Private Paris Page 2

  I shrugged. “We’ll find out, I guess. You’re sure about the plumbers’ gear being the right way to go?”

  “Bien sûr. Everybody needs the plumber at some time, in some emergency. Non? Plumbers can come and go at all hours and no one thinks anything of it other than some poor bastard has a backed up toilet. And plumbers tend not to get hassled even in places like Les Bosquets. Why is that? Because everyone needs the plumber! Someone shakes the plumber down, and soon no plumbers will come, and no one wants that. Not even there.”

  “This wouldn’t fly in the States,” I said, gesturing at the full jumpsuit. “People would know we weren’t plumbers.”

  Louis seemed taken aback by that. “How would they know?”

  “No American plumber would wear a coverall like this. If they did, they couldn’t show their ass crack, and that’s a requirement in the States.”

  Louis glanced, and then laughed. “This is true?”

  “No.”

  My cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a text. It was from Sherman Wilkerson and included a photograph of a pretty young woman with sad eyes sitting at a bar. At a red light I showed it to Langlois, saying, “It’s the most recent picture of her Sherman’s got. He said it’s at least four years old.”

  “As a rule I don’t like babysitting jobs,” Langlois said.

  “Neither do I,” I agreed, pocketing the phone. “But when a client like Sherman asks Private to look after his granddaughter, we answer.”

  Twenty minutes later, and less than eleven miles from the chic streets and genteel parks of central Paris, we entered a world apart. Out the van’s window, the area didn’t look too bad at night. It kind of reminded me of East Berlin, with big clusters of drab, uniform, state-designed high-rise apartment buildings—a communist’s decaying vision of ideal housing.

  Then I started seeing the graffiti. “Fuck the police” was a common theme. So were images of faceless men in dark hoods with flames painted behind them and Arabic scrawled above them.

  “Was this project part of those riots a few years back?” I asked.

  “Les Bosquets was in the thick of it,” Louis confirmed. “And it’s home to a vicious gang that specializes in targeting tourists who take the train from de Gaulle to Paris. A few months ago, they put a car on the tracks to stop a train holding more than a hundred Japanese visitors, then went on board and robbed everyone at gunpoint.”

  “Brazen.”

  “Yes, but there are reasons,” Louis replied. “Back in the sixties and seventies, when France was on the up economically, we needed labor, so they allowed anyone from a current or former French colony to immigrate here. They built the projects, and a generation later the economy busts, and the immigrants stay on, having children, lots of children. Fifty percent of the population out here is younger than twenty-five. And they can’t find jobs. So they live in terrible conditions, with no purpose. It’s a recipe for disaster for everyone involved.”

  “Can’t they work their way out of it through school?” I asked.

  Louis wagged a finger at me and said, “You are thinking of the States again, Jack. In France, it is not the same. There are proven paths to power here—the right schools, the right friends—and these paths are shut off to the immigrants. Worse, there is no public transportation in these areas. Without a car, you go nowhere. You’re trapped. You get angry. You explode.”

  Louis flicked his chin toward the windshield. “There it is. Les Bosquets.”

  The project consisted of eight decaying high-rise apartment buildings. Clotheslines hung from windows, as did immigrants of all ages and skin colors. Louis pulled over on the Avenue Clichy-sous-Bois.

  He opened the glove compartment, got out a Glock 19, and handed it to me.

  “I’m not licensed to carry this in France,” I said.

  “You’re not a licensed French plumber either, Jack,” Louis said. “Put it in your pocket, and let me do the talking.”

  It’s hard to argue with a guy who knows his turf as well as Louis. I decided to trust his judgment and nodded. We got out and grabbed toolboxes and flashlights from the rear hatchback. Men across the street had checked us out when we pulled up, but now they were ignoring us.

  “You see?” Louis muttered as we headed down the road that ran north into the complex. “Everyone needs us, even if we don’t show the butt cracks.”

  Chapter 4

  7th Arrondissement

  5 p.m.

  THE HOOKER, THE props, the locks, and the flankers were tight in the scrum when the eighth man joined them, and the battle began.

  On a pitch in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the scrum half player snatched up the rugby ball and pitched it to the fly, who sprinted madly to the outside of a defensive mob in full pursuit. The fly passed the ball to the inside center, who took a hit, but not before he lobbed the ball on to Émile Sauvage.

  Sauvage snagged the rugby ball out of the air, tucked it, and accelerated right at his enemy. He smashed the heel of his palm into the face of the first defender and broke into the open field. Out of the defensive pack a big coal-black guy appeared. Moving laterally with tremendous speed and agility despite his bulk, he seemed sure to flatten Sauvage.

  But a fraction of a second before he could, Sauvage laid down a stutter step that suggested he’d change direction. The feint worked. His pursuer planted a foot so hard to cut the other way that he tripped and sprawled while Sauvage loped on toward the in-goal area.

  A whistle blew. Sauvage slowed to a stop well shy of the try line and went back to help the big guy to his feet. “You didn’t roll that ankle, did you, Mfune?”

  Mfune smiled, shook his head, and said in the clipped French of West Africa, “Nice move, though.”

  “Keep them guessing, embrace the chaos,” he said. “It’s the only way to survive and win a battle. Any battle.”

  “Best tactic,” Mfune agreed.

  The other players were drinking water and gathering their gear. Practice was over.

  Sauvage said, “I think we have time for a few rounds before the lecture, don’t you?”

  “If we’re quick about it.”

  They grabbed their bags and water bottles and hurried off the field, crossing an equestrian track and parking area to get to a three-story, tan-colored building. They passed through double doors, went to a locker room, stored their cleats and practice jerseys, and retrieved their pistol cases.

  After signing into the fifty-meter range in the basement, they received 9-millimeter ammunition, ear protection, and shooting glasses.

  They set human assailant silhouette targets at thirty-five meters, loaded their MAC 50 pistols, and fired in five quick, two-round bursts until their weapons were empty. When they called back the targets, they saw that four of Mfune’s shots were to the forehead, and six clustered over the heart.

  All ten of Sauvage’s bullets, however, had patterned tight between the eyes. They cased their pistols, turned in their protective gear, and returned to the locker room. Drying off after a shower and shave, Sauvage moved to his locker, already forcing his complex mind to compartmentalize.

  The uniform helped as it always did.

  In short order, he was dressed in French Army–issued khaki shirt and trousers, a black tie, and a green commando sweater with epaulets. Polished black shoes and a green garrison cap completed the transformation.

  He shut his locker door. Mfune was dressed and ready as well.

  Mfune gave him a crisp salute and said, “Major Sauvage.”

  “Captain Mfune,” Sauvage replied.

  “I don’t know why these guest lectures always occur at night,” Mfune complained softly. “And tonight of all nights.”

  “At ease, Captain,” Sauvage said. “We’ve got a few hours before AB-16 is launched.”

  The French Army officers left the locker room and walked outside across a cobblestone courtyard. Other men and women in uniform were already hurrying into a two-story buff-colored building through light-blue doors in nee
d of paint. Next to the door, a brass plaque read, “École de Guerre.”

  War School.

  Chapter 5

  5:15 p.m.

  LOUIS WAS RIGHT about plumber being the perfect disguise.

  We passed four or five small groups of menacing-looking types, and as soon as they’d had a hard stare at our plumber’s logo, they relaxed and looked away. The last group was out in front of the entrance to the address we’d been given, a building at the rear of Les Bosquets.

  I remembered enough from high school French class to understand when one of the guys asked where we were going. Louis never broke stride, just went past him saying something I couldn’t follow. It seemed to do the trick, however, because no one trailed us into the lobby, which featured poor lighting; a wall of mailboxes, many broken; and a cement floor that was cracked and offset in several places.

  “What did you tell those guys?” I asked.

  “I said that the toilet in 412 was backed up and there’s shit all over the place. It shuts down their curiosity every time.”

  We didn’t have to use a buzzer, because there was no buzzer or security of any kind. A young Muslim woman in black robes and head scarf came down the stairs and glanced at us with enormous brown eyes that showed suspicion until they focused on the logos on our jumpsuits. She nodded and went on. Two Asian teenagers came bouncing down the stairs as we climbed, and never gave us a second glance. Nor did the African woman carrying a load of laundry.

  “I’ve got to remember this,” I muttered to Louis as I followed him toward a cement staircase.

  “Plumbing is a beautiful thing,” he replied.

  When we reached the fourth floor of the tenement we opened the door into an empty hallway with a rug frayed down to the floorboards. The smells of the place hit me all at once: lamb cooking in garlic and onions, cigarette smoke, marijuana smoke, and the odor of too many people living in tight quarters.

  The apartment walls and doors could not have been very thick or insulated, because a general din filled the passage: babies crying, pots banging, men shouting, women shouting back, televisions and music blaring in Arabic and other languages I couldn’t identify. It all felt depressing—suffocating, even—and I’d been in the building less than three minutes. Louis said there were people who’d lived in Les Bosquets their entire lives, and I began to understand some of the pressures that contributed to the riots.

  But why had Wilkerson’s granddaughter come here of all places?

  Louis knocked on the door to 412. Several moments later, a woman’s voice asked who we were, and Louis replied that we were from Private and had been sent by Kim’s grandfather.

  A minute passed before a dead bolt was thrown. The door opened on a chain, and a wary woman who looked Polynesian and was wearing a blue skirt and floral blouse looked out at us, and asked to see our identification. We showed it to her, and she shut the door.

  Nothing happened for several minutes, and Louis was about to knock again when we heard the chain slide, and the door opened. Louis stepped inside a dimly lit, narrow hallway, and I followed.

  The door shut behind us, and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Kimberly Kopchinski. In her late twenties now, wearing jeans, a black blouse, and a rectangular silver thing on a chain around her neck, she was undeniably beautiful in person. But I could tell by the color of her skin and the way she held herself that she’d been through some terrible physical ordeal recently, and that she was very, very frightened.

  We introduced ourselves and showed her the badges and identifications.

  “How do I know my grandfather sent you?” she asked.

  I showed her Sherman’s text and the picture of her. Kim stared at the picture for several moments as if she barely remembered the girl in it.

  “He says you’re in danger,” I said.

  “I am in danger,” she said.

  “He said something about drug dealers?”

  “I just need somewhere to go, to disappear for a while,” she said in a strained whisper. “Can you help me do that?”

  “We can,” I replied. “But it helps if we know who we’re hiding you from, Kimberly.”

  Her face twisted with inner pain, and she said, “Call me Kim. And can we have this conversation later? Once I’m somewhere safe? I can’t stay here anymore. My friend’s husband is coming home from Lyons in a few hours. He doesn’t know I’m here, and if he did I’d be…”

  Her lower lip quivered.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Kopchinski,” Louis said. “You are under the care and protection of Private Paris now. Already you could not be safer. We’ll take you to the same hotel where Jack is staying.”

  “A hotel?” Kim said, alarmed. “No, that’s too public.”

  Louis said soothingly, “This hotel is the most discreet in Paris. Already I have you registered there under an alias.”

  The Polynesian woman emerged from a doorway at the other end of the hall carrying a canvas bag. She set it down and tapped on her watch.

  Kim appeared to be torn, but nodded, and went to the woman. She talked quietly to her for several moments before hugging her. Both women looked distraught when they parted.

  Grabbing the bag, Kim said, “Let’s go.”

  We got more scrutiny leaving with her than we had when entering, and plenty of hostile glances, but no one challenged us directly. With Kim in the backseat and Louis starting the Mia, I thought we were home free. Thirty minutes from now we’d have her safely in a suite at the Plaza Athénée and I’d be talking to Sherman Wilkerson, trying to figure out a way to get her quickly to L.A.

  Louis threw the Mia in gear and was pulling a U-turn to head west toward Paris when headlights went on a block in front of us. Another set went on half a block behind us.

  I didn’t think much of it until the car in front of us, a black Renault, pulled out and stopped sideways across the street. He couldn’t block the entire avenue, but there wasn’t a whole lot of room to get past him either.

  “Merde,” Louis said, locking up the brakes on the electric van and throwing us in reverse.

  “What’s happening?” Kim cried.

  “We’re not waiting to find out,” I said, twisting around in the seat to look out the rear window and see the other car, a blue Peugeot, coming fast in the other lane.

  A bald, pale man in a studded, red leather jacket hung out the passenger-side window. He was aiming a rotary-magazine shotgun.

  Chapter 6

  SAUVAGE SWELLED WITH pride as he climbed to the second floor of France’s fabled War School, the history of the place flickering in his thoughts. In 1750, at the suggestion of Madame de Pompadour, Louis XV founded a military academy for poor young men so they might have a vehicle for bettering their lives. The most prestigious course of study was and is War School.

  Almost every major French military figure of the past 225 years has been through a variation of the program, including Napoleon Bonaparte and Charles de Gaulle. Officers who’ve attended War School have effected radical change before, Sauvage thought, and we will again.

  They moved toward a small amphitheater already filling for the day’s special lecture: “Psychological Warfare.”

  Though not his specialty, the major looked forward to the talk.

  Entering the amphitheater, Sauvage scanned the room and his fellow students—an old recon habit. He thought that even within this elite group of military minds, there was no one here, except him and Mfune, who had the vision, courage, and conviction to attempt something like AB-16.

  The rest? They were sheep.

  The lecturer that evening was Eliza Greene, a U.S. Army colonel assigned to NATO in Brussels and an expert in the fine art of fragmenting the will of the enemy and turning the hearts and minds of civilians caught up in war.

  A few of the techniques and examples the American described fascinated Sauvage, but he ultimately found the lecture lacking and raised his hand to say so.

  “Colonel Greene,” Sauvage said. “Those seem
like excellent tactics, but with all due respect, wouldn’t psychological warriors such as yourself do well to adopt the techniques of modern marketing, especially the art of branding?”

  A short, stocky woman in her forties, Colonel Greene crinkled her brow in response. “You are…?”

  “Sauvage,” he replied. “Major Émile Sauvage.”

  She nodded, watching him intently. “How would you do this, Major?”

  “By standing for something, Colonel,” Sauvage said. “Maybe only one thing, but selling that position, that one thing, with a logo, perhaps, to the enemy and civilians long before combat ensued.”

  Colonel Greene tilted her head, thought, and said, “That’s really the job of politicians, isn’t it? The selling of a war? It isn’t until you have troops on the ground and combat begins that psychological techniques really work. Defeating the enemy in battle repeatedly goes a long way toward winning civilian minds.”

  Sauvage stood his ground. “Again, with all due respect, Colonel, have you been on duty in Afghanistan?”

  She stiffened and said, “I have not.”

  “I spent four years in Afghanistan with NATO,” Sauvage replied. “And I can tell you for a fact that the U.S. message there—the branding, if you will—was mixed, garbled, and the old country will just revert to its ingrained ways the second you leave.”

  Colonel Greene smiled at him without enthusiasm and said, “Perhaps you can run a war your way, with branding, logos, and all, when you’re a commanding general, Major Sauvage.”

  Sauvage found her smugness infuriating. He wanted to tell her off, inform her in no uncertain terms that he already was the commander of a growing army.