Cara Black: Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

She stared at the white asparagus. Couldn’t eat. Her stomach churned. She heard a choking, looked up.

Morbier paled. Swallowed several times.

What was wrong with him?

She saw an uneasy flicker in his basset-hound eyes.

“Got a stalk stuck in your throat?”

He shook his head.

“Lift your hands up in the air,” she said.

“Leduc, keep my eye contact. In a minute or so, drop your napkin. Glance at the fourth table, the couple sitting over a bottle of Vouvray.”

She dropped her linen napkin, turned as she reached down for it.

“Him or her?”

“Operatives of this caliber work in couples. Better cover.”

Now she had a lump in her throat.

“This vintage comes from a northern vineyard,” he said, all of a sudden. “You can taste the terroir , the rich soil.”

Morbier knew as much about vintage as a street cleaner.

“The terroir? We’re not describing vine-growing conditions in sandy or acidic soil here, but people.”

“Lower your voice, Leduc.” He leaned closer. “Certain branches have expressed great interest in you. I don’t know what pot you’ve stirred up …”

“It’s what I’m doing at the Musée des Arts et Métiers,” she said. “Or not doing, as I told you. But they don’t know that. I’ve got a theory.”

“Theory?” Surprise painted Morbier’s face. “Connected to Samour?”

“Good, you’ve been listening,” she said. “You’re not usually so informative. Funny, since you haven’t answered your phone. Or returned my messages in weeks.”

“Paranoid, Leduc?”

“You’re the one seeing operatives at the fourth table.” She sat back. Noticed a high-end satellite phone poking out from the napkin on the woman’s lap.

All the signs were there: Morbier’s evasiveness, a hurried meeting. The DST had kicked this into high gear.

She felt him grab her hand under the table and place a piece of paper in it.

“Read it later. Trust me.”

Since when had she trusted him? Any favor he’d done her demanded payment. She turned her back, blocking anyone’s view, and slit open the sealed envelope. Found a small pale-blue notecard with cramped writing.

Amy, believe no one. They’re using you to find me. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I’ve watched you from afar, tried to shield you. Thanks to your father, I found a new life. Now for once, I’m doing something right. It means I can’t protect you. Not anymore. You’re the only person who can take care of you. Remember that. I told you this when you were little and in my letters for years. Know that I care for you .

—Mommy (DESTROY THIS)

“My mother?” Her insides wrenched. “When did you get this?”

“You know how your father felt.”

Papa pretended Sydney had never existed.

“She’s my mother.” Aimée bit her lip. “What does she mean, protect me?”

“It’s complicated.” Morbier looked as comfortable as a hen held under a knife.

“That’s all you can say? Diagram it for me, Morbier.” She seethed inside. “Better yet, give me her letters.”

“I destroyed them.”

She swallowed. Her mother’s letters and he destroyed them. “Because Papa …”

“You’re naive.”

“Call me what you want. I don’t hate my mother. How could I? How can you? I want to see her.” Her eyes teared. “Just once.”

“A woman hunted, persona non grata, on the World Security watch list?”

In the end, what did it matter? All she remembered were those warm arms that held her when she’d had a fever, the drawings scribbled on old envelopes to make her laugh. That smile, those carmine-red lips.

“Quit putting me off, like always. You’ve never told me the truth, Morbier. When I was little I knew when you lied.”

Morbier hadn’t answered her calls. What had changed?

“You’ve got a red face,” she said. “The tops of your big ears are pink.”

“But I’m not lying, Leduc. Not this time.”

“You think I believe you?” Aimee clutched at a hope, as always. “If Maman ’s life is in danger, she needs me. Now.”

“She abandoned you.”

That hole opened up. Wide and empty. The years of not knowing.

“Maybe she had to.” The lie she told herself. “Not all women can handle raising a child,” she said. “I just want to see her, talk with her. Once. Then if she doesn’t want to know me—”

“She knows you, Leduc,” he said, his voice low. “What you do, how you live.”

Pain lanced her heart. She thought of the times she’d sensed a presence, a shadow on the quai. That hurt even more. “Why not contact me, Morbier?”

“Try to understand.” His shoulders sagged. “They’d implicate you in aiding and abetting terrorism. Arrest you.” Morbier expelled a sigh. “Children. Always so selfish.”

Part of her always felt eight years old, that little girl waiting for her mother in the empty apartment after school.

“So you appointed yourself judge and jury, eh, Morbier? Decided long ago.” A terrible thought hit her. “Or you’re hiding the truth because the truth’s too ugly. And your part in the reason she left? And Papa … you lied to him?”

“But you know what happened. The facts.”

“I had to find them out years later. Myself. You could have told me.”

“That your mother’s a convicted terrorist, served time in prison until your father worked a deal?” he said. “Deported. Banned from France. The rest she did herself. She picked the wrong horse. Had to ride it.”

Little details, pieces fit together. “What if she’s playing both sides?”

Morbier averted his eyes.

“Maybe she had to. And won’t anymore.”

“If I tell you, will you leave it alone?”

He expected a promise? But she nodded.

“She’s gone rogue.”

Aimée had expected anything but that. “Rogue?” Was he lying? “That’s what she meant in the letter?”

“She doesn’t want you in danger. Or under pressure to reveal—”

“You think I’d turn in my own mother?”

“Politicos, drug lords, arms dealers, old terrorists. Her speciality. Let’s call it her area of expertise, Aimée.”

“Why can’t she tell me in person?” He glanced at his cell phone.

“She’s going to call?”

“ Alors , Leduc, you wouldn’t believe it, like another letter from your brother. Typical Company tactic.”

“My brother … the Company, the CIA? That’s all made up?” Morbier checked his phone again. Took her hand. “Listen, it’s important. She wants you free, not making the mistake she did. A mistake she’s had to live with. The only other choice was to compromise you. And she cared too much to do that.”

Aimée’s hand trembled on the wineglass. Was that the real reason? “But you’re using the past tense, Morbier. You’re talking like she’s dead.”

He glanced at his watch. “She was supposed to call ten minutes ago. Confirm. Speak with you.”

“You mean …?”

He shrugged. Looked away. Then leaned forward, intent.

“Don’t believe the DST, DGSE, or Interpol,” he said, his voice urgent. “Just asses with tails between their legs. When you go rogue, no one’s in your corner.”

The chandelier’s crystals reflected the candlelight, the hushed service. The hypocrisy of the three-star clientele. “Doesn’t the smell of what human beings do to each other get in your nostrils, Morbier? Doesn’t it bother you?”

His shoulders sagged. For a moment he looked like the old man he was. “In my business, I never get rid of it.”

He took her hand. Held it tight. “You have to watch your back. She disowned you so they couldn’t use you to get to her.”