After an early-hours visit to the hotel to grab the gear and clothes they needed for the rest of their stay, Mo-bot and Sci had returned to the apartment where she’d connected Duval’s phone to analysis software she’d designed. It would circumvent the rudimentary security of the old Nokia and provide a detailed log of calls, messages, and any other activity the device had been used for. She had left it running while she and Sci followed up the lead in Marseilles.
They had taken a cab to Nice Airport and collected the hire car Mo-bot had reserved in a false name, using a fake driver’s license and credit card she carried for just such emergencies. They’d been at the rental desk when it opened at 7:30 a.m. and were on the road in the Ford Kuga, heading for Marseilles by 8:00.
Sci kept the car at a steady cruise once they hit the A8, a six-lane highway that would take them west through the dry foothills and mountains of southern France for almost 200 kilometers.
The journey time was a little over two hours and Mo-bot made the most of it, drifting off within five minutes of them joining the highway. The smooth road, steady rhythm of the wheels and gentle rocking motion of the vehicle lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she opened her eyes, Mo-bot saw one of the most deprived neighborhoods she’d ever encountered. She and Sci were on a two-lane road, heading west toward a huge port. Cranes and container yards were visible in the distance. To their right was a flyover and beneath it a tramline. On the other side was an eastbound two-lane road. This broad, multi-level, multi-vehicle thoroughfare was flanked by a strange mix of gray late-twentieth-century office blocks and apartment buildings constructed in a rustic French style, complete with rusting balconies and flaked, rotting slatted wooden shutters. There was graffiti everywhere, and hardly any greenery. Mo-bot could see a single tree sticking through the cracked concrete beside a distant parking space.
“You were out,” Sci remarked. “I thought I should let you sleep.”
“Did I miss anything?”
“Aliens,” he said somberly. “On the road outside Marseilles. They waved us in to be assessed for abduction but rejected us as atypical human specimens.”
“I want to laugh, but I can’t without hearing a joke.”
“That’s just cruel,” Sci said. “Besides, who’s joking?”
“You’re such an idiot,” she responded with a smile.
“You don’t know. There could be someone out there,” he said, pointing at the sky.
Mo-bot frowned at him before shifting in her seat. “Where are we?”
“Port district. Police precinct is that orange-and-brown monstrosity up ahead.”
Mo-bot looked at the unusual building. It wasn’t as drab as some of the concrete structures surrounding it, but it wasn’t far off. An oblong structure with an orange fascia covering the exterior of the ground floor, the remaining four stories were adorned with brown metal slats. It looked like a depressing place to work.
Fifteen minutes later, after parking in the adjacent side street and presenting themselves in reception, Sci and Mo-bot found themselves in the office of Stéphane Porcher, a senior inspector they’d been told could answer questions about the Marseilles drug bust. He had a computer, but everything else spoke to a mind from another era. Books and files and papers were stacked everywhere. There was an old hi-fi system and record player on the bureau in the corner, and a mini-basketball hoop was hooked over the top of a corkboard covered in photos and case notes.
Porcher was lean with stubble so rough it looked as though it could slice through rhino hide. His eyes were shadowed by too many years on the job, but his smile was wry and impish as though he was a bolt short of being fully hinged.
“Sit down, Americans,” he said, showing Mo-bot and Sci into his time-capsule office.
The looked around and saw there was only one seat other than Porcher’s and it was covered in books.
“That’s okay,” Mo-bot replied. “We’ll stand.”
“As you wish,” Porcher said with a gracious wave. He lowered himself into his own seat. “What can I do for you?”
“We won’t take up much of your time,” Mo-bot responded. “We want to ask you about this man.”
She produced the mugshot of Roman taken after his arrest.
“Ah,” Porcher said, studying the photograph carefully. “Le trépas. Death. The Grim Reaper. I never thought I would see him again.”
“Why?” Sci asked.
“Because I didn’t think he was human,” Porcher replied. “And I thought he had gone back to hell, where he belongs.”
He paused and seemed to drift off. Mo-bot and Sci exchanged bemused looks.
“Come,” Porcher said suddenly. “Let me show you how Death works.”
Chapter 37
I woke early and watched Justine sleeping. She looked so peaceful and at ease it was hard to believe she’d been a prisoner less than twenty-four hours earlier. Every so often, her face would scrunch into a frown, her legs would twitch, and she would whimper. I would stroke her hair and wonder whether she was reliving her escape or having a random nightmare.
A little before 7 a.m. I heard Sci and Mo-bot leave for the airport, where they would collect a hire car for their drive to Marseilles.
I checked my phone and responded to a message from Mo-bot telling me they’d been to get our gear from the hotel with a simple Thanks. I replied to other texts from Dinara Orlova in Moscow and Matteo Ricci in Rome, who congratulated me and Justine on our escape.
I didn’t feel I deserved any congratulations. Justine had freed herself. I’d happened to be in the right place around the right time. And now a good man was dead. Had Duval been killed in retaliation for the escape? Or was he simply a pawn sacrificed in an attempt to frame me for murder?
I used my phone to check the local news, which was leading with Duval’s death. There were photos of him with his family, his wife so elegant and warm-looking and his children happy and contented. It pained me to imagine what state they’d be in now, with their father’s murder the talk of the city. To lose a former minister and prominent citizen in such violent circumstances was a shock to the tiny principality. I hadn’t pulled the trigger, but I had brought death to this innocent family’s door, and my role in involving Duval made me more determined than ever to catch the people responsible and see them punished.
None of the news coverage mentioned me, but there were reports of an unidentified man fleeing the scene. So it looked as though I’d been spotted, but had avoided identification thanks to the darkness and the confusion of the chase.
Justine stirred. I put down my phone and pulled her close to me.
“Morning,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve run a marathon,” she replied. “You?”
“I’ve been better.”
She gave me a sympathetic look and kissed me.
“I know,” she said. “What happened to Philippe Duval wasn’t your fault. Or mine. The people who killed him are the ones who should be held accountable.”
The rational part of me knew she was right, but guilt was often irrational.
“Coffee and breakfast always make the day seem brighter,” she said, rolling out of bed.
She looked amazing in her tight shorts and vest, but I was dismayed to see the heavy bruising on her arms and legs, which had matured to shades of dark purple and blue overnight. She saw me looking and appraised herself.