She moved as fast as she could on a bad ankle, urging herself to run and resisting the urge at the same time. She broke into a fierce sweat and crossed the river on the Pont du Carrousel. The massive Musée du Louvre loomed on the other side. She came off the bridge and was on the right bank.
Alex looked over her shoulder and thought she saw Kaspar’s dark figure still crossing the bridge, limping badly also, following her.
Suddenly a police car approached, its siren wailing, its blue light flashing, heading in the way she had come. She tried to flag it down, but in the rain the gendarmes didn’t see her. They kept going. So did she.
She limped two blocks eastward, keeping Rizzo on the phone. She could see the lights of the Place de la Concorde up ahead. She knew there was a Métro station there and she figured it would be crowded. From Concorde, there would be a short ride to safety. It was too risky to cross a bridge again on foot. A perfect route? No, but she prayed it would work.
Alex picked up her pace. The rain intensified as she passed the gardens of the Tuileries. She cursed her original decision to run north, not south, when she fled the scene of the shooting.
Her body trembled. Within minutes, she arrived at the busy Place de la Concorde and, looking over her shoulder, still saw Kaspar in pursuit. She darted through the maniacal traffic and accessed an entrance to the Métro.
Alex ran down the old concrete steps to the platform. Her footsteps echoed noisily. She slipped badly on the wet stairs. She skinned her other knee and her ankle wailed in pain. But she struggled up to her feet and continued.
She found the Number 12 line southbound. She had thrown Kaspar, at least for a few moments. Without seeing her, he would have no idea which line and which platform she had fled to. Where was he? She was torn between leading him to the Odéon stop and losing him completely. She wished now she had worn a bulletproof vest. What would protect her if he tried to pick her off?
She went to the far end of the platform. She kept her head down, her eyes on the steps. Then, amidst the crowd on the other side of the platform, waiting for a train in the opposite direction, there stood Kaspar.
From a distance of about fifty feet, directly across the tracks, their eyes met. He had a clear shot now, across the tracks. In the distance, she heard the sound of a train approaching the station.
Kaspar glared at her, reached for his weapon but then realized the train rumbling into the station would take his shot away. So he turned and ran. He was trying to cross over.
A train roared into the station. A crowd flowed off the train and another crowd surged on. It was almost midnight but the subway was moderately busy.
She stepped onto the last car. Just before she boarded, she saw Kaspar descend the distant steps in pursuit. She couldn’t see whether he had gotten on or not. She assumed he had. She turned against the wall of the subway car. She wished she had recovered her gun. The empty holster made her feel naked.
The train rumbled along. Why did these Parisian subways have to zigzag like snakes beneath the city? Stations were often only two hundred yards apart.
One stop. Two. She got off and switched cars, trying to throw her pursuer. The train arrived at the Sèvres Babylone station.
She stepped off, stayed in the crowd, and transferred to the Number 10 line going east to the Gare d’Austerlitz, the ancient train station. The 10 would take her to Odéon within two minutes.
She finally started to catch her breath. Under her clothing, her body was soaked. Sweat rolled off her. This train was crowded too. She kept waiting to see if Kaspar would come through looking for her. The doors between the cars were only for emergency use but were unlocked in case emergency use was required.
She took out her phone again. She found Rizzo on the other end.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She told him.
“Still got Kaspar after you?” he asked.
“Probably. I haven’t seen him for several minutes.”
“We’re ready for you,” he said. “When you arrive at Odéon, get off as quickly as possible. You’ll see some musicians playing. Walk toward them as quickly as possible.”
“Where will you be?” she asked.
“Watching,” he said.
In ninety seconds, the train arrived at Odéon.
She stepped out at the south end of the platform. Her ankle continued to kill her.
This station too was busy. But she could hear some street musicians, a small band playing for change in the subways. Accordion, violin, and sax until 1:30 in the morning. Only in Paris. They were at the other end of the platform, about a hundred feet away. It was strange they were playing so late.
She looked in every direction.
She saw no help. She spoke into her phone.
“I don’t see anyone,” she said.
“We’ve got you,” came the answer from Rizzo.
“What do you mean you’ve ‘got’ me?”
“We see you. We’re watching.”
“Who’s watching?”
“Get past the musicians,” Rizzo said.
“I don’t see Kaspar,” she said.
“You must have lost him.”
“I don’t think-”
“He’s behind you!” Rizzo said. “Get moving!”
She turned. Eye contact immediately. His gaze again ran smack into hers simultaneously. She saw him reach for something under his jacket. He was about fifty feet behind her.
“Get moving!” Rizzo repeated. “Get away from him!” barked Rizzo’s voice on the phone.
She had never felt slower in her life. Her ankle wouldn’t obey. She cursed the boots and wished she’d had sneakers. She bumped into a couple that was kissing and the contact nearly knocked her over. Kaspar was gaining.
“I can’t move fast! My ankle!”
“Get past the musicians!”
“I can’t. He’ll catch me first.” The words in her phone barked at her. “Move! Move!” they demanded. “You’ll be safe!”
“Why don’t you shoot him?” she demanded. “Just shoot him!”
“We can’t! Not yet!”
“He’s going to kill me!”
“Keep moving!” Rizzo barked. “Now! Move!”
It was the endgame and she knew it. She zigzagged through the crowd. She had never felt slower in her life. She heard excited voices and she heard the assassin steps behind her. And she heard the music, which got louder and louder as she lurched toward it. How was she going to get out of here? She eyed the sortie, the exit, on the other side of the players.
Kaspar must have drawn his gun because she heard a woman yell and scream. Then there was chaos behind her.
She broke into a final attempt at a run. She edged past people and Kaspar was on the run behind her.
Then her earphone thundered again. “Get down! He’s got a gun!”
She tried to move, but her ankle turned again. She fell and went down hard. She knew she was a goner. She got up and stumbled past the musicians, fell hard again. The musicians stopped playing.
She got past them. The accordion player reached into his pocket. So did the violin player. She saw from the corner of her eye. She tried to stand.
Then she saw what the trap was, what this was all about. Like Anatoli in London, Kaspar had stepped into his own hell on earth.
The violin player raised a black pistol at the same time. The accordion player pulled one out also. Kaspar raised his own weapon and the Métro platform was a flurry of bullets.
The violinist aimed right at Kaspar’s gut and put two shots into him. The assassin staggered for a moment, and his eyes went wide in pain and in the realization that death was at hand. He flailed and fired two shots wildly. Kaspar staggered, his hand snapped back, and he fired his own gun upward instead of downward.