And then he saw the dark stain spreading onto Shahram’s shirt. The DST agent moved the Iranian’s left arm upward, and Tom saw where he’d been wounded-shot or stabbed just under the armpit.
He edged forward. “Please…” The DST agent gave Tom a long and dirty look. But he finally gestured as if to say,C’mon, and Tom crawled over to his friend.
Shahram’s eyes were open. But they were already clouded. Tom lifted the old man off the cold concrete and cradled his head in his lap. He looked down at his left hand. It was wet-covered with blood. He wiped the hand on his jacket.
Tom began to see spots in front of his eyes. The world started to turn black and white. Tom hyperventilated, fighting to remain conscious. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the raucous hee-hawing of sirens approaching. It had begun to drizzle. He hunched over, to protect his friend from the raindrops, and regained control over his own body. Carefully, he brushed hair away from the Iranian’s forehead. Then he slipped his hand over Shahram’s face and tenderly closed his eyes.
10
18 OCTOBER 2003
8:35A.M.
17 RUE RAYNOUARD, PARIS
MJ USED ONE OF THE FOUR KEYSon her Arc de Triomphe souvenir key chain to open the heavy wood door that led into the courtyard hidden behind the gray stone facade of the six-story apartment building. She held the door open with her shoulder, shifted her huge purse, which had slipped off her shoulder, back where it belonged, and muscled her carry-on through the opening. Carefully, she leaned against the door to press it closed, then rolled the suitcase across the flagstones to a second door, which led into the small foyer just past the concierge’s apartment, where the antique elevator shaft ascended up through the stairwell.
She watched as the cagelikeascenseur descended. MJ was more than a little upset. More than a little? Hell-she was fuming. The day had begun with Mrs. Sin-Gin. It had ended with a horrendous flight. The plane was full-every single seat occupied. There were long stretches of turbulence that kept everyone buckled in, nervous, and claustrophobic. Worst of all, her seat back hadn’t reclined, not at all. And so she’d been condemned to sit straight up, the seat in front of her barely six inches from her nose, for the entire eight hours.
Her arrival at de Gaulle was no better. The passport control lines had been endless-only one surly agent on duty for the hundreds of bedraggled travelers from half a dozen flights that had touched down simultaneously. Her bag? It was the last one on the carousel,naturellement. Worst of all, Tom had been supposed to meet her, but he hadn’t. Instead, as she disem-barked she’d been paged, then handed a message.
Something’s come up,it read tersely.See you at the apartment. He hadn’t even bothered to dictate his name or say he was sorry.
And so, instead of a comfortable ride in Tom’s Jaguar, she’d rolled her suitcase to the Air France ticket counter, paid her ten euros, waited inside the dank terminal for almost thirty minutes, then climbed aboard a boxy red, white, and blue bus with thirty other loners and sat, getting more and more depressed by the minute, as the steamy-windowed vehicle lumbered through the chill drizzle first to Porte Maillot, then on to Étoile. There, she’d stood in the rain listening to her hair frizz, enduring another fifteen minutes of hell until she was finally able to snag a cab for the seven-minute ride to rue Raynouard.
MJ wrestled the sliding gate open, smacked the elevator door with her suitcase, and emerged into darkness. She fumbled around until she found theminuterie switch and pressed it, relieved when the corridor lit up. She pulled her bag out of the elevator and allowed the narrow door to swing closed. She turned to her left and was halfway down the hallway when she stopped, said, “Goddamn French elevators,” let go of the suitcase, trudged back the way she’d come, yanked the stupid French door open so she could slam the stupid open-it-yourself French gate shut so all the other damn French could use the damn French elevator.
Of course the lights went out just as she’d let the elevator door hiss closed. She cursed under her breath, found theminuterie button, pressed it, and, soggy sneakers squeaking on the marble floor, finally made her way to the end of the hallway, let herself in, and double-locked the metal door behind her.
She turned on the lights and looked around. Nothing had changed. She walked to the window and looked across the rooftops toward the Eiffel Tower, whose crown disappeared in the morning mist. At leastthat was still here. MJ stared for perhaps half a minute, finding the sight hugely therapeutic. Then she turned away and rolled her suitcase into the bedroom.
Propped on the pillow was a huge shopping bag from Louis Vuitton, to which was taped an envelope on which was writtenMarilyn Jean. She opened the envelope. There was a card inside. It was from Tom. It said,I love you all the world, MJ.
From the shopping bag she removed a heavy rectangular Vuitton box, tied with brown-and-gold ribbon. She untied the bow and took the cover off the box. Inside, under a layer of perfectly folded tissue paper, sat a brown backpack, trimmed in leather, with gold hardware and patterned with Vuitton’s trademark interlocking goldenLV s. It was absolutely gorgeous. She examined the bag minutely. Minibackpacks were all the rage in Washington. She’d get incredible use out of it. How wonderful. How exotic. And how expensive.
Carefully, MJ replaced the backpack in its box and set it aside. She set her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it so she could unpack her toilet kit. In order of preference, she wanted a long hot shower, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee, and-despite the fantastic backpack-a detailed damn explanation fromhim.
It being the day from hell, however, she soon discovered that the hot water lasted only a miserly six minutes, and that Tom was clean out of coffee. But being MJ, which meant she was resourceful, she adapted. By 10:15, the new backpack slung over her shoulder, she’d reconnoitered the cluster of stores around the Place de Costa Rica and bought enough essentials to last them the weekend. By noon, when she heard Tom’s key in the door, she was enjoying her third mug of perfect café au lait and her second, sinfulpain au chocolat.
“Tom, what a wonderful, wonderful gift. It was perfect because I had the most awful-oh, myGod. ” He looked as if he’d been in a brawl. His shirt was askew. His trousers were ripped at the knees. His jacket had stains all over the front.
Before she could say another word, he held up his hand like a traffic cop, dropped his overcoat onto the floor, and lurched for the kitchen, pulling his jacket off as he went. He ran water onto his hands and, heedless that his clothes were getting soaked, scrubbed messily at his face, neck, and hair. He fumbled blindly until he found a kitchen towel and wiped himself dry. He finally turned around and saw her standing in the doorway. He draped the towel on the sink and ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, love. It’s been a bear of a night. Pour me about three fingers of cognac, will you? I’m going to get out of these clothes and climb into a shower.”
3:45P.M. They were lying on the bed, covered by a thick duvet. He’d stood under the shower for nearly a quarter hour while she busied herself, not wanting to pry. He’d finally emerged, a towel wrapped around his middle, clutching the empty cognac glass. He appeared so ingenuously vulnerable in that instant that MJ was able to picture him as a little boy.
His knees were scraped raw and bright red. The scabs were going to be enormous. She noted that the whole right side of his rib cage was bruised-a mottled mélange of purple, yellow, and sickly green that stretched from his chest to his waist. When she asked what had happened, he said someone had kicked him by mistake.