Alicia looked out her kitchen window toward the front street. A cable installation van sat in front of her neighbor’s home. “Paul, what are you saying?”
“Just be very aware of your surroundings. Anything else?”
“I’m still digging in that dark area. On another front, I’ve found something.”
“What?”
“When I was talking with Dad he remembered a couple of names from the General Patton accident or incident. One was a guy who was an assistant to the U.S. prosecutor in the Nuremberg Trials and later worked with the OSS. His name was Lawrence J. Foster. The other man was someone thought to have been a member of the French Resistance, a shadowy figure who was a thorn in the side to Germany, and apparently Russia, too. Dad heard that it was this guy who was believed to have been involved with David Marcus in stopping the Russian hit man. The Frenchman had the last name of Fournier.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Paul, are you there?”
“Yes. Alicia, before you fly here, go back to visit the Mayflower Assisted Living home. Spend a little time with Mama Davis. One of the residents there is a man by the name of Larry Foster. It’s a long shot — but find out if he’s the same Lawrence J. Foster who worked with David Marcus during the Nuremberg Trials. If he is, ask him where we can find James Tower.”
SIXTY-ONE
A chilly November wind blew through the heart of Paris. Paul Marcus got out of the taxi and zipped his windbreaker. He paid the fare and walked half a block to the UNESCO World Headquarters on Place de Fontenoy. Gisele Fournier had said she would meet him at the entrance to the Garden of Peace near the rear of the massive Y-shaped building. Marcus found directions and exited the building, heading toward the garden.
A woman sat alone on a park bench, tossing breadcrumbs to a flock of sparrows. She looked up when Marcus approached, shielding the vivid morning sun from her eyes.
“Gisele?”
“Yes, how are you, Paul?” She stood and smiled.
“Thank you for coming.” Gisele had a warm smile, slender neck, shoulder-length auburn hair, and hazel eyes that returned the morning light.
“I hope there is information here that can help you.”
Marcus looked at the expanse of manicured trees, shrubs, and flowers tucked in deep pockets of shade. He could hear the flow of water running over stones somewhere in the garden, the scent of damp moss in the air. Gisele said, “The Garden of Peace was designed by Isamu Noguchi. He was a Japanese sculptor rather than a gardener. Growing up in Paris, this garden has always been one of my favorite places to go, or to hide in the heart of the city of light. At first, I came here with my grandfather. After his death, I came alone — although I never felt alone. The first thing we’ll see is the Fountain of Peace.”
Marcus followed her, walking by a flowing fountain, stepping across rocks with water moving around them. A stone path curled its way through pines, cherry, plum, magnolia, willow and lotus trees. Boulders were interspersed with the appearance of natural statues standing upright in the garden. She touched one of the rocks, then looked at Marcus and smiled. “Noguchi said his installation of rocks were the bones of the garden. Plants come and go, but he felt the rocks gave it an everlasting foundation and spirit.”
They crossed a stone bridge, the breeze whipping through the willows, causing the bamboo stalks to rub together emitting cries like cats howling in the wind. Gisele said, “The ancient Japanese Shintoist believed that divine forces are part of nature, a spirit found in plants, mountains and waterfalls. This garden, like earth, is a branch of the universe in which we’re supposed to be its caregivers — it’s providers, not dominators or takers. My grandfather used to come here and say that the more we care for the environment, the lungs of the earth, then the easier it will be for us to draw the ‘breath of life.’ Before I take you to the weeping angel of Nagasaki, I’ll show you where the memorial to Yitzhak Rabin is located.”
“Gisele, what was your grandfather’s name?”
“Philippe…Philippe Fournier.”
Marcus walked with her to the north side of the garden. There was a single olive tree planted in the midst of a sculpted arrangement of steel. Gisele pointed. “There is the memorial.”
“It’s separate from the Garden of Peace.”
“Yes, but close neighbors.”
Marcus looked at the surroundings, the roofs of buildings, nearby roads, high rise hotels — anywhere an assassin could get off a concealed shot. There were many places. A single leaf fell from the olive tree and tumbled across the fresh-cut grass toward the massive UNESCO headquarters.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking how difficult it would be to protect the current Israeli prime minister in this area.”
“Do you believe someone will make an attempt on his life here?”
“At this point, that’s a very good possibility.”
Gisele glanced away for a moment. “After those Al-Qaeda terrorists stormed the Charlie Hebdo magazine offices and killed all those people…seventeen died in the shootouts, including the grocery store. Paris isn’t the same. France isn’t the same. It never will be.” She looked at Marcus. “If someone is trying to kill the prime minister, why don’t you go to the police?”
“That’s the first start, and then I go higher than the police.”
“I’m sure there will be high security for the ceremonies. Come, I will take you to the weeping angel.”
They returned to the garden’s entrance. Marcus inhaled the cool air, the scent of evergreen shrubs lingering in the breeze. He said, “It’s beautiful here. I can see why you are drawn back to it. Where’s the statue of the weeping angel?”
“We passed by it. I wanted you to see, maybe to feel the garden and have a better understanding of the little angel’s place in it. It’s directly behind the Fountain of Peace. Right there.” She pointed to a stone wall. “There she is.”
Marcus stepped closer to the statue, which was no larger than the size of a honeydew melon. The angelic face was that of a young girl with shoulder-length hair and wings lifted upright from her shoulders. The left eye looked fractured, closed with a dark smudge under the eye, giving the appearance of the statue weeping. Marcus touched the face, his finger tracing the fissure that was, at one time, an eye carved into stone.
Gisele said, “The little angel was the only thing recognizable in the rubble from what was the Urakami Catholic Church in Nagasaki after the atomic bomb was dropped on the city. My grandfather used to say her face spoke volumes, and her scars were a sign, a poignant reminder of the hell that nuclear weapons can unleash on earth.”
Marcus looked in the direction the statue faced. Gisele said, “Grandfather once told me the statue of the angel reminded him of one he’d seen during a trip to Rome after the war.”
“That seems like an odd time to visit Rome. I imagine there are a few thousand statues in Rome.”
“Perhaps only one resembles the weeping angel. My grandfather told me he saw it when he visited the Castel Sant’Angelo. He said it was one of the ten sculptures on the bridge across the River Tiber leading to the castle. He said the angel had the face of a young woman, but she carried a lance in her arms.”
Marcus looked back at the statue, the ashen stone face staring off to the southwest. He turned his head in the direction and pointed. “Gisele, if I were to start walking from here, in a straight line, what is the first large cathedral I would come to?”
She gazed to the southwest, eyes searching for Parisian landmarks. “There is the Pantheon Monument in the Luxemburg Gardens. The Pantheon was originally built as a church or a cathedral. But now it is more like a crypt for the famous. Some of the bodies in there include Marie Curie, Voltaire, Alexandre Dumas, and many others.”