That or he would have shot himself.
And left a mess for Aimée to face. Coward that he was, he still hadn’t told her. About the past.
But if he did, she’d never speak to him again. Never forgive him.
“You said something, Monsieur?”
Had he? He felt the others turning toward him. He’d forgotten where he was.
“Please, continue.” Jeanne smiled. “This is a safe place.”
Feeling like a fool, he took a breath. Steeled himself and looked up. He saw sad faces, beaten expressions, a quiet desperation mingled with kindness. Better say something.
He cleared his throat. “I can’t talk about losing my … . It’s been over a month.”
“Grief holds no time line,” Jeanne said.
The middle-aged woman next to him reached out and squeezed his hand. “I couldn’t talk about losing my husband or hear his name for six months. Bottling up my grief made me ill. But I’m making up for things now. Learning. I won’t let my feelings go unsaid.”
Morbier chewed his lip. He felt a wetness on his cheeks. Tears dampening his wool scarf. And pain flooded him. “I’m afraid if I die I still won’t have said what I need to.” Then he couldn’t stop talking. The floodgates opened. “Xavierre, the woman I … I loved, was buried in Bayonne. With work … I can’t even visit her grave.”
And somehow, later, he found himself wiping his face with a borrowed handkerchief, drinking coffee, and agreeing to bring pastries the following week. Also arranging to meet Jeanne, who lived in his quartier, to talk over a glass of wine. Something to look forward to, instead of another long evening alone.
Emerging into the darkness, he descended the ice-slicked stairs feeling lighter. Knowing he could cope, at least for tonight. For the first time in a month, he took a deep breath and didn’t feel the slicing pain of regret.
A woman stood in his way by the church railing. She tossed a newspaper in the trash bin. Her figure, the posture, that slant of the head … familiar. Where did he know her from?
“Attending church now, Morbier? I thought you were an atheist.”
He hadn’t heard that voice in years. That American accent. His mouth parted in an O of amazement.
Different hairstyle, clothes. Cheekbones more prominent. A face-lift, he figured. Unrecognizable except for her voice. And the carmine-red lips.
“And I thought you were dead,” he said.
And buried.
“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” A tight smile. A lost look flitted across her eyes, and then it was gone. “For now.”
She scanned the lit street. Then turned and in a deft movement slipped something in his overcoat pocket.
“Follow the instructions.”
“That ended years ago, Sydney.” He shook his head.
“I can’t shield my daughter now. Or protect her. Not anymore.”
“Protect her?” He snorted. “You abandoned Aimée.”
The wind sliced his face.
“You’re the last person … the only one I can turn to now, Morbier.”
His skin prickled.
“Aimée’s in danger.”
Then it all came back to him. He was stung to the bone. “You think I’ll fall for that again?”
She stepped back in the shadows.
“Then her blood’s on your hands.”
Saturday, 6:30 P.M.
OUT IN THE street, Aimée stamped the ice from her boots. She turned the key and pulled her scooter off the kickstand. Trying to avoid the slush, she zigzagged in the worn grooves of melting ice. A sputter, choking, and her scooter died. Out of gas.
Great. She flipped on the reserve tank, prayed she had a quarter of a liter and some fumes. She sloshed the scooter back and forth to get the juices flowing.
Again she sensed someone watching her. The shadow of a figure appeared on the pavement. An uneasiness dogged her.
Had Prévost followed her?
She whipped around. An old man, his collar pulled up against the cold, clutching a Darty bag, a Miele vacuum attachment poking from the top.
Get a grip. She needed to calm down, reason things out. Get back to Leduc Detective and show René the blue chalk diagrams.
Another scooter’s roar filled her ears. “Need help?” asked the helmeted figure, pulling over.
“Non, merci.”
But the rider pulled the helmet off. A fortyish woman, who shook her blonde curls and smiled. Kissed Aimée on both cheeks.
Did she know this woman?
“We’re going to Café Rouge. Behind you. We’re old friends.”
“Quoi? Who are you?”
A little laugh. “But a wonderful new hair color. Chic, I like it.”
She hadn’t been to the coiffeuse in six weeks. And then she felt her wrist seized in an iron grip.
Aimée struggled to shake the woman loose.
“What the hell … let go!” Panicked, Aimée looked around. No one on the street now.
“Stay calm. Cooperate.” Laughing now, the woman swiped the curls from her face with the other hand. “My instructions say we’ll sit at the café’s back table. They’re watching, so smile.”
This smelled bad. Security forces bad.
“And if I don’t?”
“A broken wrist. Unpleasantness.” She winked. “We wouldn’t want that.”
Not smart to struggle if they’d gone to these lengths.
“But my scooter—”
“Will be taken care of,” the woman finished.
The woman propelled her arm in arm, as if they were old friends, into the café. Grinning, a whispered aside. “Smile.”
Aimée sat down on the banquette under a beveled mirror. Before she knew it, the woman had disappeared and a man sat down next to her. She recognized Sacault, a member of the DST, Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the national security branch under the Ministry of the Interior. He wore a brown suit. Brown-eyed, hair to match. Anonymous. He’d pass for an accountant. Muscular, mid-thirties, not an ounce of fat on him.
Sacault snapped his fingers at the man behind the counter. “Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît.” He turned back to her.
“Am I going to like the coffee here, Sacault?” she asked.
“Please listen. Ask questions after. D’accord?”
She suppressed a shudder. “Now I know I won’t like it.” She gestured to the man behind the counter. “Make mine a Badoit, s’il vous plaît.” She glared at Sacault. “Whatever’s going on, you know that I only talk with Bordereau.” Her lap-swim partner, the only one she trusted in the DST. She’d helped Bordereau before. And he’d returned the favor.
“Bordereau’s busy,” he said. “I’m the one you talk to now. We employ watchers, handlers …”
“And tough blondes.”
He continued. “Consultants on all levels. This morning, we had a cast of consultants for four hours until you showed up. Imagine what that costs?”
The DST could afford it, and more. A drop in the ministry bucket to them.
“Like that’s my problem?”
“You didn’t know?” Sacault cut in. “Sad news. Pascal Samour, your friend, died serving his country.”
She gasped. Pascal worked for the DST. Her heart thumped.
“My friend?”
“Went to his flat, didn’t you?”
Now she understood why they strong-armed her. But how much did they know about her connection, his great-aunt? She shook her head, determined to keep her cards close to her chest. “Alors, I’m sorry about Samour, but there’s a mistake.”
“Samour worked on something important for the security of our country.”