voice, to hurry just a little. She wouldn’t want to be late, would she, he suggested, for her dear Maria’s great day?
Gini waited. She heard the footsteps depart. She knew what she had to do, but it took minutes to steel herself. She had to open the trunk of the car; she had to do that.
Eventually, with shaking hands, she did so. As the trunk opened, a courtesy light came on and she could see inside the compartment clearly. She immediately wished it had not. She gave a stifled cry and jerked back. The thing in the trunk moved. She pressed her hands over her mouth. It was very hard not to scream, and even harder not to slam the lid shut.
Chapter 19
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” MARKOV said, swinging around and trying to peer through the press of people crowding them from the rear.
Lindsay had tight hold of his arm. They had nearly reached the entrance doors to the great salon where Cazarès’s last collection would be shown. All around them was the decorum of classical architecture—the lovely roofs, windows, and entablature of seventeenth-century design at its most graceful; all around them was chaos—the thrustings and yellings and hysteria of the crowd. Up ahead Lindsay could see dark-suited executives and muscular security men. In front of them and behind them was an angry surge of humanity, hell-bent on getting through the doors. Ahead of her now she could glimpse three celebrated fashion editors; the head buyer for Bloomingdale’s; a French film star, long a patron of Cazarès and famed for her enigmatic beauty and chic; a rock star of international renown, together with his fifth wife, then a herd of indeterminate shoulders and heads and backs and waving arms. White invitation cards flashed. It never ceased to amaze her that everyone, famous or unknown, powerful or humble, rich or poor, elderly or young, was put through this. Markov said that all the couturiers cultivated these fights for admittance, fostered the panic, and intentionally humiliated those they sought to impress. “They want the adrenaline pumping,” he said. “And the fear—that you could be the Queen of England and you still might not get in. They want us all down on our knees, Lindy, pleading to be one of the Elect. That way our critical faculties get shafted before we’re inside the door. They’ve abrogated our power. It stinks.”
Lindsay agreed with this, yet she still resigned herself to the process. She had now been trapped in this manipulated hysteria for the past thirty-five minutes. Her body was sore with being pummeled and pushed. Her head already ached. She could hardly breathe—and when she got inside the salon and finally made it to the sanctum of the front row, she still wouldn’t be able to breathe, for heat and bodies and scent. But she wouldn’t mind. Her own status would have been confirmed by precisely the same people who had been humiliating her and everyone else—and that she valued, or always had in the past. Now, thinking of comments Rowland McGuire had made on this process, she despised herself.
Even so, she could feel the panic rising, the sensation that the frantic crowd behind might at any moment trample her underfoot. Just let me get in, let me get seated, she thought.
“Well, what do you know? It’s the fuzz.” Markov was still craning his neck. He removed his dark glasses briefly in order to obtain a better look. “Storm troopers yet. It’s the GIGN, Lindy—look.”
Lindsay risked the briefest glance around and was astonished. Through the gaps in the swelling crowd behind her she could see the familiar and menacing black vans pulling up, blocking the street beyond the courtyard. Arguments had broken out; attempts were being made to move the clustering Cazarès Mercedes and the TV crew trucks. A siren whooped, then stopped. The black doors at the back of the GIGN vans were opening, disgorging helmeted black-garbed men. Someone behind her gave her a violent shove.
Lindsay almost fell, then recovered her balance. She clung to Markov.
“What on earth… I thought they used them only for riots—antiterrorist stuff?”
“Don’t argue with them, that’s for sure.” Markov gave a little smile. “Seriously bad news. Not renowned for their sense of humor. And positively bristling with arms. Quite delectable though—don’t you think, Lindy? All that black leather? Those wicked fascist boots?”
“What are they doing? And stop showing off…”
Markov, here today in his capacity as a celebrity, gave another small smile. He always played to the crowd, and his comments had been made in a loud voice.
“I rather think,” he said more quietly, “that they’re filtering people out. They’re making for the animal pen right now. No, don’t look—we’re nearly inside.”
They surged through to the entrance doors. Beyond, Lindsay could see rows of gold chairs, banks of cameras, the glitter of lights. Black-dressed female Cazarès minions were patrolling the sanctum, spraying scent from cut-glass bottles. She smelled spring, the scent of narcissus and hyacinth: L’Aurore. She glanced back one last time. The animal pen was a small area, chain-link-fenced, off to the side of the courtyard. It was crammed with the young, the poor, and the impassioned: art students, fashion students, fans; a few might possess admission tickets, most would not. Every year, at every collection, some of them would manage using guile, deception, theft, forgery, or sometimes force, to get in. Lindsay found their desperation frightening. It was like her own, but she felt—irrationally—that it was worse.
And Markov was right, she saw; it was the
se people who seemed the focus of the attentions of the black-garbed special police. She could just see a tall, dark, long-haired young man being yanked to the side. He was screaming abuse, being pulled by the hair. As she was propelled forward through the entrance doors, he gave a sudden scream of pain; then his yells stopped.
It was past eleven; even at Cazarès, where events were usually organized with near-military precision, the collection would begin late. The salon was still less than half full, its space a bewilderment of color and movement, of air kisses and embraces and shrieks. The usual arguments were breaking out about seating; the usual accusations and miniaturized fights. At Chanel yesterday, two exquisitely dressed women had come to blows; they had hit each other with their identical quilted, gold-chained Chanel bags. Both Markov and Lindsay had enjoyed this.
It was as always—and yet it was not as always. Once she was seated, and as the great room began to fill, Lindsay realized there were police inside as well as outside—not GIGN, but plainclothes police. They were moving along the back rows, and they had a dog handler with them. She stared in astonishment and craned her neck. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on because the seating was tiered and the lights dazzled her eyes, but there was obviously a serious security alert. She could feel a new tension in the room, a buzz of rumor and alarm. It spread from the photographers clustered around the end of the runway up and through the room. She caught little whispered clutches of words and sudden nervous glances: bomb, terrorist threat, sniffer dogs.
“Well, they don’t like the hoi polloi,” Markov said, pointing. “Watch the back row, Lindy. That’s the second one they’ve yanked out.”
Lindsay narrowed her eyes, shading them from the lights, and watched another young man being hustled away. He was tall, with long, dark hair, dressed in black jeans; he was wearing a red bandanna around his neck.
The collection finally began half an hour late. By then, the activities in the back row had almost ceased. The room was settling, and expectation was in the air. Attention was returning to the runway. Gradually, the room hushed. Lindsay glanced up at that back row once more. Whatever had been the cause for alarm, precautions were still being taken. At the very back of the ranked tiers, and at intervals down the central aisle that led to the photographers’ pit, were police operatives. A solid line of flak-jacketed black-helmeted men ringed the rear tier. She gave a small shiver, then glanced down at her program. Maria Cazarès’s last three designs would punctuate the show. One would be the first shown; one would mark its midpoint; the third would be the collection’s finale.
Lazare, who had always come out just before Maria Cazarès herself and stood next to her while she took her bow, would on this occasion appear last of all, and, of course, alone.
The lights dimmed; there was a sudden and glorious burst of Bach. Lindsay and Markov lifted their faces to the runway. Just before the first model appeared—Quest, swinging along at top speed, glaring at audience and cameras with her customary disdain, half-veiled, hatted, dressed in a magnificent confection of eye-blindingly assertive fuchsia-violet—just before this Lindsay thought she glimpsed the figure of Rowland McGuire. She caught sight of him for an instant, standing in an aisle on the far side, talking to a man who might have been police. Then the music and the movement and the loveliness of this Cazarès dress distracted her attention. A small sigh of collective delight rose from the room. When Lindsay next remembered to look across at the aisle, Rowland was nowhere in sight.
She focused on clothes, and the details of the clothes. She made her customary quick sketches and notes. She felt excitement, nostalgia, sadness, and elation begin to fill the air.
Afterward, when it was all over, both she and Markov would have to admit until the very end that they had heard and sensed nothing. Quest knew; one or two of the other models knew; the directrice backstage knew; the police knew. But this was theater, and the show went on—as Lazare and Maria Cazarès would have wished.
Jean Lazare first saw the young man by Mathilde Duval’s side at eleven-ten. He was first brought to Lazare’s attention by Juliette de Nerval, who explained that he was Madame Duval’s great-nephew, and that the old woman, tearful and nervous, had telephoned her early that morning, insisting that she could not face this sad occasion alone, and saying that her beloved great-nephew had traveled up from the country especially to assist her at this time of trial. Without him Mathilde would not attend, so Juliette had given her reluctant consent She hoped, she said, eyeing Lazare nervously, that she had been correct.
Lazare gave the young man a long, considering, and cold look that finally, to Juliette’s puzzlement, became one of amusement. Yes, yes, he said, moving away; of course her decision had been correct. Perhaps someone would show the young man and Madame Duval to her usual room, and her usual seat?
Juliette, flustered by the sudden security alert, had hastened to do this. Both Madame Duval and the young man were, at present, in the corner of the huge, chaotic room in which the models made their lightning changes. They were facing an eddying sea of makeup artists, hairdressers, dressers, and models. They were hemmed in by racks of clothes, by scurrying assistants. The air was rank with scent and abrasive with hair lacquer. Madame Duval, her handsome great-nephew’s hand supporting her elbow, looked dazed and faint.
Juliette managed to persuade them both back down the maze of corridors behind this dressing room, to the small, quiet room where Madame Duval had always stayed with Maria Cazarès. She settled them there, made sure Madame Duval was comfortable, and that the video screen showing the runway was well positioned for her. She made sure that tea, coffee, canapés, and drinks were available—not that Madame Duval ever touched any of them—and then rushed away to another part of the building, and the next crisis with these impossible, alarmist, and very stupid police.
At eleven twenty-five Madame Duval’s great-nephew was brought to Jean Lazare’s attention a second time. On this occasion it was Lazare’s senior aide, Christian Bertrand, who raised the subject. Lazare was, as expected, in the dressing room, the one calm person in a surging ocean of chaos. He was standing next to Quest, a model Bertrand disliked, who was looking astonishingly beautiful in an astonishingly beautiful dress. Fuchsia-violet: worn with a collar of amethysts three inches deep. Lazare was personally adjusting the veil to Quest’s romance of a hat. He wanted it lower by two millimeters. He turned away from Quest only when he had achieved this.
“Monsieur Lazare.” Christian Bertrand spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry to interrupt you with this, at such a moment…”
“Yes?”
“—But in view of the situation, the security out front. I was told, Monsieur Lazare, to take every precaution, and—the young man with Madame Duval. He appears to have left her alone, sir. And no one knows where he is.”
“I know where he is.” Lazare gave Bertrand one of his black-ice looks. “He is in my office, waiting for me. I shall join him shortly. Attend to more urgent matters than Madame Duval’s nephew, if you would be so good. The collection begins in”—he checked his watch—“three and a half minutes. If it begins one half minute after that, consider yourself relieved of your post.”
“Yes, Monsieur Lazare.”
Bertrand backed away. The towering figure of Quest, three inches taller than Bertrand in high heels, moved past him. From here, just backstage, the noise of the audience was muted, soft, as seductive as the sound of sea in a shell. The models were ready, the minions were ready, everyone was ready. Bach burst forth, trumpets proclaimed elation, confidence, magic, and success. Quest mounted the steps, braced herself, moved forward, and disappeared out to the runway beyond. Waves of reaction mounted and broke. Bertrand looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty precisely. He began to make his way back to his office, where he would watch the show on closed-circuit television. As he left the dressing room, he saw to his surprise that Jean Lazare, who always remained there supervising each last tiny detail of each outfit, was also leaving. Lazare turn
ed in the direction of his own office, near the exit, at the end of a long corridor. This departure from tradition seemed to please him; he left the room, Bertrand noted, with an expression of relief on his face.
Lazare’s office here, like his office in the main Cazarès building, was austere. It was also, as were all his workplaces, soundproofed. Entering the room and closing the padded door behind him, he wondered if the young man who was claiming to be Madame Duval’s great-nephew had realized this.
He was seated, much as Lazare had expected, in a chair facing Lazare’s large, plain, black desk. His eyes were fixed on the twenty-four-inch video monitor with its view of the runway and a beautiful, arrogant, fuchsia-dressed Quest. As Lazare entered, he glanced around, and then rose politely to his feet. He was, Lazare thought, disconcerted. He had not expected Lazare to be here now, and he had not expected it to be this easy, perhaps.
Lazare looked at the young man, who was taller than he was by six inches at least. He noted the black suit—he, too, was wearing black—and the carefully pressed white shirt. The shoes were newly polished, the tie was discreet. The young man, who had a beautiful face, began on some quick apology and explanation for his presence. Lazare cut him off.
“I know why you’re here,” he said. With a sigh he moved to a side table, poured himself a drink. He offered one to the young man, who refused with a quick shake of the head. Lazare could see that he was almost certainly on something: his pupils were narrowed to pinpricks; he radiated a peculiar tension, like light. White Doves? Lazare thought, then reconsidered: no, probably not. It could be cocaine, or speed—and if so, the young man had better be careful. His judgment would be impaired, his reflexes slowed.
He took his brandy glass with him to the desk, sat down, and looked at the young man. He wondered if he would be cold or impassioned, slow or quick. He might relish drama, Lazare thought—he looked the type. At this he felt impatience, weariness, and a certain contempt.