Private Paris Read online

  Whitey and the Nose were ashore. And Rivier enjoyed S and M, so the captain never came to check when his boss yelled. Rivier punched Kim a few times before he passed out. Kim got dressed and decided she was owed something for the years he’d kept her prisoner. She knew the combination to his safe, and took one hundred thousand euros, and the only thing Rivier never let out of his sight: the lighter.

  “You had no idea that it disguised a digital memory stick?” I asked.

  “Is that what it was?” she said. “He always told me it was a present from his mother. I took it for spite.”

  Kim got the keys to the speedboat. The captain saw her, tried to stop her, but it was too late. She made it to a dock in Marseille, and then to a church. She told the priest she was addicted to heroin and in trouble, but also that she had money to pay for her own rehabilitation.

  For a twenty-five-thousand euro contribution to his church, the priest got her out of the city and to a private detoxification and addiction recovery center near Aix-en-Provence. Kim gave the center the rest of the money—seventy-five thousand euros—and spent three and a half months cleaning up there before Rivier’s men somehow found her.

  “They asked for me at the gate, but the doctors refused to say whether I was there or not,” she said. “I took off that night and made my way to Paris, to a friend’s place in Les Bosquets. I had an ATM card from my trust, but no passport. I didn’t know what to do, so I called my grandfather, and he called you.”

  I stood there, digesting it, until Kim said, “You think I’m a bad person.”

  “I think you’ve got a few issues,” I said. “But I also think you got caught up in something that was way beyond your ability to either anticipate or control, and ultimately I have to commend you for escaping like that. It was gutsy.”

  Kim smiled wanly. “Thank you.”

  “One thing. Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “Because Phillipe always said he had the French police in his back pocket,” she said. “Especially in Marseille.”

  I wondered about that, wondered whether Ali Farad knew cops in Marseille that he suspected were corrupted by Rivier. But before I could come up with reasons for or against the possibility, the doctor returned.

  “The pilot wants us to take our seats for landing,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said, and buckled myself into the jump seat next to her bed. “Rivier’s brother, Benoit. He cares about you.”

  “He was in Cannes when I first met Phillipe,” she said softly. “He always cared about me. A true friend.”

  “Did he know his brother was mistreating you?”

  Kim shook her head. “Benoit lived in Paris, and never visited the yacht while I was there. He was shocked when I showed up at his door and told him.”

  “So you were staying with him in the Marais the night of the shoot-out in the club?”

  “Yes,” she said, and we banked in and landed.

  When we’d pulled into a private jet hangar, I left my seat and held out my hand to shake hers. “They’ll refuel, take you to Los Angeles. The doctor will be with you the whole way, and I know your granddad will be thrilled to see you.”

  Kim gripped my hand, tears in her eyes, and said, “Thank you for saving me even when I didn’t seem to want saving.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, and moved toward the divider.

  “Jack?” she called after me.

  She had this pitiful expression on her face when she asked, “Can people change for good? Someone like me?”

  I flashed on my brother, Tommy, and felt torn, but said, “I hear it happens all the time if you just have faith and accept help from the people who love you.”

  Chapter 77

  Charles de Gaulle Airport

  10:40 a.m.

  WE WAITED UNTIL the jet had lifted off before taking a car back into Paris. From the highway we could see fingers of black smoke rising above the eastern suburbs. We’d been gone less than nine hours, but we entered a city that had fundamentally changed.

  The rocket grenade attack and gunfight in Les Bosquets was all over the French media. Three police officers had been killed and nine wounded in the HEAT explosion and ensuing gun battle.

  Six immigrant youths had died. Two had been weaponless. Four had been armed with AK-47 assault rifles. The footage of the AB-16 battle had gone viral, and more violence had erupted in public housing areas throughout the suburbs.

  Cars were seized, sprayed with the tag of AB-16, and then set afire. Police who’d rushed to the scenes had been met with automatic weapons fire and forced to withdraw.

  In the front seat, Peaks seemed to have had enough. He pulled out his phone, punched in a number, listened, and then said, “Your highness, I’m thinking that today might be a good time for the princesses to be leaving Paris.”

  He listened and said, “If you can make that call, I will arrange everything.”

  Peaks hung up and said, “He’s calling his wife to pull the plug on the shopping spree, and it sounds as if I have a job for at least another day.”

  “My loss,” I said.

  Peaks began making arrangements for three bulletproof limos to be brought to the Plaza Athénée in three hours’ time. That was followed by a call to the prince’s pilot. An estimated departure was set for four that afternoon.

  I called Justine, who, it turned out, was visiting Sherman Wilkerson.

  “Put him on,” I said.

  “Jack?” he said in an airy voice. “Do you have her?”

  “She’s on her way to L.A. as we speak,” I said. “She’s a little beat up and will need first-class medical attention, but I think she’s going to be all right.”

  “And the danger she was in?”

  “That’s been taken care of, sir,” I said.

  For several moments I listened to Sherman’s labored breathing, and then he said, “You are one of the good ones, Jack Morgan. Everyone at Private.”

  “We aim to please,” I said, and asked that Justine be put back on.

  “You want me to meet her at LAX?” she asked.

  “Yes. White-glove treatment,” I said, and then explained how Rivier had been trying to get Kim addicted again.

  “I’ll get her to Betty Ford,” she said.

  “But not until Sherman has seen her,” I said.

  “Sure,” Justine said. “How’s the art professor?”

  “I haven’t seen her in several days,” I replied. “Kidnappings, murders, and general insurrection have a way of killing the whole romance thing.”

  “So there was a ‘romance thing’?”

  “I’ll admit to a crush and nothing more.”

  There was silence.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “When should I tell people you’re coming back to L.A.?”

  “What people?”

  “Your brother, for one,” she said. “He keeps calling.”

  “His trial is coming up,” I said. “Maybe I’ll stay in Paris until it’s over.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I said, sighing. “Thanks for your work with Sherman. Job well done.”

  “I’ve just been a regular in the ICU, but thanks.”

  I hung up, feeling weirdly disconnected from my “normal” life back in L.A.

  How long had I been in Paris? Five, six days?

  It seemed longer. It seemed like—

  “I have seen twenty-nine AB-16 tags just since we left the airport,” Louis said. “A week ago, there were none.”

  “Okay…” I said, yawning.

  “I think this is a tipping point,” he said at last. “With the rocket grenade and the AK-47 assault rifles, the government won’t have a choice now. They’ll declare martial law.”

  Chapter 78

  7th Arrondissement

  Noon

  INSIDE THE WAR School, Major Sauvage and Captain Mfune stood at attention with four of their classmates. They had only just been summoned to the office of Brig
adier General Anton Georges, commander of École de Guerre.

  General Georges was a tall, laconic man, proud of his bureaucratic skills. Sauvage, however, thought him a fraud and a jackass because he had risen to his rank and station in life without ever once experiencing combat.

  “Gentlemen,” General Georges began. “Paris and les banlieues will be subject to martial law as of nineteen hundred hours, and to curfew between twenty-three hundred hours and oh six hundred hours. All French students of the War School are needed, especially the six of you, who speak Arabic. You will be deployed in command positions this evening throughout the eastern suburbs.”

  General Georges said they’d be issued weapons and combat gear, and he handed out their assignments.

  Sauvage wanted to pump his fist in the air when he saw where they were putting him. Mfune was also pleased.

  “Go home and take care of your personal affairs,” the general said. “Rendezvous at seventeen hundred hours. Dismissed.”

  “General?” one officer said. “Any idea how long we will be in the field?”

  “Unclear, Captain,” General Georges said. “Depends on how quickly the AB-16 movement can be brought under control.”

  The officer groaned softly. Sauvage understood and glanced at him scornfully. War School was a necessary stop on the way to high command. The officer was asking what would become of his career if he didn’t get to check the “War School” box on his résumé.

  Another jackass, thought the major. Can’t he see the possibilities? No, of course not. He’s like the general: incapable of it.

  Sauvage, however, saw all the possibilities, and he was almost beside himself with excitement. The army was putting them inside the flash points!

  As the general was dismissing them, an audacious idea popped into Sauvage’s head. It bloomed and became part of the plot in an instant.

  Outside, Sauvage told Mfune what he had in mind, and they split up with promises to stay in close touch. The major took the train to Pantin, and went straight to the Canal de l’Ourcq, where he entered the condemned linen factory through the footpath door.

  The back room had been stripped of the whiteboards, the television screen, the table, chairs, and couch. Out in the cavernous space he found Haja and Amé finishing up beneath the sculpture.

  Sauvage told them about the martial law decision and a change of plans.

  “Wait,” Haja said. “You’ve already built this thing?”

  “Months ago,” the major replied. “Just to see if I could do it. But it’s there, and it will work.”

  Doubtful, Amé said, “But the curfew.”

  “You’ll be long gone before curfew,” he assured her.

  “What about afterward?” Haja asked.

  “I’ve removed everything identifiable.”

  For a moment, both women were hesitant.

  “Haven’t we done enough?” Amé asked. “Hasn’t a tipping point been reached already with the riots and gunfights last night?”

  “Do you want to risk them containing things?”

  Haja stewed for a beat. “Where do you want it to happen?”

  The major thought about his assignment, and then said, “Sevran.”

  Chapter 79

  8th Arrondissement

  3:45 p.m.

  WAKING UP AFTER a solid five hours of rest, I realized I was becoming a creature of the night in Paris. The television was on in the outer room, and after showering and shaving, I found Louis drinking coffee in there.

  “Predicted it, didn’t I?” he said, gesturing at the screen. “Martial law.”

  “No kidding,” I said, moving around behind him.

  “They’re putting army units in the eastern suburbs. Curfew at eleven.”

  The screen split then to show Laurent Alexandre, who was talking about the various designers he’d gotten to agree to put their work on at the upcoming Millie Fleurs memorial in defiance of AB-16, but I didn’t have a chance to hear the names because my cell phone rang.

  I saw the caller ID, smiled, and answered.

  “Michele Herbert,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Jack,” said the artist and graffiti expert in a teasing tone.

  “I’ve just been a little busy the past few days.”

  “Make nothing of it, but I might have something for you on that tag.”

  I put her on speaker so Louis could listen. Herbert explained that she’d been receiving hundreds of photographs of the AB-16 tag from all around Paris. She’d been comparing them to the one up on the cupola at the Institut de France, and found that only one in ten tags matched the one on the cupola. The rest were copies, even the ones at the crime scenes.

  “They didn’t use paint at Millie Fleurs’s,” Louis said. “It was done in fabric.”

  Herbert said, “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “Saw it myself.”

  “Well, that doesn’t fit, but I don’t suppose it matters,” she replied. “Anyway, an old student of mine who is also obsessed with graffiti art examined the ones that were definitely done by the cupola tagger, and he agreed that the technique reminded him of Zee Pac-Man’s work.”

  “The tagger murdered before Christmas?” I asked.

  “Correct,” she said. “Which is what he found intriguing.”

  “How’s that?” Louis asked.

  “Taggers are like most artists. They start out copying others. Once they’ve mastered their techniques, they start introducing their own methods,” she said.

  “So your old student remembered someone who copied Zee Pac-Man?”

  “Someone who was once a suspect in his murder.”

  “Pac-Man’s?” Louis asked.

  “Correct,” she said.

  “Name?” I asked.

  “Piggott,” she said. “Paul Piggott, but he calls himself Epée, like the dueling sword. Besides graffiti, he’s obsessed with parkour.”

  Louis scribbled on a pad of paper and showed it to me.

  “I know Epée,” his note read. “Arrested his father once.”

  “Does that help?” Michele asked over the speaker.

  “Most definitely,” I said. “In fact, I owe you dinner before I leave Paris.”

  “I’d like that, Jack,” she said. “Very much.”

  Chapter 80

  20th Arrondissement

  5:15 p.m.

  LOUIS AND I slid into seats outside a café on the Rue de Bagnolet, where we could see the front door of an apartment building that had seen much better days. Louis had pulled strings in France’s motor vehicles department and gotten the address for twenty-eight-year-old Paul Piggott, a.k.a. Epée.

  We also had a three-year-old driver’s license photograph and Epée’s rap sheet, which featured multiple counts of destruction of property for putting up graffiti art. The only felony Piggott had ever been convicted of was assault and battery five years before. He had spent eight months in jail for the offense, and had been clean ever since.

  We had Petitjean and Vans digging into his background while we staked out his apartment.

  “He doesn’t look like your average Islamic militant,” I said, studying the driver’s license photo.

  “They come in many shapes, shades, and sizes,” Louis said. “But you know, come to think of it, his father was…merde! There he is!”

  I twisted in my chair and saw Piggott turn away from the door to his apartment building. Long, lean, and athletic, he wore a black warm-up suit, gym shoes, and a black-and-white checked scarf around his neck. A black messenger bag was slung across his chest, and he snugged it to his hip as he walked east.

  “Let’s get to it,” Louis said.

  We bolted from the café. Louis crossed the street. I paralleled him on my side. When Louis was less than twenty feet from Piggott, he called, “Hey, Paul. How’s your old man doing?”

  Still moving, Epée glanced over his shoulder.

  “Remember me?” Loui
s said.

  Piggott seemed to remember Louis all right. He swiveled and took off like a four-hundred-meter sprinter, long legs and arms pumping as he accelerated, with Louis and me in pursuit.

  True to his nickname, Epée had uncanny reflexes and remarkable evasive instincts. He parried and cut through the late-day crowd as if he’d memorized every move, and we almost immediately started to lose ground. Then I jumped out into the street and ran between the parked cars and oncoming traffic.

  With no one to avoid, I was catching up to him when he took a hard left onto Cité Aubry, where he left the sidewalk and ran up the middle of the residential street. Where the paved way veered left, he continued straight ahead on a cobblestone street called Villa Riberolle.

  Piggott was not only quick and evasive but insanely fit. Or at least he was fitter than me, because he kept putting distance between us, never once looking back. I did, however, and saw Louis several blocks behind, limping and hobbling slowly after me.

  Louis bellowed, “I tore my knee! Get him!”

  That filled my gas tanks. I put my head down and ran harder. If he was the one who had tagged the Institut de France, he was part of AB-16, knew the leaders. We could not afford to lose him.

  At the end of the cobblestone road, Piggott took another hard left. When I got to the turn, he was forty yards ahead of me, climbing a tall, ivy-covered wall as if he were part monkey. In three quick moves he was up and over the top—again, never once looking back.

  I got to the wall seconds later, and almost started up after him. Then I realized that if Epée was as clever as I thought he was, he wouldn’t look back until he’d cleared the wall. He’d get well out from under it and watch for half a minute or so before moving on.

  So I forced myself to rest, taking in big, slow breaths while I watched the second hand of my watch. At thirty-five seconds, I began to climb. Reaching the top, I kicked up my right leg to straddle the top of the wall, and felt something slip from my pocket. My iPhone shattered on the cobblestones. I cursed and then hauled myself up and over.