“I had butterflies when you said ‘beautiful woman.’ Now I’m weak in the knees. I’m such a pushover for your bullshit I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Weak in the knees?” he said. “It’s probably just hunger.”
“No, it’s being in the power of a manipulator.”
“The compliments never stop. Roland is a friend. He’ll take care of us and make sure we’re not noticed.”
She looked in the mirror of his car. “Gallimard,” she repeated. “Do I look all right?”
Her long, dark hair was silky and shone in the light, and her very simple blue dress made her eyes look a deep sapphire. “You don’t look like a cop. Get in.”
She got into the passenger seat and he shut the door on his way to the driver’s side. He drove back up the ramp, pressed the buttons on his remote control unit, and went under the rising garage door, past the opening gate, and out to the street.
She said, “I have to tell you I heard about the elevator bombs today—which you haven’t mentioned. So I was kind of emotional already.”
“Really?” he said. “I didn’t think you’d had time for gossip, since you were downrange yourself today. Which you haven’t mentioned.”
“You know about that?”
“I’m the commander of the Bomb Squad. People think they have to report things to me.”
“It was nothing.”
“No, it wasn’t nothing. The grenade you picked up and destroyed was live. I watched the video before I went home. When the detonation charge went off, the grenade did too.”
“The problem was stupidity, not malice. The grenade was a priceless family treasure, a souvenir from Vietnam. An heirloom.”
“It held up pretty well,” said Stahl. “I got a little concerned while I was watching the video. You did it right. I watched you twice.”
“More pressure. I’ll have to try to look attractive in a bomb suit from now on.”
“You looked fine.”
They pulled up in front of Restaurant Gallimard, which looked like an old brick mansion behind an ivy-covered wall. There was no sign, only a valet parking attendant. He said, “Good evening, Mr. Stahl,” and then got in and drove the car away.
The ma?tre d’ opened the restaurant’s door for them and then almost magically reappeared ahead of them in the foyer. He led them past a large room with a long bar and twenty tables, then along a narrow side corridor to a second smaller room with eight tables, all occupied but one. Diane’s cop eyes scanned the faces in a second on the way in and recognized four actresses, two singers, and a couple of rich-looking older couples she knew she would place when she had time to think.
The ma?tre d’ led them to the empty table. He pulled out Diane’s chair and said, “Is this acceptable, sir?”
“It’s perfect,” said Stahl. “Thank you.”
“Good. I’ve let them know you’re here. Your waiter will be here soon.” He turned and disappeared along the corridor.
Diane stared across the table into Stahl’s eyes for about four seconds—and then broke into laughter until he laughed with her. She shook her head. “I don’t know what I expected Gallimard would be like. Of course it would be like this. The big room like a bistro is the one you see in magazines. But now I realize there would have to be a place like this too, so people who get bothered by fans and paparazzi can lie low.”
A voice came from behind her. “I thought you and Dick would like it. He warned me that you were beautiful, and he doesn’t like attention.”
She turned and saw the tall, thin figure of Roland Gallimard. His face was long and thin too, with a sharp nose, thinning blond hair, and a sculptured forehead. He bowed slightly, took her hand for a moment, then released it.
Stahl stood and shook Gallimard’s hand. “Thank you, Roland. My friend’s name is Diane. I brought her here because I knew nowhere else would mean as much.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you both.” He turned to the waiter, who was about as tall and elegant as Gallimard. He said to Stahl, “You know Raymond. I chose him to serve you. Have fun.” He turned and moved off. He smiled and waved to a couple of other customers, but did not stop again.
“It’s nice to see you again, Raymond,” said Stahl. “What do you recommend?”
The meal was two and a half hours of indulgence. Gallimard had chosen common, traditional dishes for them, but each dish was the response to this challenge, an implied promise that this would be the best sole, the best duck they would ever have. The dessert would be the one they felt wistful about someday when they couldn’t have dessert.
Their table conversation was unlike those of the other diners. Diane said, “Tell me about the elevator charges.”
Stahl described the devices, particularly the backup triggers, specific in each detail, how they were disguised, wired, and positioned. He explained how he had gone about selecting his approach and executing his plan to render the bombs safe.
“When did you decide to go downrange again yourself?” she asked.
“When I was in the parking lot observing, and the robot set off the pipe bomb’s antitampering trigger. It wasn’t intended to get some civilian. It was designed to go off only if it was lifted. Nobody does that but the Bomb Squad. I wanted to learn more about the man designing these things.”
“What did you learn?”
“He’s trying something new each time. First he took down a house with small charges—imploded it, really—but planted a big charge to kill the bomb techs. Then he left a car bomb at the gas station, also a way to kill bomb technicians—you and me, to name two. If it had gone off, there would have been a huge fire and plenty of other casualties, but that was really just a way to be sure we couldn’t do something easy to neutralize it. We had to get our hands in it.”
“And the elevators?”
“I knew there would be a trap, but I didn’t realize what the trap would be until I saw McCrary heading to the elevator to press the button. If what the bomb maker wanted was just an explosion he could have broken in some night and planted charges that would have taken the whole medical building down. But he’s not after a bunch of women and their doctors. He picked a women’s clinic because bombing them is a familiar crime. There are also many false threats to them. And he picked a big clinic, hoping we would commit more bomb technicians.”
“Why did he put a pipe bomb right in the open in front of the doors?”
“I think he wanted the medical people and patients to be evacuated so he could get in alone and leave a trap specifically for us, and then get out. He knew we’d be the first ones into the building after the explosion—the only ones—and that we would have to clear the floors, first level first. Then we would have to move up. We would be wearing heavy bomb suits and carrying tools and equipment. We would want to use the elevator, not climb stairs. He knew that before we stepped into an elevator we would look inside, so there couldn’t be anything visible. The bomb had to be outside, and the roof of the elevator car was the best place—the hardest to see and structurally the weakest.”
“What do you think he’s going to do next?” she said.
“Something he hasn’t done before. He wants to keep putting us in new situations where we’ll have to guess right over and over again. He’s giving us chances to fail.”
She fell silent, and then he did too. They were both trying to clear away thoughts of the bomb maker and what he might do tomorrow.
After a few minutes she spoke. “How do you know Roland? Tell me the truth.”
“The security business puts you in contact with people who have things to protect—safety, money, or privacy, usually. Some are nice, and some are awful. I met Roland a few years ago at a party thrown by one of the nice ones. I was working, and he was catering the party as a favor to the host. We talked and liked each other. We still talk occasionally. That’s the whole story.”
When Stahl paid the bill and handed the folder to Raymond he said, “Please tell Roland I’m indebted to him for this evening.”
Stahl and Hines got up and went back out through the long corridor. Stahl’s car pulled up quickly. In a moment they were away again.