Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black Read Free Book Online Page B

He had a hard time keeping up with the various radicals.
    “Ever been to Paris?”
    Stefan shook his head.
    Her mouth crinkled in a small smile. “Join the Red Army and see the world.”
    Stefan remembered their 1972 Paris visit, full of endless espresso, Moroccan hashish, and sleeping on the floor in an intellectual writer’s fancy apartment. What a contrast, he’d thought, to nearby rue Saint Denis, where every kind of hooker waited in the crumbling doorways.
    They had been hosted by the writer’s wife, an American actress and Revolutionary wanna-be. She supplied them with wine and champagne, played with their guns, and popped pills.
    Her young child, his overalls dirty and torn, followed her around. She’d pay attention to him sometimes, blowing hashish smoke in his face to keep him quiet. Stefan remembered Ulrike’s stricken look at this. But Ulrike kept quiet. The actress wrote big checks for their cause, found them a safe house, and slept with some of them.
    Action-Réaction’s organization proved loose. But they were passionate and had a certain Gallic flair. Dogma’s for the boche , they’d said, discussion and dialectic for us.
    Stefan liked that.
    He’d also liked Beate, a long-haired American hanger-on. Like Ulrike, she showed a certain élan and she understood his halting French. Or seemed to. He liked their midnight talks over vin rouge , sharing dreams under the chandeliers. Subversion with style.
    He’d met leftist students in Action-Réaction. Ones who kick-started the cause through terrorism, but a decade later were the main force behind the Green Party. He’d even recognized a Maoist years later on the news; he’d toned down, bought a suit, and joined the ministry.
    But he’d never told Beate, or Ulrike, the plans Marcus outlined for him.
    “How about a drink?” Marcus had asked him one afternoon.
    They’d gone to a nearby café where cart pullers stood drinking panaché , beer laced with lemonade.
    “Here’s your urban guerrilla future,” he’d said, introducing him to a mec standing at the bar. “Meet Jules.”
    Jules smelled of Gitanes. His shaggy hair in a stylish cut hit his shoulders. A Che Guevara T-shirt peeked from under his slim-fitting jacket. Another French intello , in expensive clothes, flirting with revolution.
    “Marcus spoke of you.” Jules shook his hand, then pulled him close. “I like you already.”
    The radioactive look in Jules’s eyes nailed him. Restless and lethal.
    “We’re doing something big,” Jules said, dinging his glass with his finger. The insistent ping echoed in the quiet cafe. “Every piece needs orchestration, fine-tuning. No detail is too small.” Jules signaled to the barman wiping the zinc counter. “Encore.” He turned to Stefan. “And you’re the linchpin.”
    The bewilderment on Stefan’s face and a warning look from Marcus made Jules simplify.
    “I hear you’re good with engines. You’ll drive the getaway car.” He winked and raised his cloudy amber glass. “Salut.”
    Now, as he drove into Paris, Stefan realized he’d guessed wrong. Jules was an arnaqueur , a con man, using the cause for his own purposes. But, Stefan reasoned, hadn’t they all … in one way or another?
    Paris had changed over the years, he thought, but it still made him nervous. He shuddered, easing the old Mercedes into the parking spot. Time for his quarterly visit. Time to pick up some goodies. The older he got, the more careful he grew. No big amounts to attract attention. Just a little at a time.
    He adjusted his Basque beret, donned dark glasses and a brown raincoat. Outside the car, he walked fast, his hands swinging by his sides.
    For all he knew, some off-duty flic might recognize him from the old Interpol wanted list. Now they called it Europol. Same thing. He was still wanted. They all were. Small chance after all this time, but the fear jelled his bone marrow some nights.
    He bought a mixed floral bouquet. Like always. Inside the cemetery