She reached into the junk on the table and picked up a scrap of metal channeling as shiny as chrome.
“I made a frame of this stuff,” she said, holding up the piece of metal to one eye and looking at him through the U-shaped channeling, “just slightly smaller than the groove so that it would fit snugly inside. Okay?” She tossed the scrap into a pile of shavings. “That shit right there,” she said, pointing to the channeling, “has special properties. The little bit that we got cost us more than anything else in this operation. That special.”
With her middle finger, the remaining stump of cigarette smoldering next to it, she scratched her belly at the point where Corsier imagined her navel must be, taking into consideration its substantial displacement due to her condition.
“Then I took the plastic explosive and rolled it into a fat noodle,” the woman went on. “I laid it into the channeling and smoothed it out, pressing it in, packing it in until the metal groove was completely full, no air pockets, just metal to plastic contact, hundred percent. Then I laid the packed channeling into the groove, facedown, so that the explosive is jammed up to the wood just under the gilded surface of the front of the frame. Okay?”
Without even paying attention to what she was doing, out of habit, she field stripped the cigarette, rolling it between her fingers until the ash, the few remaining grains of tobacco, and the bit of paper were all disintegrated. All the while she was looking at the picture frames.
“This is a cool deal,” she said. She straightened and pressed her fists into her lower back as she leaned forward and backward. She looked at Corsier, and with her right hand she pressed the material of her dress down between her breasts, daubing the perspiration. “Ever been pregnant?” She didn’t grin. She asked it as though it were a straight, legitimate question. Her dark eyes waited for an answer.
Corsier felt the beginnings of a nervous smile, but her somber expression stopped him.
“Uh… no.”
“Don’t ever do it,” she said. “That little shiver you get from the sex is a good thing, but it’s definitely not worth nine months of complete biological upheaval.”
Corsier glanced at Skerlic. The little Serb was perspiring also. He lifted a fat hand and drank some gin from an absurdly filthy glass.
The woman leaned against the table again, this time gesturing with the wood-carving tool.
“Here and here,” she said, getting back to her explanation, “detonators. Radio operated. Okay? And here”-she jabbed at two points on either side of the center of the frame-“little mikes. They’re going to look like some kind of bracket pieces when I get through with them. From the front they’re just going to be a deep groove in the ornate carving. That’s why I had to have this kind of frame.”
“Microphones?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Got to know when to detonate,” she explained. “I was under the impression that this is a no-margin-for-error, no-fuck-up situation here. Very serious.”
Corsier nodded.
“Well, then, you want to be able to identify your target. The way this is designed, when you hear his voice in focus, at a particular decibel level”-she flicked her eyes at Skerlic-“he’ll have the audio equipment to determine when that happens-then your target’s head is right in the center of the frame, the right distance, presenting you with maximum exposure. He’s up close, examining the drawing… asking for it.” She jerked her head at Skerlic. “He presses the button. The explosion’s going to take the guy’s head clean off his shoulders.”
She straightened up, obviously miserable.
“What you’ve got here is a humane hit,” she said, groping around in the wood shavings for her cigarettes. She took one out of the pack and lighted it with a plastic turquoise lighter, which she then tossed back into the wood shavings. “The channeling, like I said, is special shit, a metal alloy that will control the direction of the blast out the front of the frame in a concentrated pattern. Minimal, if any, collateral damage. However, woe to the target.” She raised a flattened hand and kissed it front and back. “Praise be to Allah.”
Claude Corsier stared at the woman. The accumulative effect of her manner and her lethal monologue froze his spine. This woman was a living, waking nightmare.
She leaned against the garage wall and looked at Corsier with the same dark expression she had turned on him when he had walked into the room. She was through.
Corsier looked at the perspiring Skerlic. “What next?” he asked.
“We will finish the frames-the microphones will take some fine tuning. The radio frequencies are very precise, very important. Then we will put in the drawings.”
“They are easily damaged,” Corsier reminded. “I can’t stress that enough.”
“I know this,” Skerlic said impatiently. “I know this.” He took another drink of gin.
Corsier wondered how well the gin and explosives mixed. For a jarring second he had the irrational fear that the garage might explode spontaneously, ignited by the fumes on Skerlic’s breath.
“What next?” Corsier repeated.
“You will have to set a date with the dealer,” Skerlic said. “I want you to get a room at the Connaught Hotel. I want to work from there. It’s a perfect location. Perfect.”
“Christ. The Connaught.” Because of its convenient location, Corsier had stayed there many times before when dealing with Carrington Knight. It struck him as bizarre to use this grand old place as a staging point for Schrade’s assassination. But if that was what it took… At least the hotel staff were well acquainted with him. It was not always easy to get a room at the Connaught. Prior familiarity was always an advantage, and an absolute necessity if one wanted a room on short notice.
“You have to go,” Skerlic said. “We have to finish.”
“Yes… yes,” Corsier said. He looked at the woman. It seemed grotesque to thank her, but he felt compelled to say something. “Good… good,” he said, nodding. “Good,” he repeated as he turned to go. She was staring at him out of floating coils of smoke, a dark Medusa.
CHAPTER 37
PARIS
Strand walked to the end of the Boulevard des Capucines, continued on to the Boulevard des Italiens and then to Boulevard Montmartre. The sidewalks were crowded, and the end-of-the-day traffic was heavy, which was good. He went into the Passage des Panoramas and stayed in its narrow corridors for some time, wandering, waiting, watching, before he was back on the streets, following Rue St. Marc to Richelieu and then on to the Metro station at Rue Drouot, where he descended, allowing himself to be caught up and swept along with the crowds. He got onto a train and then got off again just before it pulled away.
With his mind replaying Obando’s revelations, he watched the faces closely, monitoring the pedestrian flow, looking for another body that might suddenly turn against the grain as he did. The cynical Colombian had inadvertently confirmed Lu’s report of Howard’s treachery. Strand wondered how long it had been going on, if it had been going on when Strand was still with the FIS.
As he moved through the crowds, dawdling and reversing, his thoughts never left the conversation he had just had with Mario Obando. It was time to face up to the fact that his scheme was failing miserably.
Finally, satisfied that he was not being followed, he headed back to the Quatre Septembre.
There was a brasserie near the hotel, a medium-size, bustling place a few steps below street level. Large windows across the front afforded a view through a wrought-iron grille on the sidewalk. After dark, the lights from the street played crazily upon the murky panes of the windows like sparks flying up from a fire.
They went there immediately, in the dusk. There was an early crowd, young people from the couture shops and studios not far away, but they were not loud.